'No. His legs were straight, and his arms were above his head.'

'Like Atlas, holding up the world?'

'I suppose.'

'And the weapon that was used to kill him, was it nearby?' 'It was never found.'

'No? Surely there was a stone with blood on it, or a piece of metal. If not in the house, then perhaps in the courtyard.'

'No. But there was a piece of cloth.' She shuddered. Mummius sat up in his chair; this was apparently a detail that was new to him.

'Cloth?' I said.

'A man's cloak, soaked with blood. It was found only yesterday, not in the courtyard, but about half a mile up the road that heads northwards, toward Cumae and Puteoli. One of the slaves going to market happened to see it among the brush and brought it to me.'

'Was it your husband's cloak?'

Gelina frowned. 'I don't know. It's hard to tell what it must have looked like; you would hardly know it was a cloak at all without examining it – all rumpled and stiff with blood, you understand?' She took a deep breath. 'It's simple wool, dyed a dark brown, almost black. It might have belonged to Lucius; he owned many cloaks. It could be anyone's.'

'Surely not. Was it the cloak of a rich man, or a slave? Was it new or old, well made or tawdry?'

Gelina shrugged. 'I can't say.'

'I'll need to see it.'

'Of course. Ask Meto, later; I couldn't bear to look at it now.'

'I understand. But tell me this: was there much blood on the floor, beneath the wound? Or was there little blood?'

'I think – only a little. Yes, I remember wondering how such a terrible wound could have bled so little.'

'Then perhaps we can assume that the blood on this cloak came from Lucius Licinius. What else can you tell me?'

Gelina paused for a long moment. I could see she was faced with a disagreeable but unavoidable declaration. 'On the morning that Lucius was found dead, there were two slaves missing from the household. They've been missing ever since. But I cannot believe that either of them could possibly have murdered Lucius.'

'Who are these slaves?'

'Their names are Zeno and Alexandros. Zeno is – was – my husband's accountant and secretary. He wrote letters, balanced accounts, managed this and that. He had been with Lucius for almost six years, ever since Crassus began to favour us and our fortunes changed. An educated Greek slave, quiet and soft-spoken, very gende, with a white beard and a frail body. I had always hoped, if we ever had a son, that Zeno could be his first tutor. It is simply not conceivable that he could have murdered Lucius. The idea that he could murder anyone is preposterous.'

'And the other slave?'

'A young Thracian called Alexandros. We bought him four months ago at the market in Puteoli, to work in the stables. He has a marvellous way with horses. He could read and do simple sums, as well. Zeno used him sometimes in my husband's library, to add figures or copy letters. Alexandros is very quick to learn, very clever. He never showed any signs of discontent. On the contrary, it seemed to me that he was one of the happiest slaves in the household. I can't believe that he murdered Lucius.'

'And yet both these slaves disappeared on the night your husband was murdered?'

'Yes. I can't explain it.'

Mummius, who until then had been silent, cleared his throat. 'There is more to the story. The most damning evidence of all.' Gelina looked away, then nodded in resignation. She gestured for him to continue. 'On the floor at Lucius's feet, someone used a knife to carve out six letters. They're crude and shallow, hastily done, but you can read them clearly enough.'

'What do they spell?' I asked.

'The name of a famous village in Greece,' said Mummius grimly. 'Although someone as clever as you might presume that whoever did the scrawling simply didn't have the time to finish the job.'

'What village? I don't understand.'

Mummius dipped his finger into his goblet and wrote the letters in blood-red wine on the marble table, all straight lines and sharp points:

SPARTA

'Yes, I see,' I said. 'A village in Greece.' Either that, or a hurried, interrupted homage to the king of runaway slaves, the murderer of Roman slave owners, the escaped Thracian gladiator: Spartacus.

VI

'That night no one heard anything, saw anything?' 'No,' said Gelina.

'And yet, if the name Spartacus was left incomplete, that would seem to indicate that whoever carved it was disturbed and fled; very odd.'

'Perhaps they simply panicked,' said Mummius.

'Perhaps. The next morning, what else was discovered missing from the household, besides the two slaves?'

Gelina thought for a moment, then shook her head. 'Nothing.'

'Nothing? No coins? No weapons? Knives from the kitchen? I should think that escaping slaves would loot the house for silver and weapons.'

'Unless, as you say, they were disturbed,' said Mummius. 'What about horses?'

'Yes,' said Gelina, 'two horses were gone the next morning, but in the confusion no one even noticed until they both came wandering back that afternoon.'

'Without horses they couldn't have gone far,' I muttered.

Gelina shook her head. 'You're already assuming what everyone else assumes – that Zeno and Alexandros murdered Lucius and set out to join Spartacus.'

'What else can I assume? The head of the household is found murdered in the atrium of his home; two slaves are missing, having evidendy escaped on horseback. And one of the slaves is a young Thracian, like Spartacus – so proud of his infamous countryman he's insolently carved the name at his dead master's feet. You hardly need my skills to figure it out for yourself. It's a story that's been repeated all over Italy with many variations in the past months. What do you need me for? As I told Faustus Fabius earlier today, I don't track down escaped slaves. I regret the absurd efforts that were squandered on my coming here, but I cannot imagine what you want from me.'

'The truth!' said Gelina desperately. 'Cicero said you have a nose for it, like a boar for truffles.'

'Ah, now I understand why Cicero has treated me so shabbily over the years. I'm a menagerie, not a man!'

Gelina's eyes flashed. Mummius scowled darkly, and from the corner of my eye I saw Eco give a twitch. Unseen beneath the table I gave his foot a tap with mine to let him know that all was under control; he glanced at me and gave a conspiratorial sigh of relief. I have been through many interviews with wealthy clients, under many circumstances. Even those who most need and sincerely want my help are often maddeningly slow to come to the point. I much prefer conferring with common merchants or simple shopkeepers, men who will say right out what they want from you. The rich seem to think I should surmise their needs without being told. Sometimes abruptness or a feigned bit of rudeness will speed them along.

'You don't understand,' said Gelina hopelessly.

'No, I do not. What is it you want from me? Why did you have me brought here so mysteriously, and in such an extravagant manner? What is this strange game, Gelina?'

The animation left her face. Like a pliable mask, her serenity changed to simple resignation, dulled by a bit too much red wine. 'I've said all I can say. I don't have the strength to explain it all to you. But unless someone can uncover the truth-' She stopped short and bit her lip. 'They will all die, every one of them,' she whispered hoarsely. 'The suffering, the waste – I cannot bear it…'

'What do you mean? Who will die?'

'The slaves,' said Mummius. 'Every slave in the household.'

I felt a sudden chill. Eco shuddered, and I saw that he felt it as well, even though the air was mild and calm. 'Explain, Marcus Mummius.'