Ode To A Banker

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Right then, Turius; you made a startling confession.’ I tutted. ‘I wonder why you did that?’

  Turius had remained hunched on his seat during the break, not partaking of the refreshments. Now he flushed painfully. He was deeply regretting his outburst. He was a fool, and it would serve him right if I arrested him - but I was convinced the bank’s enforcers were to blame for the historian’s death.

  ‘Anyone help you with this alleged killing?’

  ‘No -‘

  Once again, I dragged him to the centre of the room. It took little effort. Standing there, his head hung and he tried to avoid my eye. ‘How strong are you, Turius? Could a sickly man, working alone, have knocked out Avienus, then shunted him over a parapet and held him there, while stuffing his head through a noose?’

  ‘I -‘

  ‘Let’s say you did kill him, Turius. Whatever was your motive? Avienus refused to press Chrysippus for more money? Perhaps. So you killed him to take over as sole blackmailer? At some point there must have been pay-offs to you - it would explain your fancy outfits, wouldn’t it, Turius?’ He said nothing, perhaps confirming that he did receive payment. ‘But to put pressure on Chrysippus direct, you had to know exactly what Avienus had discovered against the bank. Had he told you that?’

  ‘No!’ Turius wailed, by now distraught. ‘That time he was drunk he held back the full evidence. Afterwards he refused to say anything more.’

  ‘So you never took over as the blackmailer?’

  ‘Stick to that line,’ I warned him. ‘Because if anyone thinks you do know the details, you too may be obliterated by violent heavies called the Ritusii. They had a strongman called Bos, who probably helped Avienus to his death, and who tried to strangle Petronius.’ I noticed Lucrio lean forward slightly as if to look curiously at Lysa. Did that mean she hired the Ritusii and he had only just found out?

  ‘Bos is dead’ - Lucrio sat back, pulling an amazed face - ‘but the Ritusii are still at large - I suggest you get out of their reach, Turius.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he gasped.

  ‘Don’t thank me. The vigiles and I like good urban hygiene - we don’t want stinking corpses in this heat. I’d hate to see an idealist like you dangling from a rope with a purple face.’

  ‘Oh Hades…’ Way out of his depth, Turius once more buried his head in his hands.

  I spoke more kindly: ‘Now cut out the nonsense: tell me, why did you say you had killed the historian?’

  He looked up, his glistening hair ploughed into furrows by his fingers. ‘I should never have urged him to ask for extra money. That brought about his death. I feel responsible.’

  He did bear responsibility, but he can never have imagined a fatalitywould happen. What was the point in pressing it? Those who decided to wipe Avienus out, bore far more guilt than this pathetic creature. ‘That sounds like regret,’ I suggested.

  ‘Of course I regret it, bitterly.’

  ‘Then I suggest you make amends to his old mother, if you can.’ I paused. ‘And I would like you to explain how you can afford the fancy wardrobe, when you are not making money from writing. Where do the smart tunics come from, Turius?’

  Turius hated having to answer, but he understood he was still vulnerable to suspicion. He had to come clean. He closed his eyes and announced clearly: ‘Chrysippus never paid me enough to live on. I moonlight as a private poetry-reader to rich women. I have done it for years.’

  He meant more than reading aloud eclogues. The clients who wheezed, ‘Ooh Turius, you have such a lovely voice!’ would be buying his body. I had thought him effeminate, but he was really a widows’ pretty boy.

  His nerve failed. He crumpled. He whispered pitifully, ‘I have said that in confidence, of course…’

  Despite the flash clothes, he was not even good-looking. The wealthy old hags who slavered over him must be loathsome. I shuddered, and let him slink back to his seat.

  I gazed at the Chrysippus family. Time to get tough.

  ‘So, who sent the Ritusii to nail Avienus? Chrysippus was dead, but who else wanted to be rid of the blackmailer? You, Lysa. You inherited the bank - after you had been closely involved in its early years. You told me, no one person ever made decisions. That means you knew what went on. What were the historian’s threats? Extortionate commission? Making debtors with a doubtful credit-record pay annual interest above the legal maximum? Or was it misuse of funds? You’re a Greek - I know that notorious story about the Opisthodomos fire, when a temple treasury in Athens was burnt down because a sealed deposit had been used for speculation - and lost - illegally. Sound like anything you and your husband used to do?’

