ODE TO A BANKER

`Yes, I liked him too. Probably means he's a villain…' We exchanged a grin. `So; you were the gofer, the day your master was killed. Will you confirm the list of men he invited to the library?'

I was dreading that this would throw up a new suspect – whom I had no time to investigate. Once again the slave repeated just the old list.

`There is a problem,' I confided. `Urbanus says he never answered the summons, but according to your door staff here, the right number of men was counted in. Any ideas?'

`Urbanus did say he wasn't going to come.'

`So who filled his space?'

`The new writer turned up.'

`What new writer?'

`I don't know his name. He came of his own accord. I met him on the doorstep. As he had never been here before, he asked me where he had to go.'

`He told you he was a writer?'

`I already knew.'

I growled. `You just said you don't know him!'

The runner beamed triumphantly. Winding me up and then slapping me down was his best fun all week. `I don't know what he calls himself – but I do know who he is.'

I breathed slowly. Right.'

`Don't you want to know, Falco?'

`No.' I could play the awkward beggar too. I had worked out who the `new writer' probably was. `Now you just wait in the Latin library when the meeting starts. Stay there – and try not to cheek anyone – until I ask you to come in.'

Outside the house, I stood for a moment in the column-flanked portico, clearing my mind. I enjoyed the comparative coolness under the heavy stone canopy, before I walked home to collect Helena and Petronius. I had been up just after dawn, as soon as the marketeers set up their stalls. By now, it was mid-morning. Sensible people were looking forward to going indoors for a few hours. Dogs stretched themselves out right against the walls of houses, shrinking into the last few inches of shade. Out in the streets were only those of us with desperate business in hand – and mad old ladies. The elderly woman who frequented the Clivus Publicius was wandering past now, with her basket as usual.

This time I stopped her and greeted her. `Carry your basket, gran?? 'You get off!'

`It's all right; I work for the vigiles.'

No use: the determined dame swung at me with her shopping. The hard wickerwork was well aimed. `Settle down,' I gasped. `No need to be so vicious. Now, you look like a sharp-eyed, sensible woman; you remind me of my dear mother… I just want to ask you a few questions.'

`You're the man on that murder, aren't you?' So she had me tagged. `It's about time!'

Keeping out of reach of the basket, I asked my questions. As I suspected, on the fatal day she had been ambling past the Chrysippus house around lunchtime. I was disappointed that she had seen nobody running out with bloodstained clothes. But she had seen the killer, I was sure of that. Rather more politely than my other requests, I begged her to join my increasing group of witnesses in an hour's time. She looked-as if she thought I wanted to capture her as brothel-bait. Inquisitiveness would probably have brought her but to make sure, I told her there would be free food.

I walked down to the corner. At the popina the spindly young waiter was opening an amphora, balancing it on the point while he removed the waxed bung. He had worked here long enough to become well practised. The amphora was propped safely against his left knee while he whipped out the stopper one-handed, then he flicked his cloth around the rim to brush off stray shreds of the sealing wax. He had his back to me.

`Philomelus!'

At once, he turned round. Our eyes met. The waiter made no attempt to deny that he was Pisarchus' youngest son.

Well, why should he? He was just a would-be writer who had found a job to pay the rent while he scribbled, a job that enabled him to hang about longingly, conveniently close to the Golden Horse scriptorium.

LII

AT HOME, Petronius Longus was looking more himself today, though he seemed quiet. Helena and I dragged him with us via my sister Maia's house. I wanted Helena to be at the case confrontation, in the role of my expert witness on literature; she could hardly have our daughter toddling about there in her walking-frame. We were intending to ask Maia to look after baby Julia, but when we arrived we found her out in the street seeing off her own children for their trip to the seaside with my other sister Junia.

They were all being loaded up with bundles, prior to a long walk out to the Ostia Gate where Gaius Baebius would be waiting for them with an ox-cart. Maia's four looked surly, all rightly suspicious that this `treat' had been arranged with an ulterior motive. Marius and Cloelia, the elder two, took Ancus and Rhea by the hand, as if assuming responsibility for poor little souls who were being sent to Ostia to be drowned, thus freeing their feckless mother for dancing and debauchery.