Ode To A Banker

by Lindsey Davis

  Euschemon chuckled in agreement. ‘I have certainly found most of them a little impractical.’

  I gazed at the young man. ‘So, what is your speciality? Plays, philosophy, or poetry?’

  ‘I like writing prose.’ The waiter who wanted to be a writer looked shy again and would contribute no more. It could be modesty, or commercial discretion. Quite likely, as with many ‘prospective authors’, it was all a dream and he had never committed anything to papyrus. Nor ever would.

  Prose was an issue. I turned back to Euschemon. ‘Another technical question, please. As scriptorium manager, what would you say is the potential of Greek novels? You know, love-and-adventure yarns.’

  ‘Critically despised of course,’ the scroll-seller said. Then he smiled.‘Or to put it another way: too much fun, and far too popular. They are the next big thing. Raging best-sellers.’

  I became thoughtful. ‘You’re buying?’

  ‘We are!’ promised Euschemon, feelingly.

  As I left the popina, I could see the waiter who wanted to be a writer had gone into a private reverie. He reminded me of Helena when she was reading. He did not mind being alone. He could enter the company of his own swirling gang of vivid characters.

  And unlike real people, these would do what he told them to.

  L

  I COULD SEE Diomedes waiting for me in the temple portico; the high square forehead he had inherited from Chrysippus was unmistakable. I quickened my steps, afraid that despite my warning he might lose his nerve and flee. Lysa had the backbone in that family.

  ‘I found somebody!’ he assured me eagerly. As if that settled everything.

  ‘Good news, Diomedes. Let’s do it properly though…’ Before I let him take me in to see the priest, I kept him back and made him face the questioning he had so far escaped. ‘I’ll hear what this fellow has to say, but first I would like you to tell me in your own words what you did the morning your father died.’

  Diomedes pulled up. ‘I came here. I was here all morning. The priest will tell you so.’ Oh, he probably would too.

  ‘Good,’ I replied gently. ‘And what happened either side of your religious experience?’

  Nobody had rehearsed him for this. Still, he made a go of it: ‘I came straight here from my mother’s house. Afterwards, I went straight home.’

  ‘So you were not only here all morning - you actually stayed at thetemple all day?’

  ‘Yes,’ he retorted defiantly.

  I toughened up. ‘Excuse me! Nobody loves the gods that much. Most of us walk past the local temples the same way we walk past popina brothels - without even noticing they are there. Are you wanting to become a priest?’

  ‘I am devoted to Minerva.’

  I smothered a laugh. ‘Well, that’s obvious! What do you want to do with your life in general, incidentally? Be an upright civic sprig as your mother intends?’

  ‘I suppose I shall have to,’ Diomedes answered, grimacing. ‘She’ll get her own way now.’ Now what? I wondered curiously. Before I could ask him, he went on, ‘I had my dreams, but there’s no chance.’

  ‘What dreams are those? I suppose you must have wanted to acquire the bank?’

  ‘I’d rather have the scriptorium,’ he surprised me by saying jealously.

  ‘Oh? What’s the attraction?’

  ‘I am interested in literature!’

  ‘You amaze me!’ Still, everyone wanted to be a writer round here. ‘Well, let’s get things straight.’ I decided to deal with the alibi question. Did you at any stage on the fatal day visit your father’s house in the Clivus Publicius?’

  ‘No, Falco.’ Another haughty disclaimer that failed to ring true. I felt sure that he had done.

  ‘So, when were you told that he had died?’

  ‘When I reached home. Mother told me.’ That was the story we had been fed before. There was nothing wrong with his memory - but was he remembering the truth, or what his stern mama dinned into him? If Diomedes had been known as a fervent patron of the Temple of Minerva, why had nobody run here to find him and tell him of his bereavement earlier? I knew what I thought was the answer to that.

  ‘How are things between the lovely Vibia and you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that frankly, I heard you and she had a backstairs romance.’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘Of course she’s kicked you out now - but it could be a front to allay suspicion… While your father was alive, I understand you were a constant visitor?’

  ‘I went to see him, not her.’

