ODE TO A BANKER

Petronius, Fusculus and I clustered together at the equivalent of the throne end of this audience chamber, throwing down on spare chairs an impressive collection of note-tablets (most irrelevant, but they looked sinister). Helena positioned herself to our far right, withdrawn from us slightly in a modest way. She placed various scrolls beside her, in two large piles and a smaller set. The benches directly opposite to us had been left free, to be used later when witnesses were called in from the other library. Aelianus, in his crisp white tunic, was stationed by the dividing door, ready to tell Passus when I wanted someone sent in.

Round the corner from Helena, on the right-hand side, I sat the parties who had family connections to the dead man. Lysa and Vibia, his two wives, embraced each other with muffled sobs and clung together, ostentatiously at one in bereavement. With them were Diomedes, at his mother's side, and Lucrio, who plonked himself on the other side of Vibia as if he could not bear to sit by Lysa's tiresome son. Diomedes stared into space, as usual looking spare, like the permanent understudy at a play. At first, Lucrio sat with his arms folded grimly, but he soon relaxed and became himself, cleaning out his dental crannies surreptitiously with a gold toothpick.

Down the left-hand side were the authors: Turius, Scrutator, Constrictus and Urbanus. I eyed them up when they were not looking: Turius, looking flash in yet another brand new tunic and snappy sandals; Scrutator, at the ready to catch anyone's eye and regale them with boring stories; Constrictus, trying to avoid talking to Scrutator and already haunted by the need for a lunchtime drink; Urbanus, simply sitting quiet so he could take mental notes. With them sat the scroll-shop manager, Euschemon, who had just shambled in unobtrusively from the corridor that led to the scriptorium.

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.'