`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 therewith 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.
