Ode To A Banker

by Lindsey Davis

  Now it was Helena’s turn. Unafraid of the crowd, she waited quietly for me to give the lead. She looked neat in blue, not extravagantly dressed or bejewelled. Her hair was turned up in a simpler style than usual, while unlike Lysa and Vibia who were bareanned and brazen, she had sleeves to the elbow and kept a modest stole over one shoulder. She could have been my correspondence secretary, but for her refined voice and confidence.

  ‘Helena Justina, I asked you to read an adventure tale.’ I nodded to the seats behind us, where the scrolls were lying. Philomelus looked as though he wanted to rush over there and search for his beloved manuscript. ‘Can we have your comments, please?’

  I had not rehearsed her in detail, but Helena knew I wanted her to talk first about the one we thought was called Zisimilla and Magarone, the awful yarn she could not bear to finish. Now I knew Philomelus had been told his story was not good enough to publish, I thought perhaps he had written this. Mind you, it presumed that in turning him down, Chrysippus had had enough critical judgement to recognise a dud. Turius had libelled the arts patron as a know-nothing. None of the others, including his scriptorium manager Euschemon, had ever suggested that Turius libelled him.

  ‘I hope it is in order for me to speak,’ demurred Helena.

  ‘You are in the presence of some excellent businesswomen,’ I joked, indicating Lysa and Vibia.

  Helena would have been debarred from giving evidence in a law court, but this was in essence a private gathering. Behind us, the vigiles representatives were looking glum about her coming here, but it was my show, so they said nothing. Petronius Longus would divorce a wife who thought she could do this. (Helena would contend that his old-fashioned moral attitude might explain why Arria Silvia was divorcing him.)

  ‘Just speak at me, if the situation worries you,’ I offered. It was unnecessary. Helena smiled, looked around the room, and firmly addressed everyone.

  ‘Passus and I were asked to examine various scrolls which had lost their title pages during the struggle when Chrysippus was killed. We managed to reconstruct the sets. One manuscript was an author’s copy of a very long adventure in the style of a Greek novel. The subject matter was poorly developed, and the author had overreached himself.’

  Philomelus was hanging his head gloomily ‘I would like to stress,’ Helena said, sending him a kind glance, ‘these are personal opinions - though I’m afraid Passus and I were in frill agreement.’

  ‘Was the quality up to publication standard?’

  ‘I would say no, Marcus Didius.’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘Nowhere near.’

  ‘Helena Justina is being polite,’ muttered Passus from the vigiles row. ‘It absolutely stank.’

  ‘Thanks, Passus; I know you are a connoisseur.’ He looked pleased with himself ‘Helena Justina, was there anything else you should tell us about this particular manuscript?’

  ‘Yes. This may be important. There were extra scrolls, written in another hand and a different style. Someone had clearly attempted revisions.’

  ‘Trying to improve the original draft?’

  ‘Trying,’ said Helena, in her restrained way.

  ‘Succeeding?’

  ‘I fear not.’

  I sensed a mood change among the authors’ seats. I turned to them.

  ‘Any of you know about this ghostwriting?’ Nobody answered. ‘They may call it editing,’ Helena suggested. I knew her dry tone; she was being very rude. People sniggered.

  ‘I would like to know who did this trial revision,’ I fretted.

  ‘From the style,’ said Helena crisply, ‘I would think it was Pacuvius.’

  ‘Hello! Going into prose, Scrutator?’ We gave the big man a chance to reply but he shrugged and looked indifferent. ‘What made you think of him?’ I asked Helena. ‘You are familiar with his work, no doubt. Did it have meticulous social satire, topicality, biting shafts of wit, and eloquent poetry?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, since nobody owns up to the revisions, I can be frank. The new version was long-winded, mediocre, and ham-fisted. The characters were lifeless, the narrative was tedious, the attempts at humour were misplaced and the total effect was even more muddled than the first draft.’

  ‘Oh, steady on!’ Pacuvius roared, stung at last into admitting he had been involved. ‘You can’t blame me - I was sculpting a middenheap of crap!’

