Even when I had managed to nudge everyone to their seats, the lofty Greek library still seemed quite empty, despite the crowd. As it started gently warming up, this cool, quiet room had probably never been so well populated. The three graded tiers of white marble columns reached high above us amidst the crammed sets of documents in their endless pigeonholes. Sunlight filtered in gently from the ceiling-height windows, motes constantly drifting in the beams of light. In the centre of the elegantly tiled floor lay the circular mosaic where Chrysippus had been found dead, its tesserae and grout still bearing faint traces of his blood after inexpert cleaning. Without comment, I fetched a striped woollen floor rug, which I flung down across the main motif, hiding the stains.
People had been talking; the murmurs abruptly died down. For a mad moment, I was reminded of the last time I addressed an invited audience – in the Auditorium of Maecenas at my recital with Rutilius Gallicus. For some reason, this time I felt much more in command. I was the professional here. Petronius, still resting his voice after Bos nearly strangled him, had given me the lead role. I did not need a script. And I dominated people's attention as soon as I was ready to speak.
'Friends, Romans, Greeks – and Briton – thank you all for coming. Sadly, I am reminded of an evening last month when I met Aurelius Chrysippus for the first time. He performed the introductions on that occasion, but today I have to do the honours. My name is Didius Falco; I am investigating Chrysippus' violent death. I am doing this as a consultant to the vigiles' – I made a polite gesture – 'in the hope of finding consolation and certainty for his desolate family ' Vibia, Lysa and Diomedes bit their lips and stared at the floor bravely. Lucrio, the dead man's freed slave, remained impassive. 'Chrysippus spent his last moments in this library. Perhaps by assembling in the same location today, we can jog someone's memory.'
'Does the killer feel his spine crawling?' asked Petronius, in a loud aside. While I continued to play the mild-mannered type, he glared around and tried to make everyone feel uncomfortable. His remark presumed the killer was already here, of course.
I took up the thread again. 'There are in fact two recent deaths in the scriptorium circle. Avienus, who was a respected historian, had the misfortune to be found hanged on the Probus Bridge. I am going to talk about that first.'
'Do we have to be here for that?' Vibia burst out, jumping to her feet. 'He is not a relation. Anyway, I was told he committed suicide.'
'Please be patient.' I raised my hand gently and waited until she sank back onto her chair again, her fingers plucking obsessively at the fancy fabric of her gown. 'I want you all here for the entire examination. One person's evidence could spark a forgotten clue from someone else. To go back to Avienus: two deaths within a small circle of acquaintances may be a coincidence. Yet they may be connected.'
'You mean, the historian killed my husband?'
I pursed my lips. 'It is a possibility.'
'Well, you can't ask Avienus to confess!' As a joke, this crack of Vibia's was not only in bad taste, but rather hysterical. Vibia Merulla seemed nicely overwrought. That was good; I had hardly started yet.
I turned to the row of authors.
'Let's talk about your unhappy colleague. When Chrysippus died, Avienus was the first person to present himself to me for interview. In my experience that can mean various things: he was innocent and wanted to get back to normal life; or he was guilty, and seeking to put up a smokescreen. Maybe he was trying to find out just how much I knew. Equally I am conscious, here in the company of writers, that he could even have wanted to experience a murder enquiry for professional reasons – because he saw it as intriguing research.'
Behind me, Fusculus let out a hollow laugh.
'Our first interview was bland,' I continued. 'I lost the chance to put further questions to him later.' If Avienus was a murder victim, that lost chance might be significant. Someone had shut him up. 'He and I talked mostly about his work. He had a "block", he told me.' I looked straight at Turius, the other fellow who had somehow extended his deadlines. 'Avienus had missed his delivery date; do you happen to know how late he was?'
Turius sniffled, unabashed, and shook his head.
I looked along to the playwright Urbanus, who replied briefly, 'Years!'
Scrutator joined in more rudely: 'Bloody years, yes!'
'I gathered these "blocks" were regular,' I commented. 'Chrysippus seems to have been generous about them. Was the same lenience extended to the rest of you, Pacuvius?'
'Never,' scoffed the big, rangy satirist. 'He expected us to hand in the goods.'
