Alexandria mdf-19

by Lindsey Davis

  'So give me a steer, Philetus: now you have announced your shortlist, which of your four candidates is the hot name?'

  'What do you think of them, Falco?'As always, the slippery Director dodged the ball, throwing it straight back to me. If he was being discreet I could have borne it, but he was just indecisive.

  'Philadelphion must be the front-runner – though would you relish working closely with him? Apart from the black mark for Roxana, is there anything else against him?'

  'I shall be perturbed if it comes to light there was something amiss with zoo security last night. It appears,' mused Philetus grimly, 'at the very least there must have been carelessness in locking up the crocodile. I now have to see whether Philadelphion is running his zoo properly…' So count him out! Philetus could not leave it alone: 'He is too quarrelsome, anyway. He was always wrangling with Theon and he continually argues with Zenon, our astronomer.'

  'So what of Zenon?'

  Philetus' eyes narrowed. 'Extremely competent.' That was terse. I got it: Zenon knew far too much about the financial background. Zenon was dangerous to Philetus.

  'We were talking about Nicanor. Is he as good as he thinks he is?'

  'Too reluctant to make contributions to discussions. He holds back – and thinks himself very clever and manipulative.' That was such a good assessment I thought Philetus must have filched it from someone else.

  'Apollophanes? You get on well with him, I think?'

  Now I had pleased him. 'Oh yes,' agreed the Director, like a feral cat who had just stolen a particularly rich bowl of cream from a bunch of pampered house pets. 'Apollophanes is a scholar I always find congenial.'

  I left, thinking how very much I would have liked to see Philetus dead, embalmed and mummified on a dusty shelf. If possible, I would consign him to a rather disreputable temple where they got the rites wrong. He festered. The man was only good for a long eternity of mould and decay.

  XXXIV

  This was a mess. At risk of increasing the slurry, I went to the Prefect's palace and told the staff not to allow any movement on the Library appointment until my investigation finished.

  'The Director is nagging us for an early announcement, Falco.'

  I smiled serenely. 'Let him nag. You are the bureaucrats. Your prime task is to find convoluted systems that necessitate delay.'

  Anything that avoided work seemed clever to the aides-de-camp.

  'When the Director sent through his list, did he tick his preferred candidate?' I recommend you make additions.

  'Philetus? Make a decision?' Even the senatorial wide-boys laughed.

  They had passed the list in to the Prefect like a red-hot brick. Knowing how to take care of himself, he biffed it straight back out and asked them to brief him on what action to take. It was too important to remain in an in-tray. They were stuck. They asked me.

  'If in doubt, consult the Emperor. 'That could take months. 'The list is a travesty, incidentally. I recommend you make additions.'

  'Can we add names?'

  'A Prefect can always call in extra candidates. He should do so. It demonstrates that he is exercising his judgement and experience, not just acquiescing weakly to whatever is put in front of him.'

  'He will like that! Who should he call in?'

  'Timosthenes, for one.' They wrote it down. Beneficiaries of fine educations, they could write. I was pleased to see it. 'When the old man asks why, say: ''Timosthenes is already holder of a similar post at the Serapeion. He runs that library well. He is not so academically eminent as the others, but a solid candidate, so in view of the Emperor's preference for appointments made on merit, you advise that Timosthenes should be considered''.'

  They wrote that down too. One of them could do shorthand. 'Sounds good.'

  'I am an informer. We earn our fees.'

  'Anybody else?'

  'If the Prefect – or his noble lady – has ever shown a particular interest in tragic drama, suggest a man called Aeacidas.' 'His wife enjoys lyre music. He follows gladiating.'

  'Goodbye, sad tragedian then!'

  The Palace was cool. Out of doors, the Khamseen had dropped but without the wind we had a stonking hot midday which made me just as stressed. Wherever I decided to go next, even home for lunch, I would find myself sweating and debilitated. I faced this prospect with mild depression.

