Ode To A Banker

by Lindsey Davis

  Vibia gazed at me. ‘Do you imagine I sat down and polished my nails first?’

  Her tone was fairly level. It was impossible to tell whether this was a straightforward sarcastic reaction from a wife irritated by officialdom, or the kind of fighting rejoinder I had sometimes met from culprits defending themselves.

  ‘Why did you run outside?’ I continued patiently.

  ‘I thought whoever killed my husband might still be on the premises. I rushed out and screamed and screamed for help.’

  ‘Excuse me, but you do have a large staff here. Were you not confident that they would protect you?’ I wondered whether she was unpopular with the household slaves.

  For half a breath, she did not answer. Even when she spoke, it avoided the question. ‘I just wanted to get away from that horrible sight.’

  ‘I have to ask - did it cross your mind that one of the slaves might have done it?’

  ‘Nothing crossed my mind. I did not think.’

  ‘Oh, quite understandable,’ I assured her gently. At least this made a change from the frequent scenario where a guilty wife blames a slave to cover herself. ‘Do you mind if I ask, what had you been doing that morning?’

  ‘I was with my maids.’

  And a mirror. And a shopful of glass powder containers. It must have taken some time just to assemble the jewellery collection, dominated by a clanking strand of gold half moons and by earrings so heavy with hard gemstones they must be torture on her lobes. You wouldn’t nibble those ears. You might put an eye out, if madam tossed her head and the bank-breaking bijoux swung your way unexpectedly.

  ‘Where’s your room, lass?’ growled Passus.

  ‘On the second floor.’

  ‘Same as your husband?’ he demanded intrusively.

  Vibia looked him straight in the eye. ‘We are a devoted couple,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Passus returned, still being offensive as he pretended to apologise. ‘But we see some terrible things in the vigiles. Some of the places we go, the first thing I’d be looking at was whether, while the husband was scribbling in his Greek library, there was a boyfriend creeping up a back stairway to visit the pretty young wife.’

  Vibia Merulla seethed in silence. She may have coloured up. Under the layers of sheep-fat foundation, ochre rouge and foam of red nitre face powder, it was difficult to distinguish real effects of flesh and blood.

  I took over again- ‘Would you have any idea what your husband’s movements were today?’

  ‘The same as usual. He was a businessman; you must know that. He attended to his business.’

  ‘That’s rather vague, you know.’ She ignored my mild reproof. Next time I would be rude like Passus. ‘Part of the time he was in the scriptorium, streetside. I know that, Vibia. Then, I’m told, he came into the library. To read for his own pleasure?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Reading,’ I said. ‘You know: words written on scrolls. Expressions of thought; depictions of action; inspiration and uplift - or for a publisher, the means to cash.’ She looked offended again. Still, I knew her type; she thought plays were where you went to flirt with your girlfriends’ husbands and poems were junk verses sent to you in secret packs of sweets by oily gigolos. ‘He was working?’ I insisted.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘How should I know? Skipping through manuscripts, probably. Wewould go in and find him, scowling and grumbling - he has a stable of writers he encourages, but frankly, he does not think much of most of them.’ Like the slave with the lunch tray, she still slipped into speaking as if the man were alive.

  ‘Could you, or someone on your staff, give me these writers’ names?’

  ‘Ask Euschemon. He is -‘

  ‘Thanks. I know Euschemon. He is waiting to be interviewed.’ Did a flicker of nervousness cross the lady’s face? ‘And did Chrysippus work on manuscripts in his Greek library like that every day?’ I asked, trying to ascertain if a murderer could have planned on finding him there.

  ‘If he was at home. He had numerous interests. He was a man of affairs. Some mornings he would be out, seeing clients or other people.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘The Forum, maybe.’

  ‘Do you know anything about his clients?’

  ‘I am afraid not.’ She looked straight back at me. Was it a challenge?

  ‘Do you know if he had any enemies?’

  ‘Oh no. He was a much loved and respected man.’

