like some eastern king's audience chamber. There ought to be obsequious flunkeys moving constantly in the side aisles on slippered feet. There ought to be a throne.
`Was this where Chrysippus was intending to munch his hardboiled eggs, Falco?' Fusculus was caught between admiration and plebeian contempt. `Not what my granny brought me up with! It was bread rolls on a lumpy cushion in a yard at our house. First-comers got the shady bit. I always seemed to be stuck out in full sun.'
Curiously, the bronze tray with what must be the uneaten lunch was still clutched by a distraught slave. He was being closely guarded. Others, who had submitted to interview already, now clustered in frightened groups while the few last specimens were put through the vigiles' notoriously sensitive questioning technique:
`So where were you? Cut out the lies! What did you see? Nothing? Why didn't you keep an eye out? Are you fooling me, or plain stupid? Why would you want to kill your master then?' And to the weeping plea that the poor souls had no wish to do Chrysippus harm, came the harsh answer: `Stop messing about. Slaves are the prime suspects, you know that!'
While Fusculus consulted to see what gems this sophisticated system had produced, I walked up to the slave with the tray. I signalled his guard to stand off.
`You. the one who found the body?'
He was a thin, Gallic-looking scrag-end, of around fifty. He was in shock, but managed to respond to a civilised approach. I soon persuaded him to tell me it had been his daily duty to deliver a snack for Chrysippus. If Chrysippus wanted to work, he would order a tray from the kitchen, which this fellow would place on a side table in the lobby of the Latin library; the master would break off and clear the victuals, then go back to his reading. Today the tray had been untouched when the slave went to retrieve it, so he had carried it through to the Greek library to enquire if Chrysippus was so absorbed he had forgotten it. Rare, but not unheard of, I was told.
`When you saw what had happened, exactly what did you do?'
`Stood.'
'Transfixed?'
'I could not believe it. Besides, I was carrying the tray -' He blushed, aware now how irrelevant that sounded, wishing he had simply put it down. 'I backed out. Another lad took a look and rushed o f shouting. People came running. Next minute they were haring about in all directions. I was in a daze. The soldiers burst in, and I was told to stay here and wait.'
Thinking about how silent the library had been, I was puzzled. Sound would never carry from indoors to the street. 'The men in red were very quickly on the scene. Someone ran out from the house?'
He looked vague. `I think so.'
'Do you know who it was?'
'No. Once the alarm was raised, it all happened in a blur -'
'Was anybody in either area of the library when you first went in?' 'No.'
'Nobody leaving as you arrived?'
'No.'
'Anybody there the first time you went? I mean, when you first delivered the tray?'
'I only went in the lobby. I couldn't hear anyone talking.'
'Oh?' I eyed him suspiciously. 'Were you listening out for conversation?'
'Only politely.' He kept his cool at the suggestion that he eavesdropped. 'Often the master has somebody with him. That's why I leave the meal outside for him to collect when they have gone.'
'So go back a step for me: today you delivered his lunch as usual; you put down the tray on the side table, then what – did you call out or go in to tell your master it was there?'
'No. I never disturb him. He was expecting it. He normally comes out for it soon after.'
'And once you had delivered the tray, how long elapsed before you returned for the empties?'
'I had my own food, that's all.'
'What did you have?'
'Bread and mulsum, a little slice of goat's cheese.' He said this without much enthusiasm.
'That didn't take you long?'
'No.'
I removed the tray from his resisting fingers and laid it aside. The master's lunch had been more varied and tasty than his own, yet not enough for an epicure: salad leaves beneath a cold fish in marinade, big
green olives, two eggs in wooden cups; red wine in a glass jug. `It's over now. Try to forget what you saw.'
He started trembling. Belated shock set in. `The soldiers say the slaves will get the blame.'
'They always say that. Did you attack your master?'
'No!'
'Do you know who did?'
'No.'
'No need to worry then.'
I was about to check with Fusculus what else had turned up, but something made me pause. The waiting slave seemed to be staring at the luncheon tray. I peered at him, querying. 'He's had one thing,' he told me.
'What do you mean?'
The slave looked slightly guilty, and certainly troubled, as though there was something he could not understand.
I waited, keeping my face neutral. He seemed intrigued. 'There was a little slice of nettle flan.' He sketched out the size with his thumb and one finger, a couple of digits of finger buffet savoury, cut as a triangle; I could imagine it. We both surveyed the food. No flan slice.
'Could it have dropped on the floor when you panicked and ran out?'
`It was not there when I went for the tray. I noticed specially.'
`How can you be sure?'
'He doesn't like pastry. I had seen it when I took the tray in. I thought he would leave it.'
'You were hoping to eat it yourself?'
'He wouldn't have minded,' he muttered defensively.
I said nothing, but that was interesting. I don't only mean that their cook served a rather eggy type of lunch. Nobody breaks off from work, investigates his tray, eats the one thing he dislikes, then abandons the rest. Somebody else must have been in that lobby. Maybe the killer himself passed that way when he left. Coolly grabbing a handful of his victim's meal? That would take nerve. Or else he was brutally callous.
Mind you, if anybody spotted him on the way out, having a fistful of pastry and a mouthful of crumbs would have made him look casual.
Fusculus approached, followed by one of his men.
'This is Passus, Falco. You probably don't know him. Joined our team recently.'
Passus looked at me with suspicion. He was a short, shock-haired, neat type with a belt he was proud of and stubby hands. He had a quiet manner and was no raw recruit; I guessed he had been seconded from some other cohort. His air was competent but not too pushy. He was carrying a set of waxed tablets, with a bone stylus bending his right ear forward, for taking notes.
`Didius Falco,' I introduced myself politely. I had always respected the men Petro gathered around him. He was a good judge and they responded well to him. `Petronius Longus has called me in to assist on a consultancy basis.' Passus still said nothing, glancing sideways at Fusculus. He had been told, or had deduced, that I was an informer; he did not like it. `Yes, it stinks,' I agreed. `I'm no happier than you are. I have better things to do. But Petro knows I'm sound. I gather your squad is floundering in summer crime and needs to farm out the surplus.' I had had enough of justifying myself. `Either that, or my dear friend Lucius has his hands full with a new girlfriend.'
Fusculus jumped. Petro's love life fascinated his men. `He's after a new one?'
`Guesswork. He's said nix. You know how close he is. We'll only be sure when the next outraged husband comes to ask if we know why his turtledove is always tired… So, Passus, what's the story from the staff here?'
