Ode To A Banker

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Well, thanks for clearing the mob out.’

  ‘That was the boss.’

  I could imagine what Petro’s full reaction to a milling crowd had been.

  We emerged onto what must be the main axis of the house. The libraries and lobby had followed the line of the street outside; this suite crossed that line at right angles, coming in from the main entrance door which was to my left. An impressive set of lofty halls ran away to the right.

  The style changed. We were amongst walls painted in repeating patterns, warm gold and crimson mock-tapestries, their divisions formed by trails of foliate filigree and filled with roundels or small dancing figures. Ahead and to either side stretched superb floors in assorted cutwork marbles, endless circles and triangles of elegant greys, blacks and reds. More inky footsteps marred the gorgeous stones, of course. The formal entrance to the house was nearby to the left, as I said. Prominent on the right, forming the central vista in this series of formal public spaces, was a huge hall like a private basilica.

  The vigiles were finalising their staff interviews there. Slaves were holding their hands out for inspection, picking up their feet to show the soles of their sandals like horses with a farrier, quaking as they were spun on the spot by large rough men who intended to check their garments and generally terrorise them. We walked down to join this group.

  ‘What a place!’ exclaimed Fusculus.

  Within the enormous dimensions of the hall interior columns supported a canopied roof. It made a kind of mock-pavilion at the centre of the room. Decoration on the outer walls was dark and dramatic - friezes, fields and dados in formal proportions and expensive paints, depicting tense battle scenes. The colonnades made it all feel like some eastern king’s audience chamber. There ought to be obsequious flunkeys moving constantly in the side aisles on slippered feet. There ought to be a throne.

  ‘Was this where Chrysippus was intending to munch his hard-boiled eggs, Falco?’ Fusculus was caught between admiration and plebeian contempt. ‘Not what my granny brought me up with! It was bread rolls on a lumpy cushion in a yard at our house. First-comers got the shady bit. I always seemed to be stuck out in full sun.’

  Curiously, the bronze tray with what must be the uneaten lunch was still clutched by a distraught slave. He was being closely guarded. Others, who had submitted to interview already, now clustered in frightened groups while the few last specimens were put through the vigiles’ notoriously sensitive questioning technique:

  ‘So where were you? Cut out the lies! What did you see? Nothing? Why didn’t you keep an eye out? Are you fooling me, or plain stupid? Why would you want to kill your master then?’ And to the weeping plea that the poor souls had no wish to do Chrysippus harm, came the harsh answer: ‘Stop messing about. Slaves are the prime suspects, you know that!’

  While Fusculus consulted to see what gems this sophisticated system had produced, I walked up to the slave with the tray. I signalled his guard to stand off.

  ‘You the one who found the body?’

  He was a thin, Gallic-looking scrag-end, of around fifty. He was in shock, but managed to respond to a civilised approach. I soon persuaded him to tell me it had been his daily duty to deliver a snack for Chrysippus. If Chrysippus wanted to work, he would order a tray from the kitchen, which this fellow would place on a side table in the lobby of the Latin library; the master would break off and clear the victuals, then go back to his reading. Today the tray had been untouched when the slave went to retrieve it, so he had carried it through to the Greek library to enquire if Chrysippus was so absorbed he had forgotten it. Rare, but not unheard of, I was told.

  ‘When you saw what had happened, exactly what did you do?’

  ‘Stood.’

  ‘Transfixed?’

  ‘I could not believe it. Besides, I was carrying the tray -‘ He blushed, aware now how irrelevant that sounded, wishing he had simply put it down. ‘I backed out. Another lad took a look and rushed off shouting. People came running. Next minute they were haring about in all directions. I was in a daze. The soldiers burst in, and I was told to stay here and wait.’

  Thinking about how silent the library had been, I was puzzled.

  Sound would never carry from indoors to the street. ‘The men in red were very quickly on the scene. Someone ran out from the house?’ He looked vague.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do you know who it was?’

