The main courtyard was used for contact sports. During the Games this area would be jam-packed, but it was quieter off-season Upright

wrestling was carried out on a level sanded area, called the skamtna, also sometimes used by the long-jumpers, which could lead to arguments Ground wrestling, with competitors flailing on the floor, took place in a crude mudbath where the sand had been watered to the consistency of sticky beeswax – a sure draw for exhibitionists. Both types of wrestling were considered refined in comparison with boxing, where – with the aid of spiteful arm-protectors with great hard leather knuckle-ridges – opponents might have their faces mashed so badly that none of their friends recognised them. It was in boxing, the ancient sport of beauteous, golden-haired Apollo, that a savage fight occurred where a man going down from a great blow to the head somehow retaliated by jabbing his opponent so hard he tore out his entrails with his bare fingers.

Even boxing paled beside the vicious no-holds-barred Greek killer of a sport they called pankration. Pankration fighters used a mixture of boxing and wrestling, plus any blow they liked Only biting and eye-gouging were against the rules. Breaking the rules was much admired, however. So was the breaking of ankles, arms, heels, fingers and anything else that would snap.

Being peopled by brutes who gloried in these hard sports, the palaestra had its own atmosphere, one I did not like. It had its own smell too, as all sports halls will. Yesterday Glaucus and I had agreed not to bring Helene, Albia, and my young nephews in here – even if it had been possible. Today I stared at the occupants, but this was definitely not my kind of hole. Back home, Glaucus senior's gym at the rear of the Temple of Castor wasjust as exclusive, yet it had an air of civilisation – not to mention a peaceful library and a man on the steps selling hot pastries. Nobody came here to read. It was just a fighting pit for bullies. Glaucus had somehow talked his way in, on the strehgth of his size and visible prowess, but in an official year of the Games neither Young Glaucus nor I would have got anywhere near the inside.

I wondered whether Phineus ever managed to infiltrate the men on his tours. I bet he did. I bet that was why they all thought he was good

Working around the open court I had to sidestep around several slobs looking for a quarrel. I had outsider written all over me. I only hoped my name and mission had not been passed on to these bruisers, as it had been passed yesterday to the guides in the sanctuary

Glaucus liked the longjump. He had told me where to find him at practice today – a long room off the southern colonnade, which had side benches for spectators, though it was possible to look in from the

corridor too A musician who was playing double pipes which he had tied to his brow •with headbands in a curious traditional way. He was meant to assist the athletes with their concentration and rhythm. The fluting sounds were an odd contrast to the mood of aggression elsewhere. I almost expected to discover a roomful of dancing girls.

No chance of that. I could not imagine what I considered normal sex ever happening here. Two centuries of Roman rule had not changed the atmosphere in any Greek palaestra. The erotic charge was automatic. A palaestra was where young men congregated and older men openly came to gape at their beauty and strength, hoping for more. Even I was being sized up. At thirty-five, scarred and sneering, I was safe from old goats wanting to ask my father for permission to sponsor, seduce, and smooch me. Just as well. Pa would probably bellow with laughter, extract a big bribe, and hand me straight over.

It was a relief to sidle into the sanded practice room.

"Falco! You all right?' Glaucus looked nervous. He was supposed to be my bodyguard. I could see him regretting that he had told me just to turn up.

"Don't worry; I can handle those idiots.' He believed it. His father trained me." You watch yourself, Glaucus!' Glaucus shrugged, unfazed. He was good-looking enough to be a target, but seemed utterly unaware of it.

Before he joined me on the spectators' bench, he finished his next jump. No run-up; the skill is in the standing start. I watched, as he prepared himself on a take-offboard. The musician went into a strong rhythmic beat. Glaucus fixed his mind on the jump. In each hand he was holding a weight. He swung them back, then swept his arms forwards, using the weights to propel himself. He was good. He flew across the sand, straightened his legs, and flexed, making a clean landing. I applauded. So did a couple of sleek young bystanders, attracted by this handsome dark-skinned stranger. I waved them away. I didn't care if they thought Glaucus and I were lovers, so long as they slunk off and left us to talk privately.

Weights were hanging on the walls – lead and iron varieties, in pairs, mostly boat-shaped at the bottom, with top handles to grip. These were familiar to me. My father sold a popular range of fake Greek vases and amphorae, which he claimed had been prizes at the Panathenaic Games; his discus and javelin throwers were most popular but there was one version which showed a long-jump competition. Pa's artist was quite adept at red-figure Greeks, bearded, with pointed noses, slightly hooked shoulders, and outstretched legs as they

completed throws or leaps. Many an over-confident connoisseur had been bamboozled into buying.

Glaucus saw me inspecting the displayed weights, and shook his head. Opening his left palm, he showed me one he had been using. It was a different design. This was made of stone, a simple double-ended cylindrical shape, like a small dumb-bell, with fingers carved into the body to grip. These are what we moderns use, Falco! Those old things are just hung up as a historical memento.' He passed me the modern weight; my hand dropped. It must have weighed five or six Roman pounds." About twice as much as the old kind. And you can get some even heavier.'

"Is this your own?'

"Oh yes. I use the ones I'm used to.'

"I know jumping is difficult – but don't these make life even harder?'

Glaucus smiled." Practice, Falco!'

"Do they really help propel you further?'

"Oh yes. They add several extra feet to a jump.'

"They certainly turn you into a sand flea!' I applauded him, grinning. Then I became serious." I wonder which type was used on Valeria?'

Glaucus was ahead of me. He signalled to the musician, who stopped piping. He was a pallid wisp, malnourished and insignificant, who had been improvising while we talked; his tuneless drivel told us he was the off-season act." Falco, I'd like you to meet Myron.' The musician started a bow, then lost confidence." Myron, tell Falco what you told me.'

"About the woman who was killed?'

"Valeria Ventidia, a Roman visitor. Was she known around here in the practice rooms? Had she been hanging about the athletes?' I asked.

"No. It's not allowed.'

"Was the palaestra busy at that time?'

"It's very quiet this year. Just a few stragglers and people who turn up on spec.'

"So tell me about the murder. You heard how it happened? Did the weight used in the murder belong to someone in particular?'

"No, it was taken from the wall here. It was found in the porch afterwards, covered with blood and strands of the girl's hair.'

"Tell him about the weight, Myron,' Glaucus urged.

"It was very old, historic, very unusual. Formed in the shape of a wild boar.'

"Any chance I could see it?' I would have liked to examine it, even

after all this time, but Myron said the bloodstained weight and its partner had been taken away.

"Where was the young woman found? In the porch too?'

"The slaves who come at first light to clean and to rake the sand found her lying in the skamma.'