'Something is missing, Aulus.'
He quirked up an eyebrow. We were quiet now. Thoughtful, businesslike, and serious. We assessed the room professionally, considering possibilities. 'Documents, for one thing. If Theon really came to work, where is the papyrus?'
Aulus breathed in slowly. 'Someone cleaned up. There is nothing significant in the scroll cupboards; not now.'
'What scrolls does he have?'
'Just a catalogue.'
'So, it yesterday's work involved documents, they have been snaffled. If it's relevant to how he died, we have to find them.'
'Perhaps there was no work.' Aulus had an imagination and was applying it for once. 'Maybe he was depressed, Marcus. Sat for a long time with an empty table in front of him, thinking about his sorrows – whatever they were. Stared into space until he could bear none of it any longer – and then committed suicide.'' We both imagined that silently. Reliving the last moments of a suicide is always unsettling. Aulus shivered. 'Perhaps he died naturally… Alternatives?'
I let a ghost of a smile hover. 'I won't tell Cassius, but his Sauce Alexandrian last night was heavy enough to give gripping indigestion. Maybe Theon sat here, unable to get his guts comfortable, until nature carried him off.'
Aulus shook his head. 'As sauces go it had, for my taste, too much pepper. A piquant little condiment. But hardly lethal, Marcus. Any other possibility?'
'One.'
'What?'
'Theon may not have come here for deskwork. Maybe he planned to meet someone. Your Nemo may have existed, Aulus. If so, we have the usual question: did anybody else see Theon's visitor?'
Aulus nodded. He was glum. Neither of us relished such an enquiry, given that hundreds of people worked here. If any of the staff or scholars was observant enough to notice who went to the Librarian's office (not a hope I relied upon), finding the witness among the rest would be difficult. Even if we succeeded, they might not be willing to tell us anything. We could waste a lot of time, yet never get anywhere. Besides, at night, with everywhere quiet and the back rooms deserted, any mysterious associate who knew how to tiptoe could have reached the Librarian without being noticed at all.
'Something else is missing,' I remarked.
Aulus gazed around the room and failed to work it out. I waved an arm. 'Look again, my boy.' Still no good. He was a senator's son and took too much for granted. His brown eyes were as wide set and good looking as Helena's, but he lacked his sister's rapid intelligence. He was merely bright. She was a genius. Helena would herself have spotted the omission, or when I asked the question she would have followed my train of thought doggedly until she worked it out.
I gave up and told him. 'No lamps, Aulus!'
IX
Following my lead, Aulus saw that indeed there were no oil lamps, no sconces, no freestanding candelabra. If this room really was just as it had been found, then Theon sat here at his desk, and died, in pitch darkness. More likely we were right earlier: someone had cleaned up.
We went out to the corridor to ask the little slave. He had scarpered. Three-quarters of a day had already passed since the Librarian was discovered. We needed to act fast. I hailed a craftsman in a scroll-worker's apron and asked who Theon's deputy was. He did not have one. On his death, the running of the Library was taken over by the Director of the Museion. He was accommodated near to the Temple of the Muses. We went to see him.
His name was Philetus. A room was not enough for him; he occupied his own building. Statues of his most eminent predecessors were lined up in front of it, headed by Demetrius Phalereus, the founder and builder, a follower of Aristotle who had suggested to Ptolemy Soter the idea of a great institution for research.
Uninvited visits were discouraged. But as the secretaries began their tired rebuffing routine, the Director popped out of his sanctum, almost as if he had been listening with an ear pressed to the door. Aulus shot me a glance. Staff wittered that we had come about Theon; although the Director stressed what a busy man he was, he conceded he would find time for us.
I mentioned the statues. 'You'll be next!'
Philetus simpered 'Oh, do you think so?' with so much false modesty I saw at once why Theon had disliked him. This was the second most important man in Alexandria; after the Prefect, he was a living god. He had no need to push himself. But pushing himself was what Philetus did. He probably believed he pushed with elegance and restraint – but in truth he was mediocre and bumptious, a little man in a big man's job.