  ‘No. Once the alarin was raised, it all happened in a blur -‘

  ‘Was anybody in either area of the library when you first went in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nobody leaving as you arrived?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anybody there the first time you went? I mean, when you first delivered the tray?’

  ‘I only went in the lobby. I couldn’t hear anyone talking.’

  ‘Oh?’ I eyed him suspiciously. ‘Were you listening out for conversation?’

  ‘Only politely.’ He kept his cool at the suggestion that he eavesdropped. ‘Often the master has somebody with him. That’s why I leave the meal outside for him to collect when they have gone.’

  ‘So go back a step for me: today you delivered his lunch as usual; you put down the tray on the side table, then what - did you call out or go in to tell your master it was there?’

  ‘No. I never disturb him. He was expecting it. He normally comes out for it soon after.’

  ‘And once you had delivered the tray, how long elapsed before you returned for the empties?’

  ‘I had my own food, that’s all.’

  ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Bread and mulsum, a little slice of goat’s cheese.’ He said this without much enthusiasm.

  ‘That didn’t take you long?’

  ‘No.’

  I removed the tray from his resisting fingers and laid it aside. The master’s lunch had been more varied and tasty than his own, yet not enough for an epicure: salad leaves beneath a cold fish in marinade, big green olives, two eggs in wooden cups; red wine in a glass jug. ‘It’s over now. Try to forget what you saw.’

  He started trembling. Belated shock set in. ‘The soldiers say the slaves will get the blame.’

  ‘They always say that. Did you attack your master?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who did?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No need to worry then.’

  I was about to check with Fusculus what else had turned up, but something made me pause. The waiting slave seemed to be staring at the luncheon tray. I peered at him, querying. ‘He’s had one thing,’ he told me.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The slave looked slightly guilty, and certainly troubled, as though there was something he could not understand.

  I waited, keeping my face neutral. He seemed intrigued. ‘There was a little slice of nettle flan.’ He sketched out the size with his thumb and one finger, a couple of digits of finger buffet savoury, cut as a triangle; I could imagine it. We both surveyed the food. No flan slice.

  ‘Could it have dropped on the floor when you panicked and ran out?’

  ‘It was not there when I went for the tray. I noticed specially.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘He doesn’t like pastry. I had seen it when I took the tray in. I thought he would leave it.’

  ‘You were hoping to eat it yourself?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have minded,’ he muttered defensively.

  I said nothing, but that was interesting. I don’t only mean that their cook served a rather eggy type of lunch. Nobody breaks off from work, investigates his tray, eats the one thing he dislikes, then abandons the rest. Somebody else must have been in that lobby. Maybe the killer himself passed that way when he left. Coolly grabbing a handful of his victim’s meal? That would take nerve. Or else he was brutally callous.

  Mind you, if anybody spotted him on the way out, having a fistful of pastry and a mouthful of crumbs would have made him look casual.


  Fusculus approached, followed by one of his men.

  ‘This is Passus, Falco. You probably don’t know him. Joined our team recently.’

  Passus looked at me with suspicion. He was a short, shock-haired neat type with a belt he was proud of and stubby hands. He had a quiet manner and was no raw recruit; I guessed he had been seconded from some other cohort. His air was competent but not too pushy. He was carrying a set of waxed tablets, with a bone stylus bending his right ear forward, for taking notes.

  ‘Didius Falco,’ I introduced myself politely. I had always respected the men Petro gathered around him. He was a good judge and they responded well to him. ‘Petronius Longus has called me in to assist on a consultancy basis.’

  Passus still said nothing, glancing sideways at Fusculus. He had been told, or had deduced, that I was an informer; he did not like it. ‘Yes, it stinks,’ I agreed. ‘I’m no happier than you are. I have better things to do. But Petro knows I’m sound. I gather your squad is floundering in summer crime and needs to farin out the surplus.’ I had had enough of justifying myself. ‘Either that, or my dear friend Lucius has his hands full with a new girlfriend.’

  Fusculus jumped. Petro’s love life fascinated his men. ‘He’s after a new one?’