  The ensuing hubbub stilled somewhat eventually. To mollify him I assured him that Helena had only been trying to inspire his admission. Helena remained demure. Pacuvius probably realised her ferocious critique was real. I asked him to explain his role.

  ‘Look, it’s no real secret,’ he blustered. ‘Chrysippus used me sometimes to tidy up ragged work by amateurs. This, for some reason, was a project he was keen on at one time. I told him all along it was hopeless. He showed it to some of the others and they refused to touch the thing.’ The others were grinning, all relieved they had no responsibility. ‘The plot was shapeless, it lacked a decent premise anyway. Helena Justina is fairly astute about the faults.’

  Pacuvius was patronising, but Helena let it pass.

  ‘Are manuscripts frequently rewritten in detail, prior to formal copying?’ I queried, looking shocked.

  Most of the authors laughed. Euschemon coughed helplessly. After a moment, he explained. ‘There are works, Falco, sometimes by very famous people, which have been through numerous redrafts. Some, in their published form, are almost entirely by somebody else.’

  ‘Jupiter! Do you approve?’

  ‘Personally, no.’

  ‘And your late master?’

  ‘Chrysippus took the line that if the finished set was readable and saleable, what did it matter who actually wrote the words?’

  ‘What do you think, Euschemon?’

  ‘Since enhancing his reputation is one reason for an author to publish, I regard major reworking by others as hypocrisy.’

  ‘Did you and Chrysippus have disagreements?’

  ‘Not violent ones.’ Euschernon smiled, aware of my reasoning.

  ‘There are more sinister crimes,’ I decided, though I did agree with him. The public might feel cheated, if they knew.’

  ‘Misled they may be sometimes,’ Euschemon said. But we can’t accuse the disappointed reading public of killing a publisher for it.’

  I felt the joke was out of place. ‘While you’re helping me, Euschemon, can you tell me - does a copying house receive large quantities of unpublishable work?’

  Euschemon threw up his hands. ‘Cartloads. We could build a new Alp for Hannibal from our slush pile - complete with several model elephants.’

  ‘Your “slush pile” is mainly rejects - how do the authors generally take it?’

  ‘They either slink off silently - or they protest at enormous length.’

  ‘No point in that, presumably?’

  ‘Decisions are rarely reversed.’

  ‘What could change a publisher’s attitude?’

  Euschemon was wearing his satirical expression now ‘Hearing that a rival business was interested would bring about a rapid rethink.’

  I smiled, equally dryly. ‘Or?’

  ‘I suppose for the right author, acceptance could be bought.’

  ‘Oh! Do publishers sell works in which they don’t believe?’

  ‘Hah! All the time, Falco. A bad book by a known name, or a book by a personal friend, for instance.’

  ‘Does it ever work the other way? Discouraging a good author, who might otherwise be a rival to some dud they do choose to patronise?’

  Euschemon smiled wryly.

  I tackled Pacuvius again. ‘Back to these scrolls - when you came here that fateful day, was the revised effort a subject you and Chrysippus discussed?’

  ‘Yes. First, I had the usual sordid tussle about whether he would pay a fee for my wasted work. He wanted me to continue the rewrites; I insisted it was worthless to try. At last we agreed that I had done all I could with the material, which he would b
e using for oven fuel. He should have burnt it before involving me. He was a temperamental idiot. With no taste, as Turius has always said. I simply could not understand why Chrysippus was so determined to make something of this yam.’

  ‘Did you know who had written it?’

  Scrutator looked uneasy. I was never told directly.’

  ‘But you had your own idea? One last question. Pacuvius, why were you so reluctant to be sent to Pisarchus’ villa as a poet in residence? Was it only because you resented the brutal way you were ordered to go?’

  ‘I knew Pisarchus’ son wrote adventures. He had mentioned it at the popina. I had a feeling this unfortunate story might be by him…’ Scrutator looked at the shipper and Philomelus apologetically. ‘I thought Chrysippus was sending me to Praeneste so I could be nagged into more editing. I couldn’t face that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. To Aelianus on the dividing doors, I then called, ‘Will you bring in the witness from the Temple of Minerva, Aulus, please?’