  ‘You were close? Devoted to your dear papa as well as to the gods? If that’s true, I have to say, you are a pious prick!’ Diomedes refrained from answering. Perhaps he was a normal son and shared my sentiments. Perhaps Lysa brought him up pure-minded and he was offended by my obscenity. ‘How did you feel about your parents divorcing? I gather it caused no conflict of loyalty?’

  ‘They had their reasons. I was an adult. I remained on good terms with both.’

  ‘What were their reasons? Adding gloss to the family so you could be moved up the social scale?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Falco.’

  ‘You kept your old room at your father’s house - though you lived with your mother? Why was that?’

  ‘Mother asked me.’ I waited. I was prepared to accept that the abandoned wife needed her son’s support. On the other hand, I now believed quite strongly that Lysa connived at the Chrysippus remarriage with Vibia, in order to provide Diomedes with social cachet. She cannot have been as stricken as all that by a divorce that had such devious aims.

  ‘Did your mother think there was an attraction between you and Vibia?’

  ‘She did have some crazy notion that Vibia Merulla made eyes at me.’

  ‘Olympus. How shocking! Was it true?’

  Diomedes was countering my shocks quite well now. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘So how did you feel about Vibia?’

  ‘She was my father’s wife.’ That really was sickeningly pious. To tone it down, he felt obliged to play the man of the world: ‘Naturally, I did notice that she is very beautiful.’

  ‘Her mouth is too wide.’ I dismissed her cruelly. ‘Well, did you have an affair with the beauty?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never go to bed with her? She seems ready for it!’

  ‘I never touched her. I’ve said that three times now. She’s a tease,’ Diomedes complained. ‘Once she looked as if she wanted something - then she cooled down, for no reason!’

  ‘Did you get her letter?’ I sprang on him.

  ‘What?’ This time, at an innocuous question, Diomedes flushed; was that guilt?

  ‘She wrote and asked you to remove your property from her house, I believe?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, she did. I had forgotten about that, I must confess…’

  ‘Do it tomorrow,’ I ordered him briefly. I want you at my meeting; you can bring slaves to pack up your stuff. How are the wedding plans, incidentally?’

  Diomedes looked abashed. ‘Held up, rather - because of all this trouble with the bank.’

  ‘Tough! Of course Vibia may have gone off you once you agreed to marry a relative of hers - women can be funny about things like that.’ Diomedes expressed no opinion. ‘So will you be fleeing to Greece, along with your mother and Lucrio?’

  ‘My mother thinks it would be best.’

  ‘Don’t go, if you don’t want to. Rome is the place to be. What are you running away from?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Diomedes rapidly.

  I decided to stop there. I gazed at him ‘Right. Well, Greece is a Roman province; we can get you back here if we need to. But I’m hoping to settle everything tomorrow. We should know who killed your father, and you can be allowed to leave the country… Where is this priest of yours?’

  He produced the priest, a different man from the one I questioned. This fellow, a leery, Celtic beery sort of leach, gave the son the exact cover he needed: Di
omedes had been honouring Minerva from dawn to dusk, praying and offering barley cakes, the day his father died. I was surprised a temple stayed open so long. I planted the alleged devotee in front of the goddess, with her Gorgon-headed aegis, her austere helmet and her antique spear. ‘Swear to me now, in the presence of this priest, and on the name of holy Minerva, that you were in this sanctum from morning to evening on the day your father died!’

  Diomedes swore the oath. I refrained from calling him a lying dog. I let him leave, only reminding him that he was wanted tomorrow for my final interview.

  I held up my hand slightly, to retain the priest. Once Diomedes was out of sight, I sighed wearily. ‘All right. I’m not the believing nymph Diomedes thinks. Don’t mess me about. How much has he promised to the Temple, and how much is he paying you?’

  ‘You insult the goddess!’ shrieked the priest. (The heavenly goddess made no comment, a true patroness of wisdom.)

