‘Far-sighted!’ Helena’s clear smile included me. She knew I was exuding bile.
Philadelphion apparently missed the moment between us. ‘They took the Apis bull from Memphis, who represents Osiris after death, and created a composition with various Hellenistic deities: a supreme god of majesty and the sun - Zeus and Helios. Fertility - Dionysos. The Underworld and afterlife - Hades. And healing-Asklepios. There is a sanctuary, with a superb temple - and also what we call the Daughter Library. Timosthenes can tell you the exact arrangements, but it takes scrolls for which there is no room at the Great Library; duplicates, I imagine. The rules are different. The Great Library is only open to accredited scholars, but the Serapeion can be used by members of the public.’
‘I imagine some scholars look down on public access,” I suggested. ‘Timosthenes’ ideas for open lectures were quickly shouted down at the board meeting.’ Philadelphion produced one of his airy shrugs. I did not have him down as a snob and I thought he was just avoiding controversy.
Time was pressing. Helena gave me one of those meaningful looks that husbands are taught by their wives to act upon. We could not abandon our two infants for much longer; it was unfair both on Albia and the zoo staff. But Philadelphion was in a good mood to talk. As the race for Theon’s post hotted up, such a moment might not happen again, so I slipped in a last question: ‘Tell me who is in the running for this shortlist for the librarianship. I presume you yourself must be a favourite?’
‘Only if I can keep myself from wringing the Director’s neck,’ Philadelphion admitted, his tone still pleasant. ‘Apollophanes thinks he will walk away with the prize, but he has no seniority and his work lacks prestige. Aeacidas - whom you may have noticed yesterday, Falco - is pushing to be considered, on the grounds that literature is the most relevant subject.’
‘He is not a member of the Academic Board, though?’
‘No, Philetus has a low opinion of literature. When the rest of us want to be mischievous we point out to the Director that Calliope, the Muse of epic poetry, was by tradition the senior Muse . . . Nicanor could get it. He’s pushy enough - and rich enough. He can afford to smooth his own path.’
‘Is his wealth the proceeds of his legal profession, or a private income?’ Helena enquired.
‘He says he earned it. He likes to make out he is sublime, in court or on the teaching rostrum.’
‘How about Zenon?’ I asked.
‘We haven’t had an astronomer in charge since Eratosthenes, as far as I recall. He believed the earth was round and calculated its diameter.’
‘You have had some great minds here!’
‘Euclid, Archimedes, Callimachos . . . None of them would have counted for much with Philetus!’
‘And what about Timosthenes, my wife’s favourite? Will he stand a chance?’
‘None! Why is he her favourite?’ Philadelphion was probably thinking that Timosthenes was nowhere near as handsome as him.
‘I like a man who is intelligent, organised and speaks well,’ Helena answered for herself. From loyalty or absent-mindedness, at that moment she took my hand.
Her attitude may have been too much for the Zoo Keeper. He acquiesced when I said we should recapture our children. I thanked him for his time. He nodded, like a man who thinks he has had a lucky escape from something he had expected to hurt a lot more.
I had not quite got his measure. Either this fellow was unusually open by nature, and keen to assist the authorities, or we had just witnessed a clever bout of wordplay.
Helena and I agreed one thing had come out clearly: Philadelphion believed the Librarian post should be his, on merit. Would he have had enough ambition to kill Theon to make the post available? We doubted it. In any case, he seemed to expect the appointment would go elsewhere, either through his colleagues’ manoeuvring or the Director’s favouritism. Besides, he seemed too liberal to commit murder. But that could just be the impression the wily Zoo Keeper intended us to have.
XVII
I had a late lunch with my family, outside the Museion complex, then they went off back home. Lunch had been happy, but noisy with so much excited chatter about the exotic animals.
Even Albia wanted to show off: ‘There has been a public zoo in Alexandria for thousands of years. It was first founded by a ruler called Queen Hatshepsut -’
‘Chaeteas and Chaereas been giving you history lectures? I hope that was all they taught you!’
‘They seemed very nice boys from the country,’ sniffed Albia. ‘Good family people - not gigolos, Marcus Didius. Don’t be silly.’
I was a true Roman father, manically suspicious. Soon I was hunched over my flatbread and chickpea dip, full of paternal gloom.
‘You are a good father,’ Helena reassured me in an undertone. ‘You simply have too much imagination.’ That could be because I had once been a flirtatious and predatory bachelor.
Outside the Museion complex stood rows of enterprising pedlars who sold wooden and ivory models of animals, especially snakes and monkeys, which sharp-eyed children could plead with their parents to buy. Fortunately Julia, who already knew the going rate for articulated bone dolls at home, thought these were too expensive. Favonia went along with Julia. On toy-purchase, they co-operated like crocodiles herding shoals of fish.
I returned by myself to the Library. After the hubbub of my family, the internal hush seemed magical. I entered the great hall, alone this time, so I was able to enjoy its stunning architecture at leisure. Rome’s marble was predominantly white - crystalline Carrara or creamy Travertine - but in Egypt they had more black and red, so to me the effect was darker, richer and more sophisticated than I was used to. It produced a sombre, reverential atmosphere - though the readers seemed unawed by it.
Once again I had the impression that each man here moved in his private space, engaged in his unique studies. For some, this great place must provide a home, a retreat, even a reason for existence they might otherwise not have. It could be lonely. Its subdued sounds and respectful mood could seep into the soul. But the isolation was dangerous. It could, I had no doubt, drive a vulnerable personality quite mad. If that happened, would anybody else ever notice?
In search of general information, I strolled back outside and fell in with one of the groups of young scholars who clustered in the porch. When they heard I was investigating Theon’s death they were fascinated.
‘Will you tell me about the routines here?’
‘Is that so you can spot inconsistencies in witness statements, Falco?’
‘Hey, don’t rush me!’ Like Heras last night, these lively sparks were snatching at answers far too soon. ‘What inconsistencies do you know about?’
Now they failed me: they were young; they had not paid enough attention to know.
However, they gladly filled in details of how the Library was supposed to operate. I learned that official opening hours were from the first to the sixth hour, which was the same as at Athens. This covered about half the day, on the Roman time system where day and night are each always divided into twelve hours, which vary in length depending on the season. A good citizen will rise before dawn to catch the light; even an effete poet will be spruced up and parading in the Forum by the third or fourth hour. In the evening men bathe at the eight or ninth hour and dine after that. Brothels are forbidden to open before the ninth hour. Manual workers down tools at the sixth or seventh hour. So scholars can be stuck at their work for a similar period to stokers or pavement-layers. ‘Also ending up with stiff backs, cramp in the calves and serious headaches!’ giggled the students.
I grinned back. ‘So you think it healthier to work reduced hours?’ At the sixth hour, in Alexandria during most of the year, it would still be light. No wonder they had to organise music and poetry recitals, and rude plays by Aristophanes. ‘Listen. When the Library is closed to readers, are the doors locked?’ They thought so, but I would have to ask the staff. None of these youthful characters trying out their first beards had ever stayed late enough to find out.