Lindsey Davis - Ode to a Banker

Even before we had rounded the Circus, Diomedes was limping. I dragged him up the Clivus Publicius, towards his late father's house, at a merciless pace. He was fit enough not to get too breathless. Outside the popina where the scriptorium writers drank, I happened to see Euschemon. I stopped.

'Diomedes, you trot ahead to your temple. Try to find somebody to vouch for you at the time your father was being murdered. I'll follow in a moment.' A cunning look appeared in his dark eyes. 'Don't think of bunking off,' I told him briefly. 'Flight will brand you as the killer. I assume that even Romanised Greeks know the penalty for parricide?'

This penalty was so sensational most educated people had heard of it. The details featured large whenever tourists from the provinces were hearing Roman law extolled. He must know. With a friendly smile, I told him anyway: 'Sons who kill their fathers are tied in a large sack along with a dog, a cock, a viper and an ape – then thrown into the river.'

I was not sure whether he believed me, but the son of Chrysippus scurried off in his delicate footwear, eager to establish his alibi.

Euschemon had quietly watched me despatch his ex-employer's son; he had a rather narrow expression. He had always spoken of Diomedes with restraint rather than open dislike, but they had not exchanged greetings just now.

The scriptorium manager was leaning an elbow on the popinacounter, enjoying a beaker of what looked like chilled wine and water. The waiter had been talking to him, that thin young man I had noticed several times before serving here, with a towel over one shoulder and a leather apron. I joined them and asked for a cup of fruit juice.

'How is it going, Falco?'

'Nearly there. I want to hold some final interviews tomorrow, Euschemon. Could I trouble you to mention to Vibia Merulla that I need to use the library – and that I want her to be there? Yourself too, please.'

'Tibia is at home, if you want to speak to her.' Euschemon seemed to know I was wary of meeting her alone.

'I'm short of time, unfortunately!'

The waiter brought my drink. I dropped coppers on his tray, trying to avoid eye contact.

'Do you know this young man?' Euschemon asked me. I shook my head. 'He works here to earn spare cash. We were just discussing his prospects as a writer.' He seemed about to say more, but the waiter became embarrassed and turned away to mop around the apple press. I glanced at him. He looked ordinary enough. If he was harbouring wild dreams, the creative madness failed to show.

This was a grim place to drudge as a skivvy. Like most popinae, it served as the ante-room for meetings with low-grade prostitutes; they worked from a couple of rooms upstairs. The carved stone frieze that advertised the services available here bore the usual sad trio of a small beaker, a small dicepot – and a huge phallus. No doubt the waiter could earn extra tips by promising to fix up clients with whichever girl was youngest and perhaps least diseased.

I gave a benign smile to the young man with the optimistic hopes. Then I turned back to Euschemon. 'I want to ask you tomorrow about what's the future for the scriptorium authors. And could you arrange for the ones we interviewed about the death to be brought here for my meeting?'

'Right. But I can tell you the situation now: Vibia wants to continue the business.'

'Were you expecting that?'

'No,' he replied quietly, clearly realising I wanted to test him: did the fate of the scriptorium give him – or Vibia – some motive for Chrysippus' death? 'I always thought Vibia would sell up, to be honest. In fact, she may have surprised herself when she decided publication suited her.'

'Women make shrewd shop-owners.'

'Could be. I act as editorial adviser now. We are changing what webuy, to some extent; Vibia seems willing to take my advice. I did not always agree with Chrysippus on what made popular material.'

'He was looking at new manuscripts the morning he died.'

'Yes.' That was unexpectedly brief.

'No comment?'

'We can't find the scrolls.'

'I'm holding them for evidence.'

'That's your privilege.'

'Tell me – how do new authors normally approach you with their work?'

'Some are discovered at recitals – like you, Falco.'

I reckoned he was joking; I brushed that aside. 'And how else?'

He looked thoughtful. 'Recommendation – from individuals, or very occasionally, through the Writers' and Actors' Guild.' He paused again, still holding back.

'How,' I asked, 'does a would-be writer join the guild?'

'There is no formal requirement. He might just toddle along, for instance, and become a member of their writing circle.' Euschemon caught the eye of the waiter, who had been listening in. They both laughed and then Euschemon explained: 'Some of us have a low opinion of writers' groups, Falco.'

'Useless,' the waiter commented. It was the first time he had joined in. 'They sit around discussing how to acquire a natural style – and never produce anything. They are all intent on finding what they call their "narrative speaking tone" – but the point is, most have nothing to say.'

Euschemon chuckled in agreement. 'I have certainly found most of them a little impractical.'

I gazed at the young man. 'So, what is your speciality? Plays, philosophy, or poetry?'

'I like writing prose.' The waiter who wanted to be a writer looked shy again and would contribute no more. It could be modesty, or commercial discretion. Quite likely, as with many 'prospective authors', it was all a dream and he had never committed anything to papyrus. Nor ever would.

Prose was an issue. I turned back to Euschemon. 'Another technical question, please. As scriptorium manager, what would you say is the potential of Greek novels? You know, love-and-adventure yarns.'

'Critically despised of course,' the scroll-seller said. Then he smiled.'Or to put it another way: too much fun, and far too popular. They are the next big thing. Raging best-sellers.'

I became thoughtful. 'You're buying?'

'We are!' promised Euschemon, feelingly.

As I left the popina, I could see the waiter who wanted to be a writer had gone into a private reverie. He reminded me of Helena when she was reading. He did not mind being alone. He could enter the company of his own swirling gang of vivid characters.

And unlike real people, these would do what he told them to.

I could see Diomedes waiting for me in the temple portico; the high square forehead he had inherited from Chrysippus was unmistakable. I quickened my steps, afraid that despite my warning he might lose his nerve and flee. Lysa had the backbone in that family.

'I found somebody!' he assured me eagerly. As if that settled everything.

'Good news, Diomedes. Let's do it properly though…' Before I let him take me in to see the priest, I kept him back and made him face the questioning he had so far escaped. 'I'll hear what this fellow has to say, but first I would like you to tell me in your own words what you did the morning your father died.'

Diomedes pulled up. 'I came here. I was here all morning. The priest will tell you so.' Oh, he probably would too.

'Good,' I replied gently. 'And what happened either side of your religious experience?'

Nobody had rehearsed him for this. Still, he made a go of it: 'I came straight here from my mother's house. Afterwards, I went straight home.'

'So you were not only here all morning – you actually stayed at thetemple all day?'

'Yes,' he retorted defiantly.

I toughened up. 'Excuse me! Nobody loves the gods that much. Most of us walk past the local temples the same way we walk past popina brothels – without even noticing they are there. Are you wanting to become a priest?'