Lindsey Davis - Ode to a Banker

'Sorry – what's the difference?'

'Depends on the rates. Usury stinks.'

'What rates does the Aurelian Bank demand?'

'Twelve per cent is the legal maximum, Falco.'

'And five is more decent nowadays. You are implying they are tough?' He was implying something worse. 'So what would a Golden Horse loan run at?'

'I cannot comment.'

'Well, of course not!' I scoffed. 'Don't let me draw you into anything that seems commercially sensitive.' He insisted on stubborn silence. I let it go. 'All right. What can you tell me about the freedman who runs the loan side?'

'Nothing odd about that.' He must have thought I was querying the arrangement. 'A common ploy.'

'Ploy?'

'Well, men who are struggling to arrive socially do not touch the filthy stuff from the mint with their own soft hands, do they?' Nothokleptes was sneering at climbers with pretensions. He owned his own business, though he was low grade. As a result, so were his clients. Mind you, that did not make him poor; nor were most of the clients. He himself enjoyed handling money the way tailors fondle cloth.

'Freed slaves can trade,' he continued. 'A banker can use a slave to act for him. Many have a trusted family freedman who organises the day-to-day work of the bank, so they themselves can dine out with patricians like the respectable Roman elite.'

I whistled. 'Rather a lot of trust, if this freedman is dealing in thousands – or millions"

'He will be rewarded.'

'With cash?'

'With respect.'

'Status? That all?'

Nothokleptes only smiled.

'What if he ever bunked off? Or simply was not up to the job? What if the agent Chrysippus used had made serious investment mistakes, or misjudgements in trusting creditors?'

'Chrysippus would go bust. And the rest of us would shiver.'

'So, do you know Lucrio?'

'Oh, I know Lucrio,' Nothokleptes remarked. 'And then, I don't know him, if you follow me.'

'No. I need a clue of thread to wander in this Cretan labyrinth.'

'I know who he is. But I would only approach Lucrio,' said my banker, who had never before appeared fastidious, 'with a heated meat skewer a yard long.' He scowled in what probably passed for a fatherly warning. 'I advise you to take the same line, Marcus Didius.'

'Thanks for the tip.' Interesting. 'What do you know about Chrysippus' son? His name is Diomedes.'

'Heard the name; never met him. Cultured hobbies, I believe. Not a player in the same game.'

Now I was surprised. 'Why not? He's twenty-five, or close; he's reached his majority. I would expect him to tread in father's sandal-marks. And presumably he inherits something now? At least, his mother told me he would have enough to live on – by their lights, so to me that's more than enough.'

'We shall have to wait and see.' Nothokleptes was holding back. This was somehow too intimate, some professional wrinkle that he would not betray.

I reckoned I had pushed it far enough. I urged the banker to keep his ears open for me, told him some horrific details of the murder as fair payment, and left him to be towelled up for his shave. His barber looked white after I described the violence. Clearly, he did understand Latin after all.

I could not bear to watch the shaving process. Nothokleptes favoured the Egyptian pumice method: his beard was scratched off forcibly – along with many layers of skin.

I had skipped down the four steps from the Porticus into the main Forum and was heading off through the rostra intending to leave on the opposite side. Then a voice hailed me, with the self-satisfied tone of somebody who knew I would have avoided him if I had spotted him first.

Hades! It was Anacrites.

'Marcus old friend!'

When he sounded so affable I could cheerfully have turned him upside down and placed him where the wild dogs come to pee.

'Anacrites. Here you are, standing beside the Black Stone. Well, that's an area of ill-omen, people say.' The Black Stone is an area of dark paving that marks an obviously very ancient spot, though whether it really is the grave of Romulus as some believe, who can say? Superstitions hang about the place, anyway, and seeing the Chief Spy there would set many grabbing at their amulets and muttering incantations against the evil eye.

'Same old Falco.'

I grinned nastily, acknowledging my old wish to have him dead. In the past fifteen months I had seen him twice nearly dying – and twice he had thwarted me. On at least one of those occasions, I had only had myself to blame.

He looked healthier now than for some while. An odd character. Odd, even for a Palace freedman. He could pass for someone of real consequence, or for any misshapen pebble on the track. He merged quietly into ordinary situations, yet if you looked closely his tunics verged on flash. Unusual embroidery in self-colours ran around custom-made neck-holes that were tailored to a perfect fit. He succeeded in seeming neutral and invisible, while maintaining his own, suggestively expensive, style. This subtle social double act was probably the most successful thing he did.

'Anacrites, I'm busy. What are you after?'

'Nothing particular.' He was lying, because immediately he offered, 'Fancy a drink?' So he did want something.

'I've hardly had breakfast.' I started moving off.

He stayed on my heels as far as the Golden Milestone. Well, that was a better place for him to park himself. Spies like to imagine they are the centre of the world.

'So what's the agenda these days?' he begged, desperate to be taken into my confidence.

'A patron of the arts,' I condescended to inform him. He thought I meant that I was courting one, which was not entirely off the firing trajectory, because I had done it, briefly.

He made a reference that now jarred, since my poetry recital seemed an age ago: 'We enjoyed your performance the other evening.' With that 'we' he was including himself in a clutch with my relatives, Ma and Maia specifically. 'A refreshing occasion. It made me decide that I ought to go out much more. Life is not just about work, is it? Well,' – he made an attempt at a joke – 'you always take that attitude yourself.'

I made no reply, leaving the conversation stranded.

'Look, Falco, I know you are very close to your family -' Wrong; if my relatives were allying themselves with Anacrites, I could not distance myself enough from them. 'I just want to clear this with you – your mother feels it would help your sister recover from her bereavement if she started to go out sometimes -'

'Oh, Maia too?'

'Can I finish?'

He had said too much already. 'What's this then?' I managed to hold down my anger and rely on a sneer. 'Are you offering to mind Maia's children while she gads off to festivals? That's extremely decent, Anacrites, though four at once is a big gang to look after. Don't get on the wrong side of Marius, is my advice – and of course you need to ensure that people don't think you have an immoral interest in little girls '

Anacrites flushed slightly. He gave up trying to interrupt. His plan was not acting as a nursemaid but escorting Maia, I was sure of that.

I stared at him, trying to make out how old he was. It had never seemed relevant before: older than me; younger than he might have been to hold such a senior position as Chief Spy; certainly older than Maia – yet not too old. His strange pale eyes held mine, annoyingly matter of fact. He thought he was one of the family I wanted to choke.

'You'll have to take your chance,' I heard myself growl. 'Maia Favonia has her own ideas about what she will do – or not.'

'I don't want to upset you, that's all.'

Whenever he pretended to respect me, I wanted to knock him down and jump on him. 'I don't upset that easily.'

All the time we had been in confrontation, he had been weighing his purse in one hand. 'Just come from my bank,' he said, noticing my fixed stare on it (fixed on how fat his damned moneybag looked).