Ode to a Banker mdf-12

by Lindsey Davis

  There were points in its favour. It occupied a grand position. Goodwill had attached to the business. Its customers were doggedly loyal – sad idlers who tolerated the unwashed bowls of lukewarm broth in which lumps of animal gristle floated half submerged like supernatural monsters in a mythological tale. These stalwart dully customers could stand wine that would purple your tongue and that, working magic with the glutinous gravy, would laminate the roof of your mouth. They would never abandon their luncheon nook; for one thing, they knew there were not many others on that side of the Aventine.

  Opposite stood one rival: a modest, well-scrubbed pavement foodshop called the Valerian. Nobody went there. People were afraid the cleanliness would give them hives. Besides, when nobody goes to a place there is no atmosphere. The surly clientele at Flora's wanted to sit where there were other antisocial types whom they could steadfastly ignore.

  'We can still have a pleasant lunch together at the Valerian, my heart.'

  'Lunch was not the point, Falco.'

  Helena then decided we would visit Maia. Fine. She lived close by and it was my duty as a brother to console her in her trouble. I wanted to tell her the gossip about Flora and Pa before any of my other sisters beat me to it. She might feed us too.

  To my disgust as we arrived, I saw Anacrites leave Maia's house. Perhaps he was taking some message from Ma. I skipped around a pillar and ducked down behind an oyster barrel. Helena glowered at me for my cowardice and walked by him with a cool nod, passing him before he managed to speak to her. She had always been polite to the spy, especially when he and I were working as partners on the Census, but he seemed to know he was tiptoeing on tricky ground with her. Assuming she had come alone, he let himself be bypassed and then moved off.

  To see Anacrites at my sister's home was irritating. He had no real connection with my family and I wished to keep it that way. There was no reason for him to remain as my mother's lodger; he had property, he was no longer sick (the excuse for persuading Ma to look after him in the past), and he was back working in the Palace now. I did not want the Chief Spy skulking after Maia either.

  Once I was sure he had vanished, I followed Helena indoors. Maia greeted me without mentioning another visitor. I kept mum. If she knew I was annoyed, that would only encourage her to encourage Anacrites. I roamed about looking for sustenance and eventually she gave us lunch, as I had hoped she might. There was less to it than there would have been once. Famia had often drunk away his salary, but at least the knowledge that she had a husband in work had allowed Maia to build up credit. Now her finances were desperately tight.

  Helena told her the news about Flora and I described the state in which I had found Pa.

  'The warehouse is a mess. If Marius wants to earn a few coppers, send him to help Gornia shift the stuff around.'

  'My son is too studious to be humping furniture,' Maia retorted frigidly. 'He's not strong enough; he's delicate.'

  'Time we built up his muscles then.'

  'We don't need father's money.' That was untrue. Famia's pension from the Greens, who were a useless chariot faction, barely paid the rent. That left Maia with five mouths to feed. Marius, her eldest, deserved an education, and I would somehow find his school fees myself, but he had to become more worldly if he was to survive on the Aventine. Anyway, I wanted that shrewd little soul placed with Pa in the Saepta. He would tell me what was going on.

  'You do need an income,' Helena said gently. Maia would take it from her. 'Are you definitely set against the tailoring plan?' This was a scheme Pa and I had concocted. We would have bought out the tailor for whom Maia had worked as a young girl, and let her manage the looms and saleroom. She would have shone at it. However, the good sense of the plan did not appeal to her.

  'I can't bear it. I have moved on, Helena. It's not that I have grandiose ideas. I'll work. But I don't want to go back to what I did before – years ago, when I was unhappy, if that counts for anything.' Maia glared at me. 'Nor do I want any madcap enterprise dreamed up by someone else.'

  'Choose your own then,' I groused. I had my head in a bowl of lettuce and eggs.

  'I shall do that.'

  'Will you let me pass on an idea?' Helena ventured as Maia screwed up her face suspiciously.

  'Go ahead. I'm short of laughs.'

  'Don't laugh at this. Tell Geminus that you will run Flora's.'

  'You really are joking!'

  'He won't want the caupona,' I agreed. 'It was the redhead's plaything.'

