Lindsey Davis - Ode to a Banker

'Oh? Which do you use?' I asked making it sound like a technical request for a friendly tip on which establishment was best.

'Private receivers that I've been with for years, Falco. You go to the Alexandrian in the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius, don't you?'

How did he know where my bankbox was? He had probably weaselled out this information as part of some strategy when he wanted to get at me. Even in the period when we were partners, I had kept all personal details from his prying eyes and I instinctively avoided a straight answer even now: 'Mine's a basic safe deposit man. What's yours like?'

'They charge commission on deposits, but I get real security. The service is old-fashioned, rather secretive, even.'

'Sounds a bit Greek.'

'Well, they are, as it happens.'

'Really? Would your secretive receivers lurk at the sign of the Golden Horse?' He looked startled. It was a guess, because the Aurelian Bank was on my mind, but I smiled urbanely, letting Anacrites think I had carried out some dark surveillance in his own style.

'How did you -'

'Say nothing!' I tapped the side of my nose, enjoying myself and hoping to unnerve him. We were dancing around each other well today. 'A Chief Spy needs absolute discretion, I realise.' It went with the villa in Campania that Anacrites did not like to talk about, and probably other secret hoards of treasure and properties acquired through intermediaries. As a well-placed slave at the Palace whose work involved discovering facts that people wanted to hide, he must often have come across unsought bankers' orders propped against his favourite stylus box. They might be anonymous – but he would know exactly who was asking him not to lean on them.

Well, sometimes he would be baffled; as a spy he had always been incompetent. Perhaps he had to be, to have survived in the bureaucracy. Good types are very quickly weeded out in case they corrupt the administration with dangerous methods and ideas.

'I've always been well looked after at the Golden Horse,' he bragged. 'Lucrio is an old crony -' Then the pallid eyes became suddenly wary as he wondered why I was asking. 'Is there anything I ought to be told about the Aurelian Bank, Falco?'

'Not as far as I know,' I answered breezily. Which was true at the time. If in the future his finances were threatened, I would decide then whether I had more profit in telling him as a favour – or in keeping quiet.

'Why were you interested?' Anacrites was sure he ought to be worried.

'I've just been with Nothokleptes,' I said mildly. 'That always makes me wonder what alternatives exist. Tell me; when you need to consult Lucrio, where do you get hold of him?'

'In the Janus Medius.' That was a covered passageway at the back end of the Porticus Aemilius – a haunt of financial dealers of all kinds. 'Can I assist with an introduction, Falco?'

'To the lofty Lucrio? No thanks.' No fear. I knew Anacrites wanted to overhear what I had to say to the agent.

I preferred to run suspects to earth for myself. Besides, if the Aurelian Bank's freedman had any sense of business preservation, he would soon ensure he introduced himself to me.

I checked in at the Fourth Cohort's patrol-house. The enquiry team were all out and the duty clerk reckoned I would be on my own with the Chrysippus case. Then Petronius rolled in and confirmed it.

I brought him up to date. 'So it may not be literature but banking. Want to pull it back and handle the case yourself?'

Petro flashed his teeth. 'Why should I? You're the Census tax expert. You are fully at home with money, Falco.'

'I wish I'd called in your Census return and audited you to Hades and back.'

'Mine was impeccable – at least, it was once I heard it might be checked by you.'

'I should have made life harder for my so-called friends,' I grumbled.

Petro shook his head sadly. 'Dream away – you're a soft touch, boy!'

'Still, I'm happy that Anacrites deposits money with Chrysippus. I'd laugh if that bank should hit the rocks taking him with it.'

'Banks don't fail,' Petro disagreed. 'They just make money out of their customers' debts.'

'Well, I bet this bank is relevant to the murder,' I said. 'If only because of who gets to inherit the glittering reserves.'

'Assuming they have any reserves,' Petro warned. 'My banker once – when very drunk indeed – confided that it's all a myth. They rely on the appearance of solid security, but he reckoned they just trade on air.'

On our usual good terms, we gossiped some more about the dead banker, not forgetting his women. Then Petro fished out a note-tablet. 'Passus left this for you – the addresses of the writers that Chrysippus had summoned for interviews yesterday. Passus left orders that they should all be told to present themselves to you this morning. He commandeered a room there for you to use. You'll like this,' saidPetronius Longus, with a gleam, 'you will be allowed to occupy one of the libraries.'

'The Greek one?' I asked dryly.

'No; the Latin,' came Petro's riposte. 'We knew a sensitive soul like you couldn't bear to sit looking at horrible bloodstains on the floor.'

Before I made my way to the Clivus Publicius, I had a moan to him about Anacrites smooching up to Maia. Petro heard me out impassively, not saying much.

This time I did not enter the Chrysippus abode via the scriptorium, but broached the formal entrance portico as the killer must have done. It was grand architecturally, though there was a faint smell of mice. Was young Vibia Merulla a poor housewife? I could imagine what the deposed Lysa would make of that.

Today at least there was a porter sitting in a cubicle, as though after the householder's death security had been tightened up. Not much, however. The airy slave could hardly be bothered to ask my name and business. He waved me through, and let me find my own way to the library.

'I am expecting the writers whose books your master sold. Have any arrived yet?'

'No.' And I was quite late getting here myself. Bad news. Still, writers have their little routines: if I knew anything, they were either still in bed – or they had gone early for lunch. Long and leisurely, probably.

'I want to see them one at a time, so if more turn up together please make them wait. Don't let them talk to each other but put them somewhere separately.'

The house was very quiet. There were slaves padding about, though I could not decide whether they had definite errands for their mistress or were pottering by themselves. The Latin library was deserted. The inner Greek one lay even more silent. It had already lost the corpse, though cleaning up was still in hand. A couple of buckets with sponges stood against one wall. And the scrolls I had asked Passus to catalogue were now collected in a dirty heap on a table. It looked as if he had dealt with some, which he had discarded into a large rubbish hamper, though others had still to be listed. Sensibly, he had not left his list lying around – though I wouldn't have minded an advance peek myself.

Passus was not there. Nobody was.

Nobody visited the Latin library for over an hour. I dipped into Virgil's Georgics and put myself in pastoral mood.

Eventually, a man sidled in. 'Well, good afternoon, or should I say good evening!' I might be pastoral, but since I lacked the ameliorating influence of a warm-blooded shepherdess, I was also slightly sarcastic. 'Here to see Didius Falco? Jupiter, how prompt!'

'Iam generally the first,' he said, sounding self-satisfied. I took against him immediately.

He was in his thirties or forties, moderately tall and very thin, with spindly legs and anus, and hunched shoulders. It brought out the urge to bawl like a centurion for him to straighten up. Saturnine, sallow, and dressed in shabby black. I had not been expecting high fashion from a bunch of authors, but this was the worst kind of low taste. Black fades. It also leaks at the laundry onto other people's whites. To find black on the second-hand clothes stalls you have to be in a world of your own, and a public menace.