Lampon looked queasy but he agreed to follow orders. He gave me one more suggestion. According to him, Statianus not only ran at the gym; he liked to climb up to the official stadium. The stadium lay about as high as could be, above the sanctuary of Apollo, where the air was even more refined and the views were breathtaking. Statianus had been heard to say that he went there to be alone and to think.

With directions from the poet (which, since he was a poet, I checked with passers-by at intervals, I made my way along the track, back to the Kastalian Spring, then into the sanctum and up past the theatre on a route I had never yet taken. A narrow path led upwards. The climb was steep, the situation remote. A man who had suffered a great calamity might well be drawn here. After the bustle of the sanctuary and the businesslike hum of the gym, this was a solitary walk where the sun and the scents of wild flowers would act on a tortured mind like a soothing drug. I suspected that when Statianus reached the stadium, he generally lay down on the grass and lost himself. You can think as you walk but, in my experience, not when you run.

I myself was thinking as I went, mainly about what Lampon had told me. Turcianus Opimus, the travel group's invalid, had learned more about Valeria's killer than the killer would have liked. From the poet's description, he may even have recognised who the killer was. Whom had he told about this? Was he ever sufficiently free of his pain-killing medicine to realise what information he held? Perhaps something he said or did about it led to his death at Epidaurus. Or perhaps he really died naturally – but someone believed he could have passed on the poet's story to Cleonymus.

I wondered if the poet himself was in danger. Damn. Still, as far as I knew, the killer was in Corinth.

I consoled myself with the thought that he was probably a bad poet

anyway.

*

I took my time. If Statianus was up here, well and good. If not, I knew we had properly lost him. I held off blaming myself until I was sure. It would come. Every step I took convinced me he had run away from me. If he left Delphi altogether, I would have no idea where to look for him.

I was so certain that I was completely alone, I peed on the grey rocks, not even moving from the path. A gecko watched me, tolerantly.

I wished Helena was here. I wanted to share the glorious view with her. I wanted to hold and caress her, enjoying the silence and sunshine in this isolated spot. I wanted to stop thinking about deaths that seemed unsolvable, griefs we could never assuage, brutality, fear, and loss. I wanted to find Statianus at the stadium. I wanted to convince him to have faith. The misery he revealed to us yesterday had affected me. Standing alone with the gecko and the faraway wheeling buzzards made me aware how much.

As I slowly resumed walking, I transferred all my thoughts to Helena. I lost myself in memories of her warmth and sanity. I filled my head with dreams of making love to her. Yes, I wished she were here.

When I came upon the woman, I was so surprised I nearly jumped off the path, over the edge into oblivion. That was before I realised I had met her before at the top of a crag – in Corinth. It was the middle-aged dipsy nymph I had treated like a prostitute, who called herself Philomela.

She was standing on the narrow path, gazing out at the vista with extravagant enjoyment. She wore a many-pleated white Greek dress, folded over on the shoulders in the classical manner – a style which modern matrons had abandoned decades ago, instead copying Roman imperial fashion. Once again, her hair was bundled up in a scarf, which she had wrapped around her head in a couple of turns and tied in a small knot above her forehead. The classical look. This lady had gazed at a lot of old statues.

Now she was looking at me. Her wistful air was immediately familiar; that kind of wide-eyed wonderment seriously annoys me. She too was startled by our sudden confrontation. She stopped the blissful reverie, and became nervous.

"Well, fancy!' I made it avuncular. Not much choice but to gulp and be cheerful. Maybe she had forgotten how crassly I had insulted her. No. I could see she remembered me all too well."I'm Falco and you are Philomela, the Hellenophile nightingale.' She had dark eyes and had spent hours with hot tongs making herself a fringe of curly hair, but she was not Greek. I remembered she had spoken perfectly good Latin. I spoke in Latin automatically.

She continued staring.

I continued the jocularity."Your pseudonym comes from a savage myth! You know it? Tereus, King of Thrace or some other place with hideous habits, lusts for his sister-in-law, rapes her, and cuts her tongue out so she cannot tell on him. She alerts her sister Procne by weaving the tale into a tapestry – then the sisters plot against Tereus. They serve up his son in his dinner, That charmless Greek cannibalism yet again! Having dinner at home in classical times must have taken a lot of nerve."Then the gods turn everyone into birds. Philomela is the swallow, in the Greek poems. She's lost her tongue. Swallows don't cheep. Roman poets changed the birds around, for reasons which defy logic. If you think she's the nightingale, that shows that you're Roman.'

The woman heard me out, then said curtly,"You don't look like a man who knows the myths.'

"Correct. I asked my wife.'

"You don't look like a man with a wife.'

"Incorrect! I mentioned her. Currently she is looking at art.'

"She's sensible. When her man travels, she goes too, to keep him chaste.'

"Depends on the man, lady. Or more to the point, it depends on the wife.' I was dealing with a man-hater, apparently."Knowing her virtues is what keeps me chaste. As for myths, I am an informer.' Time to get that straight."I deal with adultery, rape, and jealousy – but in the real world and with undeniably human killers… Where are you from, Philomela?'

"Tusculum,' she admitted reluctantly. Close to Rome. My mother's family, who grew vegetables on the Campagna, would sneer. This glassy-eyed mystic would not surprise them. My uncles thought people from Tusculum were all pod and no bean. (Though coming from my crazy Uncles Fabius and Junius, that was rich!)

"And what's your real name, your Roman name?' To that there came no answer. Perhaps it did not matter, I thought – mistakenly, as usual.

Philomela must already have been up to see the stadium. She was now looking past me, yearning to squeeze by and make her way downhill. The path was narrow; I was blocking it.

"You travel alone?' She nodded. For a woman of any status that was unusual, and I let my surprise show.

"I went with a group once!' Her tone was caustic.

"Oh, bad choice!' My own tone was sour too, yet we shared no sense"of complicity.

Who was she? Her accent seemed aristocratic. Her neat hands had never done hard labour. I wondered if she had money; she must have. She should have been married once, given her age (she looked menopausal, which could explain her crazy air. Were there children? If so, they despaired of her, for sure. I bet she was divorced. Under the fey manner, I saw a stubborn trace of oddness. She knew people thought she was crazy – and she damn well did not care.

I knew her type. You could call her independent – or a social menace. Many would find her irritating – Helena for one. I bet Philomela blamed men for her misfortunes, and I bet the men she had known all said it was her own fault. One thing was sure. innkeepers,

waiters, and muleteers would think she was fair game. Maybe she was, too. Maybe this woman stayed in Greece for free love with menials, thinking Greece was far enough from Rome not to cause a scandal.