ODE TO A BANKER

When I rose to go, Maia stayed where she was, peacefully reclining, just as she had with Anacrites. A neat, compact woman with a crown of natural curls and an equally natural stubbornness. Left to her own devices for so long while Famia hit the flagons, in her own home she had developed a powerful independent attitude. Nobody told Maia what to do. She had grown too used to deciding for herself.

Tonight, there was also a stillness about her that I found ominous. But as her male head of household, I made sure I did stoop over her and kiss her goodbye. She let me – though like most of my female relatives when treated to unaccustomed formality, she hardly appeared to notice it.

XXXV

I

N THE morning, just after breakfast, I was whistled up by Petronius.

I was in the middle of whispering to Helena about Maia and Anacrites; Marius, who had slept the night on our living-room floor had taken his bowl of chopped fruit into the bedroom to check on the pup.

`The spy is right in there, after her. Maia appears to go along with it.' `What about Anacrites?' asked Helena, staying calm.

`He's playing it quietly; he looks as if he is not sure his luck will hold,' I complained bitterly.

`Leave it; he won't last.' Helena seemed far less worried than I was. `Maia needs to adjust. She will never stay with the first man who takes an interest.'

Petronius had despaired of attracting my attention. He came up and stood listening, as he waited to break in on the conversation. Something was up; I was on my feet by then, strapping up a boot.

`Maia won't be an easy catch for anyone. Marcus, listen,' Helena insisted, `don't drive her to him!'

I shook myself, breaking free of my worries. `Petro – what's the excitement?'

Report of a corpse, possible suicide. Hanging from the Probus Bridge.'

`Some poor family man, no doubt… Am I interested?' Still frazzled by my wrath over Anacrites, I enjoyed a hope that it might be him strung up.

Petro nodded. `I'm paying you to be fully involved, Falco. The corpse may be one of the authors in the Chrysippus case.'

We walked down to the river at an even pace. Dead men wait. It was an early hour, when it seemed natural to walk along in silence.

Otherwise, I might have thought Lucius Petronius was preoccupied.

Any other bridge in Rome would have been out of the Fourth Cohort's remit. We were lucky, if you cared to look at it that way.

The boundary of the Thirteenth district touched the Tiber just below the Trigeminal Gate, which was the way we approached from the Aventine; the Probus lay just south of that. Beside the great wharf called the Marble Embankment and close to the bustle of the Emporium, it was a favourite spot for suicides.

Across the river we could see the Transtiberina, the lawless quarter into which only brave men ventured. Coming towards us from the far side of the bridge were red-clad members of the Seventh Cohort, in whose jurisdiction that lay. Their patrol-house stood not far from this bridge. Fusculus was also visible going to meet them, his rotund figure unmistakable.

`A confrontation?' I asked Petro.

`I'm sure the Seventh will see it our way.'

`Are they looking for work?'

`No – but if they get the idea we are keen to have this one, they may argue just to be difficult.'

`Where is the dividing line between cohorts?'

`Halfway across the river, officially.'

`Where was the corpse found?'

`Oh, about halfway,' answered Petronius sardonically.

`I see it's walked to this side!' Petro's men were clustered at the Thirteenth's end of the bridge. `I suppose normally if a bloated jumper drifts ashore in the Emporium reaches, you would try to poke the body with an oar until it ends up on the other side and the Seventh have to deal with it?'

`What a shocking suggestion, Falco.' True, though.

The Seventh must have been bored with fishing floaters out, because before Petronius and I fetched up at the scene properly, they had already turned away. Fusculus started walking back towards us with a grin. I made no comment on these delicate issues.

The body was lying on the bridge now. A group of vigiles clustered round it casually. One was still eating his breakfast – half a fattylooking pie.

`What have we got?' asked Petronius. He glanced at the man who was eating – who, far from feeling the reproof, instead offered him a bite. Petro took the pie from him. I assumed it was confiscated; next minute he had sunk his choppers into it and was handing on the item to Fusculus, while brushing crumbs off his chin. As I was an informer, they made sure there was nothing left when it came to my turn – but they did apologise. Nice fellows.

The vigiles discussed the event with Petro in their own terse code. `Suicide.'

`A jumper?'

`Hung himself.'

That straight?'

No, chief; he made it really obvious.'

`Too obvious?'

He was dangling from a noose looped over a corbel. We're just simple vigiles. Of course we rush to the obvious conclusion. That means self-hanging to us.'

`Suicide note?'

`No.'

Petronius grunted. `I was told something about an identification clue?'