  Dear gods. Why do they never realise that informers and the vigiles have heard that claim a hundred lying times before? I managed not to look at Fusculus and Passus, lest we all three collapsed with sidesplitting ridicule.

  I folded my arms.

  ‘So. You and Chrysippus lived here, blissfully married.’ No reaction from the lady. Still, women rarely come straight out with complaints about men’s habits at table or their mean dress allowances, not to a stranger. Well, not a stranger who has just seen the husband of the moment lying nastily dead. Women are less stupid than some investigators make out.

  ‘Children?’ put in Fusculus.

  ‘Get away,’ joshed Passus, playing a well-worn vigiles routine. ‘She doesn’t look old enough!’

  ‘Child bride.’ Fusculus grinned back. It might work with a dim girl, but this one was too hard-bitten. Vibia Merulla decided for herself when she wanted to be flattered. She had probably done her share of encouraging men’s banter, but now there was too much at stake. She endured the joking with a face like travertine.

  ‘Leave off, you two,’ I intervened. I gazed at Vibia benignly. That did not fool her either, but she did not bother to react. Not until my next question: ‘As the examining officer in this case, you appreciate that I need to look for a motive for your husband’s murder. He was rich; somebody will inherit. Can you tell me the terms of his will?’

  ‘You heartless bastard!’ shrieked the widow.

  Well, they usually do.

  She had been about to leap to her feet (very nice little feet, under the bloodstains and cedar oil). Fusculus and Passus were both ready for that. One either side of her, they leaned kindly on a shoulder each, pinning her down on her stool with lugubrious expressions of completely false sympathy. If she tried to break free forcibly, the bruises would last for weeks.

  ‘Oh, steady on, Falco!’

  ‘Poor lady; it’s just his unfortunate manner. Please don’t distress yourself -‘

  ‘No offence!’ I grinned heartlessly.

  Vibia wept, or pretended to, into a handkerchief, quite prettily.

  Fusculus went down in front of her on one knee, offering to dry the tears, which would be unfortunate if they were fake. ‘Madam, Marcus Didius Falco is a notorious brute - but he is obliged to ask you these questions. A ghastly crime has been committed, and we all want to catch whoever was responsible, don’t we?’ Vibia nodded fervently. ‘It would surprise you how many times people get themselves murdered, and we in the vigiles are then shocked to find out that their own closest relatives killed them. So just let Falco do his job: these are routine enquiries.’

  ‘If it upsets you,’ I offered helpfully, ‘I can soon discover what I need to know from your husband’s will.’

  ‘Is there a will?’ wondered Fusculus.

  ‘I expect so,’ Vibia fluttered, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

  ‘And are you mentioned in it?’ asked Passus, with an innocent smile.

  ‘I have no idea!’ she proclaimed rather loudly. ‘I have nothing to do with matters of money; whatever other women do, It is so unfeminine.’ None of us commented. The remark seemed specific, and I for one filed it in my professional memory under unfinished business. ‘I expect,’ she declared, as suspects tend to do when blaming someone else, ‘Diomedes is the main heir.’

  Fusculus, Passus, and I looked from one to another with knowing bright eyes. ‘Diomedes!’ said Passus to me, as if this solved a big question. Maybe he was right a
t that. ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘Diomedes,’ I responded. ‘There you are then.’

  ‘Diomedes,’ repeated Fusculus. ‘Fancy us not thinking of him straight away!’

  We all stopped smiling.

  ‘Young lady,’ I said - although the raw calculation in Vibia Merulla’s azure-lidded eyes belonged to an efficient nymph who was as old as the cold dawn on the Sabine Hills - ‘I don’t want to press you unfairly, but if he is in the square for this killing I suggest you tell us rather speedily where we might find him - and who Diomedes is.’

  XIV

  ‘DIOMEDES IS Chrysippus’ son.’ Passus was already consulting a list on his waxed tablets. He whistled a little tuneless phrase through his teeth.

  ‘If he lives here, he’s not in,’ he then told me in a low voice.

  ‘He lives with his mother,’ announced Vibia coldly. So she was the second wife. With the first still alive, there must have been a divorce. Another nugget to file. None of us commented. No need. Even Vibia’s expression showed she understood the implications.