  Fortunately, I spotted Numerius Tenax, the centurion. I told him if he could find an excuse to go for lunch so I could pick his expert brains, I would buy him the drink he had offered to buy me when we first met. He pretended to be unravelling the clauses in my offer. But he appreciated drinking on my imperial expenses (as he thought). When he took me to his local bar, we raised a toast to Vespasian.

  I relayed the latest developments. Tenax grimaced. 'I'm glad you're in charge, not me.'

  'Thanks, Tenax! The gods know where I go next.'

  We drank, and ate saucers of savouries, in silence.

  Tenax had nothing to tell me about the intellectuals' feuds. However bitter their rivalries, it would be a war of words. Only if they started throwing punches would the military be involved; that was unlikely. 'They tend to fix things themselves. When I saw you at the Museion the other day, Falco, it was my first visit for ages. The Prefect leaves them alone. We never get involved.'

  I mentioned my theory that there were financial difficulties. 'Anything cropped up on audit, do you know?'

  'What audit? The Museion is given a big fat annual budget; it's from the imperial treasury now, of course. They can spend the money how they like. The Prefect doesn't have the staff to oversee an institution of that size. Not in any way that would be meaningful.'

  I swirled my drink. 'Someone was afraid the Prefect – or higher – was about to start taking notice. They all seem scared stiff of my appearance on the scene.'

  Tenax surveyed me. He pulled down the corners of his mouth. 'Scared of you, Falco?' he mused whimsically. 'Gods in Olympus, however could that be?'

  I produced a dutiful grin and ate more olives. Maybe the salt would rebalance my tired body.

  Tenax went on thinking about it. 'The way it looks from here, the current Director has a poor grip. You know from the army how that works.' How did he know I had been in the army? 'Once people get a hint supervision is a bit limp, everyone overspends madly. One tribune orders himself a new desk, probably because his is genuinely riddled with woodworm, then the next man along sees it and wants one, and next minute, gold-handled desks with ivory-inlaid tops are being sent halfway across the Empire in multiple quantities. Then headquarters asks a question. Immediately, there is a crackdown.'

  'At the Museion, the crackdown hasn't happened yet?''

  'I can't see that it will, Falco. The Museion is run by that miraculous system called self-certification.'

  We both laughed hoarsely.

  Tenax did remember some kind of incident involving the Great Library, maybe about six months ago. He had not bothered to involve himself. 'I never went down there. It faded out, as I recall. I can ask my boys…'

  I did not wait around to hear what his legionaries might have to say. I had already seen Cotius and Mammius. Not much chance of obtaining a significant lead through them.

  I thanked the centurion for his time and advice. Chatting with a like-minded professional did me good. I returned to my investigation feeling much more vigorous.

  I entered the Museion complex on a route that took me near the Great Library. I passed through its pleasant colonnades, enjoying the shade and the beauty of the gardens. My attention was drawn when I noticed a man I recognised. He had passed out of sight by the time I remembered who he was: the trader who had called last night to visit Uncle Fulvius. I wondered idly whether he merely used this as a route elsewhere, or if he had had business here. Although he had fitted in well with my uncle's circle, he seemed an incongruous visitor to the Museion. Still, it could be on his way to the Forum.

  Then as I came through to the open area in front of the porch, I stopped won
dering about him. I spotted Camillus Aelianus, so I set off after him. Aulus must have subconsciously recognised my footfall, for once in the Library porch, he slowed and looked back over his shoulder. I caught him up on the threshold of the great hall. Concerned, I checked him over. He looked pale but calm.

  We might have stepped back away from the study area to exchange greetings and news, but we became aware of excited activity in the reading hall. A crowd of scholars and library staff were milling around to our left, at the far end. Aulus and I exchanged a glance, then at once moved towards the commotion. Some of the staff were urging the others to move back. They seemed to need little encouragement. A small stampede occurred. As we arrived, we discovered the reason: a strong, distinctive smell. My heart sank.

  Even before we could see anything, I realised we were about to encounter yet another corpse.

  XXXV

  Flies zoomed, in the way only flies who have been laying eggs in a corpse do.

  Pastous, the assistant we had met on our first visit, pushed out through the crowd, one hand covering his mouth. Previously so calm, he stumbled towards us, horrified and agitated. He stopped when he recognised us, his expression a mixture of relief and anxiety.

