Abby stared at Michael.
Giacomo took a pen out of his jacket and added something to the napkin where Michael had written the poem.
‘This is a hotel I know. Go there, make yourselves comfortable. I will ask some questions, talk to some people, and find you there when I have something to tell you.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Abby objected. ‘If we check into a hotel, they’ll ask for my passport. They’ll have to register us with the police.’
Giacomo studied her. A gold tooth glinted in his mouth.
‘They will not ask for your passport.’
‘How long do we have to wait?’
‘When I have something. You know what Socrates said?’
‘ “I’m dying for a glass of hemlock”?’ Michael suggested. It was a bad joke, and Giacomo didn’t smile.
‘ “Knowledge lies within you.”’
He got up and left without paying. The acne-faced man at the bar nodded to him as he passed, but didn’t follow.
Michael spun his glass, making wet moons on the table. The permanent grin had faded. His face sagged; he looked old.
‘What have you got us into?’ Abby murmured. But if Michael had an answer, the music killed it.
XXX
AURELIUS SYMMACHUS LIES slumped against the edge of the pool. His arms are flung out to balance him: his right hand’s dipped in the water. His face is purple; his tunic spattered red from the blood in the vomit he coughed down his front.
I share a look with Porfyrius. Neither of us thinks this was an accident.
A white marble bust lies at Symmachus’s feet. Porfyrius tries to pick it up, but it’s too heavy for him. He reads the name on the base and gives a grim laugh.
‘Cato the Younger. You know the story?’
‘I think so.’
‘He was a Stoic who chose suicide rather than exile.’ He aims a flat-footed kick at the stone head, pushing it over on the gravel. ‘Symmachus wasn’t any stronger than I am. He didn’t drag Cato here just for a piece of historical theatre.’
‘Someone wanted us to think that’s exactly what he did.’
‘They wanted us to think it was suicide.’
A gleam in the water catches my eye. I reach in and pull out a small silver cup. One of the fish is so close I feel its scales on my skin, but it still doesn’t move. None of them do.
All the fish are dead. They float belly-up on the surface, bobbing softly like feathers.
The water on my arm suddenly feels like a rash, prickling and burning my bare skin. It’s probably my imagination, but there are poisons I know which can kill on contact. I rub my arm dry with the hem of my cloak, so hard I almost break the skin.
Porfyrius watches me uncertainly.
‘The poison was in the cup. When Symmachus fell, he dropped it in the water. There was still enough in there to kill the fish. Probably aconite.’
‘Aurelius Symmachus deserved better than this.’ With a sudden burst of energy, Porfyrius seizes the bust, tugging and dragging on it until he’s manhandled it over the rim of the pool. It drops in with a splash: water slops over the edge. A few fish wash out onto the ground.
‘We should call the Watch.’
‘They’ll just say it was suicide.’
‘Better than accusing us of murder.’
The anger drains out of him. We’re both stuck in this web now. He goes back to the colonnade and sits on a step, hunched over. I walk around the pond, resisting the compulsion to keep scrubbing my hand.
‘Symmachus didn’t take his own life,’ I say. ‘Whoever killed him probably killed Alexander, too.’
‘Does that follow?’
‘Let’s agree Symmachus didn’t murder Alexander. Can we agree that whoever did kill the Bishop then wanted to frame Symmachus?’
