that his old-fashioned moral attitude might explain why Arria Silvia was divorcing him.)
`Just speak at me, if the situation worries you,' I offered. It was unnecessary. Helena smiled, looked around the room, and firmly addressed everyone.
`Passus and I were asked to examine various scrolls which had lost their title pages during the struggle when Chrysippus was killed. We managed to reconstruct the sets. One manuscript was an author's copy of a very long adventure in the style of a Greek novel. The subject matter was poorly developed, and the author had overreached himself.' Philomelus was hanging his head gloomily. `I would like to stress,' Helena said, sending him a kind glance, `these are personal opinions – though I'm afraid Passus and I were in full agreement.'
`Was the quality up to publication standard?' `I would say no, Marcus Didius.'
`Close?'
`Nowhere near.'
`Helena Justina is being polite,' muttered Passus from the vigiles row. `It absolutely stank.'
`Thanks, Passus; I know you are a connoisseur.' He looked pleased with himself. `Helena Justina, was there anything else you should tell us about this particular manuscript?'
`Yes. This may be important. There were extra scrolls, written in another hand and a different style. Someone had clearly attempted revisions.'
`Trying to improve the original draft?'
`Trying,' said Helena, in her restrained way. `Succeeding?'
`I fear not.'
I sensed a mood change among the authors' seats. I turned to them.
`Any of you know about this ghostwriting?' Nobody answered. `They may call it editing,' Helena suggested. I knew her dry tone;
she was being very rude. People sniggered.
`I would like to know who did this trial revision,' I fretted.
`From the style,' said Helena crisply, `I would think it was Pacuvius.'
`Hello! Going into prose, Scrutator?' We gave the big man a chance to reply but he shrugged and looked indifferent `What made you think of him?' I asked Helena. `You are familiar with his work, no doubt. Did it have meticulous social satire, topicality, biting shafts of wit, and eloquent poetry?'
`No,' she said. `Well, since nobody owns up to the revisions, I can be frank. The new version was long- winded, mediocre, and hamfisted. The characters were lifeless, the narrative was tedious, the attempts at humour were misplaced and the total effect was even more muddled than the first draft.'
`Oh, steady on!' Pacuvius roared, stung at last into admitting he had been involved. `You can't blame me – I was sculpting a middenheap of crap!'
The ensuing hubbub stilled somewhat eventually. To mollify him I assured him that Helena had only been trying to inspire his admission. Helena remained demure. Pacuvius probably realised her ferocious critique was real. I asked him to explain his role.
`Look, it's no real secret,' he blustered. `Chrysippus used me sometimes to tidy up ragged work by amateurs. This, for some reason,
was a project he was keen on at one time. I told him all along it was hopeless. He showed it to some of the others and they refused to touch the thing.' The others were grinning, all relieved they had no responsibility. `The plot was shapeless; it lacked a decent premise anyway. Helena Justina is fairly astute about the faults.'
Pacuvius was patronising, but Helena let it pass.
`Are manuscripts frequently rewritten in detail, prior to formal copying?' I queried, looking shocked.
Most of the authors laughed. Euschemon coughed helplessly. After a moment, he explained. `There are works, Falco, sometimes by very famous people, which have been through numerous redrafts. Some,
in their published form, are almost entirely by somebody else.' `Jupiter! Do you approve?'
`Personally, no.'
`And your late master?'
`Chrysippus took the line that if the finished set was readable and saleable, what did it matter who actually wrote the words?'
`What do you think, Euschemon?'
`Since enhancing his reputation is one reason for an author to publish, I regard major reworking by others as hypocrisy.'
`Did you and Chrysippus have disagreements?'
`Not violent ones.' Euschemon smiled, aware of my reasoning. `There are more sinister crimes,' I decided, though I did agree with
him. `The public might feel cheated, if they knew.'
`Misled they may be sometimes,' Euschemon said. `But we can't accuse the disappointed reading public of killing a publisher for it.'
I felt the joke was out of place. `While you're helping me,
Euschemon, can you tell me – does a copying house receive large quantities of unpublishable work?'
Euschemon threw up his hands. 'Cartloads. We could build a new Alp for Hannibal from our slush pile – complete with several model elephants.'
`Your 'slush pile' is mainly rejects – how do the authors generally take it?'
`They either slink off silently – or they protest at enormous length., 'No point in that, presumably?'
`Decisions are rarely reversed.'
`What could change a publisher's attitude?'
Euschemon was wearing his satirical expression now. `Hearing that a rival business was interested would bring about a rapid rethink.'
I smiled, equally dryly. `Or?'
`I suppose for the right author, acceptance could be bought.'
`Io! Do publishers sell works in which they don't believe?'
'Hah! All the time, Falco. A bad book by a known name, or a book by a personal friend, for instance.'
`Does it ever work the other way? Discouraging a good author, who might otherwise be a rival to some dud they do choose to patronise?'
Euschemon smiled wryly.
I tackled Pacuvius again. `Back to these scrolls – when you came here that fateful day, was the revised effort a subject you and Chrysippus discussed?'
`Yes. First, I had the usual sordid tussle about whether he would pay a fee for my wasted work. He wanted me to continue the rewrites; I insisted it was worthless to try. At last we agreed that I had done all I could with the material, which he would be using for oven fuel. He should have burnt it before involving me. He was a temperamental idiot. With no taste, as Turius has always said. I simply could not understand why Chrysippus was so determined to make something of this yarn.'
`Did you know who had written it?'
Scrutator looked uneasy. `I was never told directly.'
`But you had your own idea? One last question. Pacuvius, why were you so reluctant to be sent to Pisarchus' villa as a poet in residence? Was it only because you resented the brutal way you were ordered to go?'
`I knew Pisarchus' son wrote adventures. He had mentioned it at the popina. I had a feeling this unfortunate story might be by him.' Scrutator looked at the shipper and Philomelus apologetically. `I thought Chrysippus was sending me to Praeneste so I could be nagged into more editing. I couldn't face that, I'm afraid.'
`Thanks,' I said. To Aelianus on the dividing doors, I then called, `Will you bring in the witness from the Temple of Minerva, Aulus, please?'
LVII
IF ANYBODY was surprised to see my witness, nobody gave a sign of it.
`Thank you for attending. I apologise for the long wait. We are in the final stages of a murder enquiry, but
