Ode To A Banker Read online

  ‘What do you write, Avienus?’

  ‘I am a historian.’

  ‘Oho - murky doings in the past.’ I was being deliberately crass.

  ‘I confine my interests to modern times,’ he said.

  ‘New emperor, new version of events?’ I suggested.

  ‘A new perspective,’ he forced himself to agree. ‘Vespasian is writing his own memoirs, it is said -‘

  ‘Isn’t there a rumour he brought home some tame hack from Judaea who will do the official Flavian whitewash?’

  This time Avienus pulled up at my brisk interruption. He had not expected the investigating officer to crash in on his subject. ‘Some limpet called Josephus has attached himself to Vespasian as the approved biographer,’ he said. ‘He has rather cornered the market.’

  ‘Rebel leader.’ I was brisk. ‘Picked up as a prisoner. Should have been executed on the spot, or brought to Rome in shackles for the Triumph. Made a flattering prophecy or two, based on the bloody obvious, then turned traitor to his own side with commendable quick thinking.’ I tried not to make this sound too insulting to professional historians in general. I like to maintain a polite veneer, at least while the suspect looks innocent. ‘My brother served in Judaea,’ I told Avienus amicably, to explain my knowledge. ‘I heard that this flattering Judaean has been living in Vespasian’s old private house.’

  ‘That should encourage an unbiased viewpoint!’ His mouth screwed up, below a hooked nose down which he could have looked quite snootily, had he possessed sufficient character. Instead, his vindictiveness was the fussy, ineffectual kind.

  I smiled. ‘Vespasian will charge the going rent. So - what’s your own angle on our life and times?’

  ‘I like to be impartial.’

  ‘Oh - no viewpoint?’

  Avienus looked hurt. ‘I catalogue events. I do not expect renown myself - but I shall be used as a source by future authors. That will satisfy me.’ He would be dead. He would know nothing about it. He was either an idiot or a hypocrite.

  ‘Anything published? I was told you are “respected” in your field.’

  ‘People have been kind.’ The modesty was as false as a whore’s golden heart. ‘What are you working on at the moment for Chrysippus?’ I pressed him.

  ‘A review of fiduciary transactions since the Augustan period.’ It sounded dry. That was being generous.

  ‘Surely that has a limited appeal to a normal readership?’

  ‘It is a small field,’ Avienus boasted proudly.

  ‘Thus allowing you to be its pre-eminent historian?’ He glowed. ‘Whether or not the general reader gives a quadrans about your subject?’

  ‘I like to think my researches have relevance.’ Nothing would put him off. I stopped wasting effort on insults.

  ‘Was Chrysippus paying you?’

  ‘On delivery.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘When I finish.’

  I had detected tetchiness. ‘Was late delivery why he called you in yesterday?’

  ‘We did discuss programming, yes.’

  ‘A friendly chat?’

  ‘Businesslike.’ He was not stupid.

  ‘Reach a decision?’

  ‘A new date.’ It sounded good.

  ‘One you were happy with? Or one that suited him?’

  ‘Oh, he makes all the running!’

  ‘Well, he did,’ I reminded the grumbling historian quietly. ‘Until somebody battered him senseless and glued him to the tesserae of his elegant mosaic with lashings of spilt cedar oil.’

  Avienus had had an unmoved expression until then; it barely changed. ‘I am held up by one of my blocks,’ he said, ignoring the salacious detail and returning doggedly to the point. Was that his style? The public would spurn it. Anyway, I had no truck with ‘blocks’. A professional author should always be able to unearth material, then develop it usefully.

  ‘Did you attack Chrysippus?’ I sprang on him.

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Did you have any reason to kill him?’ This time he merely shook his head. ‘Would any of his other authors have had such a reason?’

  ‘Not that I could say, Falco.’ Ambiguous. Are historians linguistically meticulous? Did Avienus mean he knew no reason - or he knew a reason but would not reveal it? I decided against pursuing this; he was too aware of the questioning process. Nothing would come from badgering.

  ‘Did you see any of your colleagues while you were here?’

  ‘No.’