  ‘You won’t prove anything against us,’ Lysa replied calmly.

  ‘We can check the bank’s records.’

  Her composure remained immaculate. ‘You will fmd nothing discreditable. Loans from years ago have all been repaid. It is a tradition of Greek banking that whenever a loan is cancelled, the contract is destroyed.’

  Oh very neat! ‘The vigiles will find witnesses somewhere.’

  Lysa glared at me. It gave me an odd feeling to be discussing such matters with a woman. Lysa herself seemed perfectly at ease; her very competence implicated her in what the bank had done wrong. She could have pleaded female ignorance of its practices, but the thought never occurred to her.

  ‘The Golden Horse is known for its hungry interest rates,’ I continued. ‘Petronius Longus hopes to nail you on a usury charge. I myself want to trace those “fiduciary transactions” that Avienus had tracked and used to help his personal liquidity. My suspicion is that when you started out in Rome, Lysa, sealed deposits - regular deposits, as they are known - were used for speculation in irregular ways.’

  ‘Prove it!’ She was angry enough - without even knowing that it was Lucrio who inadvertently gave me this lead a few minutes ago. Lucrio realised, and looked sick.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised. Lysa fixed me again. I was impervious to seething women. ‘So did you have Avienus destroyed, Lysa? When Chrysippus died, Avienus must have thought he had lost his milk cow and, what’s more, he had Turius nagging him. Did he try you? I imagine you resisted blackmail far more strongly than Chrysippus!’

  ‘I don’t stand for sneaks,’ Lysa agreed, showing a rare flash of deep anger. She knew the admission proved nothing against her. I decided to leave that. The vigiles were finding it hard to prove a direct link in the killing between Lysa (or Lucrio) and the Ritusii. The pair might yet get away with eradicating Avienus, especially if they left for Greece. Even if Rubella, on his return, thought it was worth enquiry time, only with a cast-iron case would Petro be allowed to haul the villains back from overseas. If Rubella did press the issue, however, I reckoned the truth would out eventually.

  I returned to the bank’s agent. ‘Lucrio - a word. Even if you knew nothing about the blackmail before Chrysippus died, by the time we commandeered your records, you must have twigged.’ It was conceivable he had just wanted to get the records back quickly in order to see if his late master had overstepped the line. More likely, he knew all too well what had occurred. ‘You tried to snatch the records back at night by force - a crazy overreaction. You could have played it cool and claimed the law. Why was the situation so urgent that you raided the patrol-house? You put us on the alert. Foolish, Lucrio.’

  I could make no impression on the sanguine Lucrio. It was clear heand Lysa had made a pact of silence. Lysa even seemed to be glad that I was questioning them about the bank.

  There could be a reason for that: it kept the heat off another subject.

  I changed my line of approach. ‘I want to wind this up. Let us now consider Chrysippus and what happened to him.’

  I took several deep breaths and paced around the square, gazing at each suspect.

  ‘What kind of man was he? A shrewd businessman, who had built up an empire from nothing when he came to Rome as a foreigner. If his initial methods involved sharp practice, that is true of thousands like hi
m. By the time he died, he had become a respectable figure, involved in several areas of commerce, a patron of the arts, with a son - Diomedes - who was entrenching himself in Roman society, and due one day to marry well.’

  Diomedes woke up sleepily from an apparent trance. He had probably been given some sort of education, but he did not look particularly bright. To follow an involved series of arguments had been beyond him. He had perked up earlier when the food trays came, but mostly he had slumped beside his mother looking bored stiff, as if he were still ten years old. He enjoyed hearing his name mentioned in public, though.

  If he really had followed my methods today, he might now have feared I was about to jump on him.

  I smiled, first at Diomedes, then at Lysa. She knew what I was doing. I could see fear in her eyes for her son.

