Lindsey Davis - Alexandria

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 the Librarian was despondent about his work and took his own life. I told the Prefect exactly why his work depressed him. That was in confidence. Theon's professional unhappiness was kept quiet, of course, though anyone who was alert might notice the simultaneous departure from office of the Museion Director.

Plenty of people came to bid farewell to Theon. Philetus was not among them. We heard he had gone south, to whatever ancient temple complex he first came from.

The funeral took place in a large necropolis just outside the city, where because of his high status, Theon had commissioned a magnificent tomb for himself. Had this been designed and constructed before he actually died? It seemed impolite for casual acquaintances to ask. It was cut from native rock, though parts were decorated with painted stone courses, in different colours, to create a pretence that it was a building.

We descended a flight of rock-hewn stairs into an open atrium; there an altar stood beneath the blue sky for the formal ceremonies. Throughout, we observed a curious mixture of Greek and Egyptian decoration. Ionic pillars framed the atrium, but lotus columns flanked the burial chamber. Mourners dined with their dead in a chamber where seats had been carved out, upon which were placed mattresses tor comfort.

The coffin lay in a sarcophagus that was ornamented with Greek motifs – garlands of vines and olives. It would rest in a painted room where one row of scenes from Greek mythology (the capture of Persephone by Hades as he rode out in his chariot from the Underworld, according to Helena) ran under another scene of traditional mummification procedures. Dog-headed gods and Medusa heads shared the task of protecting the tomb from intruders – but the statue of the Egyptian god was wearing a Roman uniform. Winged Egyptian sun-disks extended over doorways, while a new statue of Theon stood outside the burial chamber, represented with a decidedly Greek fashion for the lifelike – his features familiar, his hair and beard rich and curly. 'Richer and curlier than I remember!' I muttered.

'Allow him a little vanity' reproved Helena.

I found his funeral a miserable business. Remembering how we had met him that night, I thought of how he must all the while have been concealing his depression, perhaps even planning how the night would end with his death. We had not known him well enough to see that, nor grieve for him fully now. I refused to have a bad conscience about it. We had listened to his complaints about the Museion; had Theon wanted, he could have warned me of the Director's wrongdoing and sought my help.

After a while, I was too uncomfortable to stay. I slipped away, again climbed the steps into the necropolis and hung about restlessly. Helena would do our duty. She saw formal attendance today as a reassurance for his relatives and a healing process for his colleagues. I thought it all hypocritical. I was too glum to go through with it.

The undertaker was outside. Petosiris.

I hesitated when I saw him. The last time we met, Aulus had hustled him, while I beat up his two assistants. They were here as well, the pair Aulus had named Itchy and Snuffly – still scratching and snuffling. None of them seemed to bear me ill will, however, so we exchanged quiet nods of recognition.

'Hope you brought the right body today,' I said, on the presumption that jaded professionals always like to have jokes at interments.

We passed the time of day courteously, as you do, when you are hanging around a burial ground waiting for a funeral to drag to its close.

When I first emerged, the three mortuary men had been holding a fairly serious conversation. They had broken off when they saw me. Now for some time they went on chattering among themselves. Most of their remarks were in a language that I did not speak. I understood the tone, however. I knew they were talking about me.

Even so, I was surprised when Petosiris cleared his throat and assumed an almost apologetic manner that I recognised. In the course of my work, other men had approached me in this style, often bringing me some piece of information they claimed I needed. Usually they asked for payment. Sometimes they told me rubbish. But often it was perfectly good information.

'These lads think I should tell you something, Falco.'

'I am listening. Go ahead.'

'I did that Nibytas the other day. The old man who died in the Library.'

I pulled a face to commiserate. 'I saw the body. I heard you had to cremate him.'

'Not popular with the relatives,' Petosiris bemoaned. 'A burnt man cannot be reincarnated. Of course,' he said, 'not everyone believes in rebirth nowadays. But for them that do, getting just an urn of ashes can be heart-breaking.'

'Does the urn go into a tomb?'

'Numbered shelves. Further down the necropolis. We pack them in a bit, to save space. Not as gracious as this, obviously'

I nodded, thinking again of that wild night when Chaereas and Chaeteas hounded Diogenes. The manner of their grandfather's burial would have added to their anger. 'So what's to tell me?'

'The thing is…' Petosiris tailed off. 'Those boys, his grandsons -they were upset about the cremation, of course, but there was something else. I thought I had to tell them what I found.'

'It might be helpful if you told me.'

'That's what we were all just saying…'

Petosiris made a sudden gesture. Two gestures. He placed his hand once on his throat with his fingers splayed, then with both hands he made a quick snap, as if dividing a chicken's wishbone.

I whistled gently. 'The bone in his throat had been broken?'

Petosiris nodded. He knew I understood: there is a bone that breaks during strangulation. His grandsons were right. Nibytas did not die of old age. Someone murdered him.

I thought they were probably right too about who did it.

Helena had a point. Funerals are always worth going to.

Philadelphion was among the small group of academic luminaries who attended. When these mourners emerged, I collared him discreetly. I told him I reckoned he probably knew where Chaereas had taken refuge. He need not tell me, but it would do Chaereas a good turn if we knew – and believed – this news from Petosiris. It would not make the old man's death any easier to bear, but it did mean the cousins had some justification for their actions against Diogenes. Chaereas had not been at the top of the Pharos, so no official action would ever be instituted against him. He could return to the zoo and carry on with his life.

Chaereas might feel that Chaeteas had died in a good cause. I knew what I thought about that, but I passed no judgement. 'How are you managing without them, Philadelphion?'

'Rather enjoying it! Reminds me of my roots. This kind of situation starts you reassessing.'

'A rethink? What's this about?'

'I don't really want the librarianship,' Philadelphion said. 'I like what I do too much.'

All the same, he made no threat to withdraw from the shortlist. The handsome man had too much social ambition, whatever he was now saying.

'Well, good luck, whatever happens… Helena and I have been away travelling. Help me catch up, Philadelphion. What happened about Nicanor, after Roxana landed him in trouble? I heard he was arrested, but nothing of what happened after that.'

Philadelphion laughed shortly. 'Nothing. She retracted her evidence.'