The agent’s hands flew out, open-fingered. “It was lodged with a third party during negotiations.” He snapped his hands together again.
I was thoughtful. “After Mysticus died, it just stayed there?”
“Marcus Ovidius will retrieve it, if you will agree to set the scroll and your fragment side by side.”
I took a swift decision. “Yes, I can agree to that, but skip any third parties. Tell Ovidius I shall bring my fragment to his house, if he will be there in person with the scroll. Since Ovidius never bought it, I presume it still really belongs to the Mysticus shop.” According to the new owner, she did not know where the scroll now was. “So, I insist we invite her, Tuccia, to be in attendance.”
The agent looked surprised but made no objections. He said he would set up a conference and let me know when. In conversation, he told me that the attraction of Didymus Dodomos was that he wrote in praise of gardens, a passion with his client. “If you go to the house, make sure that Marcus Ovidius lets you see his beautiful garden room.”
The agent signed off on the items he had purchased. Marcia took the money. When I checked afterwards, I still could not tell his name; his signature was scrawled illegibly.
LVII
By the time the sale ended, the rain had slackened off. I started for home. Down came more rain. I had gone too far to turn back to the Saepta; I had passed Pompey’s Porticus and was rounding the Circus Flaminius. I scuttled for shelter into the Porticus of Octavia where there happened to be a library, one I sometimes used.
With nothing particular to look up, I got into conversation with the librarian. He lacked the skills to escape me. Buoyed by successful commerce, I was in a silly mood. “Are you familiar with Obfusculans the Obscure? They call him a deconstructuralist. I dipped into his wonderful commentary on Aesop’s Fables—his analysis of why the hare ought to have beaten the tortoise really hit the spot. In general, I disagree with every line he writes—it is so-o stimulating!”
On his dignity as chief of a prime library, the man had so little sense of humour he failed to spot satire. “Ought we to try to obtain this work? The Emperor, as no doubt you are aware, wishes to have copies made of all works that are not currently held in Rome.”
“You could certainly stuff Obfusculans into any space where Domitian has cleared out philosophy. The Emperor burning scrolls must put you in a moral quandary.”
“No comment!” By this point the librarian, who was very old, twigged that I was merely hiding from bad weather. He told me to stop larking or leave, so as it was still torrenting down outside I made a real enquiry: “Have you anything by Epitynchanus?”
The librarian slowly searched records. “No.”
“Philadespoticus?”
“No.”
“Didymus Dodomos?”
He bridled. “Absolutely not! I am surprised at you, Flavia Albia. I would have expected you to know that author, so-called, is notorious.”
“Under a cloud?”
“Supposing he ever existed. Which I doubt,” he snarled, as if for failure to exist a man should be prosecuted. “Our holdings include no disreputable confections.”
I bet they did. “Forget him, then. How about a Greek lady poet called Thallusa? Anything here of hers?”
To my amazement, more slow-paced perusal of records produced news that the Library of Octavia did own a slim scroll. “Please may I look at it?”
“No. It has been borrowed.”
“Due back when?”
“We do not impose timescales.”
“How long has it been out?”
“Let me see … over a year.”
“Juno! You operate a real trust system.”
“Our readers are men of probity.”
“No penalties?”
“That would not be in our spirit of learning and enquiry.”
“No, but it might bring your items back. Could you issue a reminder, in order to retrieve it for me?” No, they could not, even though it was obvious their dozy reader had forgotten what he had. “Oh, please! Thallusa seems to have slipped down the back of his couch. Nudge him, or you’ll lose her.” Recent events made me think that the existence of this scroll would enhance the commercial value of the torn and grubby Thallusa I possessed. Greed and bibliomania were catching. “As a matter of interest, can you say how you acquired your slim scroll?”
More shuffling, now through different records. Then the old one pronounced proudly, “It was a gift to the library.”
“From whom? If it is not a secret.”
“Oh, donors are always willing to be known, Flavia Albia. Otherwise, why do it?”
