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‘When I was a girl, I would never have stooped to painting a fresco. One painted in encaustic on panels of canvas or wood, using an easel, and never, never in fresco on a wall; so my mentor taught me. “Wall painters are mere workmen,” he would say, “while an easel painter, ah, an easel painter is treated like the very hand of Apollo! Easel painters receive all the glory, and the gold. Make your reputation on the easel and they will flock to you like pigeons to the Forum.” My, that’s a nasty bump on your forehead.’

Iaia’s appearance was very different from that of the night before at dinner. Gone were the jewellery and the elegant gown; instead she was dressed in a shapeless long-sleeved garment that reached to the floor. It was made of coarse linen and spattered all over with dabs of colour. Her young assistant was similarly dressed, and even more remarkably beautiful by the light of day. Together they looked like priestesses of some strange cult of women who wore their paints upon their clothing rather than their faces.

The skylight above filled the little circular anteroom with a cone of yellow light, around which swirled a vortex of underwater blues and greens populated by silvery wisps of fish and weird monsters of the deep. The figures were remarkably fluid and superbly shaded, and the rendering of the water itself produced illusions of impossible depth; Eco and I together with arms outstretched could have reached from wall to wall, but in places the murky depths appeared to recede forever. Had it not been for the jumble of scaffolding and drop cloths, the scene might have been almost frighteningly real, like a dream of death by drowning.

‘Of course, these days, I’m long past scrambling for commissions,’ Iaia continued. ‘I made my fortune back in the good old days. Did you know that in my prime I was better paid than even Sopolis? It’s true. Every rich matron in Rome wanted her portrait painted by the strange young lady from Cyzicus. Now I paint what I want and when I want. This project is just a favour for Gelina. One day we were leaving the baths, feeling all fresh and relaxed, and she complained about how plain this room was. Suddenly I had a vision of fish, fish, fish everywhere! Fish flying above our heads and octopi coiling at our feet. And dolphins, darting through the seaweed. What do you think?’

‘Astounding,’ I said. Eco gazed about the room and shook out his hands as if he were sopping wet.

Iaia laughed. ‘It’s almost finished now. There’s no real painting left to be done. We’re at the stage of sealing the watercolours with an encaustic varnish, which is why these slaves are helping. There’s no real skill to the job, just smoothing on the varnish with a brush, but I have to watch them to be sure nothing’s damaged. Olympias, nudge that one over there, on the top scaffold. He’s putting it on too thick – the colours will never show through.’

Olympias looked down from above our heads and smiled. I secretly pinched Eco, whose slack-jawed stare was not in response to the artwork around us.

‘Ah, yes, in the good old days I could never have taken on a project like this one,’ Iaia went on. ‘My mentor wouldn’t have allowed it. I can just imagine his reaction. “Too vulgar,” he’d have said, “too merely decorative. Painting histories or fables with a moral point is one thing, but painting fish? Portraits are your strong point, Iaia, and portraits of women, at that; no man can paint a woman half so well as you can. But one look at these staring fish heads and no Roman matron will ever allow you to paint her! She’d be looking for traces of satire in every brush-stroke!” Well, that’s what my old mentor would have said. But now, if I wish to paint fish, by Neptune, I’ll paint fish. I think they’re lovely.’

She seemed quite enraptured by her own skill, an immodesty perhaps forgivable in an artist in the final stages of an almost-done creation. ‘I can see why you became renowned for your portraits,’ I said. ‘I saw your picture of Gelina in the library.’

Her smile wavered. ‘Yes, I did that only a year ago. Gelina wanted it for a birthday present, for Lucius. We spent weeks working on it, out on her private terrace at the north end of the house, in her room where Lucius never went, so it would be a surprise.’

‘Didn’t he like it?’

‘Frankly, no. It was done especially to fit the wall above his table in the library. Well, he made it quite plain that he didn’t want it there. If you’ve seen the room, you’ve seen his taste – those awful statues of Hercules and Chiron. The painting above his table was even worse, a horrible thing that purported to show the Argonauts attacked by harpies, such a hideous embarrassment I can’t imagine how he dared to allow visitors in the room. A really terrible painting done by some unknown hack in Neapolis, a mishmash of naked breasts and flailing claws and stiffly painted warriors brandishing swords. Words cannot exaggerate how awful it was. Am I not right, Olympias?’