Most of the group was sitting passive but wary. Only Urbanus seemed relaxed: 'Were there some curious features of Avienus' supposed suicide, Falco?'
I glanced at Petronius Longus. 'Curious features? Noted!' he replied, as if the suggestion that these curiosities might matter was new to him.
I avoided discussing the manner of the historian's death: 'I won't go into details. I don't want to prejudice a future court case,' I said ominously. 'But why might Avienus commit suicide? We thought he had money worries. In truth, he had recently paid off his debt. So where did the cash come from? Not payment for finally handing in his manuscript?' I looked at Euschemon, who shook his head.
Petronius stood up and came to the centre of the room with me: 'Falco, what was the great work Avienus had been labouring at for so long?' I pretended to consult my note-tablet. 'I quote: "fiduciary transactions since the Augustan period". Sounds rather dry. Avienus admitted his was a small field.'
'Sorry I asked!' Petro's voice rasped, as he made a show of returning to his seat.
'Was Avienus anywhere near finishing?' I asked the authors. 'Some of you used to meet him regularly at that popina down the street. Did he ever discuss his progress?'
They looked at each other vaguely, then Scrutator nudged Turius and hinted in a sly tone, 'You were his real crony!' Yes, the satirist really did like landing other people in it.
'We talked about his work once,' Turius confirmed, looking annoyed to be singled out. 'He was drunk at the time.'
'Were you there as well?' I jokily asked Constrictus – the poet who liked imbibing too much.
The older man shook his head. 'I have no recollection of it! Avienus was very secretive about his research. If he had been sober, Turius would never have extracted anything.'
'Some authors hate revealing details of their work until they have finished,' I put to him.
'Yes,' groused Constrictus. 'And some work never sees the light of day. I was never convinced Avienus had written anything at all.' Constrictus at least did turn in manuscripts; Passus had found his latest poems marked by Chrysippus, 'Usual fluff. Small edition; reduce payment…'
I continued grilling Turius. 'You and Avienus must have had subject-matter in common. You want to write about the ideal political state, the future. He catalogued the past. Both of you must have ranged across the other's field. Where society might go next andwhere it has already been are manifestly linked. So what did Avienus have to say to you?'
That put him on the spot. He writhed awkwardly; it did no good to his smart new leather belt, as he tortured it out of shape. 'Avienus was interested in economic issues. My approach in my ideal republic is through morality.'
I laughed briefly. 'Finance and morality are not so closely linked – wouldn't you agree, Lucrio?'
Lucrio had been off in a dream, while we prodded at intellectual ideas. But he managed to produce a sickly grin. Some professions condemn their office holders to endless nasty jokes so he must have been used to this. I won't suggest the snide jokes about bankers have any truth in them.
Turius thought he had escaped. I whisked back again: 'What was Avienus' area of research, Turius? "Fiduciary transactions" – mean anything?'
He shrugged feigning lack of interest.
I glanced back at Petro. He interpreted swiftly: 'Fiduciary – the placing of trust: transactions – sounds like money, to me.'
'Bank deposits!' I
whipped around to face Lucrio. Did Avienus investigate the Aurelian Bank?'
Lucrio sat up slightly. 'Not that I know.'
'You were the agent. The obvious person to approach.'
'Sorry; I can't help you, legate,' he avowed; discretion was part of his business mystique, so I expected nothing else.
'The bank won't help us,' I sighed, turning again to Turius. 'So let me try out my theory on you – let's suppose Avienus started to write an economic history of some sort. He put together material to illustrate aspects of the Roman social structure, perhaps how private finances have affected class movements, or some such idea. Sounds fanciful to us, the general public, but you know what historians are… Perhaps he looked at the ways private individuals can advance socially by improving their financial status. Or perhaps he was interested in commercial investment… Anyway, at some point, probably a few years ago, he must have grazed a little too close to the Golden Horse.'
There were indrawn breaths. I spun back towards the other row of seats and tackled Lucrio again: 'The word in the Forum is that your set-up has a good reputation nowadays – or did have, before you liquidated yesterday – but that was not always the case. When Chrysippus first arrived in Rome, he was a shady loan shark.'