  ‘Concentrate on events the day he died. Chrysippus was here in the library.’ We all looked around. Those of us who had been here after the body was discovered relived the silence that terrible day: the long tables stacked with scrolls, the overturned chairs, the corpse, the mess, the blood.

  ‘Diomedes,’ I commanded. ‘You look rather like your father, especially now you’ve acquired that beard. Come here, will you. And let’s have Philomelus - I am choosing him at random, by the way.’

  The two young men approached, both looking apprehensive.

  ‘Thanks, you two. Now help me re-enact what happened, in case it jogs a memory. Helena, could I trouble you?’ I gave Philomelus, the thin waiter, an empty scroll rod she had been keeping ready for me. ‘Take this. Now both pretend you are having a shouting match.’ They were poor or nervous actors, but I shoved them about a bit. Diomedeswanted to resist, which was perhaps understandable. Philomelus had no meat on him, and lacked any gymnasium training, though he was a more intelligent mover. ‘Now. Philomelus, you are the killer: stab Chrysippus with the rod.’ He made a feeble gesture towards Diomedes’ chest ‘You fight a bit more, exchanging blows - now you’re dead, Diomedes. You fall on the floor - here, where I put the rug.’

  Diomedes knelt and then lay full length, assuming his position rather decorously. He had entered the spirit to some extent, however, and was stretched out face down, crossways across the rug. I helped him up, thanked them both, then let them go back to their seats.

  I looked at Diomedes with my head on one side ‘Interesting! You lay face down. According to your alibi, you never saw the corpse. But you lay down - as it happens - exactly how your father was first found. Later, the vigiles turned him over.’ To stop Diomedes offering excuses, I went on quickly, ‘Of course, you probably talked to the slaves and perhaps to Vibia about your father’s death. That would be entirely natural.’

  Having mentioned Vibia, I turned swiftly to her. ‘Vibia Merulla, Diomedes has an alibi; he was at the Temple of Minerva - a priest, honest no doubt, will vouch for him. Tell me, did you know he was there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, flushing as attention turned on her. ‘Yes, I did. He often goes there.’

  ‘Tell me then - when you found Chrysippus lying here, why did you not send to the Temple, which is only a few steps away, to let Diomedes know his dear papa was dead?’

  ‘I never thought about it,’ Vibia declared, a little too boldly. ‘I was very shocked.’

  ‘Understandable. Now-you used to like Diomedes once, but your feelings have changed. Do you want to tell us about that?’

  ‘No!’ she squeaked indignantly.

  ‘He’s very interested in literature, he told me. Did you decide he was only after you because you would inherit the scriptorium?’

  ‘I was never interested in him nor he in me.’

  ‘Well, you certainly don’t like him now. You won’t speak to him and you want his possessions removed from your house. Did something happen to make you feel so strongly? Did he do something?’

  Vibia shook her head in silence.

  ‘I need to know this, Vibia. Why didn’t you tell Diomedes about his poor father dying? A harsh person might wonder: Maybe she thought he already knew.’ Vibia still stubbornly refused to be drawn. ‘Of course, he was being religious all day, wasn’t he? Be warned, Vibia - if I could prove Diomedes was not at the Temple when he says, I would look at him very closely as a suspect, and I would look at you as well!’

  Under the layers of face decoration, Vibia may have gone pale. She made no further protest; I reckoned she wanted to defend herself, but something held her back.

  I walked back across the room, crossing the rug that lay where the body was found. I bent down and replaced the rug to lie the way Diomedes had done. ‘Diomedes, I noticed you lay down in an east-west direction. You followed the real line of the body, of course.’ I paused for a second theatrically, as if honouring the corpse. ‘Anyone would think you knew.’

  Diomedes made as if to speak, but his mother gripped him tightly by the arm.

  ‘Now then!’ I tackled the authors and Euschemon. ‘Chrysippus spent that morning reading new manuscripts. My first thought was that he might have been killed by a disgruntled author. Avienus and Turius both needed him alive so he could pay blackmail demands. Were there advantages or disadvantages in his death for the rest of you? What has been the result? Euschemon, have you kept the status quo?’