  I tried both haggling and threatening, but we were deadlocked. The priest ignored the suggestive power of the vigiles, and simply laughed at my fine oration on the subject of perjury. That was depressing. I had thought my arguments were both cogent and elegantly expressed. As an informer, I was most competent to speak on that unglamorous crime - having committed perjury plenty of times, on behalf of my less scrupulous clients.

  As I left despondently, the priest hurried inside looking furtive. I then observed a procession, men of all ages and degrees of unkemptness, who were entering a side building of the complex. There was more variety than you would expect to see in the ceremonial gatherings of most craft guilds. Overweight or skinny; badly-dressed and pedantically meticulous; some like short-sighted auditors; some pushy, with loud laughs; some so vague they were nearly left behind by the group; occasional barrow boys. Straggly haircuts that shamed thebarbering profession. Snagged fingernails. Stains. They combined the peculiarity of musicians with an aura of hunched diffidence that would be more appropriate in runaway slaves.

  What caught my eye was that most of them carried waxed tablets or untidy scrolls. So did I, but mine were hidden away until needed for a practical reason.

  I gripped the tunic sleeve of the last man. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘A small gathering of amateurs, who meet regularly at the Guild.’ They were meeting for refreshment, apparently; amphorae andabundant trays of savouries were being carried in ahead of them.

  ‘What guild is this?’ I glanced in. One thing they did quite capablywas to fall on and unbung amphorae.

  ‘Scribae et Histriones - Scribblers and Hystericals, we say.’ Authors and Actors.

  The man seemed quite inclined to chat. I remembered what the young waiter had told me: all talk and no results. Conversation - and wine - was what drew them here, when they could have been head-down in their rooms actually producing work. ‘We are a curious grouping, slightly eccentric, some might say…’ he burbled, as if it was a well-worn theme.

  ‘And what do you do here?’

  ‘We discuss our writing with our peers.’

  ‘Anyone famous?’

  ‘Not yet!’ It would never happen, I thought to myself ‘We have a long tradition - dates back to the marvellous Livius Andronicus. He composed a hymn to Juno Minerva that was just so wonderful, in return the writers’ circle was allowed to meet here in perpetuity. Copyists use the accommodation by day, but when Hestia, the Evening Star, rises in majesty, the benches are given up to us -‘

  ‘Marvellous!’ I enthused; my voice croaked, squeezing out such hypocrisy. But I wanted information, and this would be my last chance. ‘Excuse me, I don’t know your name -‘

  ‘Got a minute for a little chat, Nibs?’ Inspiration struck. I pulled out my own note-tablet. ‘I’m not supposed to mention this - but I’m writing up an article on modern authors for the Daily Gazette .

  It worked immediately. Well, of course it did. He proffered a cold, limp handshake. Even unpublished writers know that they should grab at publicity.

  LI

  PREPARATION IS the secret. Whether planning a battle campaign or creating epic verse, you need your equipment well in place and allyour information docketed. For the finale of a criminal investigation, it is a good idea to invest time and care in arrangements with your catering corps. Most informers don’t know that. It is why most are sad losers with only half a client list.

  I bought the snacks myself. I was intending to charge them to Vibia; well, she was the distraught widow who wanted her husband avenged. (Anyway, the vigiles had a no-comestibles expenses rule for consultants; at least, that sourpuss Petronius said they did.) I enjoyed myself planning the eats: nibbles and nick-nackeroonies to sit in napkins on little trays. Olives, a few expensive shellfish, plenty of cheap stuffed vine leaves, and some diddly pastry cases, to be freshly cooked with egg fillings. Then I bought eggs. And fillings.

  As a finger-buffet, it would have graced a reception given for the elderly matrons who ran a charitable orphanage. Not that I would say so. After all, Helena Justina was patron to a school for orphaned girls.

  Devotion to these domestic matters took up much of that morning. (Well, you try obtaining fresh nettletips in the Market of Livia on a particular day!) Once purchased, the goodies had to be transported to the Clivus Publicius and handed over to Vibia’s bemused staff, including her cook. I gave strict instructions for preparation and service. Believe me, you cannot expend too much effort on the detailing.

  As I left the house, having managed to avoid ensnarement by Vibia, I asked to see the slave who took around messages. ‘Seen those authors again? Are they all coming today?’

