ODE TO A BANKER

`I have to ask.'

`I realise.'

`Was your conversation amicable?'

`We had no conversation.'

`Why not?'

`I did not go.'

`You are on my list!'

`So what? I had been told that the man wanted to see me; I had no reason to see him. I stayed away.'

I consulted my notes. `This is a list of visitors, not just people who had been invited:'

Urbanus did not blink. `Then it is a mistake

I drew a long breath. `Who can vouch for what you say?'

`A

As if responding to a cue she appeared again, nursing a baby. I wondered if she had been listening. `Wives ca

Urbanus shrugged, with wide-open hands. He glanced at his wife. Her face was expressionless. `Who wants to prosecute me?' he murmured.

`I do, if I think you are guilty. Wives don't make good alibis.'

`I thought that was all wives were for,' muttered Helena, from her stool. Urbanus and I gazed at her and allowed the jest. A

`I had no reason to meet Chrysippus,' the playwright reiterated. `He is – was – a bastard to work for. Plays do not sell well, not modern plays anyway; the Classics are always desired reading. But I manage to be marketable, unlike most of the sad mongrels Chrysippus supported. As a result, I found a new scriptorium to take my work.'

`So you were dumping him? Were you on contract?'

He humphed. `His mistake! He had not allowed it. I did think – that is, A

`And would it have been a reason to kill him?'

`No! I had nothing to gain by that and everything to lose. I earn ticket money, remember. He was no longer important to me. I deal separately with the aediles or private producers when my work is performed. When I was younger, royalties on scrolls were make or break, but now they are just incidentals. And my new scriptorium is one with a Forum outlet – much better.'

`Did Chrysippus know?'

`I doubt it.'

I wondered what happened to the heaped chests of box office money, after the family paid the bills for their frugal life. `Do you bank with him?'

Urbanus threw back his head and roared. `You must be joking, Falco!'

`All bankers screw their clients,' I reminded him.

`Yes, but he made enough from my plays. I saw no reason to be screwed by the same man twice over.'

While I sat thinking, Helena contributed another question: `Falco is looking at motives, of course. You seem more fortunate than the

others. Even so, there are jealous murmurs against you, Urbanus.' `And what would those be?' If he knew, he was not showing it. Helena looked him in the eye. `You are suspected of not writing your plays yourself.'

It was A

Urbanus leaned back. There was no visible a

`A matter of faith,' I said.

Urbanus showed a flash of anger now. `Why are mad ideas taken so seriously? Oh of course! Certain types will never accept that literate and humane writing with inventive language and depth of emotion can come from the provinces – let alone from the middle of Britain.'

`You're not in the secret society. "Oh only an educated Roman could produce this"

`No; we are not supposed to have anything to say, or to be capable of expressing it… Who do they say writes for me?' he roared scornfully.

`Various improbable suggestions,' Helena said. Maybe Scrutator had told her; maybe she had pursued the gossip herself. `Not all of them even alive.'

`So who am I- this man before you – then supposed to be?'

`The lucky dog who counts in the ticket money,' I gri

`Well, they are missing all the fun,' Urbanus responded dryly, suddenly able to let the subject rest.

`Let's get back to my problem. It could be argued,' I put to him quietly, `that this is a malicious rumour, which Chrysippus began spreading because he knew he was losing you. Say you were so affronted by the rumour you went to his house to remonstrate, then the two of you argued and you lost your cool.'

`Far too drastic. I am a working author,' the playwright protested in a mild way. `I have nothing to prove and I would not throw away my position. And as for literary feuds – Falco, I don't have the time.'

I gri

`Sons never rise to action.' Urbanus smiled. `They live with the anger for too long.' From personal experience, I agreed with him. `Sons brood, and fester, and permanently tolerate their indignities. Of course, daughters can be furies!'

Neither woman present took him up on that. His wife, A

`I would have to think about it,' A

I was satisfied that Urbanus would have been stupid to kill Chrysippus. He was in the clear, but he interested me. The conversation drifted into more general matters. I confessed to having experience as a working playwright in a theatre troupe myself. We talked about our travels. I even asked advice on The Spook Who Spoke, my best effort at drama. From my description, Urbanus thought this brilliant farce ought to be turned into a tragedy. That was rubbish; perhaps he was not such an incisive master of theatre after all.

While we chatted, A

Nice thought. You could make a play about a woman taking on a man's identity. If it turned out to be a woman who actually wrote Urbanus' plays, now that really would be a piece of theatre!