knows Theon may not be in the building. He wonders if the lock has been engaged. The key is hanging on its hook. Nibytas fails to see that this means Theon must be around somewhere and the doors not locked - he tries the key anyway. We can see him in our mind’s eye, fumbling, perhaps growing angry, thwarted, concentrating on his preoccupations - well, you know what happens when a lock is difficult. This is what I mean about human nature. You forget which way the key turns.’
I took up the idea. ‘So you think Nibytas turned the key one way, then the other, becoming frustrated. The lock was working; the doors were simply jammed. Theon did not come to help him - he was probably already dead inside the room. In the end, Nibytas stormed off, taking the key with him - probably by accident. And in his muddle, he had left the doors locked.’
‘I cannot prove it.’
‘Perhaps not. But it is neat, logical and likely. It convinces me.’
I told Heron that when he tired of academic life, there would be a job for him as an informer. The great man had the courtesy to say he did not have the brains for it.
LVI
Once sluggish cases start moving, a dam-breaking cascade will often burst. Well, Aulus poked about with a stick and made a muddy mess.
The noble Camillus decided this was the moment to challenge Roxana about her doubtful sighting on the night that Heras died. I should have stopped him, but he was acting out of friendship. He felt he owed it to Heras, so I gave him his head.
We went to see her together. Helena and Albia insisted on that. They both wanted to come with us but we men took a firm line that we needed no chaperons. Nonetheless, under the influence of Heron, we used our common sense.
Roxana received us meekly enough. She seemed subdued, and told us that her relationship with Philadelphion had foundered. Apparently, he now had to consider his career - though the bounder had actually claimed he was overcome by wanting to do right by his wife and family. Roxana said she knew a lie when she saw one. Aulus and I glanced at one another, but did not ask how she knew. She would never admit to telling fibs herself, but would blame her dealings with men for teaching her about deception. We were men of the world. We knew that.
We discussed the night of the crocodile. I let Aulus do the questioning. ‘We have been told that on the night in question, you saw Chaereas and Chaeteas, the zoo assistants. True?’
‘Locking up the crocodile,’ Roxana agreed.
‘Well,
‘Intently’
‘Why did you not mention this before?’
‘It must have slipped my mind.’
‘You were near enough to overhear their conversation?’
‘Is that what you were told?’ asked Roxana narrowly. ‘Then I must have been.’
‘You tell me.’
‘I just did.’
I shifted. I would not have wasted any time on her. But Aulus was determined, so I let him be.
‘This time, try and remember everything. You told me you had also seen a man, near to Sobek’s enclosure just before you and Heras realised the crocodile was loose.’
‘He was right there. Doing something by the gate.’
‘And were you still very near the gate?’
No,’ said Roxana, as if explaining to an idiot. ‘When I saw the two assistants, then I was close by, on my own, looking for Heras. By the time I saw the other man, they had gone. Heras had arrived, so when we thought there was somebody coming, we took evasive action.’
‘What exactly?’
‘We jumped into the bushes.’ She said it without a blush. Well, this was a lady who would climb up a palm tree if her life was threatened.
‘So you were ashamed of being with Heras?’
‘I am not ashamed of anything.’
Aulus sneered. That was unprofessional, and Roxana smirked at him.
‘So who came along? I am sure you know really,’ he admonished her sternly.
Roxana was a stranger to admonishments. She looked puzzled at his tone.
‘Was it Nicanor?’ asked Aulus. In court, Nicanor might have denounced that as a leading question.
‘Well, yes,’ faltered Roxana. She made herself sound reluctant. ‘It probably was.’ Even women who say they are ashamed of nothing may balk at naming a murderer - especially one whose professional expertise means he may get himself off any charges and released back into the community, burning for revenge. ‘He hated Philadelphion - perhaps enough to kill him. Yes, I suppose it must have been Nicanor.’
LVII
Uncle Fulvius and my father decided I had no work to do, so I could help them. They confessed they were trying to find Diogenes’ coin hoard. He had lingered, but had now died of his burns. He expired without regaining consciousness, which spared him great pain but left our pair in a big loss-making situation. Since he seemed to have been a loner, their chances of discovering what he did with their cash were slim.
‘You paid him up front?’ I emphasised my astonishment.
‘Who - us? We just paid him a little deposit, Marcus. Showing good faith.’
‘You lost that then!’ I said, without much sympathy.
I refused to be inveigled into helping. Since living in the same house as such a moaning bunch of martyrs then became unbearable, we did what we had come to do. I took Helena, and all the rest of my party, to Giza to see the Pyramids.
I am not writing a travelogue. Phalko of Rome, long-suffering son of the conniving Phaounios, is a Greek comedy playwright. All I have to say is that it was near enough a hundred miles. It took us two weeks in each direction, travelling at a suitable pace for a family with a pregnant wife and young children. Twenty days of leisure with my dearest relations is of course an unbroken delight for me, always a good Roman, model husband and affectionate father. Trust me, legate.
When we got there, a sandstorm was blowing. Sand whipped across the raised ground where the three enormous Pyramids were placed all those centuries ago. The sand hurt our bare legs, stung our eyes, tore at our clothes and made it even more difficult than it would have been anyway to deflect the attentions of the guides, with their interminable inaccurate facts, and the leather-faced local hawkers, who were lying in wait to fleece tourists. It was all exhausting. The best way for visitors to avoid the misery of the storm, was to turn their backs on the Pyramids.
We saw the Sphinx the same day, of course. In the same weather. We stood about, all trying not to be the first to say, ‘Well there it is, so when can we go home?’
‘Juno!’ cried Helena breezily. ‘Who is having a good time then?’ That was her mistake. Several of our party told her.
LVIII
Theon, the deceased Librarian, was given his funeral just after we returned from our journey to Giza. It was forty days since he had died; in the Egyptian tradition his family had had his body mummified. In those forty days, he had been washed in Nile water, emptied of organs (already removed from him once, at the necropsy), packed with natron to dry and preserve the remains, washed again, repacked with his preserved organs, moisturised with scented oils and wrapped in strips of linen. Spells had been said over him. A scroll with more spells from the Book of the Dead had been placed between his hands, before more bandaging. Amulets were secreted in the bandages. A lifelike painted plaster image of his face was attached to the mummy, which received a golden victor’s crown as a sign of his great status.
I suspected more care was now lavished on the corpse than had been shown to him in life. If family, friends and colleagues had paid greater attention to a man whose mind was unbearably troubled, would Theon still be with us, instead of passing into the afterlife pampered only with the ritual processes of his embalming? There was nothing to gain by dwelling on such thoughts publicly. I had made a report to the Prefect, in which I deduced that