The girl looked down from her work and laughed. ‘It was a very bad painting, Iaia.’

‘In the end Lucius acquiesced and had the thing removed so that we could mount Gelina’s portrait into the wall, but he was most ungracious. Gelina had ordered a rug to match, and he complained endlessly about the expense. She was in tears more than once, thanks to that episode. Of course, misery about money was an old story in this house. What a failure Lucius was! What an impostor! What’s the point of living in a villa like this if you have to count every sesterce before you spend it?’

There was a sudden tension in the room. Olympias no longer smiled. One of the slaves knocked over a pot of varnish and cursed. Even the fish seemed to quiver with unease. Iaia lowered her voice. ‘Let’s step into the baths. The rooms are all empty, and the light at this time of day is quite delightful. Let the boy stay here and watch Olympias work.’

The plan of the women’s baths mirrored that of the men’s, except for the scale, which was considerably smaller. Across the open terrace the view was much the same; beneath the rising sun the bay shone with thousands of tiny points of silver light. We walked around the circular pool, which billowed with steam in the crisp morning air. Beneath the high dome our hushed voices echoed strangely.

‘I thought that Lucius and Gelina were a happy couple,’ I said.

‘Does she seem happy to you?’

‘Her husband died a horrible death only days ago. I hardly expect to find her smiling.’

‘Her mood now is little changed from before. She was miserable then, thanks to him, and she is miserable now, thanks again to him and his messy death.’

‘She doesn’t look miserable in the painting. Does the image lie?’

‘The image captures her just as she was. And why does she seem so happy and at peace in the portrait? Consider that it was posed for and painted in the one room in the house where Lucius never set foot.’

‘I was told they married for love.’

‘So they did, and you see what comes of that sort of match. I knew Gelina when she was a girl, before she married. Her mother and I were about the same age and great friends. When Gelina married Lucius it was hardly my place to criticize, but I knew that only sorrow would come of it.’

‘How could you be so sure? Was he such a wicked character?’

She was silent for a long moment. ‘I don’t claim to be a great judge of character, Gordianus, at least not when it comes to men. Do you know what they called me in the good old days? Iaia Cyzicena, Always Virgin, they called me, and not without reason. When it comes to men, I have little experience and I claim no special insight. I’m sure my judgment of a man’s character is less reliable than most women’s. But judgment based on experience goes only so far. There are other, surer ways of foreseeing the future.’ She gazed into the swirling mists above the water.

‘Yes? And what does the future hold for this house and its inhabitants?’

‘Something dark and dreadful, no matter what.’ She shivered. ‘But to answer your question: no, Lucius was not wicked, only weak. A man of no vision, no energy, no ambition. Were it not for Crassus, he and Gelina would have starved long ago.’

‘A villa and a hundred slaves are far from starvation.’

‘But Lucius himself owned not a bit of it! From what I gather, his income was entirely consumed in running this palace and maintaining a facade of great wealth. Given his connection to Crassus, any other man would have made himself independently wealthy long before now. Not Lucius; he was content to amble along, taking what was given him and asking for no more, like a pampered dog begging for scraps from his master’s table. To be sure, the same hand that lifted him up held him down; Crassus seemed determined that Lucius should always be the cringing, ever-thankful kinsman, never an equal or a rival, and Crassus has ways of seeing that people stay in their places. Well, Gelina deserved better than that. Now she’s completely at the mercy of Crassus, not even able to say whether her own household slaves should live or die.’

‘And if that should come to pass?’

Iaia stared deeply into the mist and did not answer. We circled the pool in silence.

‘No matter what their differences, I think that Gelina has suffered greatly from the death of her husband,’ I said quietly. ‘She will suffer even more if Crassus proceeds with this terrible scheme of his.’

‘Yes,’ said Iaia in a dull, faraway voice. ‘And she will not be alone in her suffering.’

‘Surely, if it was someone here in the house who murdered Lucius, that person cannot stand by and see so many people slaughtered in his stead.’

‘Not people,’ she corrected, ‘slaves.’

‘Still—’

‘And for slaves to die, even ninety-nine slaves, for the benefit of a great and wealthy man – is that not the Roman way?’

To that, I had no answer. I left her standing by the pool, staring into its sulphurous depths.

