Ode to a Banker mdf-12

by Lindsey Davis

  He nodded, then glanced curiously at Diomedes, still standing beside me with all the vigour of beached seaweed. 'Diomedes and I are just going for a nice walk, Lucrio. If his dear mother wonders what we are up to, assure the lady it is routine.'

  Diomedes protested when he learned I was serious about walking up the Aventine. Apparently, he went everywhere in a carrying chair. Nonetheless, he was sufficiently nervous to let himself be dragged offon foot. I thought Lucrio, the future stepfather who had been a household slave, enjoyed seeing that.

  Diomedes was useless on a route march. On the other hand, when I sized him up, his chest and arm muscles were not badly developed. He was no weakling, but I guessed he lacked real training His mother had probably paid a fortune to a gymnasium teacher – one who let Diomedes swing too many lightweight exercise clubs and spend too long tossing little beanbags to and fro.

  Money had been spent on him. He could probably read poetry and play the cithara. His clothing was expensive, of course, though his fancy boots were far too soft for tramping uneven paving stones. His tunic, soon soaked with perspiration across the shoulders, made him look like the master whilst I – in my old wine-red rag – must seem to be his slave. That would give my Aventine neighbours cause to snigger. I walked faster, striding manfully ahead of him while he trailed behind feebly.

  Even before we had rounded the Circus, Diomedes was limping. I dragged him up the Clivus Publicius, towards his late father's house, at a merciless pace. He was fit enough not to get too breathless. Outside the popina where the scriptorium writers drank, I happened to see Euschemon. I stopped.

  'Diomedes, you trot ahead to your temple. Try to find somebody to vouch for you at the time your father was being murdered. I'll follow in a moment.' A cunning look appeared in his dark eyes. 'Don't think of bunking off,' I told him briefly. 'Flight will brand you as the killer. I assume that even Romanised Greeks know the penalty for parricide?'

  This penalty was so sensational most educated people had heard of it. The details featured large whenever tourists from the provinces were hearing Roman law extolled. He must know. With a friendly smile, I told him anyway: 'Sons who kill their fathers are tied in a large sack along with a dog, a cock, a viper and an ape – then thrown into the river.'

  I was not sure whether he believed me, but the son of Chrysippus scurried off in his delicate footwear, eager to establish his alibi.

  Euschemon had quietly watched me despatch his ex-employer's son; he had a rather narrow expression. He had always spoken of Diomedes with restraint rather than open dislike, but they had not exchanged greetings just now.

  The scriptorium manager was leaning an elbow on the popinacounter, enjoying a beaker of what looked like chilled wine and water. The waiter had been talking to him, that thin young man I had noticed several times before serving here, with a towel over one shoulder and a leather apron. I joined them and asked for a cup of fruit juice.

  'How is it going, Falco?'

  'Nearly there. I want to hold some final interviews tomorrow, Euschemon. Could I trouble you to mention to Vibia Merulla that I need to use the library – and that I want her to be there? Yourself too, please.'

  'Tibia is at home, if you want to speak to her.' Euschemon seemed to know I was wary of meeting her alone.

  'I'm short of time, unfortunately!'

  The waiter brought my drink. I dropped coppers on his tray, trying to avoid eye contact.

  'Do you know this young man?' Euschemon asked me. I shook my head. 'He works here to earn spare cash. We were just discussing his prospects as a writer.' He seemed about to say more, but the waiter became embarrassed and turned away to mop around the apple press. I glanced at him. He looked ordinary enough. If he was harbouring wild dreams, the creative madness failed to show.

  This was a grim place to drudge as a skivvy. Like most popinae, it served as the ante-room for meetings with low-grade prostitutes; they worked from a couple of rooms upstairs. The carved stone frieze that advertised the services available here bore the usual sad trio of a small beaker, a small dicepot – and a huge phallus. No doubt the waiter could earn extra tips by promising to fix up clients with whichever girl was youngest and perhaps least diseased.

  I gave a benign smile to the young man with the optimistic hopes. Then I turned back to Euschemon. 'I want to ask you tomorrow about what's the future for the scriptorium authors. And could you arrange for the ones we interviewed about the death to be brought here for my meeting?'

  'Right. But I can tell you the situation now: Vibia wants to continue the business.'

  'Were you expecting that?'

  'No,' he replied quietly, clearly realising I wanted to test him: did the fate of the scriptorium give him – or Vibia – some motive for Chrysippus' death? 'I always thought Vibia would sell up, to be honest. In fact, she may have surprised herself when she decided publication suited her.'

  'Women make shrewd shop-owners.'

  'Could be. I act as editorial adviser now. We are changing what webuy, to some extent; Vibia seems willing to take my advice. I did not always agree with Chrysippus on what made popular material.'

  'He was looking at new manuscripts the morning he died.'

  'Yes.' That was unexpectedly brief.

  'No comment?'

  'We can't find the scrolls.'

  'I'm holding them for evidence.'

  'That's your privilege.'

  'Tell me – how do new authors normally approach you with their work?'

  'Some are discovered at recitals – like you, Falco.'

  I reckoned he was joking; I brushed that aside. 'And how else?'

  He looked thoughtful. 'Recommendation – from individuals, or very occasionally, through the Writers' and Actors' Guild.' He paused again, still holding back.

  'How,' I asked, 'does a would-be writer join the guild?'

  'There is no formal requirement. He might just toddle along, for instance, and become a member of their writing circle.' Euschemon caught the eye of the waiter, who had been listening in. They both laughed and then Euschemon explained: 'Some of us have a low opinion of writers' groups, Falco.'

  'Useless,' the waiter commented. It was the first time he had joined in. 'They sit around discussing how to acquire a natural style – and never produce anything. They are all intent on finding what they call their "narrative speaking tone" – but the point is, most have nothing to say.'

  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.

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  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 se
ttled 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: Diomedes 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 p
eculiarity 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.

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