  My sister flared up as usual. 'Marcus, you seem determined to dump some dreadful business on me!'

  'Not dreadful. You would turn it around,' Helena declared.

  'Maia, Pa owns the building; he has to sell up or find a new manager. If it stands there with the paint peeling and the frontage filthy, the aediles will stamp on him for urban neglect. Offer. He'll be glad to see it sorted.'

  'For heaven's sake. Don't both of you gang up on me.'

  'We're not doing that.' Helena shot me a reproachful look. By herself, she was implying, she could have put this plan to Maia and it might have worked.

  Maia was now well het up: 'The woman has only been dead for a week. I'm not rushing in -'

  'Pa needs you to do that,' I said quietly. 'He won't touch anything that reminds him of Flora – he won't even go home.'

  Maia looked shocked. 'What do you mean?'

  'He has not been to his house on the riverbank since Flora's funeral. The slaves are scared. They don't know where he is, or what their instructions are.'

  Maia said nothing. Her mouth was pinched with disapproval. Newly widowed herself, she was the best person to tell our father that life goes on and you cannot opt out. If I knew her, she would tackle this.

  Helena gathered up used dishes and carried them out to be washed later. She was lifting the pressure off Maia at least temporarily. Even I let the subject drop.

  Heading for home, we passed once again by Flora's Caupona, and had another look. There ought to be a waiter somewhere, Apollonius. Officially he lived in a nook at the back. The previous waiter had hung himself, right by the cubbyhole where Apollonius was supposed to lurk as a watchman when the place was closed. While Helena waited in the street, I went round and shouted but failed to rouse an answer. His predecessor's suicide and the notorious murder that had happened upstairs must have made Apollonius reluctant to stay alone on the premises. People can be so sensitive.

  Returning to the street, I saw a familiar figure kicking at the main door.

  'Petro!'

  'They're shut -' He despised Flora's, but quite often drank there; he was outraged to be thwarted by the closed door. We met a little apart from Helena and spoke in low voices.

  'Flora's dead.'

  'Hades!'

  'Pa's a mess, and this place is out of action. We're trying to get Maia interested.'

  'Surely she has enough to do?'

  'Take her mind off it.'

  'You're a bastard.'

  'You taught me!'

  We looked at each other. The jibes had been bland. Routine. Had we met earlier we could have found somewhere else to share a bench; knowing us, we could have stretched out our lunch all afternoon. Well, maybe. There was a taut look to Petronius, as if he had something on his mind.

  We walked back to Helena. 'You're late on your break,' I remarked to Petro.

  'Held up. Unnatural death.' He breathed in slowly. Then he exhaled, shoving his lower lip forward. He sucked his teeth. Helena was watching us, expressionless. Petro stared at me.

  'Didius Falco.'

  'That's me.'

  'What have your movements been today?'

  'Hey! What's your interest?'

  'Just tell me about your day, sunshine.'

  'That sounds as if I may have done something.'

  'I doubt it – but I'm checking up for both our sakes.' Petronius Longus was using his official voice. It was tinged with the joky style we used together, but it would not have surprised me if he had brought out
his battered set of noteboards to record my replies.

  'Oh muleshit. What's this about?' I murmured. 'I've been a pious brat looking after my family all morning. Bereaved father; bereaved sister. Why?'

  'I hope you can assure me this felon has been with you since noon?' Petronius demanded of Helena.

  'Yes, officer.' She had a slightly sarcastic tone. She had wrapped her light-coloured stole around her darker, damson-tinted gown, and stood very still with her head up, looking down her nose like some republican statue of a painfully chaste matron. When Helena was being superior, even I felt a tremor of unease. But then one of her Indian pearl earrings trembled, and I just wanted to gnaw the translucent lobe from which it hung until she squealed. She looked at me suddenly as if she knew what I was thinking. 'And with Maia Favonia,' she added coolly for Petronius.

  'Then that's all right.' Petro's remote attitude softened.

  Mine toughened up. 'I have an alibi, apparently. That's nice. Will anybody tell me what it's for?'

  'Murder,' Petro said tersely. 'And by the way, Falco. You just lied to me.'