  LVII

  IF ANYBODY was surprised to see my witness, nobody gave a sign of it.

  ‘Thank you for attending. I apologise for the long wait. We are in the final stages of a murder enquiry, but please don’t be alarmed. I would like you to confine yourself to answering the exact questions I ask. You are a member of the Scribes’ and Actors’ Guild?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Blitis, my contact from last night. ‘Do you recognise any other members here?’

  ‘Yes, and -‘

  ‘Thank you!’ I stepped in quickly. ‘Just answer the questions, please. I understand that a writers’ group meets regularly at the Temple of Minerva to discuss their work-in-progress. The member whom you recognise here has done that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Often?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has the group ever discussed an adventure tale called something like Zisimilla and Magarone?’

  ‘Er - yes.’ Blitis looked slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Relax,’ I grinned. ‘I shall not ask for an unfettered review of it.’ He looked relieved. ‘We have already had that.’ He looked embarrassed again. ‘It is by someone in this room, am I right?’

  ‘Yes, Falco.’

  ‘A technical detail - when you heard this poor work being read at the Temple, did you see the scrolls? I am wondering specifically if it had a tide page?’

  ‘I seem to remember that it did.’

  ‘Thanks. Just sit on the bench at the back, will you?’ There was room next to the vigiles. All my witnesses would be put safely there now.

  I paced down the floor, crossing the rug on the centre mosaic, like a barrister thinking up his concluding remarks as the last water clock ran out and his talk-time expired.

  ‘In any murder enquiry, what we need is actual evidence. One of the first problems in this case was that nobody seems to have seen the killer straight after the crime. We know he must have been heavily bloodstained, yet we never found his clothes. Other items from the scene were missing too: part of the scroll rod that was a murder weapon and, of course, the title page of the manuscript Chrysippus had been reading.’

  I turned to Helena, who had remained standing patiently nearby. ‘What about that manuscript? Helena Justina, although you did not enjoy it, you read most of it. Can you give us some idea of the person who wrote it?’

  Helena pondered, then said slowly, ‘A reader. Someone who has devoured plenty of similar novels, without properly digesting what makes them grip. It is too derivative; the ingredients are rather cliched and it lacks originality. It’s by someone unskilled, but someone who has plenty of time to write. I imagine the project meant a very great deal to the author.’

  I turned back to Blitis. ‘When Zisimilla and Magarone was discussed at your writers’ group, there were unfavourable comments. What was the author’s reaction?’

  ‘He refused to listen. Our remarks were well-meant discussion points. He threw a tantrum and stormed out.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘It has happened,’ Blitis conceded.

  ‘With the same degree of violence?’

  ‘Not in my experience.’

  I asked Helena, ‘Would this fit your assessment?’

  She nodded. ‘Marcus Didius, I can envisage a scene here where Chrysippus was approached by the author of Zisimilla and Magarone, who obviously had a wild yearning to be published. Chrysippus explained - perhaps not tactfully - that the work was unacceptable, although attempts had been made to improve it using a successful and well-known redrafter. The author became distraught and probably hysterical; tempers flared, the scroll rod came into play, and Aurelius Chrysippus was violently killed.’

  ‘We know that the killer then continued in his rage, throwing ink, oil, and various scrolls around the room.’

  ‘I imagine that was when he ripped the title pages from the scrolls,’ said Helena.

  ‘From more than one?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said gently. Helena paused for emphasis. ‘There is a second story, Marcus Didius. It is one of fine quality. Both Passus and I enjoyed it tremendously. I would imagine that if Chrysippus read the second, he knew that was the one he must take.’

  Euschemon sat up keenly. No doubt he wanted to quiz Helena on this tempting sales prospect.

  ‘I suppose Chrysippus may have told the disappointed author that he had been pipped by someone else?’

  ‘If Chrysippus was unkind,’ said Helena.

  ‘And it would fuel the reject’s disappointment?’

  ‘His grief and frustration must have been intense.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Helena sat down, putting her hand protectively over the pile of scrolls beside her, which we now knew included a probable best-seller.