Lucrio prepared to argue, then had second thoughts. 'Before my time, Falco.'
'Lysa?' I asked, springing it on her. She was glowering. 'Anything to contribute?'
Lucrio was dying to look at her, but Vibia sat in his way. Lysa, his dead patron's ex-wife, his own future bride, merely turned on me a formal expression of disdain.
'Saying nothing, Lysa? Another strong believer in commercial confidentiality! You won't send me a libel suit if I say, there must have been dirt, and Avienus found it. It looks as if he played it right, blackmailing Chrysippus – not too greedy – just asking for a permanent retainer. That explains why there was no pressure to produce his history. It was in the bank's interest if he never produced his expose! He survived very comfortably that way. It could have lasted for years -'
'This is pure speculation, Falco,' Lysa challenged.
'Sounds convincing though!' I grinned back at her. 'When Avienus did pile on demands, he was given an enormous "loan". For some reason, Chrysippus lost patience eventually, and called it in.' I paused. 'But perhaps it was not Chrysippus who did that…' I turned again to Lucrio. 'You asked for the repayment, in fact?'
Lucrio had already told me so. I forced him to repeat that in the normal course of his duties as the bank's agent he had demanded repayment. He had not contacted Chrysippus first.
'So Chrysippus had no chance to stop you. You were unaware of the blackmail – Chrysippus had kept it a secret even from you, his most trusted freedman. Well, perhaps the bank's sordid history had happened while you were still a slave. Is that right, Lucrio?'
'I don't know what you are talking about, Falco.'
'My dear Lucrio, it is to your credit if Chrysippus thought you too honest to be made aware of his bank's vile past.' Lucrio looked ambivalent about being called honest; I hid a smile.
'This is quite unacceptable!' exclaimed Lysa. She made an appeal for Petronius Longus to intervene, but he only shrugged.
As a courtesy to him, my employer, I said, 'I will explore all this later.' Petronius nodded and signalled me to continue.
'Your allegations are unfounded!' insisted Lysa angrily.
'I'll justify them.'
I then said I wanted to complete my enquiry into why Avienus died. 'It may look as if the blackmail led to murder. When Lucrio pestered Avienus for the loan repayment, Avienus lost his temper. Hemet Chrysippus here, not to discuss his history, but to complain about Lucrio and threaten that all would be revealed. Chrysippus for some reason refused to help; perhaps by then he was tired of being blackmailed. Avienus could not stand to lose the money – so he battered Chrysippus to death.'
'Is that what you really think?' Vibia asked, eager (apparently) to have her husband's death explained that way. Lysa, on the other hand, made no comment.
I gazed at Vibia for a moment. 'What – and then Avienus killed himself at the Probus Bridge, in remorse?' I smiled derisively. 'Oh, I doubt it. There was nothing to link him to the killing; if he did it, he would probably have got away with it. But he had sustained blackmail for a number of years against a shrewd businessman – who must have tried plenty of threats and counter-measures. Avienus knew how to keep a cool head. When I saw him, he was perfectly calm about his meeting with Chrysippus. My impression was that he felt confident of his position, and satisfied with his lot.'
'So what did happen?' demanded Vibia. I suspected her of knowing more than she admitted, so she was pushing it, I thought.
'Chrysippus, who had preserved himself by paying up for years, continued doing so. It is ironical, but to keep the secret in my opinion he gave Avienus the money to settle with Lucrio. In effect, he paid off a loan he himself had originally granted. Well, banking is a complex business! Avienus must really have loved it.'
'This is all speculation,' grumbled Lucrio.
'That's right,' I agreed. 'So let's have a little confirmation… Isignalled to Aelianus who was standing by the dividing door. 'Aulus, will you ask Passus to send Pisarchus in, please? Oh, and don't let's split up a family, let's have his son here as well.'
LIV
Shuffling in together, the shipper and his youngest boy were physically dissimilar. Both nervous at entering a room full ofpeople, all of whom looked strained, they edged through the gap when the door was held open briefly. Aelianus seated them on the furthermost row of benches. They perched there, the broad, active, sunburned father and his city-pallid skinny and ascetic son. Their faces possessed the same type of bone structure, however. They sat close together, as if they were on friendly terms.