He made us wait while he bustled out and did something more important than talking to us. He was a priest; he was bound to be manipulating something. I wondered what he was fixing. Lunch, maybe. He took long enough.
Some holders of great public office are modest about it. Surprised to be chosen, they carry out their duties as effectively as the wise folk who chose them anticipated. Some are arrogant. Even those can sometimes do the job, or their cowed staff do it for them. The worst – and I had seen enough to recognise one – spend their time in deep suspicion that everybody else is plotting against them: their staff, their superiors, the public, the men who sell them their street foods, maybe their own grandmothers. These are the power-crazed bastards who have been appointed far beyond their competence. They are generally a compromise candidate of some kind, occasionally some rich patron's favourite, but more often shoved into this post in order to extract them from somewhere else. Before their time is up they can ruin the office they hold, plus the lives of all with whom they come in contact. They stick in their place using loyal toadies and threats. Good men wilt during their demoralising tenure. Fake reputations glue them dangerously to their thrones of office where they are suffered to continue by government inertia. To his credit, Vespasian did not appoint such men – but sometimes he was stuck with those his predecessors had wished on him. Like all rulers, sometimes he saw it as too much effort to ditch the duds. All men die eventually. Unfortunately, dreary failures live long lives.
'Settle down, Falco!'
'Aulus?'
'One of your rants.'
'I never spoke.'
'Your face looks as if you just ate a chicken liver that a bile duct broke over.'
'Bile duct?' The Director of the Museion came bustling back in. Overhearing us, he looked perturbed.
I gave him my happiest Good evening, sir; I am your chef for the evening! grin. We had waited so long, it seemed appropriate to greet him again. 'Philetus – what an honour this is for us.' That was enough. I switched off the simpering. He had smooth features of an anonymous kind. Trouble had not marked him. His skin looked very clean. That didn't mean he lived morally, only that he spent hours at the baths. 'The name's Falco. Marcus Didius Falco; I represent the Emperor.'
'I heard you were coming.'
'Oh?'
'The Prefect confided that the Emperor was sending out a man.' The Prefect overstepped the mark, then.
I played it straight. 'Good of him to clear my path… This is my assistant, Camillus Aelianus.'
''Have I heard that name?' Philetus was sharp. Nobody made it to Director of the Museion without at least some mental ability. We must not underestimate his self-preservation skills.
Aulus explained. 'I have just been admitted as a legal scholar, sir.' We all liked that 'sir', for different reasons. Aulus enjoyed shameless bluffing, I looked good for my respectful staff, and Philetus took it as his due, even from a high-class Roman.
'So… you two work together?' The Director's eyes glittered with wary fascination. As I had suspected, he had a stultifying fear of conspiracy. 'And what exactly do you do, Falco?'
'I conduct routine enquiries.'
'Into what?' snapped the Director.
'Into anything,' I breezed cheerily.
'So what did you come to Egypt for? It cannot have been Theon! Why has your assistant enrolled at my Museion?'
'I am here on private business for Vespasian.' Since Egypt was the emperors' personal territory, that could mean business on the imperi
al estates far outside Alexandria. 'Aelianus is on a sabbatical, taking a private course of legal study. When the Prefect invited me to oversee this business of Theon's death, I called him in. I prefer an assistant who is used to working with me.'
'Is there a legal problem?' Philetus would be a nightmare to work with. He picked up on any irrelevance and needed soothing every five minutes. I had been in the army; how I knew this type!
'I hope,' I said gently, 'I shall find there is no problem… Would you like to tell me what happened at the Library?'
'Who else have you asked?' A paranoid's answer.
'Naturally I came to you first.' That flattered him – yet left him on his own with finding a story. To save time, I helped him start: 'Can you create a general picture for me – Was Theon well liked at the Library?''
'Oh everyone loved him!'
'You too?'