  I consulted my list. ‘Turius, Pacuvius, Constrictus and Urbanus all visited, I have been told. Do you know them all?’ He inclined his head. ‘You meet them at literary functions, I presume?’ Another twist of the head. He seemed too bored now, or too offended by the simplicity of the questions, to bring himself to reply aloud.

  ‘Right. So you were first here and Chrysippus was definitely alive when you left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I paused for a moment, as if considering, then said, ‘That’s it then.’

  ‘And you will be in contact if you need anything else.’ That was my line. Apart from alienating the officer investigating him for murder, he had just lost a potential buyer. I liked history - but I would never now allow myself to read his work.

  XXII

  I HUNG AROUND quite some time longer. I was expecting five men - most of whom had apparently decided to ignore me. Since a no-show would imply guilt, this was intriguing. But I bet that when I did confront the others, they would try the old ‘never got your message’ trick. Maybe a heavy-handed visit from the vigiles was needed to change their minds. Turius turned up just as I had decided to go home for lunch. He must be the infuriating one of the set.

  He looked mid-twenties. An untrustworthy ‘respectable’ visage, with a nasty little buttoned mouth. His dress code was the opposite of the Avienus black. His tunic was vermilion, and his shoes were punched and laced. Even his skin had a bright, slightly hennaed colouring. His hair, under a shimmering oil slick, was extremely dark. The ghastly tunic was bloused over his belt in a way I loathed. While nothing about Avienus had made me consider geography, I decided at once that Turius had provincial origins. Writers tend to home in on Rome from Spain, Gaul, and other parts of Italy. I could not be bothered to ask where he came from, but found him too loud, too cocky, and probably effeminate. Hard to be sure, as I had no personal reason to enquire.

  ‘I was starting to think nobody wanted to talk to me. Avienus is the only other person who has bothered to respond.’

  ‘So he said.’

  ‘You two been conspiring?’ I took out the notepad, keeping my gaze fixed on him while I set it in front of me and produced a stylus. I smiled, but with unfriendly eyes.

  ‘I happened to meet him -‘ He was flustered. Perhaps he had never been interrogated before. Or perhaps it meant something.

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Just the popina at the end of the street. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I didn’t query it.’ But I was querying whether the writers had met to make sure their stories matched.A man can buy himself a snack.Well,’ I said, looking as if I disapproved, ‘there are new laws against hot food stalls, but I suppose a cold bite taken at midday cannot do much harm.’ Helena or Petronius would have doubled up laughing at my sanctimonious attitude. ‘So! You are Turius.’ Said with the right tone of distasteful surprise, that always suggests you know something.

  As I hoped, he looked torn between a desire to be famous and terror that I possessed secrets. That he featured in secrets, I felt sure. Instinct only - but I trusted mine.

  ‘Do you have a praenomen?’ I was scribbling at my notes as if creating a prosecution brief for the magistrate.

  ‘Tiberius.’

  ‘Tiberius Turius!’ That sounded good and ridiculous. ‘I’m Falco.’ Obviously tougher.

  Before I could ask, ‘What’s your line, Turius?’ he told me anyway. ‘I am devising rules for the ideal society.’ Yes, Avienus had informe
d him what my questions would be. I raised my eyebrows without comment. He grew faintly embarrassed. Plato’s Republic for modern times.’

  ‘Plato,’ I remarked. ‘He excluded women, am I right?’ Turius was trying to decide whether I approved of this fine patriarchal stance. If he could have seen the women in my life dealing with me, he would not have puzzled over the issue for long.

  ‘There was more to it than that,’ he answered cautiously.

  ‘I bet!’ Just when he thought he could engage in a critical discussion, I swept Plato aside brutishly. ‘So what does your treatisehave to say? Finished it yet?’

  ‘Er - most of it is sketched out.’

  ‘Lot of writing-up to do?’

  ‘I have not been too well -‘

  ‘Bad back? Migraine? Face ache? Piles?’ I rapped out unsympathetically. I stopped just before saying, ‘Terminal desire to bore people silly?’

  ‘I suffer from attacks -‘

  ‘Don’t tell me. I feel queasy hearing about other people’s ailments.’