  'Pastous! Smells like you need an undertaker – better let me take a look.'

  People were falling over themselves in their haste to retreat. Aulus told the staff to clear the hall completely. We waved away everyone except Pastous, then cautiously approached. We batted at the flies with ham-fisted motions; they were not interested in us, however.

  The commotion had centred on the table where I had been told the man called Nibytas worked. It had been moved – in a hurry, scarring the floor marble. Behind it stood a stool and beside that lay the body. We leaned over, but failed to see enough. I nodded to Aulus; we took an end of the table each, heaving the furniture towards us then swinging my end sideways to leave a clear path.

  'People tried to pull the table; he must have been propped against it, so he fell.' Gazing at the dead man, Pastous whimpered faintly.

  'That is Nibytas?'

  'Yes. He was just here as usual, apparently working…'

  He must have been 'apparently working' for a long time after he was actually dead.

  Pastous stepped back, leaving Aulus and me to investigate. 'Jupiter,' I confided. 'I could have done without this!'

  'What do you think, Marcus? Suspicious circumstances?'

  'Died of old age, by the looks of it.'

  That would be very old age. The dead man looked a hundred and four. 'A hundred and four, plus about three days he's been sitting here, I'd say' Aulus was suddenly the expert.

  I held one forearm over my nostrils. 'The last time I smelt decay that bad was -' I stopped. The dead man had been close to Helena and Aelianus, an uncle of theirs; I was not supposed to know his fate. That was nearly seven years ago. I was respectable now; other people could clear up the mess this time… Aulus had looked up, curious. I avoided his gaze, in case he worked out just what it had meant over the past years, being the Emperor's man. My job had its sombre moments. 'Best not remembered.'

  Nibytas was shrunken, papery, desiccated with age and self-neglect. His shoulders were hooked in a drab tunic; his skeletal legs were mottled. He must have been a stranger at the refectory, though entitled to eat there. Like many old folk, he probably skimped on baths too. Thin feet dangled in oversized sandals. We could tell that he had barely lived, by our standards, while he was alive. No wonder nobody had noticed for days that he did not move. The corpse lay on its side now; it must have stiffened at right angles, but was flexible again. The slight fall from his low seat had simply left him as he must have been sitting when concerned helpers finally disturbed his last reading session.

  When moving the table nudged him off his stool, the usual bodily substances leaked everywhere. That must have been the moment when we saw everyone recoil. Thank the gods the Great Library was cool.

  His skin was discoloured but from a brief examination – not too close – I could see no evidence of wounding. A stylus was still clasped in his wizened fingers. Unlike the Librarian, he had left no garland on his table, nor could I detect any vomit. The mass of scrolls and crazy scribbled notes looked exactly the same as when I had inspected his work station only the other day. It gave an impression that this table must have looked the same for thirty years, or even fifty. Now the old man had simply gone to sleep for ever in his accustomed place.

  I crooked a finger, calling Pastous. I held him lightly by both shoulders, making him look at me. Even so, his gaze could not help sliding downwards to Nibytas. I let him look. Feeling unsettled might help him open up to questions. Aulus rested his backside on the dead man's table. Both of us managed to look as if we were unmoved by the spectacle and repulsive odours.

  'So, Pastous. In this venerable library, a respected old scholar can pass away, poked in an out-of-the-way corner. Nobody notices for several days. He must have been locked in every night. Even your cleaners passed him by uncaringly'

  'We cared, Falco. It is deeply unfortunate -'

  'It looks bad,' I growled. Aulus put out a hand in protest, playing the kind-hearted one. I half turned and glared at him. 'Looks like a bloody great disaster, Aelianus!'

  'Marcus Didius, Pastous is upset -'

  'He should be! They all should be.'

  Aulus marshalled me aside. He spoke kindly. As a senator's son he had no need for bombast; he had been brought up to be polite to people at all levels. Everyone was his inferior, but sometimes he overcame his snootiness. 'Pastous, this sad ancient character appears to have died from old age. If so, we are not interested in why he remained undiscovered.'

