On the threshold, Helena and I shook the dust off ourselves and stamped our feet. We went up slowly. We were glowing from the sun and wind-blast, our brains relaxed and our relationship reasserted. We could hear no particular screaming from children. Everywhere seemed peaceful. Faint welcoming scents came from the kitchen area as we passed. The thought of a wash, followed by stories with my daughters, a quiet dinner, some gentle talk with my older relatives, even a drink with Pa - no, forget that - and an early night was extremely attractive.
But work never stops. First, I had a visitor.
Cassius and Pa had been entertaining him for me. Both seemed mildly surprised by their own co-operation. This was not a commercial contact: I had been tracked down by Nicanor, the Museion lawyer. Etiquette required that such a visitor should not be dumped alone in an empty room, but neither of my relatives was at ease with his calling and in return I could see him looking down on them. Cassius and Pa handed him over to my custody then left us alone together with unlikely speed.
Titbits and wine had been served previously; a slave brought a goblet for me. While Nicanor and I settled, Helena came in briefly and gave him her greeting as if she was the matron of the house, but even she excused herself, saying she had to see our little daughters to bed. She palmed some of the titbits as she left us to it.
The lawyer had only nodded pompously to Helena’s good-mannered greeting. That was when I started to dislike him. No; thinking he had tried to do down Aulus, I already did. The feeling would grow, and not just because he was a lawyer. He trailed a cloud of self-esteem, just as some men waft overpowering hair unguent. Mind you, he had the unguent too. Though not effeminate, he was painstakingly manicured and groomed. I’d snort that lawyers can well afford it, but that really would sound like prejudice.
Nicanor had a long face with extremely dark brown soulful eyes. He looked like a Romanised Jew. His deep voice was certainly Eastern. He was cradling his winecup, now half full, not quaffing with the gusto I associated with lawyers. I slowed my own drinking pace to match his. Automatically I found myself adjusting my attitude too. I became more guarded than I had been with the other academics.
‘I hear,’ began Nicanor, who reckoned himself lead prosecutor, ’you have been asking after me.’
If he was just responding to my enquiries, it was disappointing. At the necropsy, I had invited people to give me clues and dish the dirt. I had hoped that high-flown members of the Academic Board would race to land their colleagues in midden-shit. Snitches are not always accurate, but it gives an investigator somewhere to start.
Patience, Falco. There was a reason for him coming. We just had not reached it yet.
I assumed the necessary posture of gratitude. ’Well, thanks for turning up. Just a couple of questions, really. I have asked most of your fellow Board members: first, the obvious.’ I was pretending to assume he was a fellow-expert in crime enquiries. ’Where were you the evening Theon died?’
‘That old cliché. Minding my business. What else?’
I noted he failed to provide an alibi - and he was rude about it. Somewhat sourly, I added my second question, ‘I would like to know your interest in the Library post.’
‘Of course you would! The shortlist is announced, I presume you know!’ He was enjoying his power in telling me.
‘I was out of town today’ I refused to lose my temper. I really would have liked to have heard this in private circumstances. I bet Nicanor saw I was annoyed. ‘So who made the list?’
‘Myself-’ No false modesty there. He put himself in first. ’Zenon; Philadelphion; Apollophanes.’
Hmm. No Aeacidas, no Timosthenes. I would have included them both and dropped the toady.
‘When was this list unveiled?’
‘Special Board meeting this afternoon.’
Damn. While I was half asleep at the lakeside. ’Any reactions?’
‘Timosthenes walked out.’ Nicanor said it in a tone of disgust.
‘He has a point.’
Nicanor humphed, though quietly. ‘He never stood a chance; it would be cruelty to put his name forward. The way he stormed off surprised me, though . . . Normally he accepts being sidelined. Still, he’s a realist. He must know he cannot even console himself with “it is not his turn”; he is never going to have a turn.’
‘Is that because he came up through the staff route - or is it literary snobbery, because he studies epic?’
‘Dear gods, does he? Oh he would, of course . . . His type always think nobody but Homer can write.’
Call me old-fashioned, but I could see a case to have a library headed up by a man who believed that. ‘Can Timosthenes appeal?’ Or could I appeal on his behalf, I wondered.
‘If he wants another rejection . . . So, Falco, who do you think will get it?’ Nicanor came straight out with the question. Some people would have dropped their voice or looked at the ground modestly. This man stared straight at me.
Some men, answering, would diplomatically name him as top choice. I don’t use such flattery. ‘Wrong for me to comment.’ I let a pause niggle. ‘What are the odds at the Museion? I assume it’s buzzing.’
‘When the list goes to the Roman Prefect, Philetus will tick his own recommendation, but will he be so obvious as to favour his sidekick? If he names Apollophanes, I imagine - I hope - he’ll be wasting his time. Philosophers are out of favour in Rome. Theon was a historian. The Prefect may decide the arts have had enough influence; he may opt for a scientific discipline. If so, Zenon does not come over well in public. The money is on Philadelphion.’
‘Seems about right.’ I shrugged, still meaning that to be noncommittal. ‘Still, elections rarely turn out as expected.’
I had not meant it as an invitation. Nicanor jumped in immediately: ‘Well, now you know my interest - and you know why I am here, Falco.’
It took me a moment. When I worked out his meaning, it was so blatant - and for me so unexpected - I almost choked.
Fortunately I was trained by years of working with unrepentant villains, sharp Forum scammers and side-steppers who would try anything to load the scales of justice. Usually, what they tried was beating me up - but the other method had been known. Some villains have no shame.
‘Nicanor! You think I have influence with the Prefect over this appointment?’
‘Oh come on, Falco! The others may be calling you an “agent” as if you are an oily palace bureaucrat, but any imperial freedman would be twice as deadly and about five times as smooth. You are a common informer. Of course I know how that works. You appear in the courts. You bring prosecutions. I am your natural candidate.’ Now Nicanor was implying we shared the same creepy networks, the same soiled obligations - the same two-faced standards: ‘So how much?’
I tried not to gape. ’You are canvassing? You want to buy my vote?’
‘Even you can’t be so slow! Normal aspect of patronage.’
‘Not exactly my experience.’
‘Don’t play the innocent.’
‘I had somehow assumed that the award of a world-renowned academic post was different from vote-rigging the Senate.’
‘Why?’ Nicanor asked baldly.
I backed down. Why indeed? To pretend that the apparently high-minded intellectuals here were above begging for votes, if they could see how to do it, was hypocritical; he was right. At least he was open.
‘What could you have against me?’ he persisted. He must be a nightmare in court. He probably thought I was holding out - hoping one of the others would offer more than he did.
I sat up straighter. ‘I certainly would like to know why you tried to blackball the accreditation of Camillus Aelianus to the Museion. What was wrong with him?’
‘Minas of Karystos. That poser and I have been at odds for two decades . . . What’s this to you, Falco?’