'I had great admiration for the man and his scholarship.' That rang false. If Theon had loathed Philetus, as he implied to us last night at dinner, almost certainly Philetus loathed him back. Loyalty to his deceased underling was one thing; trying to blow smoke in my eyes served nobody.
'So he had a good academic reputation and was popular socially?' I asked dryly.
'Indeed.'
'Normally, do Librarians retire, or go on until they die in post?'
'It is a lifetime position. Occasionally we might have to suggest a very elderly man has become too frail to continue.'
'Lost his marbles?'' Aulus piped up cheekily.
'Theon was not too old.' I waved him down. 'By any standards he died prematurely'
'Terrible shock!' fluttered Philetus.
I stretched in the wicker chair his staff had provided. As I did so, I fetched out a note-block from a satchel, opening it upon my knee though maintaining a relaxed attitude. 'Explain to me this business of finding him in the locked room, will you? What had made people go looking for him?''
'Theon failed to appear at an early morning meeting of my Board. No explanation. Quite unlike him.'
'What was the meeting? Special agenda?'
'Absolutely routine!' Philetus sounded too firm.
'Subjects that related to the Library?'
'Nothing like that…' He stopped meeting my eye. Was he lying? 'When he failed to arrive, I sent someone to remind him. When there was no answer -' He looked down at his knees demurely He clearly ate well; under a long tunic, with expensive widths of braid on the hems, the knees he was surveying bulged chubbily 'One of the scholars climbed up a ladder outside and looked in. He saw Theon sprawled across his table. Some people broke the doors down, I believe.'
I smiled, still treating him with friendliness. 'I am impressed that Alexandrian scientific enquiry extends to climbing ladders!'
'Oh we do much more than that!' rasped Philetus, misjudging my tone. Aulus and I nodded politely. Aulus, who had a vested interest in the Museion's good reputation for study, made himself look particularly obsequious. Sometimes I wondered why he did not rush home and apply for election to the Senate straight away.
At this point, Philetus suddenly decided to take charge. 'Now listen. Falco – far too much is being made of this missing key nonsense. There is bound to be a rational explanation. Theon happened to die, before his time maybe, but we must bury him decently, while those whose duty it is must appoint a successor.'
I foresaw problems there. I guessed Philetus was jittery about making decisions; he would put it off until the last minute, endlessly consulting other people until he was so flummoxed with contrary advice he jumped on the least good solution.
'Indeed.' He thought I was beaten. I had hardly started. 'The Emperor will let you take the lead producing a shortlist for the Librarian's post. The Prefect will be grateful to receive it as soon as possible.'
Philetus was visibly put out. He had not expected, and clearly did not want, official involvement. 'Oh! Will you have a hand in this, Falco?'
'It would not be usual. Since I am here,' I murmured, 'the Prefect may appoint me as a consultant.' There was not a chance in Hades that the Prefect would allow me near this decision – but I had fooled Philetus. He had thought he controlled the Librarian's post. Perhaps he did. Unless he tried to appoint a three-legged nanny-goat from the low end of town, most prefects would be happy to sit back and allowwhatever the Director wanted. Now he believed I had muscled in on him; he never suspected I had no power to do so.
'I shall have to consult the Academic Board, Falco.'
'Fine. Tell me when and where.'
'Oh! We never normally allow strangers to hear confidential discussions.'
'I very much want to meet your Board.' Normally I flee from committees but I wanted to meet this group, because if anything odd had happened to Theon they must be the men who stood to gain from it professionally. 'Is it daily? Shall I attend tomorrow morning? You mentioned they meet early – I can manage that.'
Panic showed on Philetus' face.
Looking casual, I kept pressing: 'Now, were you responsible for Theon's body being removed from his office? Can you tell me which funeral director has the corpse?'
This caused more anxiety. 'You surely do not wish to view it?'
'We may just look in on the undertaker,' Aulus weighed in with a mollifying tone. 'Didius Falco always likes to mention names in his report. It gives a good impression if Vespasian believes we carried out a full personal check.'
