‘I had great admiration for the man and his scholarship.’ That rang false. If Theon had loathed Philetus, as he implied to us last night at dinner, almost certainly Philetus loathed him back. Loyalty to his deceased underling was one thing; trying to blow smoke in my eyes served nobody.
‘So he had a good academic reputation and was popular socially?’ I asked dryly.
‘Indeed.’
‘Normally, do Librarians retire, or go on until they die in post?’
‘It is a lifetime position. Occasionally we might have to suggest a very elderly man has become too frail to continue.’
‘Lost his marbles?” Aulus piped up cheekily.
‘Theon was not too old.’ I waved him down. ‘By any standards he died prematurely’
‘Terrible shock!’ fluttered Philetus.
I stretched in the wicker chair his staff had provided. As I did so, I fetched out a note-block from a satchel, opening it upon my knee though maintaining a relaxed attitude. ‘Explain to me this business of finding him in the locked room, will you? What had made people go looking for him?”
‘Theon failed to appear at an early morning meeting of my Board. No explanation. Quite unlike him.’
‘What was the meeting? Special agenda?’
‘Absolutely routine!’ Philetus sounded too firm.
‘Subjects that related to the Library?’
‘Nothing like that . . .’ He stopped meeting my eye. Was he lying? ‘When he failed to arrive, I sent someone to remind him. When there was no answer -’ He looked down at his knees demurely He clearly ate well; under a long tunic, with expensive widths of braid on the hems, the knees he was surveying bulged chubbily ’One of the scholars climbed up a ladder outside and looked in. He saw Theon sprawled across his table. Some people broke the doors down, I believe.’
I smiled, still treating him with friendliness. ‘I am impressed that Alexandrian scientific enquiry extends to climbing ladders!’
‘Oh we do much more than that!’ rasped Philetus, misjudging my tone. Aulus and I nodded politely. Aulus, who had a vested interest in the Museion’s good reputation for study, made himself look particularly obsequious. Sometimes I wondered why he did not rush home and apply for election to the Senate straight away.
At this point, Philetus suddenly decided to take charge. ‘Now listen. Falco - far too much is being made of this missing key nonsense. There is bound to be a rational explanation. Theon happened to die, before his time maybe, but we must bury him decently, while those whose duty it is must appoint a successor.’
I foresaw problems there. I guessed Philetus was jittery about making decisions; he would put it off until the last minute, endlessly consulting other people until he was so flummoxed with contrary advice he jumped on the least good solution.
‘Indeed.’ He thought I was beaten. I had hardly started. ’The Emperor will let you take the lead producing a shortlist for the Librarian’s post. The Prefect will be grateful to receive it as soon as possible.’
Philetus was visibly put out. He had not expected, and clearly did not want, official involvement. ’Oh! Will you have a hand in this, Falco?’
‘It would not be usual. Since I am here,’ I murmured, ‘the Prefect may appoint me as a consultant.’ There was not a chance in Hades that the Prefect would allow me near this decision - but I had fooled Philetus. He had thought he controlled the Librarian’s post. Perhaps he did. Unless he tried to appoint a three-legged nanny-goat from the low end of town, most prefects would be happy to sit back and allow whatever the Director wanted. Now he believed I had muscled in on him; he never suspected I had no power to do so.
‘I shall have to consult the Academic Board, Falco.’
‘Fine. Tell me when and where.’
‘Oh! We never normally allow strangers to hear confidential discussions.’
‘I very much want to meet your Board.’ Normally I flee from committees but I wanted to meet this group, because if anything odd had happened to Theon they must be the men who stood to gain from it professionally. ‘Is it daily? Shall I attend tomorrow morning? You mentioned they meet early - I can manage that.’
Panic showed on Philetus’ face.
Looking casual, I kept pressing: ‘Now, were you responsible for Theon’s body being removed from his office? Can you tell me which funeral director has the corpse?’
This caused more anxiety. ‘You surely do not wish to view it?’
‘We may just look in on the undertaker,’ Aulus weighed in with a mollifying tone. ‘Didius Falco always likes to mention names in his report. It gives a good impression if Vespasian believes we carried out a full personal check.’
Aulus managed to imply we probably would not really go there. He played the dozy and unreliable student so successfully that before the Director knew it, he squeaked out the information for us.
As we were leaving, I turned back unexpectedly - that old tired trick, but it has been known to work. ‘Just one last point, Philetus – routine question: can you tell me where you were and what you were doing yesterday evening?’
He was furious. But he was able to say he had been at a long poetry recital. Since it was apparently hosted by the Roman Prefect, I could check. And much as I would have liked to make the Director my chief suspect, if the Prefect - or more likely some minion on his staff - confirmed this, I would have to believe the story.
X
The Director had named a local undertaker. His embalming salon was close to the Museion. One of the secretaries took us, leading us outside the complex, through early afternoon streets full of Alexandrian flatbed carts, each with its mound of green fodder for the horse or donkey. The beasts all had nosebags. The drivers all looked half asleep, until they spotted us to stare at.
There was fine dust everywhere. We walked through a small market, teeming with pigeons, rabbits, ducks, geese, chickens and bantams; all were for eating and were either caged or kept on pallets with their feet tied together. Behind the market, which remained highly audible, lay the dim premises we sought. Curious locals watched us going in, just as they would back home on the Aventine.
The head of the outfit was called Petosiris.
‘I am Falco.’
‘Are you Greek?’
‘No fear!’
‘Jewish? Syrian? Libyan? Nabataean? Cilician? -’
‘Roman,’ I confessed, and watched the undertaker lose interest.
He catered for all tastes, except Jewish. The jews had their own quarter, alphabetically called Delta, near the Gate of the Sun and the Eastern Harbour. They conducted their own rituals, which Petosiris assumed were unpleasantly exotic, compared with good Nilotic tradition. Likewise, he spoke disparagingly of Christians, whose dead were kept for three days in the deceased’s house while their own friends and family washed and clothed them for burial - all deeply unhygienic - before mysterious ceremonies were performed by a priest amidst sinister lights and chanting. Christian priests were viewed askance in Alexandria, since a certain Mark the Evangelist had denounced Egyptian gods fifteen years ago: he was set upon by the mob and dragged by horses through the streets until he needed a grave himself. Petosiris saw this as a fine moment in history. He had not asked if we were Christians, but we thought it advisable to indicate a firm negative.
Otherwise Petosiris was extremely versatile. He could do you a nine-day mourning and cremation Roman-style with a full feast at your family tomb. He could fix up a respectful two-day Greek viewing, ashes in a traditional urn and enough ritual to ensure your soul would not hover between this world and the next as a disrespected ghost. Or he would bandage you up as a mummy. If you opted for mummification, once your brain had been hauled out through your nose with a long hook and your body organs were drying out in natron in a decorative set of soapstone jars, he could hire an artist from the south to paint your face extremely realistically and put it on a wooden plaque over your bandaging to identify you inside your coffin. Needless to say, for all
‘Will Theon’s family foot the bill?’
‘He was a public official.’