 

In the anteroom Eco stood on the scaffold holding a horsehair brush, while Olympias hovered behind him, her hand laid gently atop his to guide his strokes. ‘A single sweeping motion,’ she was saying. ‘Lay it on in a thin, even coat.’

‘Really, Eco,’ I called up to him, ‘I had no idea you had a gift for painting.’

He gave a start. Olympias looked over her shoulder with a cheerful smile. ‘He has a very steady hand,’ she said.

‘I’m sure he does. But I think we will take our leave. Come, Eco.’ He scrambled nimbly down, looking flushed and slightly disoriented and glancing awkwardly over his shoulder as we stepped into the portico outside.

‘Did you press your attentions on her, Eco, or was it Olympias who suggested that you join her on the scaffold?’ Eco indicated the latter. ‘Ah, it was she who stepped so close, putting her arm around you?’ He nodded dreamily, then frowned at the way I pursed my lips. ‘I would not be entirely trusting of that young woman’s friendliness, Eco. No, don’t be silly; I’m not jealous of you. There’s something about the way she smiles that makes me uncomfortable.’

A voice hailed us from behind, and I turned to see Metrobius and Sergius Orata, each attended by a slave. ‘Are you on your way to the baths, too?’ asked the businessman with a yawn that indicated he had just got out of bed.

‘Yes,’ I said. Why not?

While Orata and Eco relaxed in the hot pool, I accepted an offer from Metrobius to share his masseur. We stripped and reclined side by side on pallets in the changing room. The slave went back and forth between us, kneading our shoulders and poking at our spines. The slave was a tall, wizened man with extraordinarily strong hands.

‘If I were rich,’ I grunted, ‘I think I would have this done to me every day.’

‘I am rich,’ said Metrobius, ‘and I do. How did you ever get that awful bump on your head?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. A doorway was shorter than I expected. Oh! That’s good! Yes, there, that spot below my shoulder . . . These baths are quite wonderful, aren’t they? Eco and I came here yesterday, after we first arrived. Mummius wanted to show off the plumbing. He had a massage from the boy who sang last night, Apollonius I think he’s called. But I doubt that Apollonius could be half as skilful as your man.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Metrobius cautiously, lying on his side with his head propped on one hand and looking at me with sudden suspicion.

‘No? You’re such a frequent house guest, I thought you might have taken the opportunity to use this Apollonius yourself

Metrobius hummed and raised an eyebrow. ‘Only Mollio here massages me. He was a gift from Sulla, years ago. Knows every aching muscle and cracked bone in this tired old body. A callow youth like Apollonius would probably give me a sprain.’

‘Yes, I suppose Mummius can take that risk. He’s not exactly delicate. Tough as an ox, by the looks of him.’

‘And nearly as smart.’

‘Oh! Could you do that again, Mollio? For some reason, Metrobius, I don’t believe you like Marcus Mummius.’

‘I’m indifferent to him.’

‘You detest him.’

‘I confess. Here, Mollio, attend to me. Gordianus has had enough for the moment.’

I lay in a state of bliss, as limp as pummelled dough. I closed my eyes and saw visions of starfish and octopi, attended by strange gasping noises. It was Metrobius’s turn to grunt and wheeze.

‘Why does the grudge run so deep?’ I asked.

‘I never liked Mummius, from the first moment I met him.’

‘But there must have been some incident, some offence.’

‘Oh, very well.’ He sighed. ‘This was ten years ago, just after Sulla was made dictator. You remember that Sulla set up the proscription lists and posted them in the Forum, offering rewards to whoever would bring him the heads of his enemies?’

‘I remember it well.’

‘It was an ugly process, but unavoidable. The Republic had to be purged. For Sulla to restore order and put an end to years of civil war, the opposition had to be eliminated. Otherwise the conflicts and vendettas would have gone on endlessly.’

‘And what does this have to do with your feud with Mummius?’

‘The estates of Sulla’s enemies were made property of the state and sold at public auction. I need not tell you that the first people in line at these so-called public auctions were usually Sulla’s close friends and associates. How else could a mere actor like myself end up with a villa on the Cup? But there were others in line ahead of me.’

‘Including Mummius?’

‘Yes. Crassus was much in favour then, almost as important as Pompey. Eventually he overstepped himself and embarrassed Sulla; you may remember a certain scandal involving an innocent man added to Sulla’s lists just so Crassus could obtain the poor man’s property.’