“Generosity. Reverence for the gods. Bad conscience—or just having a clear-out. Who was he, your big-hearted benefactor?”
“More often our donors are women, Flavia Albia.”
“Of course. More generosity, better at clear-outs. Was this one female?”
“No. The acquisition was from a man, a professional dealer who sometimes hunts down rare works for us. He keeps a little shop in the Argiletum, so in most cases we buy from him, but he very kindly opted to make over this particular scroll without charge.”
“Thallusa is a no-good for his profit margins?” I had forgotten jokes were a waste of effort. “Does he have a name?”
“Donatus.”
Well, tickle me up with a centaur’s tail.
Keeping a neutral expression, I said that since I knew Donatus, as soon as the skies cleared I might pop along to ask whether he had a second copy of his Thallusa scroll. A passing assistant overheard. He opened a cupboard, out fell a mess of aide-memoires, from which he was able to say that their copy had in fact been returned to the library. It was sitting in a basket, waiting to be re-shelved. He naughtily let slip that it had been in the basket for six months.
I asked for it. The librarian declined. Since the slip for return had not yet been filed, I would have to wait.
“You really mean you don’t let women take things home.”
“Not as a rule. But your husband is a magistrate so we could put it in his name.”
“Not today, though?”
“Once our staff can allocate some of their valuable time to catching up on returns.”
This was an old, traditional library, created in honour of the sober-natured sister of the tight-arsed Augustus: the sister Mark Antony had wed and dumped. Clearly Octavia’s staff had not updated their systems for a hundred years. I knew better than to argue. But before anyone stopped me, I picked up the scroll of poetry, went to a reading table and unrolled it.
The helpful assistant came along, fussily slipping his returns note inside, for action later. “It had been out on loan to Berytus, the gardens expert.”
I whispered, “Just as well he had brought it back—Berytus died yesterday!”
The assistant shuddered. “That would have been hell! We can never get our scrolls back after a death.” A slave of indeterminate age but stubborn independence, he knew how to turn his back on the old librarian’s disapproval. He dropped onto a stool for a muted gossip. “Berytus often used to come down to the library when he worked at the Palace. We saw much less of him after he moved to the Transtiberina. What did he die of, Albia—a bad case of blight, or nibbled by vine weevils?”
“He was pruned rather horribly.” I knew this assistant, who was friendlier than the management, so I outlined what had happened yesterday. He winced, even though I left out a lot of gore. I mentioned that Berytus and his girlfriend had shared a love for poetry. “She couldn’t borrow from here herself, but I suppose there was nothing to stop him, a trusted reader, lending her items taken out in his name?”
The assistant mimed horror. Then he said complacently, no, Berytus could pass whatever he chose to whomever he liked, so long as eventually he returned things. “In good condition.”
“You check?”
“Our ‘trusted readers’ tend to be doddery old codgers. They are inclined to leave half-chewed bread-rolls as place-m
arkers.”
“Despite their confusion, I bet they pick out the cold meat from the rolls first?”
“Flavia Albia, you are a wise woman!”
“Well read,” I boasted. “Got it from Obfusculans the Obscure. All the deconstructuralists are very sound on old men’s habits—being ancient themselves.”
The slim Thallusa looked in good repair, and much cleaner than the part-work of hers from the buried collection. It looked too new to be an original that had survived hundreds of years. Whoever had scribed it had the same handwriting as that used on the Thallusa papyrus we’d dug up; since I had that with me from the auction, I was able to lay them side by side to check.
Where are you now, unreachable Hyacinthus?
Is it Elysium, or Stygian Hades?
Where have you landed,
So lucid and candid
(so delicate-handed!),
O Hyacinthus!
I did not care when these poems were written, by whom or whether with criminal intent. I enjoyed them. I would have bought Thallusa straight from a shop as a contemporary publication, with no farcical pretence that I was being offered a rare old discovery. She spoke to me.
