ODE TO A BANKER

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 and abundant trays of savouries were being carried in ahead of them.

`What guild is this?' I glanced in. One thing they did quite capably was 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 headdown 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 -'

`Blitis.'

`Got a minute for a little chat, Blitis?' 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 Even unpublished writers know that they should grab at publicity.

LI

PREPARATION is the secret. Whether planning a battle campaign or creating epic verse, you need your equipment well in place and all your information docketed. For the finale of a criminal investigation, it is a good idea to invest time and care in arrangements with your catering corps. Most informers don't know that. It is why most are sad losers with only half a client list.

I bought the snacks myself. I was intending to charge them to Vibia; well, she was the distraught widow who wanted her husband avenged. (Anyway, the vigiles had a no-comestibles expenses rule for consultants; at least, that sourpuss Petronius said they did.) I enjoyed myself planning the eats: nibbles and nick-nackeroonies to sit in napkins on little trays. Olives, a few expensive shellfish, plenty of cheap stuffed vine leaves, and some diddly pastry cases, to be freshly cooked with egg fillings. Then I bought eggs. And fillings.

As a finger-buffet, it would have graced a reception given for the elderly matrons who ran a charitable orphanage. Not that I would say so. After all, Helena Justina was patron to a school for orphaned girls.

Devotion to these domestic matters took up much of that morning. (Well, you try obtaining fresh nettletips in the Market of Livia on a particular day!) Once purchased, the goodies had to be transported to the Clivus Publicius and handed over to Vibia's bemused staff, including her cook. I gave strict instructions for preparation and service. Believe me, you cannot expend too much effort on the detailing.

As I left the house, having managed to avoid ensnarement by Vibia, I asked to see the slave who took around messages. `Seen those authors again? Are they all coming today?'

`Sure.' The household runner was a pert lad who seemed to know what he was doing.

I tried him out: `Somebody told me you tend to give wrong instructions. "Never gives a clear steer" were his words, in fact.' 'Hah! Would that have been Pacuvius? Scrutator? Too bloody

talkative. Never listens properly. And his mind is on other things. I have to nip carefully around that old goat – if you know what I mean.' He winked, and managed to imply he was a good-looking boy, and Scrutator had an eye for him. It could have been true, though it was a stock excuse among slaves.

`Any views on the other hacks Chrysippus patronised?'

`Constrictus is always trying to sponge the price of a drink off me.' To borrow cash from your own slave was one thing; cadging from somebody else's runner was probably illegal and certainly low-class. `Turius is a waste of time; Avienus – he's dead now, isn't he? – was worse. Always wanted me to sneak on everyone else.'

`What was there to sneak?'

`How should I know?' If he did know any dirt, he was not telling me. But had he passed on scandal to Avienus? Unluckily, I had used up my vigiles allowance for bribes. (Easy; Petronius had never given me one.)

`Urbanus?'

`Urbanus is all right.'