ODE TO A BANKER

I had not rehearsed her in detail, but Helena knew I wanted her to talk first about the one we thought was called Zisimilla and Magarone, the awful yarn she could not bear to finish. Now I knew Philomelus had been told his story was not good enough to publish, I thought perhaps he had written this. Mind you, it presumed that in turning him down, Chrysippus had had enough critical judgement to recognise a dud. Turius had libelled the arts patron as a know-nothing. None of the others, including his scriptorium manager Euschemon, had ever suggested that Turius libelled him.

`I hope it is in order for me to speak,' demurred Helena.

`You are in the presence of some excellent businesswomen,' I joked, indicating Lysa and Vibia.

Helena would have been debarred from giving evidence in a law court, but this was in essence a private gathering. Behind us, the vigiles representatives were looking glum about her coming here, but it was my show, so they said nothing. Petronius Longus would divorce a wife who thought she could do this. (Helena would contend that his old-fashioned moral attitude might explain why Arria Silvia was divorcing him.)

`Just speak at me, if the situation worries you,' I offered. It was unnecessary. Helena smiled, looked around the room, and firmly addressed everyone.

`Passus and I were asked to examine various scrolls which had lost their title pages during the struggle when Chrysippus was killed. We managed to reconstruct the sets. One manuscript was an author's copy of a very long adventure in the style of a Greek novel. The subject matter was poorly developed, and the author had overreached himself.' Philomelus was hanging his head gloomily. `I would like to stress,' Helena said, sending him a kind glance, `these are personal opinions – though I'm afraid Passus and I were in full agreement.'

`Was the quality up to publication standard?' `I would say no, Marcus Didius.'

`Close?'

`Nowhere near.'

`Helena Justina is being polite,' muttered Passus from the vigiles row. `It absolutely stank.'

`Thanks, Passus; I know you are a connoisseur.' He looked pleased with himself. `Helena Justina, was there anything else you should tell us about this particular manuscript?'

`Yes. This may be important. There were extra scrolls, written in another hand and a different style. Someone had clearly attempted revisions.'

`Trying to improve the original draft?'

`Trying,' said Helena, in her restrained way. `Succeeding?'

`I fear not.'

I sensed a mood change among the authors' seats. I turned to them.

`Any of you know about this ghostwriting?' Nobody answered. `They may call it editing,' Helena suggested. I knew her dry tone;

she was being very rude. People sniggered.

`I would like to know who did this trial revision,' I fretted.

`From the style,' said Helena crisply, `I would think it was Pacuvius.'

`Hello! Going into prose, Scrutator?' We gave the big man a chance to reply but he shrugged and looked indifferent `What made you think of him?' I asked Helena. `You are familiar with his work, no doubt. Did it have meticulous social satire, topicality, biting shafts of wit, and eloquent poetry?'

`No,' she said. `Well, since nobody owns up to the revisions, I can be frank. The new version was long-winded, mediocre, and hamfisted. The characters were lifeless, the narrative was tedious, the attempts at humour were misplaced and the total effect was even more muddled than the first draft.'

`Oh, steady on!' Pacuvius roared, stung at last into admitting he had been involved. `You can't blame me – I was sculpting a middenheap of crap!'

The ensuing hubbub stilled somewhat eventually. To mollify him I assured him that Helena had only been trying to inspire his admission. Helena remained demure. Pacuvius probably realised her ferocious critique was real. I asked him to explain his role.

`Look, it's no real secret,' he blustered. `Chrysippus used me sometimes to tidy up ragged work by amateurs. This, for some reason,

was a project he was keen on at one time. I told him all along it was hopeless. He showed it to some of the others and they refused to touch the thing.' The others were grinning, all relieved they had no responsibility. `The plot was shapeless; it lacked a decent premise anyway. Helena Justina is fairly astute about the faults.'

Pacuvius was patronising, but Helena let it pass.

`Are manuscripts frequently rewritten in detail, prior to formal copying?' I queried, looking shocked.

Most of the authors laughed. Euschemon coughed helplessly. After a moment, he explained. `There are works, Falco, sometimes by very famous people, which have been through numerous redrafts. Some,

in their published form, are almost entirely by somebody else.' `Jupiter! Do you approve?'

`Personally, no.'

`And your late master?'

`Chrysippus took the line that if the finished set was readable and saleable, what did it matter who actually wrote the words?'

`What do you think, Euschemon?'