ODE TO A BANKER

`It happens,' Petronius Longus assured him with mock-gravity, making a sideswipe at me. `Perfectly sane, normal types with whom you once thought you could safely go out for a drink, can suddenly turn aesthetic. You just have to hope they will see sense and grow out of it.'

`Ignore the enquiry chief,' I growled. Petro needed cutting down to size.

I was still taking the lead in this interview. I would not reveal to Pisarchus that I myself scribbled poetry. It might put him right off. Instead, with plain-spoken questions I managed to squeeze out the truth of what had happened: on the day I first saw him he had been trying to ask Chrysippus to read some of his son's work. Less highminded than me, Pisarchus had been quite prepared in principle to shell out the production costs, just to allow the son to see his writing formally copied and sold. But at the time (with his ships stricken and the bank loans to repay), Pisarchus had been unable to afford the huge publication fee Chrysippus had demanded.

`I could have found the cash later, after my next cargoes are sold, but the fact is, my lad won't thank me. He is determined to do this by himself. When I cooled off, I knew I had better leave it right alone.'

`More to his credit. Is he any good?' I asked.

Pisarchus only shrugged. He did not know. Literature was a mystery. This was merely a whim of his youngest son's, over which he had wanted to be magnanimous. His main concern now was to clear himself. `I was annoyed with Chrysippus. He owed me a favour or two after all the years I had banked with the Golden Horse, and all the interest he has had from me. But when he said no, I just gave up the idea, Falco. That's the truth.'

`You didn't leave any scrolls with Chrysippus, I suppose? Samples of your boy's work?'

`I had none. Philomelus keeps things close. If I had asked to borrow a scroll he would have realised I was up to something.' `Philomelus is your son's name?'

`Yes. My youngest, as I said.'

Petronius and I thanked the proud parent for his frankness; I think we were both impressed by him. We added our polite good wishes for his son. One of us, at least, hoped the poor beggar was not forced to climb yardarms if all he wanted was to write. Maybe he had talent. Maybe he not only had talent, but might one day be a success. His papa would be surprised. Having seen how the world of literature worked, unfortunately so would I. It was a world where mediocrity flourished and genius was too often left to die.

After Pisarchus left, we called it a day. Petro and I had been on the case since early morning when the corpse was found beneath the Probus Bridge. I told him Nothokleptes was trying to find out which enforcers Lucrio used for banking business. `Watch yourself, Falco. Those types are treacherous.'

Right. If I finger them, I'll let you and the lads discuss with them whether they happened to hang a historian last night!'

`A nice job for Sergius,' Petronius agreed. He raised his voice:

`Fancy mixing it with debt factors?'

`Not me,' replied Sergius instantly. `Those buggers are dangerous.'

He was normally fearless. That was worrying. Well, it would have been, if I thought I had to tangle with them. Instead, I braced myself for something that most people would not think twice about, though I knew it could be hazardous: I went to see my mother.

I didn't get far with that mad plan. Helena Justina had forestalled me. As I reached my mother's apartment block, I met Helena coming out. She gave me a stern look.

`Did you tackle her about this Anacrites rumour?'

`Certainly not. And she said nothing on the subject herself, Marcus. I just passed on a discreet warning about the problems with the Aurelian Bank, and said she could speak to you if she wanted advice.'

`I'll go in then.' Helena produced a freezing stare. I stayed outside. `All right – shall I at least warn Maia? She is in a very fragile condition, and someone ought to tell her that her trusted "friend" may be a two-timing incestuous creep -'

`Don't approach either.' Helena was firm.

My half-hearted attempt at arguing was interrupted by one of Ma's tottering neighbours. They all tended to be decrepit, and this old chap must have been in his eighties. Bald and skinny, he was hooked over like a hairpin, though he clicked along on his walking stick quite spryly. Helena must have met him before because they exchanged greetings.

`Hello, young lady. Is this Junilla Tacita's son?' he croaked, seizing my hand for what passed for a shake – more of a tremble, in reality.

`Yes,' this is Marcus Didius.' Helena smiled. `Marcus, this is Aristagoras, I believe.'

`That's right. She has a good memory – wish mine was still up to it. Pleased to meet you, my boy!' He was still twitching with my paw trapped in his. `Your mother is a fine woman,' he told me – obviously one person who did not believe Ma was cosying up to her lodger, anyway.