  ‘Guesswork. He’s said nix. You know how close he is. We’ll only be sure when the next outraged husband comes to ask if we know why his turtledove is always tired … So, Passus, what’s the story from the staff here?’

  The new enquiry officer gave his report slightly stiffly at first, warming to the task: ‘Aurelius Chrysippus had been occupying himself in his normal business. There were morning visitors; I took names. But he had been seen alive - when he asked for his lunch - after the last one is thought to have left.’

  ‘Thought?’ I queried. ‘Are visitors not monitored?’

  ‘The regime seems rather informal,’ said Fusculus. ‘There is a door porter but he doubles up as a water-carrier. If he is not at his post, people come and go as if the house was an extension of the shop.’

  ‘Casual.’

  ‘Greeks!’ Apparently Fusculus harboured some old Roman prejudice against our cultured neighbours.

  ‘I thought they like to protect their womenfolk?’

  ‘No, they’re just all over other peoples’ women,’ Fusculus sneered bitterly. A personal beef, no doubt of it. Find the female? I didn’t even know that Fusculus had a girlfriend, let alone that he had had her pinched by some Piraeus skirt pirate.

  ‘They have plenty of staff about.’ Passus wanted to continue with his notes. ‘It was a normal day. Chrysippus did not seem out of sorts. Thealarin was raised by slaves just after midday. Most of them fled, terrified.’

  ‘Terrified of being blamed,’ commented Fusculus. Well, the vigiles, with their usual light-handed tactics, were making sure the slaves’ terror was justified.

  ‘Any of them touch the body?’

  ‘No, Falco.’ Fusculus, as senior officer present, was quick to let me know the vigiles had checked that aspect. ‘They say they only looked in and then ran - well, it’s pretty repellent.’

  Passus took over again: ‘We listened to their stories, then we carried out a hands and clothing check. No bloodstains on most of their tunics. One did have that spilt stuff from the library all up his backside, but that was because his feet had slipped from under him on the oil in there and he landed in the stuff; it’s clear he has not been in a fight. Those with blood on their footwear match those who admitted they went in to gawp.’

  ‘Arms and legs?’

  ‘Clean.’

  ‘Untoward bruising? Signs of a tussle?’

  ‘Nothing new. A few bangs and cuts. All readily explained as natural wear and tear.’ In most households a survey of the slaves would produce a fair set of black eyes, cuts, burns, knocks and sores.

  ‘What do they say about the way they are handled here?’

  ‘Routine. Smacked ears for making themselves unpopular, meagre servings in their food-bowls, hard beds, not enough women to go round.’

  ‘So the slaves are affectionately-treated adjuncts to a normal family?’

  ‘Model behaviour by the paterfamilias.’

  ‘Did he extract sexual favours?’

  ‘Probably. Nobody mentioned it.’

  So far, this was not helping. ‘I am still unclear how the alarm spread to the street,’ I said. That niggled me. ‘Who was it who ran out of the house making a noise?’

  ‘I did!’ announced a woman’s voice.

  We turned around and looked her up and down, which was what her rich dress and finely applied cosmetics intended us to do. Fusculus leaned one fist against his hip, considering this vision. Passus pursed his lips, not letting on whether he liked what he saw or thought the effect too flash.

  ‘Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere, boys!’ I cried. It was a waggish response, which was possibly ill-mannered - but instinct told me to do it, even though this looked like the mistress of the house.

  XIII

  SHE WAS a good-looking piece. She knew all about it too. She did have a mouth so wide it looked as if it ran past her ears and met behind her head, but that was part of her style. The style was also extremely expensive. She wanted everyone to notice that.

  The wide, red-dyed mouth was not smiling. The voice that had come from it was somehow slightly uncultured, yet I would have placed her social origins as Roman, and higher than those of Chrysippus. The dark eyes that went with the mouth and the voice were too close together for me, but men with less demanding tastes would have thought them appealing, and much had been made of them with plucked brows, deep outlines and startling tinted pastes. They had a hard expression, but so what? Women in the Thirteenth Sector were prone to that. According to the ones I knew, it was caused by men.