  I was startled. 'I'll lie like a legionary – but I like to know I'm doing it! What am I supposed to have said?'

  'Witnesses have listed you as one of the dead party's visitors today.'

  'I don't believe it. Who is this?'

  'Man called Aurelius Chrysippus,' Petro told me. He said it matter-of-factly, but he was watching me. 'Battered to death by some maniac a couple of hours ago.'

  'He was perfectly alive when I left him' I wanted to scoff, but I kept my voice level. 'There were plenty of witnesses to that. I only saw him briefly, at his scroll-shop in the Clivus Publicius.'

  Petronius raised an eyebrow genteelly. 'The shop that has a scriptorium at the back of it? And behind the scriptorium, as I am sure you noticed, you can pass through a corridor into the owner's lovely house. Big spread. Nicely finished. It has all the usual luxuries. Now, Didius Falco, didn't you tell me you would like to invite Chrysippus to some quiet place and do him in?' He grinned bleakly. 'We found the body in his library.'

  IX

  'Would that,' enquired Helena Justina in her most refined tones, 'be his Greek or his Latin library?'

  'Greek.' Petro patiently matched her irony. Her eyes narrowed slightly, approving his parry.

  I butted in: 'Was the bastard really so wealthy he could afford two libraries?'

  'The bastard had two,' confirmed Petro. He looked gloomy. So did I.

  'He got his money from fleecing his authors then,' I growled.

  Helena remained calm, full of patrician snootiness, disdainful of Petro's suggestion that her chosen partner might have soiled his hands killing a foreigner who bought and sold goods. 'You had better know, Lucius Petronius, Marcus had words with this man today. Chrysippus had tried to commission work from him – he approached us, mind. Marcus had had no thought of placing his poems before the public gaze.'

  'Well, he wouldn't, would he?' agreed Petro, making it an insult on principle.

  Helena ignored the jibe. 'It turned out the offer was a cheat; Marcus was expected to pay to be published. Naturally Marcus expressed his views in the strongest of terms before he left.'

  'I am glad you told me that,' Petro said gravely. He had probably already known.

  'Always best to be honest' Helena smiled.

  I myself would not have told Petronius anything, and he would not have expected it.

  'Well, officer,' I declared instead. 'I hope you will try very hard to find out who committed this appalling crime.' I stopped simpering. My voice rasped. 'From the little I saw of the Chrysippus operation, it has the smell of a right rat's nest.'

  Petronius Longus, my best friend, my army tent-mate, my drinking pal, drew himself up in a way he liked to do (it showed he was some inches taller than me). He folded his bare arms on his chest, to emphasise his breadth. He grinned. 'Ah, Marcus Didius, old mucker – I was hoping you would help us out.'

  'Oh no!'

  'But yes!'

  'I'm a suspect.'

  'I just cleared you.'

  'Oh Hades! What's the game, Petro?'

  'The Fourth Cohort has enough to do – work up to our lugholes. Half the squad is down with summer fever and the rest are decimated by wives telling the men to bunk off and repair their roof-tiles while the sun's out. We have no manpower to deal with this.'

  'The Fourth is always overworked.' I was losing this dice-game.

  'We really can't cope at present,' Petronius returned placidly.

  'Your tribune won't wear it.'

  'It's July.'

  'So?'

  'Darling Rubella is on leave.'

  'His villa at Neapolis?' I scoffed.

  'Positanum.' Petronius beamed. 'I'm covering for him. And I say we need to buy in expertise.'

  Had Helena not been there, I might have accused him of wanting free time to pursue some new woman. There was little affection between the vigiles and private informers. They saw us as devious political sneaks; we knew they were incompetent thugs. They could put out fires. It was the real reason for their existence. They had only become involved with law and order because vigiles patrols out fire-watching at night had run across so many burglars in the dark streets. We possessed more sophisticated expertise. When civil crimes occurred, victims were advised to come to us, if they wanted their affairs handled with finesse.

  'Well, thanks, friend; once I would have been glad of the money,' I admitted. 'But to investigate the killing of some millionaire exploitation-magnate sticks in my craw.'

  'For one thing,' Helena supported me, 'there must be thwarted authors all over the city, any one of whom was bursting to shove the slug down a drain. What happened to him anyway?' she asked, rather late in the day. As a group, we were showing the publisher little sympathy.