  Euschemon looked reluctant, though he piped up: ‘We are, actually, dropping all this group from our list, I am sure they understand. They were Chrysippus’ personal clients, a close circle he supported as artistic patron. Once the scriptorium fell into new hands - whether Vibia had sold it or kept it herself - these authors became candidates for dismissal. They are all bright men, Falco,’ he commented. ‘They would have known the risks.’

  ‘So they owed their patronage and publication to Chrysippus, and they knew they might lose both if he died.’ I ran my eyes along the line, ‘Except for you, Urbanus. You were leaving him anyway.’

  ‘And I never came here that day,’ he reminded me.

  ‘I believe you. One extra person did visit him in your place,’ I said. Then I signalled Passus to send in the slave who ran errands.

  He marched in confidently, then quailed when he saw how many people were here. I was brisk with him.

  ‘Just one question. The day your master died, you saw a would-be author who was not on the visiting list coming to the house. Will you now point out that man?’

  ‘That’s him!’ squeaked the slave, his voice breaking. As I expected, he pointed straight at Philomelus.

  LVI

  DID YOU come here that day, Philomelus?’ The young waiter stood up again. ‘Yes, Falco.’ He spoke quietly. Though he looked nervous - and behind him his father looked nearly frantic - the young man met my gaze without wavering.

  ‘You saw Chrysippus?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell us what you talked about.’

  ‘I have written a stow,’ Philomelus said this time flushing shyly. ‘I wanted him to publish it. He had seen a copy ages ago, and had not returned the scrolls. I came to beg him to take it for publication - though I had made up my mind to retrieve the scrolls, if he did not want it.’

  ‘What happened that day? Did he agree to buy your work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he perhaps ask you to pay him a fee to publish it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Chrysippus was very evasive. Eventually he told me it was just not good enough.’

  ‘Did you get it back?’

  Philomelus looked thoroughly downcast. He made a heartbroken gesture. ‘No, Falco. Chrysippus confessed that he had lost the scrolls.’

  I looked around the library. ‘Well, there are certainly a great many documents here; he could well have mislaid one. Careless, though. He should have looked for your manuscript. It was your property - physically and creatively. To you, it represented months of work and all your hopes. How did you react?’

  ‘I was devastated.’ Clearly, Philomel
us was still deeply affected.

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted the youth honestly.

  ‘Did you threaten him?’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘With what?’ Philomelus did not answer. ‘Violence?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘No, I never thought of that,’ Philomelus sighed, conceding ruefully that he lacked both aggression and physique. ‘I told him that I would tell my father what had happened, and our family would never do business with him again. Oh, I know it sounds feeble!’ he quavered. ‘I was in anguish. But it was all I could think of to say.’

  Pisarchus stood up and put a heavy arm around his shoulders. The threat about withdrawing their business would have been carried out - though I was not sure Chrysippus would have cared.

  ‘Then what?’ I asked.

  ‘I went back to the popina,’ Philomelus replied. ‘Then I was sent home early because the vigiles had complained about the hotpots; we partly closed down until they tired of checking us.’

  ‘You did not come back here?’

  ‘No. I went straight to my lodgings, faced up to what had happened, and started to write out the whole story again.’

  ‘Very professional!’ I applauded. Now I turned nasty: ‘Quite coolheaded too - if you had battered Chrysippus to a pulp before you left this library!’

  Philomelus wanted to protest, but I stopped him defending himself. ‘Don’t despair,’ I told him in a charitable tone. ‘Your manuscript may not have disappeared.’ I signalled Aelianus to send in Passus, and I myself brought forward Helena Justina. Fusculus by prior arrangement went out to take up Passus’ post with the witnesses. As he walked by, I muttered in his ear a reminder about a search Petronius had ordered.

  I resumed the debate.

  ‘Manuscripts are important in this case. My associates have been cataloguing the scrolls that were found here after Chrysippus died. Passus, you first. Will you tell us about the majority - the scrolls with title pages - please?’

  Passus reiterated what he had told me: that apparently Chrysippus had been making marketing decisions, mainly in the negative. Passus gave the report competently, though was more nervous in front of the large audience than I had expected. I indicated that he could sit with Petronius.