Aulus managed to imply we probably would not really go there. He played the dozy and unreliable student so successfully that before the Director knew it, he squeaked out the information for us.
As we were leaving, I turned back unexpectedly – that old tired trick, but it has been known to work. 'Just one last point, Philetus – routine question: can you tell me where you were and what you were doing yesterday evening?'
He was furious. But he was able to say he had been at a long poetry recital. Since it was apparently hosted by the Roman Prefect, I could check. And much as I would have liked to make the Director my chief suspect, if the Prefect – or more likely some minion on his staff – confirmed this, I would have to believe the story.
X
The Director had named a local undertaker. His embalming salon was close to the Museion. One of the secretaries took us, leading us outside the complex, through early afternoon streets full of Alexandrian flatbed carts, each with its mound of green fodder for the horse or donkey. The beasts all had nosebags. The drivers all looked half asleep, until they spotted us to stare at.
There was fine dust everywhere. We walked through a small market, teeming with pigeons, rabbits, ducks, geese, chickens and bantams; all were for eating and were either caged or kept on pallets with their feet tied together. Behind the market, which remained highly audible, lay the dim premises we sought. Curious locals watched us going in, just as they would back home on the Aventine.
The head of the outfit was called Petosiris.
'I am Falco.'
'Are you Greek?'
'No fear!'
'Jewish? Syrian? Libyan? Nabataean? Cilician? -'
'Roman,' I confessed, and watched the undertaker lose interest.
He catered for all tastes, except Jewish. The jews had their own quarter, alphabetically called Delta, near the Gate of the Sun and the Eastern Harbour. They conducted their own rituals, which Petosiris assumed were unpleasantly exotic, compared with good Nilotic tradition. Likewise, he spoke disparagingly of Christians, whose dead were kept for three days in the deceased's house while their own friends and family washed and clothed them for burial – all deeply unhygienic – before mysterious ceremonies were performed by a priest amidst sinister lights and chanting. Christian priests were viewed askance in Alexandria, since a certain Mark the Evangelist had denounced Egyptian gods fifteen years ago: he was set upon by the mob and dragged by horses through the streets until he needed a grave himself. Petosiris saw this as a fine moment in history. He had not asked if we were Christians, but we thought it advisable to indicate
a firm negative.
Otherwise Petosiris was extremely versatile. He could do you a nine-day mourning and cremation Roman-style with a full feast at your family tomb. He could fix up a respectful two-day Greek viewing, ashes in a traditional urn and enough ritual to ensure your soul would not hover between this world and the next as a disrespected ghost. Or he would bandage you up as a mummy. If you opted for mummification, once your brain had been hauled out through your nose with a long hook and your body organs were drying out in natron in a decorative set of soapstone jars, he could hire an artist from the south to paint your face extremely realistically and put it on a wooden plaque over your bandaging to identify you inside your coffin. Needless to say, for all of these systems there were numerous kinds of sarcophagus to choose from, and an even greater variety of memorial steles and statues, most of them horrendously expensive.
'Will Theon's family foot the bill?'
'He was a public official.'
'The state will bury him?'
'Of course. He was the Librarian!'
'Excellent,' said Aulus. 'So let's have a look at him, may we?'
I thought there was a pause. However, Petosiris soon led us to a body, which he displayed quietly enough. Assistants stopped their ministrations and stood back for us.
Aulus walked up to the top of the bier, cocking his head slightly as he considered the dead man's facial features. I stayed halfway down. Aulus stuck his thumbs in his belt. I kept my arms folded. We were thoughtful, but I concede that the way we posed may have looked unduly critical. Petosiris did not know we had met Theon when he was alive.
Before us lay a body, naked, with its head shaven. The nose was hooked, the cheeks rotund, the chin treble. A linen cloth had been placed across its middle for reasons of ritual or modesty. Beneath it, the belly rose abundantly, even with the man lying on his back. His fleshy arms lay at his side, his legs were short and sturdy.
People change in appearance when they die. But not that much.
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