I explained quietly that we had been talking about the death of the historian Avienus, and the possibility that he was blackmailing Chrysippus.
Pisarchus and his son glanced at one another, then tried to pretend they had not. Interesting. I reckoned the blackmail was not news.
'Pisarchus, can I ask you something, please? The other day, when you came to the vigiles' patrol-house voluntarily, we – that is, the enquiry chief and I' – I nodded towards Petronius – 'assumed you wanted to give evidence in the Aurelius Chrysippus death. In fact, it transpired you had been away in Praeneste and had not even known that Chrysippus was dead.'
Pisarchus inclined his head. He was becoming more relaxed. I hoped this was due to my calm handling of the situation and reassurance. On the other hand, he had always seemed to be a self-possessed man. He was careful, yet I felt he had nothing much to hide.
'So whose death had you come to talk about?' When he did not reply, I pressed him. 'It was Avienus, wasn't it?'
Pisarchus reluctantly agreed.
'What were you going to tell us?'
Pisarchus glanced sideways at his son again. 'I can't say.'
'Then maybe you can,' I said, turning to Philomelus. 'Waiters do not have to swear a vow of confidentiality. Only doctors have a Hippocratic oath – though of course bankers' – I winked at Lucrio – 'are protected by law from giving details of clients' accounts! Priests,'I mused, 'might make moral claims – or just as likely they might lie to protect temple benefactors.' I flicked a glance at Diomedes. 'Now, Philomelus, you are under no obligation. Avienus is dead – and let me help you here. I already know that Avienus had confided to another party that he had discovered some scandal. He was very drunk, so I assume this conversation took place over a beaker – well, several – at the popina where you work. I guess you overheard?'
Young Philomelus swallowed, neither confirming nor denying it.
'The confidant was Turius – he told us that himself.' Philomelus looked relieved. 'So, Philomelus, you heard Avienus say that Chrysippus was paying him to keep quiet?'
Philomelus had nodded before he thought about it.
'You agree? Thanks.' Looking thoughtful, I walked back slowly to th
e row of authors. 'Tiberius Turius! It would have saved us a lot of effort if you had told us this before.' I strode right up to him and hauled him to his feet, dragging him out into the centre of the room. 'That's a nice tunic! And I do admire your belt. Lovely tooling on the leather. Striking buckle – is that enamel northern work, or did you buy it here in Rome? Turius, let's be frank – one thing that strikes me is that you don't look as an impoverished author should. Especially one who suffers from health problems so he never produces any work.'
Turius shook off my grip from his shoulder, and straightened the sleeve of his tunic. 'Leave me alone, Falco.'
'Wasn't it more "leave me alone, Turius" – or so Avienus found? Didn't you decide to cash in too? Didn't you force Avienus to demand more from Chrysippus, so you could take a share?'
'Don't be ridiculous,' Turius muttered.
'Oh? Did you go directly to Chrysippus yourself?'
'No!'
'Really? Let's see; what do I know about you? You complained to me about Chrysippus treating his authors like slaves. And you had been flagrantly indiscreet: you openly refused to flatter him, and you ridiculed his critical powers.'
'He had no judgement!' snarled Turius. He turned to his colleagues. 'Well, you know all about that, Pacuvius!' It was Pacuvius, Scrutator, who had told Helena about Turius; I made a mental note to find out why Turius thought Scrutator had a special literary grievance.
But it was Turius I wanted to harry. The utopian was under extreme pressure now. He was sweating, even though the library remained pleasantly cool, and his agitation had become visible. Whatever the cause, his breaking point looked close.
'Chrysippus had at least enough judgement to keep Avienus quiet for several years! Avienus even achieved the startling coup of making Chrysippus pay off his own loan to deflect demands from his agent Lucrio. Then you rocked the boat, didn't you?' Turius looked hounded, but would not reply. 'You hated Chrysippus for his poor treatment of his authors; you thought he should be pressed as hard as possible. Is that right?' Turius was unable to look at me, desperately unhappy now. 'What happened then? You knew the secret too – or at least you knew a secret existed. Did Avienus fear he had lost everything because you interfered? Is that what made the poor beggar kill himself?'
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