  'Pass it off as a consequence of having no Chief Librarian!' I muttered.

  Aulus continued to be civil and unthreatemng. 'What we must ask about is that we heard Nibytas was the subject of disciplinary enquiry. What was that about?'

  Pastous did not want to tell us.

  'Don't worry,' I told Aulus conversationally. 'I can go out and buy a large hammer and drive nine-inch nails into the Director's head until Philetus sings.'

  'We could simply hammer nails into Pastous,' replied Aulus, who could be not-so-nice very easily. He was looking at the library assistant in a thoughtful way.

  'At one time,' Pastous confessed quickly, 'we thought Nibytas might be abusing his privileges and taking out scrolls.'

  'Taking them out?'

  'Concealing them. And not returning them.'

  'Theft? So you called in the soldiers!' I snapped. The assistant looked flustered, but nodded. 'What happened?'

  'The matter was dropped.'

  'Why?'

  'Only Theon knew.'

  'Useful!' I cracked out. I stared at the table where the old scholar had worked. The litter of written material was almost a foot high, all over the surface. 'Why would he need to steal books, when he was allowed to have so many here to work with – and obviously to keep them for a long time?'

  Pastous lifted his shoulders in a shrug, raising both hands helplessly. 'Some people cannot help themselves,' he whispered. He addressed the issue sympathetically, however much he deplored it. Then he suggested to us, also in a low voice, 'You might perhaps look at the room where Nibytas lived.'

  Aulus and I had both relaxed. 'Know where it is? Can you show us – discreetly?' Pastous willingly agreed to take us.

  On the way out we gave instructions that the end of the great hall should be roped off. Anyone who wanted and who was made of stern stuff was free to work in the other area. After listing them, Pastous would return all the borrowed library scrolls to their proper places; I asked him to gather up all the notes Nibytas had made and save this material. Undertakers should be called in to collect the body; if they were asked to bring the necessary equipment, they would clean up. They would know how to do it properly and how to sanitise the area.

  I knew ways to get rid of inconvenient corpses, but my ways were crude.

  We walk
ed to the dormitory hall in subdued mood. Nobody spoke until we got there. A porter let us in. He did not seem surprised that officialdom had come with heavy steps to Nibytas' quarters.

  The main building had splendid communal spaces in the marble-clad pharaonic style. Beyond were pleasant living quarters. Each scholar was assigned an individual cell where he could retreat to read, sleep, write or pass the time thinking of lovers, brooding on enemies or munching raisins. If he chose to munch pistachios instead, a cleaner would remove the shells the next day for him. These rooms were small, but furnished with what looked like comfortable beds, X-form stools, rugs on the floor to step on in the morning when barefoot, simple cupboards and whatever jugs, oil lamps, pictures, cloaks, slippers or sunhats each man chose to import for his personal comfort and identity. In a military camp it would be all weapons and hunting trophies; here, when the porter proudly showed us several of the bedrooms, we were more likely to see a miniature sundial or bust of a bearded poet. Homer was popular. That's because scholars at the Museion were sent their poets' busts as presents from loving little nieces or nephews; statuette-makers always make lots of Homers. Nobody knows what Homer looked like, as Aulus pointed out; he was inclined to be pedantic on Greek matters. I explained that the statuette-makers liked us not knowing, since nobody could criticise their work.

  There were scroll boxes and loose scrolls in most scholars' rooms. One or two fancy boxes, or a small mound of assorted documents. As you would expect. They were personal possessions, their prized works.

  The room used by Nibytas was different. It had a sour smell and a dusty air; we were told he refused ever to admit the cleaner. He had been there so long, his cantankerous ways were tolerated just because they always had been. The housekeeper could not face an argument, especially since the authorities were bound to cave in. Nibytas had got away with it for too long, and was too old to be taken in hand.

  We knew in advance he had been an eccentric. Just how eccentric only became obvious when the porter found the door key. He had to go away and hunt for it, because Nibytas had been so adamant he would never have people in his room to spy on him.