ODE TO A BANKER

`Concentrate on events the day he died. Chrysippus was here in the library.' We all looked around. Those of us who had been here after the body was discovered relived the silence that terrible day: the long tables stacked with scrolls, the overturned chairs, the corpse, the mess, the blood.

`Diomedes,' I commanded. `You look rather like your father, especially now you've acquired that beard. Come here, will you. And let's have Philomelus – I am choosing him at random, by the way.'

The two young men approached, both looking apprehensive.

`Thanks, you two. Now help me re-enact what happened, in case it jogs a memory. Helena, could I trouble you? I gave Philomelus, the thin waiter, an empty scroll rod she had been keeping ready for me. `Take this. Now both pretend you are having a shouting match.' They were poor or nervous actors, but I shoved them about a bit. Diomedes wanted to resist, which was perhaps understandable. Philomelus had no meat on him, and lacked any gymnasium training, though he was a more intelligent mover. `Now. Philomelus, you are the killer: stab Chrysippus with the rod.' He made a feeble gesture towards Diomedes' chest. `You fight a bit more, exchanging blows – now you're dead, Diomedes. You fall on the floor – here, where I put the rug.

Diomedes knelt and then lay full length, assuming his position rather decorously. He had entered the spirit to some extent, however, and was stretched out face down, crossways across the rug. I helped him up, thanked them both, then let them go back to their seats.

I looked at Diomedes with my head on one side. `Interesting! You lay face down. According to your alibi, you never saw the corpse. But you lay down – as it happens – exactly how your father was first found. Later, the vigiles turned him over.' To stop Diomedes offering excuses, I went on quickly, `Of course, you probably talked to the slaves and perhaps to Vibia about your father's death. That would be entirely natural.''

Having mentioned Vibia, I turned swiftly to her. `Vibia Merulla, Diomedes has an alibi; he was at the Temple of Minerva – a priest, honest no doubt, will vouch for him. Tell me, did you know he was there?'

'Yes,' she answered, flushing as attention turned on her. `Yes, I did. He often goes there.'

`Tell me then – when you found Chrysippus lying here, why did you not send to the Temple, which is only a few steps away, to let Diomedes know his dear papa was dead?'

`I never thought about it,' Vibia declared, a little too boldly. `I was very shocked.'

`Understandable. Now – you used to like Diomedes once, but your feelings have changed. Do you want to tell us about that?'

`No!' she squeaked indignantly.

`He's very interested in literature, he told me. Did you decide he was only after you because you would inherit the scriptorium?'

`I was never interested in him, nor he in me.'

`Well, you certainly don't like him now. You won't speak to him and you want his possessions removed from your house. Did something happen to make you feel so strongly? Did he do something?'

Vibia shook her head in silence.

`I need to know this, Vibia. Why didn't you tell Diomedes about his poor father dying? A harsh person might wonder: Maybe she thought he already knew.' Vibia still stubbornly refused to be drawn. `Of course, he was being religious all day, wasn't he? Be warned, Vibia – if I could prove Diomedes was not at the Temple when he says, I would look at him very closely as a suspect, and I would look at you as well!'

Under the layers of face decoration, Vibia may have gone pale. She made no further protest; I reckoned she wanted to defend herself, but something held her back.

I walked back across the room, crossing the rug that lay where the body was found. I bent down and replaced the rug to lie the way Diomedes had done. `Diomedes, I noticed you lay down in an east-west direction. You followed the real line of the body, of course.' I paused for a second theatrically, as if honouring the corpse. `Anyone would think you knew.'

Diomedes made as if to speak, but his mother gripped him tightly by the arm.

`Now then!' I tackled the authors and Euschemon. `Chrysippus spent that morning reading new manuscripts. My first thought was that he might have been killed by a disgruntled author. Avienus and Turius both needed him alive so he could pay blackmail demands. Were there advantages or disadvantages in his death for the rest of you? What has been the result? Euschemon, have you kept' the status quo?'

Euschemon looked reluctant, though he piped up: 'We are, actually, dropping all this group from our list. I am sure they understand. They were Chrysippus' personal clients, a close circle he supported as artistic patron. Once the scriptorium fell into new hands – whether Vibia had sold it or kept it herself these authors became candidates for dismissal. They are all bright men, Falco,' he commented. `They would have known the risks.'