  ‘This lad is an infant?’ asked Fusculus, assuming that any older son would live with the father, in normal guardianship.

  ‘He’s certainly a spoilt brat who needs looking after!’ Vibia snapped. The first wife’s boy had definitely upset her somehow. I saw Passus glance at Fusculus, both of them convinced that Vibia ‘looked after’ Diomedes in some sexual way. She failed to notice the innuendo, luckily. It was too soon to harass her in that way, even if we later came to suspect a dalliance.

  ‘He is an only child?’ I kept it formal.

  ‘Yes.’ She herself had borne none then. She did not appear to be pregnant. Always a good idea to check; many a violent death has been initiated by an impending birth.

  ‘How old is Diomedes exactly?’ I had sensed what the scenario might be.

  ‘I’m not his mother; I cannot say exactly!’ She looked up at me and stopped playing about. She shrugged. A gauzy stole slipped from her neat little shoulders. ‘Early twenties.’

  ‘That’s exact enough.’ Of an age to become a suspect. ‘When was the mother divorced by Chrysippus?’

  ‘About three years ago.’

  ‘After you came along?’

  Vibia Merulla simply smiled. Oh yes; I had got the picture.

  ‘So Diomedes went off to live with his mama. Did he continue to see his father?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They are Greeks,’ Fusculus reminded me. His loathing of the cultured folk from the cradle of philosophy was beginning to grate. ‘Very close-knit families.’

  ‘It’s a Roman ideal too,’ I rebuked him. ‘Does Diomedes come to this house to see Chrysippus, Vibia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he been here today?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You don’t normally see your husband’s visitors?’

  ‘I do not involve myself in business.’ This claim, too, was becoming repetitious.

  ‘But Diomedes is family.’

  ‘Not mine!’

  Too crisp. She felt she was defeating our questioning too well. Time to stop it. Better to continue later, when I would know more and might have edged a step ahead of her. I told Passus to obtain details of where the first wife lived, after which I suggested Vibia Merulla might like time to come to terms with her sudden bereavement in quiet female company.

  ‘Is there anybody we can send for, who would comfort you, my dear?’

  ‘I can manage,’ she assured me, with an impressive stab at dignity. ‘Friends will no doubt rush along when they hear what has happened.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you are right.’ Widows of wealthy men rarely lack for sympathy. In fact, as we left her to her own devices, Fusculus was arranging to leave a ‘courtesy’ vigilis guard at the house; I heard him surreptitiously give the guard instructions to note the names of people, especially men, who rushed along to console Vibia.

  Before I left here, I wanted to interview Euschemon, the scriptorium manager. Meanwhile, I asked Fusculus to send a couple of men immediately to the house of the first wife and her son, to put them under close guard until I could get there. ‘Prevent them changing their clothes or washing - if they have not already done so. Don’t tell them what it is all about. Keep them quarantined. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  I checked one final time that no useful clues had been extracted from the slaves, then I walked back through the lobby to the library. On the way, I had a close look at the side table where the lunch trayhad been placed. Its two pediment feet were carved from that Phrygian marble that comes in basic white, with dark purple variegations. A couple of the wine-coloured streaks turned out to be surface only - dried bloodstains that I rubbed off with a wet finger. It confirmed that the killer might well have stopped here on his way out, in order to pinch that piece of nettle flan.

  Unpleasant though it was, I had a last look at the dead man, memorising the ghastly scene in case I needed to recall some detail later. Passus brought me the address of the first wife; I would have liked to be the first to report what had happened - although I bet she would have heard of her ex-husband’s death by now.

  I picked up the short end of the scroll rod that had been wielded so revoltingly against the victim. ‘Ask your evidence officer to label that and keep it, Passus. We may find the matching finial somewhere, if we have any real luck.’

  ‘So, what do you think, Falco?’

  ‘I hate cases where the first person you interview looks as guilty as all Hades.’

  ‘The wife did not kill him?’