I had a thought. Perhaps not all the buried scrolls were counterfeit. Thallusa and others could be real authors. Philadespoticus and company might be inventions, but modern scrolls could have been put through an ageing process simply because the copies looked too new. Someone wanted to cash in on the crazy collecting market.
Was Thallusa’s opus genuinely written hundreds of years ago by a Greek woman who ate honey in Arcadia and lived with a flock of goats? And was public disinterest in Greek ladies’ poems why Donatus could not sell the scroll, so had given it to the library?
I was not the only reader Thallusa appealed to. I remembered that Ursus had given me Alina’s letters yesterday; I was still carrying them around in my satchel. After glancing out at the weather, I remained in the library to read those too.
Actually, the handwriting of Alina’s hired scribe had a familiar roll to it, though I could not identify why.
This was a sad experience. Date-wise, the letters had become jumbled. Poor Berytus had probably kept them neatly, but Karus and the Asturians had chucked them from hand to hand without mercy. Even so, I pieced together the story of a developing love affair. At first, the couple had tried to resist their adulterous attraction—the wisest words I’ll ever say: did wisdom, then, drive you away? (Thallusa.) Dissatisfaction with her marriage had soon brought Alina round. She and Berytus had talked about flowers, they discussed poems, they met in the ship shed for passionate love-making, with the connivance of her easy-going brother.
I could not tell how they had imagined this would end. I found no sign that either of them ever attempted to make it permanent though nor was either avoiding the idea. Rome allows divorce. Alina could have left Blandus; perhaps she was frightened of him. Berytus appeared to have no competing commitments, although he might have feared that luring away a staff member’s young wife would not go down well with his superiors. Handled discreetly, they could have managed. On the evidence of the letters, their attachment was deep; as much as love ever endures, theirs seemed capable of lasting.
I spent an hour lost in Alina’s yearning, until I could no longer bear the chord it struck with a time years ago when I myself had been heartbroken over an unattainable man. Perhaps the saddest thing for me was that I no longer cared for him in the same way or thought of him at all unless we met. Now I was broody for a husband with business in another town, but the ache was mild; he would be coming home soon. These days I read love poetry in a different way, though I still remembered the dark days:
One day I’ll find a warmer place,
Where I can wear a braver face:
Till then, although I love you,
I have nothing to atone:
For there’s no crime yet called living, honey,
No crime yet called giving.
And the only time that you can say I wasted
Was my own … (Flavia Albia)
Alina, too, found love and enjoyed her affair. Her later letters were happy ones. She never seemed apprehensive. Once committed, she wrote to Berytus very strongly. Consummation works wonders. Good sex is magic.
Sometimes she mentioned her daily life. One event caught my attention. She had had to miss an assignation with Berytus when Blandus obliged her to go out with other people.
I told you I might have to be socialising with those people. I do not like that man he works with, though everybody else seems to. They admire him giving his time at the shrine. I think he looks at people oddly. His wife seems very distant. She never allows a word against him, though I have seen him treat her rudely, not letting her be friendly with others …
Alina did not name the man.
I gave in the slim scroll and packed my satchel, bidding the staff farewell. Outside in the colonnade, I stood for a moment, letting my mind clear. “Where do you get your ideas from?” must be one of the most frequently asked questions by members of the non-creative public, especially those who believe they could do your job. They hate the answer: “From doing nothing.”
All day you have been labouring. You are not work-shy; your production is excellent. Then comes the moment when you close the stylus box, set aside the waxed tablets, bathe, eat, see your family, settle yourself for sleep. You have moved into the other sections of your life. Despite domestic pressures, you relax. Then your brain takes over, working by itself. Ideas are not deliberately formed. They come from the absence of thought.