  ‘Sure.’ The household runner was a pert lad who seemed to know what he was doing.

  I tried him out: ‘Somebody told me you tend to give wrong instructions. “Never gives a clear steer” were his words, in fact.’

  ‘Hah! Would that have been Pacuvius? Scrutator? Too bloodytalkative. Never listens properly. And his mind is on other things. I have to nip carefully around that old goat - if you know what I mean.’ He winked, and managed to imply he was a good-looking boy, and Scrutator had an eye for him. It could have been true, though it was a stock excuse among slaves.

  ‘Any views on the other hacks Chrysippus patronised?’

  ‘Constrictus is always trying to sponge the price of a drink off me.’ To borrow cash from your own slave was one thing; cadging from somebody else’s runner was probably illegal and certainly low-class. ‘Turius is a waste of time; Avienus - he’s dead now, isn’t he? - was worse. Always wanted me to sneak on everyone else.’

  ‘What was there to sneak?’

  ‘How should I know?’ If he did know any dirt, he was not telling me. But had he passed on scandal to Avienus? Unluckily, I had used up my vigiles allowance for bribes. (Easy; Petronius had never given me one.)

  ‘Urbanus?’

  ‘Urbanus is all right.’

  ‘Yes, I liked him too. Probably means he’s a villain-‘ Weexchanged a grin. ‘So; you were the gofer, the day your master was killed. Will you confirm the list of men he invited to the library?’

  I was dreading that this would throw up a new suspect - whom I had no time to investigate. Once again the slave repeated just the old list.

  ‘There is a problem,’ I confided. ‘Urbanus says he never answered the summons, but according to your door staff here, the right number of men was counted in. Any ideas?’

  ‘Urbanus did say he wasn’t going to come.’

  ‘So who filled his space?’

  ‘The new writer turned up.’

  ‘What new writer?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He came of his own accord. I met him on the doorstep. As he had never been here before, he asked me where he had to go.’

  ‘He told you he was a writer?’

  ‘I already knew.’

  I growled. ‘You just said you don’t know him.’

  The runner beamed triumphantly. Winding me up and then slapping me down was his best fun all week. �
��I don’t know what he calls himself - but I do know who he is.’

  I breathed slowly. ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know, Falco?’

  ‘No.’ I could play the awkward beggar too. I had worked out who the ‘new writer’ probably was. ‘Now you just wait in the Latin library when the meeting starts. Stay there - and try not to cheek anyone - until I ask you to come in.’

  Outside the house, I stood for a moment in the column-flanked portico, clearing my mind. I enjoyed the comparative coolness under the heavy stone canopy, before I walked home to collect Helena and Petronius. I had been up just after dawn, as soon as the marketeers set up their stalls. By now, it was mid-morning. Sensible people were looking forward to going indoors for a few hours. Dogs stretched themselves out right against the walls of houses, shrinking into the last few inches of shade. Out in the streets were only those of us with desperate business in hand - and mad old ladies. The elderly woman who frequented the Clivus Publicius was wandering past now, with her basket as usual.

  This time I stopped her and greeted her. ‘Carry your basket, gran?’

  ‘You get off!’

  ‘It’s all right; I work for the vigiles.’

  No use: the determined dame swung at me with her shopping. The hard wickerwork was well aimed. ‘Settle down,’ I gasped. ‘No need to be so vicious. Now, you look like a sharp-eyed, sensible woman; you remind me of my dear mother… I just want to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘You’re the man on that murder, aren’t you?’ So she had me tagged. ‘It’s about time!’

  Keeping out of reach of the basket, I asked my questions. As I suspected, on the fatal day she had been ambling past the Chrysippus house around lunchtime. I was disappointed that she had seen nobody running out with bloodstained clothes. But she had seen the killer, I was sure of that. Rather more politely than my other requests, I begged her to join my increasing group of witnesses in an hour’s time. She looked as if she thought I wanted to capture her as brothel-bait. Inquisitiveness would probably have brought her but to make sure, I told her there would be free food.