Ode to a Banker

X LIX

The Temple of Minerva on the Aventine lay only a few minutes' walk away, though I cannot pretend it was one of my haunts.

Now that I had started thinking about our local temples, I came to see the Aventine as an ancient holy place. Once it had lain outside the pomerium, the official city boundary that had been ploughed out by Romulus. That original exclusion had allowed the positioning here of shrines that possessed for our forefathers a remote, out-of-town mystique; in the quieter squares of the modern Aventine, they still maintained their historical air of privacy. Perhaps they always would. The Aventine has a special atmosphere. The views once enjoyed from here must have been stunning. We who lived here now could still see the river and the distant hills, or in open spaces feel close to the sky and the moon.

Cacus, a god of fire who must have been a foul rapscallion, had lived in a cave at the base of the cliff; slain by Hercules, his haunt became the Cattle Market Forum. Above, we had Ceres, the great queen of agricultural growth and grain; Liberty the freed slaves' patroness in her turned-over felt cap; Bona Dea, the Good Goddess; and Luna, the moon goddess, whose temple had been one of the few buildings on the Aventine destroyed in Nero's Great Fire. Two local temples were at present working up to their annual festivals. One was Diana's majestic sanctuary in the plebeian part of the Hill, where the goddess was traditionally worshipped by working people and slaves. The other was the small shrine of Vertumnus, god of the seasons, change, and ripening plants, a fruit-wreathed garden deity of whom I had always been secretly fond.

Most classically cool was Minerva. It seemed fully appropriate that the son of a family with a Greek background would attend this temple. I could not argue with that. Diomedes was thoroughly Romanised, yet I had seen how firinly he was influenced by his mother. If Lysa loved Athene, he might well offer prayers to the armoured owl-goddess himself. A good boy – well, one who was pushed about firmly by Mama.

In the echoing sanctum, I forced a priest to speak to me. Gaining attention was so difficult I even tried citing my position as Procurator of the Sacred Geese of Juno. Hah! That got me nowhere. So I had to resort to simpler methods: threatening the shrine with a visit from the vigiles.

One of their refined operatives then deigned to take questions. I still might as well not have bothered. His answers were useless. He seemed unable to recognise my careful description of my suspect, and had no recollection of him attending the Temple on the day Chrysippus died. The priest had heard of Aurelius Chrysippus and Lysa. They had been benefactors of the Temple in the past. So I knew there was a link with the family. It hardly amounted to an alibi for murder.

Annoyed, I set off for Lysa's house to re-interview her son. I accepted that Diomedes had never been subjected to real interrogation before now. There could be advantages in letting him think he had escaped close scrutiny. (Not that I could think what those advantages might be.)

Outside the house, I noticed the vigilis observer that Fusculus had placed there in case the principals did a flit. He was pretending to drink at a caupona, a peaceful type of surveillance; I nodded but did not speak to him.

The place was barred and bolted as Lucrio's house had been after the bank crashed, but a porter let me in. Indoors, there were indeed signs of imminent departure. It was definitely time to act, or we would lose Lysa and the freedman. Packed bundles and chests were standing about. Since I was here before, some wall hangings and curtains had been taken down.

For once, Diomedes was in. For once, he made no attempt to seek refuge behind his mother; she did not appear at all. He had grown a beard, shaped like his father's. I told him of my inconclusive meeting with the priest, and ordered him to come back with me to the Temple, to see if he could find somebody else there who might remember him 'If not, you may have to shave off this new face-disguise.'

As we were leaving, somebody entered the house – Lucrio, interestingly in possession of his own latch-lifter. He looked a little harassed and tired. He was also put out at seeing me – though far too astute to complain.

'Stay there.' I snapped at Diomedes. 'Lucrio, sending a thug to kill me was not a bright idea!' I would get him for that if I could.

Lucrio was too clever, or too weary to pretend. He just kicked off his outdoor shoes and filled in time shoving his feet into house slippers.

'I am sorry you had to liquidate,' I said. 'Let's get this straight though. My enquiries were never aimed against the bank maliciously – and I never suggested to people that there should be a run on deposits. Don't blame me for what has happened. I just want to identify who killed your old master.'

Lucrio made no comment on the Bos incident, but said of the bank, 'The collapse was inevitable. From the moment Chrysippus was killed, we faced a loss of public confidence.' A ghost of a smile crossed his face. 'That should be one argument against me being your killer. I foresaw this. I would never have risked it.'

'What happens now?' I asked.

'A careful and calm unwinding of our affairs in Rome. Neutral agents, experienced in such work, will pay off what they can of our debts.'

'Do something for me.' There was no question of letting him buy himself off, though if he thought he could, it might help Ma. 'Look kindly on the deposits of a little old lady called Junilla Tacita. She came to you on the recommendation of Anacrites, the spy. I expect he handled the deal.'

'He didn't,' replied the freedman, somewhat testily. 'I remember Junilla Tacita. We negotiated face to face.'

'I won't ask what arrangements you made for her. I don't expect you to break a client's confidence.'

'Good!' He was being unhelpful. It was professionally correct, though I sensed annoyance. 'What's Junilla Tacita to you, Falco?'

'My mother,' I said levelly. I wondered if Ma might have dealt with Lucrio in her inimitable style. The feeling was confirmed when I suddenly found myself exchanging wry grins with him. 'Have a look at her situation,' I instructed. 'You can tell me tomorrow – I want to finalise my enquiries. Come at noon, please, to the scriptorium. Tell Lysa, she is to be there as well.'

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.