ODE TO A BANKER

this plan to Maia and it might have worked.

Maia was now well het up: `The woman has only been dead for a week. I'm not rushing in -'

`Pa needs you to do that,' I said quietly. `He won't touch anything that reminds him of Flora – he won't even go home.'

Maia looked shocked. `What do you mean?'

`He has not been to his house on the riverbank since Flora's funeral. The slaves are scared. They don't know where he is, or what their instructions are.'

Maia said nothing. Her mouth was pinched with disapproval. Newly widowed herself, she was the best person to tell our father that life goes on and you cannot opt out. If I knew her, she would tackle this.

Helena gathered up used dishes and carried them out to be washed later. She was lifting the pressure off Maia, at least temporarily. Even I let the subject drop.

Heading for home, we passed once again by Flora's Caupona, and had another look.

There ought to be a waiter somewhere, Apollonius. Officially he lived in a nook at the back. The previous waiter had hung himself, right by the cubbyhole where Apollonius was supposed to lurk as a watchman when the place was closed. While Helena waited in the street, I went round and shouted but failed to rouse an answer. His predecessor's suicide and the notorious murder that had happened upstairs must have made Apollonius reluctant to stay alone on the premises. People can be so sensitive.

Returning to the street, I saw a familiar figure kicking at the main door.

`Petro!'

`They're shut -' He despised Flora's, but quite often drank there; he was outraged to be thwarted by the closed door. We met a little apart from Helena and spoke in low voices.

`Flora's dead.'

`Hades!'

`Pa's a mess, and this place is out of action. We're trying to get Maia interested.'

`Surely she has enough to do?'

`Take her mind off it.'

`You're a bastard.'

`You taught me!'

We looked at each other. The jibes had been bland. Routine. Had we met earlier we could have found somewhere else to share a bench; knowing us, we could have stretched out our lunch all afternoon. Well, maybe. There was a taut look to Petronius, as if he had something on his mind.

We walked back to Helena. `You're late on your break,' I remarked to Petro.

`Held up. Unnatural death.' He breathed in slowly. Then he exhaled, shoving his lower lip forward. He sucked his teeth. Helena was watching us, expressionless. Petro stared at me. `Didius Falco.' `That's me.'

`What have your movements been today?'

`Hey! What's your interest?'

`Just tell me about your day, sunshine.'

`That sounds as if I may have done something.'

`I doubt it – but I'm checking up for both our sakes.' Petronius Longus was using his official voice. It was tinged with the joky style we used together, but it would not have surprised me if he had brought out his battered set of noteboards to record my replies.

`Oh muleshit. What's this about?' I murmured. `I've been a pious brat looking after my family all morning. Bereaved father; bereaved sister. Why?'

`I hope you can assure me this felon has been with you since noon?' Petronius demanded of Helena.

`Yes, officer.' She had a slightly sarcastic tone. She had wrapped her light-coloured stole around her darker, damson-tinted gown, and stood very still with her head up, looking down her nose like some republican statue of a painfully chaste matron. When Helena was being superior, even I felt a tremor of unease. But then one of her Indian pearl earrings trembled, and I just wanted to gnaw the translucent lobe from which it hung until she squealed. She looked at me suddenly as if she knew what I was thinking. `And with Maia Favonia,' she added coolly for Petronius.

`Then that's all right.' Petro's remote attitude softened.

Mine toughened up. `I have an alibi, apparently. That's nice. Will anybody tell me what it's for?'

`Murder,' Petro said tersely. `And by the way, Falco. You just lied to me.'

I was startled. `I'll lie like a legionary – but I like to know I'm doing it! What am I supposed to have said?'

`Witnesses have listed you as one of the dead party's visitors today.'

`I don't believe it. Who is this?'

`Man called Aurelius Chrysippus,' Petro told me. He said it matter of factly, but he was watching me. `Battered to death by some maniac a couple of hours ago.'

`He was perfectly alive when I left him.' I wanted to scoff, but I kept my voice level. `There were plenty of witnesses to that. I only saw him briefly, at his scroll-shop in the Clivus Publicius.'

Petronius raised an eyebrow genteelly. `The shop that has a scriptorium at the back of it? And behind the scriptorium, as I am sure you noticed, you can pass through a corridor into the owner's lovely house. Big spread. Nicely finished. It has all the usual luxuries. Now, Didius Falco, didn't you tell me you would like to invite Chrysippus to some quiet place and do him in?' He grinned bleakly. `We found the body in his library.'

IX

WOULD THAT,' enquired Helena Justina in her most refined tones, `be his Greek or his Latin library?'

`Greek.' Petro patiently matched her irony. Her eyes narrowed slightly, approving his parry.

I butted in: `Was the bastard really so wealthy he could afford two libraries?'

`The bastard had two,' confirmed Petro. He looked gloomy. So did I.

`He got his money from fleecing his authors then,' I growled.

Helena remained calm, full of patrician snootiness, disdainful of Petro's suggestion that her chosen partner might have soiled his hands killing a foreigner who bought and sold goods. `You had better know, Lucius Petronius, Marcus had words with this man today. Chrysippus had tried to commission work from him – he approached us, mind. Marcus had had no thought of placing his poems before the public gaze.'

`Well, he wouldn't, would he?' agreed Petro, making it an insult on principle.

Helena ignored the jibe. `It turned out the offer was a cheat; Marcus was expected to pay to be published. Naturally Marcus expressed his views in the strongest of terms before he left.'

`I am glad you told me that,' Petro said gravely. He had probably already known.

`Always best to be honest.' Helena smiled.

I myself would not have told Petronius anything, and he would not have expected it.

`Well, officer,' I declared instead. `I hope you will try very hard to find out who committed this appalling crime.' I stopped simpering. My voice rasped. `From the little I saw of the Chrysippus operation, it has the smell of a right rat's nest.'

Petronius Longus, my best friend, my army tent-mate, my drinking pal,, drew himself up in a way he liked to do (it showed he was some inches taller than me). He folded his bare arms on his chest, to emphasise his breadth. He grinned. 'Ah, Marcus Didius, old mucker – I was hoping you would help us out.'

`Oh no!'

`But yes!'

`I'm a suspect.'

`I just cleared you.'

`Oh Hades! What's the game, Petro?'

`The Fourth Cohort has enough to do – work up to our lugholes. Half the squad is down with summer fever and the rest are decimated by wives telling the men to bunk off and repair their roof-tiles while the sun's out. We have no manpower to deal with this.'