So, as I stared vacantly out from the porticus, I braced myself for the gloomy wet streets again, readying myself to dodge drips from overhangs. Everywhere was damp. Occasional passers-by were hunched, as if it might suddenly start raining again. Then here it came: the gripping idea I had to follow up … a nice man. Everyone liked him. He worked hard, he was helpful to everyone, he even volunteered to look after the sanctuary of Hercules in Caesar’s Gardens. He had a wife and children …
Rullius. Rullius, in the words of the apprentice, Gaius. Gaius who once saw that man go into the cave in the grotto and felt so unsettled he had to tell me.
… this will be the most ordinary man … I’d say he is regarded by his community as hard-working, pleasant, a fellow who will do anything for anyone …
Me. My assessment of the man they called the Pest.
In the hunt for the killer, general attention had glanced at Rullius, then moved away again. But now, as I stared at the gleaming rain-black wet street that curved around the Theatre of Marcellus, my attention fixed on him.
They admire him giving his time at the shrine …
I knew now. I needed to tell Ursus to search the sanctuary of Hercules.
LVIII
Once more it had stopped raining, though the air was heavy with moisture, suggesting another downpour could be imminent. Underfoot was treacherous, so slippery on the ancient pavements I had to take care. Head down, I watched how my feet trod, in case I slid.
This detour of mine was probably crazy. To reach home as I had originally intended, I would have walked along the curve of the river on the Embankment, through the meat market, passing the Pons Sublicius on the way. I could have visited my parents, knowing that if Father had returned from his long lunch, he would happily celebrate today’s auction success. Mother would be pleased to see me, mildly deploring him. Or I could plod straight home, huddled in my cloak, hoping to find Paris with a letter from Tiberius. I had things to do, things of my own, things that would not risk the ignominy I would face instead if I was making a professional misjudgement.
For an informer it was a classic risk. I never hesitated. I walked as fast as possible around the Theatre of Marcellus on its northern side. This brought me to Tiber Island, shaped like a moored ship in the middle of the river, the “island between the two bridges.” For once I crossed there. I went over both bridges, the Fabricius and the Cestius, with the sanctuary of the healing god
Aesculapeus between them. Gaining the Via Aurelia in the Transtiberina, I headed for the station-house of the Seventh Cohort.
The gates were locked, but for me someone opened up a crack. I asked for Ursus, who sniffed out my mood immediately. “Hello, hello! What have you found, Flavia?”
“I have worked it out. I believe it is Rullius. He may have used the grotto for some foul purpose, but I don’t think he hid his trophies there. Even if he did, he has obviously had to move them. There’s another place he goes. I want to search the sanctuary where he volunteers.”
Ursus made no jokes about how I had stormed off yesterday, neither did I bother to apologise. That was gone. I had my big new idea, and with it a request. He went along with it, gathering his cloak. “Please come too. I want a witness. Anyway, I feel anxious.”
“Of course you do, Flavia. That’s an after-hours haunt of gladiators,” agreed Ursus. “I’ll go. Unless you need a thrill, why don’t you wait here?”
“No chance! Gladiators are darlings, and I shall have you to guard me.”
We looked at the map on the office wall. We identified the sanctuary. “It’s out-of-city,” Ursus complained. “It won’t have been searched.”
“That’s why the Pest can risk it. Don’t tell me your mother warned you never to go beyond the city walls else the bears will eat you. I know the rules. You can go through the gate so long as something connects with crime in Rome.”
“Bugger the rules, I’ll go if I want … It’s getting dark. We’ll have to nick the tribune’s mule. I won’t bother to ask him—he can find out when he wants to go home. I’ll ride. Hop up behind me if you want a quick lift.”
He nicked the mule, which seemed to know him. I hopped up behind. We set off together, me gripping his wide belt and trying not to let his night-stick poke me in the kidneys. I had heard him giving orders; soon this sanctuary would be flooded with vigiles, though it would take them longer to arrive, as they would be walking. Anyone who spotted Rullius in Caesar’s Gardens was to sit on a bench as if awaiting an assignation and mark him. “No need to actually get your willy out and play with yourself,” Ursus instructed easily. “Just look as if you’re doing it.”
The Grove of the Caesars Page 28