‘There was more than one such scandal.’

‘Yes, but Crassus was a Roman of good birth, a general, the hero of the Colline Gate, thought to be above such grubbiness. Even so, Sulla only slapped his wrists for that offence. But before the scandal, Crassus came first in all things, just behind Pompey. And Crassus’s men were to be pampered and coddled, even above many of Sulla’s oldest friends and supporters.’

‘Like yourself.’

‘Yes.’

‘I take it Mummius got the best of you in something, and Sulla took his side.’

‘There was a certain property we both coveted.’

‘Real estate, or a human?’

‘A slave.’

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t. The boy had been the property of a certain senator in Rome. Once I heard him sing at a dinner party. He came from my own hometown in Etruria. He sang in the dialect I learned as a child. To hear him made me weep. When I learned that he was being sold in a lot with the rest of the household slaves, I rushed down to the Forum. The auctioneer happened to be a friend of Crassus’s. It turned out that Mummius desired the boy as well, and not for his singing. The auctioneer ignored my bids, and Marcus Mummius was awarded the entire lot of slaves for the price of a used tunic. How smug he was when he passed by me to collect his receipt. We exchanged threats. I drew a knife. The crowd was packed with Crassus’s men, and I had to flee for my life while they jeered after me. I went to Sulla, demanding justice, but he refused to intervene. Mummius was too close to Crassus, he said, and at that moment he could not afford to offend Crassus.’

‘So Mummius bested you over a boy.’

‘That wasn’t the end of it. It took him only two years to tire of the slave. Mummius decided to get rid of him, but he refused to sell him to me, purely out of spite. By then, Sulla was dead and I had no influence at Rome. I wrote a letter to Mummius and asked him as humbly as I could to let me buy the boy. Do you know what he did? He passed the letter around at a dinner party and made a joke of it. And then he passed the boy around. He made sure I heard all about it.’

‘And the boy?’

‘Mummius sold him to a slave trader bound for Alexandria. The boy disappeared forever. Mollio!’ he snapped. ‘Your hands are useless this morning!’

‘Patience, master,’ cooed the wizened slave. ‘Your spine is as stiff as wood. Your shoulders are like rusty hinges.’

The door opened. A rush of cool air brought with it the high, piping voice of Sergius Orata. ‘And more ducts run under this floor and along both of these walls,’ he was saying. ‘You can see the vents that release the hot air, spaced evenly apart.’ Eco followed him, nodding without much enthusiasm. Orata was naked except for a very large towel wrapped around his middle. Clouds of steam rose from his plump pink flesh.

‘Gordianus, your son is an apt pupil. A better listener I’ve never encountered. I do believe the boy may have some talent for engineering.’

‘Really?’ I glanced over the fat man’s shoulder at Eco, who looked quite bored. No doubt his thoughts were in a more briny milieu, floating across the seascape of the women’s anteroom with Olympias. ‘I’ve always thought so myself, Sergius Orata. No doubt he finds it difficult to pose complicated questions, but I seem to remember yesterday that he was most curious about how the waters were disposed of after circulating through the pools. I told him I assumed some system of pipes led down to the bay, but my explanation failed to satisfy him.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Orata looked pleased. Eco stared at me, perplexed, then perceived the wink I gave him when Orata’s back was turned. ‘Then I shall have to explain it to him in detail, and leave nothing out. Come along, young man.’ Orata disappeared through the door, and Eco trudged after him.

Metrobius laughed, then grunted as the slave Mollio recommenced pinching and pounding his flesh. ‘Sergius Orata isn’t quite the simple soul he pretends to be,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘There’s quite a head on those shoulders, always calculating and counting his profits. He’s certainly rich enough, and rumours allude to a weakness for gambling and dancing girls. Still, in this house he must seem a paragon of virtue – neither as greedy as Crassus nor as wicked as Mummius, not by a long shot.’

‘About Crassus I know very little,’ I confessed, ‘only what they say behind his back in the Forum.’

‘Believe every word. Really, I’m surprised he hasn’t stolen the coin from the corpse’s mouth.’

‘As for Mummius—’

‘The swine.’

‘He seems an odd mix of a man to me. I’ll grant you that there’s harsh side to him. I saw an example of it on the journey here: for a drill, he ordered the galley slaves driven to the maximum – as frightening a spectacle as I’ve ever witnessed.’