  This was a young, confident female who had oodles of money and time on her hands. She thought that made her something special. For most peoples it would have done. I was old-fashioned. I liked women with a dash of moral fibre; well, women whose flirting was honest, anyway.

  ‘And who are you?’ I kept it level, not admitting whether I was impressed by the externals. Fusculus and Passus were watching how I handled this. I could have managed better without their open curiosity, but I knew I had to show them my quality. I was up to it. Well, probably. Helena Justina would have recommended that I handle this beauty with tongs, from behind a fireproof shield.

  ‘Vibia Merulla ‘

  ‘Lady of the house?’

  ‘Correct. Chrysippus’ wife.’ Perhaps this was slightly too emphatic.

  ‘And dear light of his life?’ I made it gallant, if she chose to take my wry tone that way.

  ‘Certainly.’ The wide mouth set in a straight line.

  I saw no reason to doubt her, actually. He must have been approaching sixty; she was in her late twenties. He was an unprepossessing squit and she was a spanking little artefact. It fitted. Married for a couple of years now, and both parties still pretending to like the situation, I would guess. Standing in their luxurious home and inspecting the ranks of jewelled necklaces that burdened a fine bosom, I could imagine what might have been in it for her, while that half-revealed bust hinted at what had been in it for him.

  Nevertheless, it is always worth pressing the questions. ‘Were you happy together?’

  ‘Of course we were. Ask anyone!’ She may not have realised, I would do just that.

  We shepherded the voluptuous Vibia to one side of the grand hall out of earshot of the slaves who were still being processed. Her glance flickered over them anxiously, yet she made no attempt to intervene; as their mistress she would have been entitled to sit in on the questioning.

  ‘Nice place!’ commented Fusculus. Apparently this was his method of setting a wealthy householder’s widow at her ease.

  It worked. Vibia paid no more attention to the interrogated slaves. ‘This is our Corinthian Oecus.’

  ‘Very nice!’ He smirked. ‘Is that some Greek sort of thing?’


  ‘Only in the best kind of houses.’

  ‘But Greek?’ insisted Fusculus.

  He achieved his answer the second time: ‘My husband’s family came from Athens originally.’

  ‘Was that recent?’

  ‘This generation. But they are perfectly Romanised.’ She, I reckoned, came straight off a true Roman trash-heap - though it might have social pretensions.

  Fusculus managed not to sneer. Well, not at this stage. It was plain what he thought, and how raucous the conversation would be when the vigiles talked Vibia Merulla over later in the day.

  Passus had found her a stool, so we could fuss round, ending up as if by accident in a group looming over her.

  ‘We are very sorry for your loss.’ I was examining the lady for signs of genuine grief; she knew that. She looked pale. The kohl-etched eyes were perfect and unsmudged. If she had wept, she had been neatly and expertly mopped up; still, there would be maids here employed specifically to keep her looking presentable, even in the present circumstances.

  She produced a wail: ‘It’s horrible! Just horrible -‘

  ‘Chin up, darling,’ soothed Passus. He was cruder than Fusculus. She looked annoyed, but women who carry a hint of the fish market yet lacquer themselves so expensively have to expect to be patronised.

  I addressed her like a kind uncle, though I would have dumped responsibility for any niece like this. ‘Forgive me for distressing you, but if we are to catch your poor husband’s killer we must ascertain the full course of events today.’ There were blood and oilstains on the glittering hem of her full-skirted gown, on her narrow-strapped, white leather sandals, and on the perfectly-trimmed toes visible through the dainty straps. ‘You must have run in to the body when the alarm was raised?’ I had let her see me inspecting her feet for evidence. Instinctively, she drew them back beneath her gown. A modest move. Embarrassed, perhaps, that they were no longer quite clean.

  ‘I did,’ she said, though for a second I thought she had to think about it.

  ‘What you found must have been a terrible shock. I am sorry to have to remind you, but I need to be quite clear what happened next. You told us you ran into the street screaming - was that immediately after you saw what had happened?’