Ode to a Banker

XIX

Next day my first stop was the Forum Romanum. Avoiding the Clivus Publicius and the scriptorium for the moment, I went down off the Aventine by the Trigeminal Gate, then through the meat market and around the bottom of the Capitol. Leading up towards the Temple of Juno Moneta – Juno of the Mint – running parallel with the overspill Forum of Julius, was the Clivus Argentarius – Silver Street. I rarely walked that way. I loathed the smell of bastards making money out of other people's needs.

The Clivus Argentarius had the exchange tables, with the hunch-backed slaves who assayed currency on hand-held balances. They would rob you, though not as mercilessly as the eastern deviants away at the Greek end of the Mediterranean. It was enough for these Roman small-change fiddlers to prey gently on dopey provincials who did not know the difference between a dupondius and an as (both brass, but on a dupondius the Emperor wears a radiate crown instead of a wreath – of course you knew that!) The coin-biting practitioners changing staters and obols into decent denarii were not my real quarries, however. I was considering the world of heavy finance; I needed to be where the big backers and brokers lurk. Those who secretly fund city enterprises at enormous interest rates during civil wars. Shipping guarantors. Investors in luxury trades. Criminals' dinner guests and Senate facilitators.

Since Chrysippus was a supporter of the arts – and supposedly rolling in money – I was surprised to discover that he did trade under the sign of the Golden Horse, right here. His Aurelian Bank, which I naturally viewed as a serious inheritance issue, appeared no more than a modest currency exchange. It had the usual lopsided table where a hangdog in a dingy tunic presided over a few battered coin boxes, gloomily swinging his creaky hand-balance from one finger as he waited for custom.

Was that all there was, though? I had noticed that all the stalls in the Clivus Argentarius, this well-placed and prestigious street, looked like one-man trinket-sellers under the cypress trees at some provincial shrine. Here, they all presented the most basic money-changing tables, apparently staffed by down-at-heel slaves. Was it a deliberate front? Bankers like to operate with bluff and secrecy. Perhaps every one had an enormous back office with marble thrones and Nubians wielding ostrich fans if you cared to sniff for it.

I presented myself at the Aurelian table and made an innocent enquiry about today's rate for Greece. 'What's that they call their coins?'

'Drachmas.' The counter-hand was brutally indifferent. Not knowing that I could have talked to him of Palmyra and Tripolitania, Britain and unconquered Germany, all from personal experience, he identified me as a lummock who had never been east of the Field of Mars. He quoted me a medium-to-high exchange rate. A bad deal, yet no worse than most of the toothy sharks here would offer.

I applied a shifty look. Well, even more embarrassed than my usual suspicious lurking act. 'Er – do you ever do loans?'

'We do loans.' He looked at me as if I were a flea on a goddess's bosom.

I told myself I had just made a pile from the Census and could look anyone in the eye. Besides, this was a professional enquiry, a legitimate test. 'What would I need to do then, to get a loan from you?'

'Agree it with the chief '

It seemed impolite to mention that I had seen his chief yesterday lying prone and bloody, with a scroll rod up one nostril and gooey cedar oil all over him. Apparently the bank was continuing to trade as if tragedy had never struck. Had nobody told the staff yet that their proprietor had been taken out, or were they busy maintaining commercial confidence with false calm?

'Agree it?'

'Reach an accommodation.'

'How does that work?'

He sighed. 'If he likes you enough, an agreement is drawn up. In the consulship of Blah and Blah-blah, on the Whatsit day before the Ides of March – Let's do one – what do you call yourself?'

'Dillius Braco.'

'I Ditrius Basto -' Times were tough. People even messed up my aliases now – 'I certify I have received a loan from Aurelius Chrysippus, in his absence through Lucrio his freedman, and owe to him a hundred million sesterces – that's a notional figure – which I shall repay him when he asks. And Lucrio, freedman of Aurelius Chrysippus, has sought assurance that the hundred million sesterces mentioned is properly and rightly given – so you are not defrauding us or using the money improperly – and I, Ditrius Basto, give as my pledge and security – what do you have?' He was sneering more than ever. Looking at me in my third best streaky red tunic and the boots that I hated with the frayed straps, and still unbarbered, I could not blame him.

'What is usual?' I squeaked.

'Alexandrian wheat in a public warehouse. Chickpeas, lentils and legumes, if you're a cheapskate.' I could tell which he thought applied to me.

'Arabian pepper,' I boasted. 'Bonded in the Marcellus warehouse in Nap Lane.'

'Oh yes! How much?'

'I haven't counted recently. Some has been sold, but we are hanging back so as not to flood the market… Enormous quantities.'

He did start to look uncertain, though disbelief still figured strongly.

