ODE TO A BANKER

`And what do you do here?'

`We discuss our writing with our peers.'

`Anyone famous?'

`Not yet!' It would never happen, I thought to myself. `We have a long tradition – dates back to the marvellous Livius Andronicus. He composed a hymn to Juno Minerva that was just so wonderful, in return the writers' circle was allowed to meet here in perpetuity. Copyists use the accommodation by day, but when Hestia, the Evening Star, rises in majesty, the benches are given up to us -'

`Marvellous!' I enthused; my voice croaked, squeezing out such hypocrisy. But I wanted information, and this would be my last chance. `Excuse me, I don't know your name -'

`Blitis.'

`Got a minute for a little chat, Blitis?' Inspiration struck. I pulled out my own note-tablet. `I'm not supposed to mention this – but I'm writing up an article on modern authors for the Daily Gazette…'

It worked immediately. Well, of course it did. He proffered a cold, limp handshake. Even unpublished writers know that they should grab at publicity.

LI

PREPARATION is the secret. Whether pla

I bought the snacks myself. I was intending to charge them to Vibia; well, she was the distraught widow who wanted her husband avenged. (Anyway, the vigiles had a no-comestibles expenses rule for consultants; at least, that sourpuss Petronius said they did.) I enjoyed myself pla

As a finger-buffet, it would have graced a reception given for the elderly matrons who ran a charitable orphanage. Not that I would say so. After all, Helena Justina was patron to a school for orphaned girls.

Devotion to these domestic matters took up much of that morning. (Well, you try obtaining fresh nettletips in the Market of Livia on a particular day!) Once purchased, the goodies had to be transported to the Clivus Publicius and handed over to Vibia's bemused staff, including her cook. I gave strict instructions for preparation and service. Believe me, you ca

As I left the house, having managed to avoid ensnarement by Vibia, I asked to see the slave who took around messages. `Seen those authors again? Are they all coming today?'

`Sure.' The household ru

I tried him out: `Somebody told me you tend to give wrong instructions. "Never gives a clear steer" were his words, in fact.' 'Hah! Would that have been Pacuvius? Scrutator? Too bloody

talkative. Never listens properly. And his mind is on other things. I have to nip carefully around that old goat – if you know what I mean.' He winked, and managed to imply he was a good-looking boy, and Scrutator had an eye for him. It could have been true, though it was a stock excuse among slaves.

`Any views on the other hacks Chrysippus patronised?'

`Constrictus is always trying to sponge the price of a drink off me.' To borrow cash from your own slave was one thing; cadging from somebody else's ru

`What was there to sneak?'

`How should I know?' If he did know any dirt, he was not telling me. But had he passed on scandal to Avienus? Unluckily, I had used up my vigiles allowance for bribes. (Easy; Petronius had never given me one.)

`Urbanus?'

`Urbanus is all right.'

`Yes, I liked him too. Probably means he's a villain…' We exchanged a grin. `So; you were the gofer, the day your master was killed. Will you confirm the list of men he invited to the library?'

I was dreading that this would throw up a new suspect – whom I had no time to investigate. Once again the slave repeated just the old list.

`There is a problem,' I confided. `Urbanus says he never answered the summons, but according to your door staff here, the right number of men was counted in. Any ideas?'

`Urbanus did say he wasn't going to come.'

`So who filled his space?'

`The new writer turned up.'

`What new writer?'

`I don't know his name. He came of his own accord. I met him on the doorstep. As he had never been here before, he asked me where he had to go.'

`He told you he was a writer?'

`I already knew.'

I growled. `You just said you don't know him!'

The ru

I breathed slowly. Right.'

`Don't you want to know, Falco?'

`No.' I could play the awkward beggar too. I had worked out who the `new writer' probably was. `Now you just wait in the Latin library when the meeting starts. Stay there – and try not to cheek anyone – until I ask you to come in.'

Outside the house, I stood for a moment in the column-flanked portico, clearing my mind. I enjoyed the comparative coolness under the heavy stone canopy, before I walked home to collect Helena and Petronius. I had been up just after dawn, as soon as the marketeers set up their stalls. By now, it was mid-morning. Sensible people were looking forward to going indoors for a few hours. Dogs stretched themselves out right against the walls of houses, shrinking into the last few inches of shade. Out in the streets were only those of us with desperate business in hand – and mad old ladies. The elderly woman who frequented the Clivus Publicius was wandering past now, with her basket as usual.

This time I stopped her and greeted her. `Carry your basket, gran?? 'You get off!'

`It's all right; I work for the vigiles.'

No use: the determined dame swung at me with her shopping. The hard wickerwork was well aimed. `Settle down,' I gasped. `No need to be so vicious. Now, you look like a sharp-eyed, sensible woman; you remind me of my dear mother… I just want to ask you a few questions.'

`You're the man on that murder, aren't you?' So she had me tagged. `It's about time!'

Keeping out of reach of the basket, I asked my questions. As I suspected, on the fatal day she had been ambling past the Chrysippus house around lunchtime. I was disappointed that she had seen nobody ru

I walked down to the corner. At the popina the spindly young waiter was opening an amphora, balancing it on the point while he removed the waxed bung. He had worked here long enough to become well practised. The amphora was propped safely against his left knee while he whipped out the stopper one-handed, then he flicked his cloth around the rim to brush off stray shreds of the sealing wax. He had his back to me.

`Philomelus!'

At once, he turned round. Our eyes met. The waiter made no attempt to deny that he was Pisarchus' youngest son.

Well, why should he? He was just a would-be writer who had found a job to pay the rent while he scribbled, a job that enabled him to hang about longingly, conveniently close to the Golden Horse scriptorium.