  I assessed how robust he looked, then made a swift stroke with the stylus. ‘How did Chrysippus feel about your poor health, Turius?’

  ‘He was always understanding -‘

  ‘Gave you a blast, you mean?’

  ‘No -‘

  ‘What sort of terms were you on with him?’

  ‘Good, always good!’

  I pretended I was about to comment, then said nothing.

  Turius looked down at his natty footgear. He clammed up, but I left him to it and eventually could not bear the silence. ‘He could be difficult to work with.’ I just listened. Turius learned fast, however. He too looked as if he was about to continue - then bit it back.

  After a moment, I leaned forwards and applied my sympathetic persona. ‘Tell me about Chrysippus as an artistic patron.’

  His eyes met mine, warily. ‘How do you mean, Falco?’

  ‘Well - what did you do for him; what did he do for you?’

  Alarm flashed. Turius thought I was hinting at immoral practices. I reckoned Chrysippus had had enough trouble with Vibia and Lysa, but it showed how Turius’ mind worked.

  I stuck to commercial reality: ‘He possessed the money and you had the talent - does that make for an equal partnership? Will this artist/patron relationship be a feature of the ideal political state that you describe in your great work?’

  Hah!’ Turius exploded with bitter mirth. ‘I am not allowing slavery!’

  ‘Enlightening - and intriguing. Give, Turius.’

  ‘His patronage was not a partnership, just exploitation. Chrysippus treated his clients like slabs of meat.’

  ‘Men of intellect and creativity? How could he do that?’

  ‘We need funds to live.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Can’t you feel the tension around here, Falco? We hoped to obtain the freedom to carry on our intellectual work, freed from financial worry. He saw us as paid labourers.’

  ‘So he thought giving financial support put him in complete charge? Meanwhile his writers were striving for an independence that he refused to give. What were the problems practically? Did he try to influence what you wrote?’

  ‘Of course.’ Turius had not finished his burst of rancour. ‘He reckoned he published our stuff, so that was our reward. We had to do what he said. I would not have minded but Chrysippus was a lousy critic. Even his manager had better judgement of what would sell.’

  He looked as if he was intending a long rant so I interrupted. ‘Any other bad points?’

  ‘You would have to ask the others.’

  ‘Oh I will. You hated being bullied over what you could write; was that a bone of contention between you yesterday?’

  ‘There was no contention.’

  I put down my note-tablet, implying I was too annoyed even to write down his answer. ‘Oh come on, Turius! I already heard a sweet little lullaby from Avienus. Don’t expect me to believe that none of you was wrangling with the patron over any damned thing. Grow up. This is a murder scene and I have a killer to catch.’

  ‘We are all watching with great interest,’ he sneered.

  ‘You could learn something.’ My anger was real. ‘My deadline is fixed. My contract is non-negotiable. And I shall deliver, on time, like a true professional. The masterpiece will be rolled up neatly and fastened with a twist of string. There will be supporting proofs, cogently explained in exquisitely constructed sentences. Informers don’t hide behind “blocks”. The guilty go before the judge.’ He blinked. A clue, some say. Trouble is, you never know what clue it is. I slammed my hand on the table and roared at him: ‘I think you are lying, and that alone is good enough to march you in front of the examining magistrate of the homicide court.’

  Turius did not disappoint me. When I offered threats, he took the easy way out: he fingered someone else. ‘Honestly, I had no difficulties with Chrysippus. Unlike Avienus with his loan.’

  I folded my arms. ‘Well, here we go. Do tell me about that-‘ Wearily, I anticipated his request: ‘Yes, it can be in strict confidence.’

  ‘I don’t know the details. Only that Avienus is years behind with his supposedly erudite economic history. When he got completely stuck for money, Chrysippus gave him a loan, quite a big one.’

  ‘A loan? I thought patrons were supposed to be more generous. What happened to literary benefactors donating free support?’

  ‘Avienus had had as much as Chrysippus was prepared to give.’

  ‘So what’s the story on this loan at present?’

  ‘I believe the bank asked him to repay it.’

  ‘Avienus is asking for more time to pay?’

  ‘Yes, but he was refused.’