'Arabian pepper, which I own, deposited in the Marcellus warehouse, which I have maintained in a secure condition, at my risk. Something like that,' he said politely, 'sir.'

Frauds have it easy. (The pepper had once existed, but even then it was owned by Helena, a bequest from her first husband, the loathsome Pertinax; she had long ago sold all of it.)

Believing I was wealthy, his attitude changed completely: 'Can I make you an appointment with Lucrio? When would be most convenient?'

I reckoned I would be meeting Lucrio, freedman and perhaps heir to the dead proprietor – on my own terms and in my own time. 'No, that's all right; I was just asking for a friend.' I slipped him a half as I had picked up at a frontier fort in Germania Inferior, where coppers were in short supply and they had to cut them up. It was an insulting tip for anyone, even if it had been whole currency. I skipped off down the street while he was still cursing me as a mean-spirited time-waster.

I walked into the Forum.

A short hop from the end of the Clivus Argentarius and across the front of the Curia brought me to the magnificent Porticus Aemilius, one of the finest public buildings of the Augustan Age. It was fronted by and joined to the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius, a two-storey colonnade of shops which was where my own frowsty banker lurked nowadays. His gorgeous squat was probably illegal in fact, but the aediles for some reason don't move bankers on.

His chained deposit chests stood in the main aisle of the Porticus on massive slabs of marble in various shades: Numidian yellow, Carystian green, Lucullan black and red, Chian pink and grey – and the purple variegated Phrygian from which the table supports at the Chrysippus house were made, and which I had seen yesterday stained with the dead man's blood.

My banker's chests, along with a folding stool and an unmanned change-table, were on the lower level of the Porticus, overlooked by a frieze showing scenes from Roman history, and shaded by a larger-than-life sized statue of a barbarian. Apt, if you believed money had played its sinister part in our noble past and would affect the future of the untamed areas of the world. (I was raving internally. My encounter with the Aurelian Bank's changer had left me overwrought.) The billet was also incongruous, if you believed bankers were merely men with dirty hands from shuffling coinage – that is, if you had failed to notice just how many elegant artworks most bankers own in their private homes.

I went upstairs to see Nothokleptes. If he was not in sight at his business location, he was to he found at his barber's between a couple of delicate acanthus-scrolled pillars in the upper colonnade. More beauteous decor. And the elevation gave him a good view of who was approaching.

He was seedy and suspicious, just about convincing as a Roman citizen, yet by birth probably Alexandrian and originally tutored in money matters by Ptolemaic tax-collectors. A heavy man, with jowls that were designed for pegging a napkin under his chin. He spent a lot of time at his barber's, where you could find him at ease as if the shaving chair were an extension of his business premises. Since his premises downstairs were so public, and usually guarded by a very unpleasant Pisidian thug, the barber's had an advantage. While you begged to overdraw on your already empty bankbox, you could send for a cold drink and have your fingernails manicured by a sweet girl with a lisp.

Although often overcommitted, as it happened I had never tried my banker for a large formal loan. That would obviously involve – as a courtesy to his associates – investment in a pumice scrape and full hair trim; the peculiar Egyptian way Nothokleptes himself was coiffed, had always put me off.

Nothokleptes was not his real name; it was given him by Petronius Longus when we two first shared a bankbox for a year after we came home from the army. Once he acquired a job in the vigiles, Petro made sure he kept his salary and his prissy wife's dowry locked out of my grasp, but the name he had stuck on our first banker had lasted, to the point that the public now used it, believing it real. Civilised bilinguists will recognise that it means approximately thieving bastard although, despite the strong whiff of slander, long usage would probably now bar the man from suing us.

'Nothokleptes!' I always enjoyed calling him by name.

He looked at me curiously, as he always did. I could never decide if this was because he suspected my part in renaming him, or whether he was simply amazed that anyone could survive on my income. My half-year working on the Census had eventually brought a huge upsurge in my savings, but when Vespasian allowed my name to go forward to the equestrian list, the qualification rule immediately forced me to invest cash in land. The money had flowed straight out of my box, and Nothokleptes now seemed to feel doubtful that he ever really saw it. I felt the same myself.

'Marcus Didius Falco.' His manner was quaintly formal. He knew how to make a debtor feel like a man of substance just long enough to feel safe accepting yet another loan.

I had spent years trying to avoid this character when my funds were low. We had held many conversations about whether it was even worth my while to pay the hire-fee for the bankbox that contained nothing. On these difficult occasions, Nothokleptes had impressed me with both his common sense and his ferociously unyielding attitude. Fate had always saved me with some income at the last moment. For those who were less lucky, loans might be called in with cruel detachment. Like many men who wield power over unfortunates, he looked like a soft slob who would never find the energy to come down on them. How wrong that was.

'How are you this fine day, Marcus Didius?'

