creative…'
Jammed up one of the dead man's nostrils was a wooden rod, the kind that scrolls are wound on. When it was shoved up his nose, the pain must have been appalling, though I did not think it would have killed him. Not unless it broke the skull bones and punctured the brain cavity. Somebody who loathed him would have felt better for doing this – but afterwards he would have been left with an opponent who was in agony and furious, yet still alive and able to identify whoever had struck him in this vicious way.
I took hold of the blood-drenched rod, with distaste, and tugged it free. Blood came with it, but no brain. No; this had not been fatal.
`This peculiar pile driving would have been most easily accomplished from the rear, Fusculus. Grab him with one arm, then ram him. Your free fist has the rod and jerks. The blow is towards you, and upwards.'
`Hard.'
`Hard!'
The end of the scroll rod now had no finial; I knew there had been one at some stage, because beneath the bright gore at the rod's tip was a short white area, its wood cleaner than the rest. The dowel had snapped, and the shorter part was tangled in the dead man's tunic folds, held by splinters on the ripped fibres of the tunic neck from which a long tear ran almost to the waist. When I laid the two broken parts side by side on the tesserae, the short end had a gilded knob in the shape of a dolphin on a tiny plinth. There was no sign anywhere of the missing finial from the longer end.
`A man,' I decided, to the unspoken but inevitable question.
`Almost certainly,' said Fusculus. Working on the Aventine, he must have met some tough women. He never discounted any possibility.
`Oh, a man,' I assured him gently, looking at the bruising from the fistfight that had battered Chrysippus into oblivion. Fist, and probably boot. And elbow. And knee. Headbutts. Hands clawing at clothing, which was ripped to shreds.
I stood up, groaning. I flexed my spine. I looked around at the mess. Kicking up some of the papyrus, I saw blood under it. It seemed that at least some of the wreckage had been hurled on the floor after the man was dead. Scrolls flung everywhere. The ink thrown from its dark scriptorium-quantity flagon. The other substance furiously splashed around. Gingerly I took some up on one forefinger and sniffed.
Fusculus pulled a face. `What in Hades is the stinky muck, Falco?'
`Cedar oil. Used to deter bookworms. They paint it over the scrolls. That's what gives them that faint yellow colouring. And the wonderful scent that rises from well-kept books. Librarians never have moths in their clothes, you know.'
'Hmm.' Fusculus was not a reader for pleasure and he rightly suspected I had made up the statement about moths. `He may look ugly, but he's going to smell really nice on his pyre when he goes to the gods!'
Killing Chrysippus had not been enough. With the corpse at his feet, the killer had risked staying here while he threw scrolls, ink and oil all over the room. His frustration and anger had continued. Whatever he wanted had remained, unaccomplished. The death solved nothing.
`One person?' asked Fusculus, watching me. Jove, I don't know. What do you think?'
He shrugged.
`Motive then?' I asked him.
`Primary motive: sheer bloody anger.'
`Underlying motive?'
`Business or pleasure, Falco.'
`The usual pretty excuses. Still, at this juncture, we cannot tell which.'
We walked around, bemused and slightly aimless.
I could see why Petronius Longus had told Helena that this was the Greek library; a room divider, formed from two huge folding doors that stood open, perhaps permanently, separated the part where Chrysippus had died from an extension in the same style which seemed to contain Latin works. Well, I recognised old Virgil amongst the dusty busts anyway.
`Can they take away the body?' Fusculus was fidgeting. The vigiles like to see scenes of crime returning to normal. That way, people imagine that something has been achieved by the law's presence.
`Once I hear what the household people say. Then they can clear the mess. Mind you, the grout in the lovely mosaic is going to hold those stains.'
'Regrouting with a wash is the answer,' said Fusculus, matching my reflective tone. `Clean the marble pieces thoroughly, then new cement sluiced all over the lot in a thin mixture, and sponged down.'
`Expensive.'
`Oh, but worth it. They'll be looking at the fellow's gore for ever otherwise.'
`True. But, Tiberius Fusculus, whoever they are, they will probably not thank us for these careful household tips… So!' I was ready now for the next unpleasantness. `Who are we talking about, I wonder? Ask your men if they have discovered anything from the household staff, will you? I'll try to find out who's who in the next of kin.'
`I gave orders that nobody here was to be allowed a change of clothing before interview. The killer would have been carrying evidence of that enforced nosebleed, Falco, if nothing else.'
`Great gods, yes; the murderer would have been covered in blood. You arranged a premises search?'
`Of course. What kind of amateurs do you take us for, Falco?'
Fusculus was well aware that murders most often happen for domestic reasons. He was right. Whoever lived here would be the first suspect or suspects, and they may not have had time or opportunity to conceal any evidence of their involvement. So I was high on the alert as I set out to discover who the dead man's domestic associates might have been.
XII
THE TWINNED library had had grandiose proportions but an austere atmosphere. Outside was a small lobby which contained a fancy wooden shelf system, displaying a half-hearted Athenian pottery collection, and an empty side table with marble supports. The far exit door was guarded by two Egyptian pink granite miniature obelisks. Right across this lobby led a wide trail of sticky footprints, in various sizes, all well smudged.
`Too many sightseers trampled the scene, Fusculus.' `Happened before I got here,' he assured me righteously. `Well, thanks for clearing the mob out.'
`That was the boss.'
I could imagine what Petro's full reaction to a milling crowd had been.
We emerged onto what must be the main axis of the house. The libraries and lobby had followed the line of the street outside; this suite crossed that line at right angles, coming in from the main entrance door which was to my left. An impressive set of lofty halls ran away to the right.
The style changed. We were amongst walls painted in repeating patterns, warm gold and crimson mock- tapestries, their divisions formed by trails of foliate filigree and filled with roundels or small dancing figures. Ahead and to either side stretched superb floors in assorted cutwork marbles, endless circles and triangles of elegant greys, blacks and reds. More inky footsteps marred the gorgeous stones, of course. The formal entrance to the house was nearby to the left, as I said. Prominent on the right, forming the central vista in this series of formal public spaces, was a huge hall like,. a private basilica.
The vigiles were finalising their staff interviews there. Slaves were holding their hands out for inspection, picking up their feet to show the soles of their sandals like horses with a farrier, quaking as they were spun on the spot by large rough men who intended to check their garments and generally terrorise them. We walked down to join this group.
`What a place!' exclaimed Fusculus.
Within the enormous dimensions of the hall, interior columns supported a canopied roof. It made a kind of mock-pavilion at the centre of the room. Decoration on the outer walls was dark and dramatic – friezes, fields and dados in formal proportions and expensive paints, depicting tense battle scenes. The colonnades made it all feel