  'The first draft was rather crude – thrusting a scroll rod up his nose. Then whoever did it developed his theme more prettily.'

  'Nice metaphors. You mean he was battered about?' I queried. Petro nodded. 'In various violent ways. Someone was exceedingly angry with this patron of the arts.'

  'Don't tell me any more. I will not take an interest. I refuse to involve myself '

  'Reconsider that, Falco. You would not want me to feel obliged to run your visit to the scriptorium past the loveable Marponius.'

  'You would not!'

  'Try me,' he leered.

  It was blackmail. He knew perfectly well I had not crushed the life from Chrysippus – but he could make the situation difficult. Marponius, the homicide magistrate for this sector, would love a chance to get me. If I refused to assist, they might close the case in a way that was traditional for the vigiles: find a suspect; say he did it; and if he wants to get off, let him prove what really happened. Crude, but extremely efficient if they were keen on good clear-up figures and less keen on knowing who had actually bashed in a victim's brains.

  Helena Justina looked at me. I sighed. 'I'm the obvious choice, love. The vigiles know me, and I'm already close to the case. I think,' I was now addressing both of them, 'this requires a drink. We need to talk about it -'

  'None of your informing games.' Petronius smirked. 'I want a consultant who will solve this, not some layabout who hopes the Fourth will cover his exorbitant winebar bills.'

  'So you do control a budget?'

  'That's not your worry.'

  'Oh, you don't have a budget. You're raiding the pension fund!' If Petronius was doing that – and I would not put it past him – he was vulnerable and I could apply a squeeze myself: 'Lucius, old friend, I shall need a free hand.'

  'You'll take my orders.'

  'Stuff that. I want my usual fees, plus expenses – plus a confession bonus if I make the killer cough.'

  'Well, suit yourself – but keep a low profile.'

  'Are you allowing me any back-up?'

  'None to give you; that's the whole point, Falco.'

  'I can bring my own support – if you can pay for it.'

&n
bsp; 'I'll pay for you; that's more than enough. I'm sure Fusculus will be happy to give you his usual tactful hints and tips, should I not be available when you require advice.'

  'Don't insult my expertise!'

  'Just don't get into any rucks, Falco.'

  'Demand a contract,' Helena instructed me, not bothering to say it in an undertone.

  X

  Word had spread. The crime scene was almost inaccessible behind a large crowd of Aventine dead-enders who had suddenly developed an interest in reading. Their after-lunch entertainment was to present themselves at the scroll-shop like potential customers, browsing the book baskets and keeping their eyes peeled for excitement – preferably in the forin of blood.

  Considering Petro's claims of undermanning, there was a commendable vigiles presence. The red tunics were here in force, mingling with the ghouls, always nosy about a new kind of location. It would not last. Once the investigation lost its novelty, it would be hard finding one of these lads for anything routine. They were mainly ex-slaves, short but wide or wiry, each handy in a fight and none of them men to cross. Joining the vigiles was a desperate measure. The work was dangerous, the community hostile, and those who escaped being fried in fires were likely to end up having their necks broken by bullyboys on the streets.

  I forced a passage through the gawpers outside. Taking more interest in the layout than last time, I noticed that the scroll-shop and a shoemender's next door appeared to form the frontage of the same property. They were part of a row of small, mostly run-down-looking businesses, some no doubt with rooms at the back or on the upper floor where their proprietors lived.

  'Falco.' I announced myself to the vigiles loafing in the shop. 'Assigned to this case by Petronius Longus. Round up these sightseers. Check out whether anyone saw anything; if so, I'll speak to them. Make the rest clear off.'

  I heard muttering, but Petro's name carried weight.

  I barged through the press in the shop and into the scriptorium. The workers were standing about looking anxious. Euschemon, the freedman who had propositioned me to sell my work, was leaning his backside against a table. It looked as if he slumped there whilst under interrogation by Fusculus, one of Petro's best men. I knew Fusculus well. Seeing me, he gave a cheery wave, pressed Euschemon in the chest with the flat of his hand to warn him to stay put, and then carne across.