‘That sounds like Mummius, with his stupid military discipline. Discipline is a god he uses to excuse any act of wickedness, no matter how vile, just as Crassus can justify any crime for the sake of acquisition. They’re two faces of a coin, opposites in many ways but essentially alike.’ Such criticism struck me as odd, coming from a man who had been so closely allied with Sulla. But as the Etruscans say, love turns a blind eye to corruption, while jealousy sees every vice.

‘And yet,’ I said, ‘I think I glimpse in both of them a certain weakness, a softness that shows through their armour. Mummius’s armour is of steel, Crassus’s is of silver, but why does any man cover himself with armour except to shield his vulnerability?’

Metrobius raised an eyebrow and looked at me shrewdly. ‘Well, Gordianus of Rome, you may be more perceptive than I thought. What are these weaknesses evinced by Crassus and his lieutenant?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t yet know enough about either of them to say.’

Metrobius nodded. ‘Search and you may find, Finder. But enough about those two.’ He rolled over and allowed the slave to stretch his arms above his head. ‘Let’s change the subject.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me something about Lucius and Gelina. I understand that you and Gelina are very close friends.’

‘We are.’

‘And Lucius?’

‘Didn’t you just come from viewing Iaia’s painted room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must have seen his portrait.’

‘Oh?’

‘The jellyfish, just above the door.’

‘What? Oh, I see, you’re joking.’

‘I’m not. Have a good look at it the next chance you get. The body is that of a jellyfish, but the face is quite unmistakably Lucius. It’s in the eyes. A brilliant piece of satire, all the more satisfying because Lucius himself would never have got the joke. It elevates the whole mural to the level of high art. Iaia was once called the finest portraitist in Rome, and for good reason.’

‘Then Lucius was a jellyfish?’

He snorted. ‘A more useless man I never met. A mere footrest for Crassus, though a footrest might have had more personality. He’s better off dead than alive.’

‘Yet Gelina loved him.’

‘Did she? Yes, I suppose she did. “Love turns a blind eye,” as the Etruscans say.’

‘I was just thinking of that proverb myself. But I suppose Gelina is by nature an emotional woman. She certainly seems distraught about the fate of her slaves.’

He shrugged. ‘If Crassus insists on killing them, it’s a stupid waste, but I’m sure he’ll give her others. Crassus owns more slaves than there are fish in the sea.’

‘It impresses me that Gelina was able to convince Crassus to send a ship for me.’

‘Gelina?’ Metrobius smiled oddly. ‘Yes, it was Gelina who first mentioned your name, but by herself I doubt that she could have talked Crassus into going to so much effort and expense on account of mere slaves.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I thought you knew. There is another who longs to see these slaves plucked from the jaws of death.’

‘Whom do you mean?’

‘Who journeyed all the way to Rome just to fetch you?’

‘Marcus Mummius? A man who would drive a whole ship of slaves to the point of death on a mere whim? Why would he lift a finger to save Gelina’s slaves, especially in defiance of Crassus’s will?’

Metrobius looked at me oddly. ‘I thought surely you knew. When you spoke of Mummius having a weakness . . .’ He frowned. ‘You disappoint me, Finder. I think perhaps you are as dense as I originally thought. You were sitting beside me at dinner last night. You saw as clearly as I did the tears that sprang from Mummius’s eyes when the slave boy sang. Do you think he wept for cheap sentiment? A man like Mummius weeps only because his heart is breaking.’

‘You mean—’

‘The other day, when Crassus made up his mind that the slaves should die, they argued and argued. Mummius was practically on his knees, begging Crassus to make an exception. But Crassus insists that they shall all be punished, including the beautiful Apollonius, no matter how harmless or innocent the boy may be, and no matter how much Mummius desires him. And so, the day after the funeral, Marcus Mummius will have to watch as his own men herd the boy into the arena and put him to death along with the rest of the household slaves. I wonder if they’ll behead them one by one? Surely not, it would take all afternoon, and even a jaded Baian audience would start to fidget. Perhaps they’ll have the gladiators do the dirty work, trapping the slaves under nets and rushing at them with spears . . .’

‘Then Mummius wishes to save them all, simply for the sake of Apollonius?’