'Cut the niceties!' It was my usual rebuttal. I pretended he had a secret admiration for my roguishly uncouth manner. He simply gazed at me with that air of constant wonder. 'Listen, you evil scourge -' He bravely ignored the fake affection. 'I need inside information.'

'Fiscal advice? Or investment tips?'

'Neither. I'm not here to be pillaged.'

Nothokleptes shook his head sadly 'Marcus Didius, I long for the day you will tell me you have become a quaestuosus.'

'What – an upcoming new man, looking to get rich quick? I'm rich now!'

He harumphed loudly. 'Not by the world's standards.'

'You mean I should let you play dangerous games with my cash for your own profit?'

'Typical!' he groaned. 'This is Rome, of course. You are cautious men. The good Roman guards his patrimony, looking only for security, never profits.'

I squatted on the stool next to him, while his barber continued to ministrate fanatically to the oiled Pharaonic curls. 'That's about it; in Rome, the higher a man progresses up the social scale, the more commitments are thrust upon him and the less free he really is to spend his money… I'm promising nothing, but I do have a case with probable fees at the end of it. Have you heard of Aurelius Chrysippus?'

'I have heard that he's dead.' Nothokleptes had glanced at me sharply. He knew the kind of work I did.

'Everyone here in the Porticus is no doubt avid for details?' My banker inclined his head elegantly. At the same time, he pursed his fleshy lips as if chastising my crude insinuation. 'What can you tell me about him and his business?'

'Me, Falco? Assist you? In one of your enquiries?' When he was excited, his voice rose and he tended to speak in an affected manner that drove me mad.

'Yes. He died in a rather sensational manner. You may have heard that I am investigating?'

He waved his hand. 'This is the Forum! The very stones breathe rumour. I probably knew before you did.'

'You make me wonder if you knew Chrysippus was doomed before the man was even dead.'

'Tasteless, my friend!'

'Sorry. So what's the score?'

Nothokleptes was torn. Professional wariness warned him to clam up. But he was thrilled to be so close to a celebrated case. 'Is it true -' he began.

I cut him off: 'He had a scroll rod poked up his nose. But I never told you that.'

He hissed with dread. 'Dreadful! Was there a lot of blood?' I gazed at him, not saying.

'Ooh, Falco! Well…' He lowered his voice. We had a bargain, apparently. Honor was just another banking commodity; he was prepared to trade. 'What do you want to know?' I glanced at the barber. The man was impassively snipping at a long ear lock. 'Don't worry; he does not speak Latin.'

Unlikely, but Nothokleptes would secure his silence. 'I need anything you can give me, Nothokleptes. Especially if it's scandalous.'

Nothokleptes appeared to find a new respect for my trade if it could be so much fun. 'I have never heard much that's juicy. He has been here for years. There is a fearsome wife, who has a hand in everything.'

'Divorced.'

His eyebrows shot up. 'You really do surprise me!'

'Another woman – half his age. Now the other is the second wife. Why are you surprised by that?'

'There were always other women. Stagey blondes who looked like night-moths, mostly. Lysa would find out, then sweep in and chop off the affair. Chrysippus would sob and be a chaste husband for a while. Lysa would relent and loosen the shackles. Pretty soon, he would find himself some new working girl who giggled and flattered him at how clever he was with his abacus. After they were spotted in one theatre row too many, Lysa would descend on him again with a face like Jove's thunderbolt and a similar effect.'

'Did she never threaten to leave him?'

'She was the wife. It didn't work like that.' Nothokleptes tipped his head to one side, nearly sacrificing a ringlet to curiosity. Impassive, the barber waited until he straightened up again. 'So how did the new one finally shift Lysa out?'

'Vibia Merulla is not a working hag.'

'Oh clever!'

'She is not his usual blonde either, incidentally,' I said, half-hiding a smile.

'Fascinating!'

'Well, I can untwine the tangle with the women.'

'Your favourite occupation, Falco.'

'I've had enough practice, maybe. Tell me about the bank.'

'It's Greek.'

'A trapeza. So they take deposits -'

'And they offer credit. What we call an argentarius.'

'Same as you?'

'Subtle differences,' Nothokleptes prevaricated cagily. I was not surprised. The financial world is complex, with the services offered often varying according to the status and needs of the customer. 'I mean, the big fish get most out of it. To my mind, Greek changing and lending began with temples helping out travellers at religious festivals,' Nothokleptes said. 'In Rome we were always more geared to commerce. Quayside auctions -'

'Auctions! You mean art and antiques?' I asked in surprise, thinking of Pa.

He looked disgusted. 'Commodity auctions at markets and ports.'

'Oh!' Light dawned. I had seen this in operation at Ostia and here in the Emporium. 'You mean, you hang about when cargoes are landed, to offer loans for purchasing the goods? Wholesalers obtain credit, then pay you back when they sell on at a profit? But are you saying the Aurelian Bank does not do that?'

