Aulus and I had both relaxed. ‘Know where it is? Can you show us - discreetly?’ Pastous willingly agreed to take us.
On the way out we gave instructions that the end of the great hall should be roped off. Anyone who wanted and who was made of stern stuff was free to work in the other area. After listing them, Pastous would return all the borrowed library scrolls to their proper places; I asked him to gather up all the notes Nibytas had made and save this material. Undertakers should be called in to collect the body; if they were asked to bring the necessary equipment, they would clean up. They would know how to do it properly and how to sanitise the area.
I knew ways to get rid of inconvenient corpses, but my ways were crude.
We walked to the dormitory hall in subdued mood. Nobody spoke until we got there. A porter let us in. He did not seem surprised that officialdom had come with heavy steps to Nibytas’ quarters.
The main building had splendid communal spaces in the marble-clad pharaonic style. Beyond were pleasant living quarters. Each scholar was assigned an individual cell where he could retreat to read, sleep, write or pass the time thinking of lovers, brooding on enemies or munching raisins. If he chose to munch pistachios instead, a cleaner would remove the shells the next day for him. These rooms were small, but furnished with what looked like comfortable beds, X-form stools, rugs on the floor to step on in the morning when barefoot, simple cupboards and whatever jugs, oil lamps, pictures, cloaks, slippers or sunhats each man chose to import for his personal comfort and identity. In a military camp it would be all weapons and hunting trophies; here, when the porter proudly showed us several of the bedrooms, we were more likely to see a miniature sundial or bust of a bearded poet. Homer was popular. That’s because scholars at the Museion were sent their poets’ busts as presents from loving little nieces or nephews; statuette-makers always make lots of Homers. Nobody knows what Homer looked like, as Aulus pointed out; he was inclined to be pedantic on Greek matters. I explained that the statuette-makers liked us not knowing, since nobody could criticise their work.
There were scroll boxes and loose scrolls in most scholars’ rooms. One or two fancy boxes, or a small mound of assorted documents. As you would expect. They were personal possessions, their prized works.
The room used by Nibytas was different. It had a sour smell and a dusty air; we were told he refused ever to admit the cleaner. He had been there so long, his cantankerous ways were tolerated just because they always had been. The housekeeper could not face an argument, especially since the authorities were bound to cave in. Nibytas had got away with it for too long, and was too old to be taken in hand.
We knew in advance he had been an eccentric. Just how eccentric only became obvious when the porter found the door key. He had to go away and hunt for it, because Nibytas had been so adamant he would never have people in his room to spy on him.
The room was absolutely full of stolen scrolls. It was so full, it was difficult to see the bed; there were more scrolls under that bed. Nibytas had amassed scrolls in papyrus stalagmites. He had lined the walls with shoulder-high ramparts. Scrolls were piled in the window recess. We had to carry those out to the corridor, to let in some light. When I opened the shutters, so fresh air would clear the turgid atmosphere, I put my hand through enough spiders’ webs to staunch a deep spear wound.
We must have been the first people into that room, apart from Nibytas, for decades. When Pastous saw the hoard of stolen property, he let out a small, piteous cry. He went on his knees to examine the nearest mound of scrolls, blowing off dust tenderly and lifting them to show me that they all bore end-tags from the Great Library. He clambered upright and darted about, discovering others from the Serapeion, even a small number he thought might have been lifted from scroll shops. The regime under Timosthenes must be stricter than that at the Great Library, while commercial premises are strictly geared to preventing loss of stock.
‘Why would he have all these scrolls, Pastous? He cannot have been selling them.’
‘He just wanted to possess them. He wanted them close to him. They cover all subjects, Falco - he cannot have been reading them. It seems Nibytas just crazily removed scrolls, as and when he could.’
‘Theon suspected he might be doing this?’
‘We all feared so, but were never sure. We never caught him at it. We never thought it could be on such a scale . . .’
‘Nibytas had reached the agenda of the Academic Board, though.’
‘Is that so?’
‘This very week.’ For a long time, probably, but Philetus ducked out of discussing the sensitive issue.
‘There was always uncertainty about how we could tackle the old man. We never managed to witness him taking a scroll. He must have been very clever.’
‘It seems he had years of practice!’ chortled Aulus.
‘Was he ever confronted at all?’ I asked.
‘Theon had a word once. He got nowhere. Nibytas denied it and got very upset at being challenged.’
‘So who brought it to the attention of the Academic Board?’ Pastous thought. ‘I think that must have been Theon.’ The Academic Board were shrinking from it, under Philetus’ strong leadership, but Nibytas would not have known that. If he believed the game was up, he must have been in turmoil. He would have been facing not just the penalty for theft, but public and academic disgrace. I guessed the biggest threat to him would be that of being debarred from the Great Library. Where would he go? How would he survive without the financial support of the Museion and the stimulus he found in his fanatical work? His life’s study would have been terminated, doomed to remain unfinished. His future existence would have held little meaning.
One thing was clear. That threat would have provided Nibytas with a motive for killing Theon.
XXXVI
Aulus and I went home. The old man’s sad life and death depressed Aulus, especially as he was still brooding about his friend so much. First I took him to a congenial bath house I had discovered near my uncle’s house. We were early, so it was fairly quiet. A noisy group of stall-holders arrived almost the same time as us; you learn to hang back and let such a crowd go ahead. They did not linger; they were cleaning up after a day’s work and were eager for home - or, for the ones who had to moonlight for financial survival, their next job.
We sat for a long time in the steam room. Aulus was working through his unhappiness. I was content to be left alone to think.
I was not surprised when eventually Aulus took up an almost oratorical posture: ‘Marcus Didius, I am trying to decide whether to say something.’
‘My normal rule in such circumstances is: don’t speak out.’ I allowed a slow beat. ’Though unless you say what you are on about, now you’ll drive me mad.’
‘Heras.’
‘I thought it might be.’
Being Aulus, once he decided to broach it, he went ahead doggedly. ‘I knew that he was going to the zoo.’ He screwed up his face. ’Actually, I knew he had an assignation. Heras was not there by coincidence. He had told me in advance, he was meeting Roxana.’
“They cannot have known I would be there with that boy” . . .That had slipped out under stress. Roxana would deny any prior association with Heras if we tackled her.
Thoughtfully, I drew a breath. Aulus scooped up cold water and let it trickle down his chest. I rubbed my eyes, massaging my forehead with my fingers. ‘So Heras fancied her. What did he tell you?’
‘He had a heavy crush.’
‘You warned him off?’
‘I had never seen the woman. I didn’t even know Heras himself all that well.’