‘Of course. He’s quite willing to make a fool of himself on the boy’s behalf. It all began on his last visit here with Crassus, back in the spring. Mummius was instantly smitten, like a stag struck with an arrow between the eyes. During the summer he actually wrote the boy a letter from Rome. Lucius intercepted it and was quite disgusted.’

‘Because the letter was pornographic?’

‘Pornography, from Mummius? Please, I’m sure he has neither the imagination nor the literary skill. On the contrary, it was quite chaste and cautious, rather like an epistle from Plato to one of his students, full of pious praise for Apollonius’s spiritual wisdom and his transcendent beauty, that sort of thing.’

‘But Lucius married for love. I should think he might have sympathized.’

‘It was the impropriety of it that scandalized Lucius. A citizen consorting with one of his own slaves is one thing; it need never be known. But a citizen writing letters to another man’s slave is an embarrassment to everyone. Lucius complained to Crassus, who must have said something to Mummius, since there was never a second letter. But Mummius remained smitten. He wanted to buy Apollonius for himself, but to do that required going through both Lucius and Crassus. One or the other refused to sell – perhaps Lucius, to spite Mummius, or perhaps Crassus, wanting to avoid further embarrassments from his lieutenant.’

‘And now Mummius finds himself awaiting the slave’s destruction.’

‘Yes. He’s tried to hide his anguish from Faustus Fabius and the rest of Crassus’s retinue, and most of all from the men under his command, but everyone knows. Rumours spread very quickly in a small, private army. It was quite a spectacle to hear him prostrating himself before Crassus in the library the other day, scrambling to come up with the most ludicrous arguments to save Apollonius—’

‘This was behind closed doors, I assume?’

‘Can I help it if I could hear every word through the windows that face the courtyard? Mummius pleaded for the boy’s life; Crassus invoked the stern majesty of Roman law. Mummius argued for an exception; Crassus told him to stop playing the fool. I believe he even called Mummius ‘unRoman’ at one point, the direst insult a stolid soldier like Mummius can receive from his commander. If you think Gelina is distraught, you should have heard Mummius that day. I can’t imagine how he will react when a Roman blade cuts into the tender young flesh of Apollonius and the pretty slave begins to bleed . . .’ Metrobius slowly shut his eyes, and a strange expression settled on his face.

‘You’re smiling,’ I whispered.

‘And why not? Mollio gives the finest massage on the Cup. I feel quite delicious, and am ready for my bath.’

Metrobius stood and held his arms aloft while the slave wound the long towel around him. I sat up and mopped my perspiring forehead. ‘Do I only imagine it,’ I said quietly, ‘or are there those in this house who actually look forward to seeing the slaves executed? A Roman seeks justice, not vengeance.’

Metrobius did not answer, but slowly turned and left the room.

‘A pity you’re no better at swimming than I am,’ I said to Eco as we left the baths. He gave me a pained look but did not dispute the fact. ‘Our next task must be to have a look at the waters around the boathouse. What was being dumped from the pier last night, and why?’ I looked down from the terrace outside the baths. From where we stood I could see the boathouse and most of the pier. There was no one about. The coastline was dotted with craggy rocks, and the water looked sufficiently deep to be daunting. ‘I wonder if that boy Meto is a swimmer? He probably grew up here on the Cup; aren’t all the local boys divers and swimmers, even the slaves? If we can find him quickly, perhaps we can explore the boathouse and its environs before time for the midday meal.’ We found him on the upper floor. When he saw us he smiled and came running.

I began to speak, but he seized my hand and tugged at it. ‘You must go back to your room,’ he whispered. I tried to make him explain, but he only shook his head and repeated himself. Eco and I followed while he ran ahead.

The room was flooded with sunlight. No one had come to tidy our beds yet, but I sensed that someone had been in the room. I looked sidelong at Meto, who peeked back at me from behind the door. I pulled back the coverlet on my bed.

The ugly little figurine was gone. In its place was a piece of parchment with a message in red letters:

CONSULT THE SIBYL AT CUMAE GO QUICKLY

 

‘Well, Eco, this changes our plans. No swimming this morning. Someone has arranged for us to receive a message directly from the gods.’

Eco looked at the scrap of parchment, then handed it back to me. He seemed not to notice, as I had, that wherever the letter ‘A’ occurred it was given an eccentric flourish, with the crossbar tilted sharply down to the right.