'Oh, I expect they cover the range.' He seemed to be holding back.

'So who uses them?' I asked.

'The Aurelian is a family affair. Small fry may approach them, but for big deals you have to be someone they know. Otherwise, they will never explicitly refuse you, but nothing will ever happen. They work in a small circle.'

'Matter of trust?'

Nothokleptes let out a sardonic laugh. 'That's the word! It means that here, we check out strangers' solvency by posting their names on the Columnia Maena and seeing if any of our colleagues can tell us their financial state. The Greeks want to know your grandfather and fifteen uncles sailing out of Piraeus. They want to believe you are one of them. Then your credit will be good. You could run off and default and they would still see you as one of them – though of course, you would not dare come back, which might be inconvenient.'

'What about their own credit?' I asked dryly. 'Banks can fail'

'Doh!'

'Hush; don't use such filthy language!'

'Any hint of problems with the Aurelian?'

'Not a whisper that I know of. I can listen out for you.' His eyes sharpened keenly, scenting an insider tip. Initiating doubt was not what I wanted to accomplish, but questions always carry a risk.

'Please do.' I looked at him. 'Chrysippus was very successful?' I felt Nothokleptes was ready to be more open now. 'So if he's not prowling the wharves doing commercial stuff, what is his speciality?'

'Loans with interest,' Nothokleptes told me. His tone of voice would have been more suitable for saying the man had had intercourse with a pet mule.

'Sorry – what's the difference?'

'Depends on the rates. Usury stinks.'

'What rates does the Aurelian Bank demand?'

'Twelve per cent is the legal maximum, Falco.'

'And five is more decent nowadays. You are implying they are tough?' He was implying something worse. 'So what would a Golden Horse loan run at?'

'I cannot comment.'

'Well, of course not!' I scoffed. 'Don't let me draw you into anything that seems commercially sensitive.' He insisted on stubborn silence. I let it go. 'All right. What can you tell me about the freedman who runs the loan side?'

'Nothing odd about that.' He must have thought I was querying the arrangement. 'A common ploy.'

'Ploy?'

'Well, men who are struggling to arrive socially do not touch the filthy stuff from the mint with their own soft hands, do they?' Nothokleptes was sneering at climbers with pretensions. He owned his own business, though he was low grade. As a result, so were his clients. Mind you, that did not make him poor; nor were most of the clients. He himself enjoyed handling money the way tailors fondle cloth.

'Freed slaves can trade,' he continued. 'A banker can use a slave to act for him. Many have a trusted family freedman who organises the day-to-day work of the bank, so they themselves can dine out with patricians like the respectable Roman elite.'

I whistled. 'Rather a lot of trust, if this freedman is dealing in thousands – or millions"

'He will be rewarded.'

'With cash?'

'With respect.'

'Status? That all?'

Nothokleptes only smiled.

'What if he ever bunked off? Or simply was not up to the job? What if the agent Chrysippus used had made serious investment mistakes, or misjudgements in trusting creditors?'

'Chrysippus would go bust. And the rest of us would shiver.'

'So, do you know Lucrio?'

'Oh, I know Lucrio,' Nothokleptes remarked. 'And then, I don't know him, if you follow me.'

'No. I need a clue of thread to wander in this Cretan labyrinth.'

'I know who he is. But I would only approach Lucrio,' said my banker, who had never before appeared fastidious, 'with a heated meat skewer a yard long.' He scowled in what probably passed for a fatherly warning. 'I advise you to take the same line, Marcus Didius.'

'Thanks for the tip.' Interesting. 'What do you know about Chrysippus' son? His name is Diomedes.'

'Heard the name; never met him. Cultured hobbies, I believe. Not a player in the same game.'

Now I was surprised. 'Why not? He's twenty-five, or close; he's reached his majority. I would expect him to tread in father's sandal-marks. And presumably he inherits something now? At least, his mother told me he would have enough to live on – by their lights, so to me that's more than enough.'

'We shall have to wait and see.' Nothokleptes was holding back. This was somehow too intimate, some professional wrinkle that he would not betray.

I reckoned I had pushed it far enough. I urged the banker to keep his ears open for me, told him some horrific details of the murder as fair payment, and left him to be towelled up for his shave. His barber looked white after I described the violence. Clearly, he did understand Latin after all.

I could not bear to watch the shaving process. Nothokleptes favoured the Egyptian pumice method: his beard was scratched off forcibly – along with many layers of skin.

I had skipped down the four steps from the Porticus into the main Forum and was heading off through the rostra intending to leave on the opposite side. Then a voice hailed me, with the self-satisfied tone of somebody who knew I would have avoided him if I had spotted him first.

Hades! It was Anacrites.