  ‘By Chrysippus?’

  ‘I expect that agent of his did the dirty work.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘So Avienus is in hock, even if he completes his manuscript. Paying off the loan may still wipe him out. His project sounds a bummer to me, so it won’t be expected to make much. So your theory is, he came yesterday to try to beg for time on both the loan and the delivery date. Chrysippus was adamant, probably on both counts. That does look like a motive for Avienus to run wild and kill…’ I gave play to a wide and sinister grin. ‘Now, Turius - when Avienus knows that my penetrating historical research with you has uncovered this startling new fact about his motive, he will of course fight back. So, let’s save time here - what is he likely to pass on to me about you?’

  That neat rejoinder really upset the utopian. He went white, and at once assumed the attitude of the betrayed - a curious mixture of hurt and vindictiveness. Then he refused to say any more about anything. I let him go, with the customary terse warning that I would speak to him again.

  As he reached the door, I called him back. ‘By the way, how are your finances?’

  ‘Not desperate.’ He could be lying - but then somebody had paid for the vermilion duds - unless he too had taken out a loan.

  I had stirred some mud, and sooner than I could have hoped. Time for lunch.

  When I hit the street, the baking sun had made it too humid to breathe. Nobody was about. In the Circus Maximus, just visible at the far end of the Clivus, the stinging sand on the racetrack would be hot enough to fry quail eggs.

  I nearly stopped at the popina on the corner. I could see a young waiter outside, with a rag over one shoulder, counting coins into a pouch at his waist. He turned and stared at me; suddenly I lost interest. We were too close to the murder scene. He would ask about the death.

  I went home for a salad with Helena instead.

  I was puffed by the time I had climbed to the crest of the Aventine. Once I reached Fountain Court I would have rested and cooled off at Lenia’s laundry, but nobody was about. I was too drained even to investigate the back courtyard. Besides, the mere thought of hot tubs of washing water made me feel worse. Instead, I kept my feet dragging on up the wooden stair to my own apartment - thankful that I now lived at first-storey height and not on the sixth floor
. It was a mistake, though. On the sixth floor we had enjoyed some protection from menaces.

  I heard voices. One in particular, a male tenor that I failed to recognise. Blowing out my cheeks, I pushed open the inner door and entered the main room. Helena was there with my sister Maia. Little Julia was standing beside Maia messily eating a fig. Helena and Maia at once looked at me, both rather tight-lipped and ready to extract punishment for what they had been suffering.

  The visitor was regaling them with some anecdote. It was not the first. I could tell that.

  He was a big man, with fair swept-back hair, a loose tunic casually bunched, sturdy calves and large knobbly feet. I recognised him vaguely; he must have attended my recital. He was a writer presumably. And worse than that: he thought himself a raconteur.

  XXIII

  I SAW HELENA’S chin come up. ‘The householder’s return - Marcus! This is Pacuvius,’ she broke in, heartlessly spoiling a story that the narrator would never have stopped voluntarily. I could tell it was elderly material, rich with worked-up detail yet moth-eaten too. To Maia and Helena it probably seemed endless after hours of previous monologue. I gave Helena a smile that I hoped would seem special. She did not smile back.

  ‘Didius Falco,’ I introduced myself, in a light voice. Maia glowered, convinced that I was incapable of extracting the bore. ‘I was expecting you at the Chrysippus house, Pacuvius.’

  ‘Ah! What an idiot!’ He slapped his head in a way that was supposed to be comic. ‘Fool of a slave never gives a clear steer -‘ He blundered upright from his stool, awkwardly. He wanted it to seem rude if I insisted he left. Indifferent, I walked past him and emptied a water jug into a beaker, which I tipped down my throat.

  Helena then felt obliged to lighten the atmosphere: ‘Pacuvius is a satirical author, known as Scrutator.’

  He laughed diffidently. So far, I was immune to his charm. ‘I have, as you gather, been entertaining your ladies with my fund of wit, Falco.’ Oh yes? Neither liked men who thought themselves too witty. Both Helena and Maia were picky over how they were entertained. Once he left, I fancied they would set about dissecting him. Both could be cruel. I looked forward to listening in.