He too stretched, as people do when the conversation takes a turn into a new subject. `I had something to discuss – business for somebody else.'
`Not banking – so shipping?'
`No. Not shipping either.' This time I waited. Pisarchus coloured up gradually. He looked embarrassed. `Sorry – I don't want to say.'
`I really think you should,' I told him quietly. I still felt that in his own way he was being honest. `I know you were there, I saw you myself. I saw you leave, looking extremely put out.'
`Chrysippus was being difficult; he would not help my… friend.'
`Well, you know what happened not long after that.'
`I know nothing,' protested Pisarchus, now losing my misplaced confidence.
`Oh you do!' He had told us he did. I spelled it out angrily: `Not long after you had your wrangle on behalf of this mysterious 'friend', somebody battered Aurelius Chrysippus to death in his library. So you were one of the last people to see him – and from what the other visitors have told me, you are the last person we know for sure who had a disagreement with the dead man.'
Pisarchus lost all the colour that had swamped his face a few minutes earlier. `I didn't know that he was dead.'
`Oh really?'
`That's the truth.'
`Well, you have been away in Praeneste!' I sneered, hardly able to believe it.
`Yes – and I deliberately made no attempt to contact Chrysippus,' Pisarchus argued hotly. `I was annoyed with him – for several reasons!'
`Of course you were – he promised you a visiting poet, didn't he? A poet who then refused to come -'
`He blamed the poet,' Pisarchus said, still trying to play the rational type. `I felt aggrieved, but it was hardly a mortal insult. Would I kill him over that?'
`Those I know who have been entertained by that poet, would say you were well out of it,' I conceded facetiously. I returned to my previous grim tone. `This is serious, man! What was your other grievance, Pisarchus? What had Chrysippus refused to do for your mystery 'friend' – let's hear it!'
Pisarchus sighed. When he told me the truth, I could see why a man of his kind might be reluctant to admit this. `It was my son,' he said, now squirming on his stool. `My youngest. He does not want to follow his brothers to sea – and for family peace I'm not arguing. He knows his own mind, and he is supporting himself as best he can while he tries to get where he wants to be… He has had no luck; I just tried to persuade Chrysippus he ought to give the lad a helping hand -'
`Whatever is your boy after?' I demanded, intrigued.
Then at last Pisarchus forced it out: `He wants to be a writer,' he informed us gloomily.
XLII
I
HAD MANAGED not to laugh. Petronius Longus, less sensitive to the feelings of creative artists, let out a high- pitched snort.
As soon as Pisarchus made the embarrassing admission, he relaxed somewhat. Though shame-faced, he apparently felt that now this was in the open he could return to dealing with us man-to-man.
`It happens,' Petronius Longus assured him with mock-gravity, making a sideswipe at me. `Perfectly sane, normal types with whom you once thought you could safely go out for a drink, can suddenly turn aesthetic. You just have to hope they will see sense and grow out of it.'
`Ignore the enquiry chief,' I growled. Petro needed cutting down to size.
I was still taking the lead in this interview. I would not reveal to Pisarchus that I myself scribbled poetry. It might put him right off. Instead, with plain-spoken questions I managed to squeeze out the truth of what had happened: on the day I first saw him he had been trying to ask Chrysippus to read some of his son's work. Less highminded than me, Pisarchus had been quite prepared in principle to shell out the production costs, just to allow the son to see his writing formally copied and sold. But at the time (with his ships stricken and the bank loans to repay), Pisarchus had been unable to afford the huge publication fee Chrysippus had demanded.
`I could have found the cash later, after my next cargoes are sold, but the fact is, my lad won't thank me. He is determined to do this by himself. When I cooled off, I knew I had better leave it right alone.'
`More to his credit. Is he any good?' I asked.
Pisarchus only shrugged. He did not know. Literature was a mystery. This was merely a whim of his youngest son's, over which he had wanted to be magnanimous. His main concern now was to clear himself. `I was annoyed with Chrysippus. He owed me a favour or two after all the years I had banked with the Golden Horse, and all the interest he has had from me. But when he said no, I just gave up the idea, Falco. That's the truth.'
`You didn't leave any scrolls with Chrysippus, I suppose? Samples of your boy's work?'
`I had none. Philomelus keeps things close. If I had asked to borrow a scroll he would have realised I was up to something.' `Philomelus is your son's name?'
`Yes. My youngest, as I said.'
Petronius and I thanked the proud parent for his frankness; I think we were both impressed by him. We added our polite good wishes for his son. One of us, at least, hoped the poor beggar was not forced to climb yardarms if all he wanted was to write. Maybe he had talent. Maybe he not only had talent, but might one day be a success. His papa would be surprised. Having seen how the world of literature worked, unfortunately so would I. It was a world where mediocrity flourished and genius was too often left to die.
After Pisarchus left, we called it a day. Petro and I had been on the case since early morning when the corpse was found beneath the Probus Bridge. I told him Nothokleptes was trying to find out which enforcers Lucrio used for banking business. `Watch yourself, Falco. Those types are treacherous.'
Right. If I finger them, I'll let you and the lads discuss with them whether they happened to hang a historian last night!'
`A nice job for Sergius,' Petronius agreed. He raised his voice:
`Fancy mixing it with debt factors?'
`Not me,' replied Sergius instantly. `Those buggers are dangerous.'
He was normally fearless. That was worrying. Well, it would have been, if I thought I had to tangle with them. Instead, I braced myself for something that most people would not think twice about, though I knew it could be hazardous: I went to see my mother.
I didn't get far with that mad plan. Helena Justina had forestalled me. As I reached my mother's apartment block, I met Helena coming out. She gave me a stern look.
`Did you tackle her about this Anacrites rumour?'
`Certainly not. And she said nothing on the subject herself, Marcus. I just passed on a discreet warning about the problems with the Aurelian Bank, and said she could speak to you if she wanted advice.'
`I'll go in then.' Helena produced a freezing stare. I stayed outside. `All right – shall I at least warn Maia? She is in a very fragile condition, and someone ought to tell her that her trusted 'friend' may be a two-timing incestuous creep -'
`Don't approach either.' Helena was firm.
My half-hearted attempt at arguing was interrupted by one of Ma's tottering neighbours. They all tended to be decrepit, and this old chap must have been in his eighties. Bald and skinny, he was hooked over like a hairpin, though he clicked along on his walking stick quite spryly. Helena must have met him before because they exchanged greetings.
`Hello, young lady. Is this Junilla Tacita's son?' he croaked, seizing my hand for what passed for a shake – more of a tremble, in reality.
`Yes,' this is Marcus Didius.' Helena smiled. `Marcus, this is Aristagoras, I believe.'