  ‘Not in person. Both she and her clothes would show damage And although I can imagine she can wind herself into quite a frenzy when she wants to, I doubt if she is strong enough to inflict this.’ We forced ourselves to resurvey the corpse at our feet. ‘Of course she could have hired someone.’

  ‘She virtually fingered this son, Diomedes.’

  ‘Too convenient. No, it’s too early to accuse anyone, Passus.’

  Passus looked pleased. He was curious to know the answers - but he did not want Petronius’ pet private informer to be the outsider who provided them.

  His hostility was a cliche, one I was well used to, yet it annoyed me. I told him to give orders for the corpse to be removed to an undertaker’s. Spitefully, I added, ‘Get this room cleared, not by the household slaves but by your own men, please. Keep an eye out for any clues we may have missed under the mess. And before they are flung out in a basket, I shall need a list of what all these unrolled scrolls on the floor contain, by subject and author.’

  ‘Oh shit, Falco!’

  ‘Sorry.’ I smiled pleasantly. ‘You may have to do that yourself, I suppose, if your rankers can’t read. But what Chrysippus was working on today may turn out to have some relevance.’

  Passus said nothing. Maybe Petronius would have wanted the scrolls listed, had he been in charge. Maybe not.

  I went back to the scriptorium, where I told the guard maintaining quarantine for Euschemon that he could be released into my custody. I could see he was not the killer; he was wearing the same clothes as when he came to see me at home this morning, with not a bloodstain on them.

  There were too many scribes within earshot, and I reckoned it would inhibit him when he talked to me. I took him away for a drink. He looked relieved to be out of there.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ I said cheerfully. After a grisly corpse and a flagrant wifelet, I was feeling dry myself.

  XV

  THERE WAS a popina on the next street corner, one of those grim stand-up foodshops with crude mock marble countertops on which to bruise your elbows. All but one of the big pots were uncovered and empty, and the other had a cloth over it to discourage orders. The grumbling proprietor took great pleasure in telling us he could not serve eatables. Apparently the vigiles had given him a bollocking for selling hot stews. The Emperor had banned them. It was dressed up as some sort of public health move; more likely a subtle plan to get work
ers off the streets and back in their workshops - and to deter people from sitting down and discussing the government.

  ‘Everything’s banned except pulses.’

  ‘Ugh!’ muttered I, being no lover of lentils. I had spent too much time on suveillance, gloomily leaning against a caupona counter and toying with a lukewarm bowl of pallid slush while I waited for some suspect to emerge from his comfortable lair - not to mention too many hours afterwards picking leguminous grains from my teeth.

  Privately I made a note that this ban might affect business at Flora’s - so Maia might not want to take on Pa’s caupona after all.

  ‘I gather you had the red tunics here, just when the alarin was raised about the death at the scriptorium?’

  ‘Too right. The bastards put the block on today’s menu right at lunchtime. I was furious, but it’s an edict so I couldn’t say much. A woman started screaming her head off. Then the vigiles rushed off to investigate the excitement and by the time I had finished clearing the counters, there was nothing to see. I missed all the fun. My counter-hand ran down there; he said it was gruesome -‘

  ‘That’s enough!’ I gave a tactful nod towards Euschemon, whom he probably knew. The popina owner subsided with a grouse. His counter-hand was absent now; perhaps sent home when the hot food was cleared away.

  Euschemon had shambled after me from the house in silence. I bought him a cup of pressed fruitjuice, which seemed the only thingon offer. It was not bad, though the fruit used was debatable. The bill, written out for me with unusual formality, cancelled any pleasure in the taste. We leaned on the counter; I glared at the owner until he slunk into the back room.

  ‘I’m Falco; you remember?’ He managed half a nod. ‘I called at the scriptorium this morning, Euschemon. You were out; I saw Chrysippus.’ I did not mention my disagreement with him. It seemed a long time ago. ‘That must have been just before he went in to work in his library. Now I have been appointed the official investigator for vigiles. I’ll have to ask you some questions.’

  He just held his cup. He seemed in a daze, malleable - but perhaps unreliable too.