  I fetched Blitis and led him in front of Philomelus. I positioned myself carefully to intervene if there was trouble. ‘Do you know this young man?’

  ‘I have met him,’ said Blitis.

  ‘Among your group at the Temple?’

  ‘I saw him there once.’

  ‘Thanks. Sit over there with the vigiles again, please.’ I myself led Blitis back. I was not expecting trouble, but it was a moment to take care.

  ‘Philomelus;’ Philomelus was rigid. ‘You are a pleasant young man working hard to support your dream. You come from a good family with a loving, supportive father. He believes in you even though you have abandoned the family trade and want a most insecure career. Unknown to you, your father even tried to influence Chrysippus in your favour. Pisarchus would actually have paid for your work to be published - however, he knew you would find that untenable. Your father sees you as an upright character, whereas I am now faced with the opposite thought. You are a would-be writer of adventure tales who visited Chrysippus just before he died. You admit you became angry and you threatened him. It appears I have no alternative but to arrest you for his murder.’

  Philomelus stood up. I gave him room, and stayed alert. His eyes met mine, harder than I had seen them. His father wanted to leap up beside him, but I gestured Pisarchus to let the lad handle this. The father’s chin jutted, as though he was clinging on stubbornly to his faith in his son.

  Philomelus was so angry, he could hardly bring words out. Yet the anger was controlled. ‘Yes, I came here. Some of it happened as you say. Chrysippus did tell me my story was rubbish, and he said it was not worth copying. But I did not believe him!’ Those eyes were blazing now. I let him go on. ‘I knew it was good. I felt something odd was happening. I am starting to understand it now, Falco - I was being cheated. He never lost my manuscript; the man intended to steal it and say it was written by somebody else -‘

  I held up my hand. ‘Are these the ravings of a complete madman? Or have you something significant to say in your defence?’

  ‘Yes!’ Philomelus roared. ‘I have something to tell you, Falco: my story is not Zisimilla and Magarone - I would never call a character Zisimilla; it is almost unpronounceable. “Magarone” sounds like
a stomach powder too. My novel is entitled Gondomon, King of Traximene!’

  I turned to the benches behind me and found Helena Justina beaming with delight. I pushed Philomelus down to his seat with one hand on his shoulder. ‘Stop shouting,’ I said gently. I glanced over to Helena. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  She was thrilled for the young man. ‘A shining new talent. A breathtaking story, written with mystical intensity. An author who will sell and sell.’

  I grinned briefly at the shipper and his startled son. ‘Sit quiet, and contemplate your talent and your good fortune: Philomelus, my assessors reckon you are good.’

  LVIII

  THERE WAS a certain amount of extraneous activity. The room was humming with noise like a banquet when they let in the naked dancers. As I walked back to the centre of the room, Euschemon scuttled past me. He ensconced himself alongside Philomelus and they started muttering in undertones. Then Helena gathered up part of her scroll collection and beetled down the row to return his lost manuscript to the excited young author. She sat down with him and Euschemon and I saw her shaking her finger. If I knew her, she was advising Philomelus to obtain a reliable business adviser before he signed away his contractual rights.

  Fusculus appeared through the dividing door, looking pleased with himself. He gave me a vigiles nod. I interpreted as best I could. With the vigiles it might only mean a take-out lunch box had arrived. I mimed that he was to bring in the old lady who walked about the Clivus Publicius. Fusculus winced. She must have given him the hard basket treatment.

  Lysa was head-to-head with Diomedes. Time to stop her little games.

  ‘Attention, please - and quiet!’ I shouted in a commanding tone.

  Fusculus brought in the grandma, leading her gingerly by one arm. He walked her slowly around the room for me. I asked her to point out anyone she remembered seeing the day of the murder.

  Enjoying her role at the centre of things, the aged dame fastidiously stared at everyone, while they looked back in a state of nervous tension - even those who I was certain had nothing to fear. My star witness then indicated all the authors except Urbanus (a good test of reliability), followed in turn by Philomelus, and even Fusculus, Passus, Petronius, and me. Really thorough - and useless for my purposes.