‘Who is he?’ asked Helena.
‘Philetus calls him as a scroll-seller.’
‘He buys too,’ stated Pastous, with an air of infinite sadness. He had both palms against the edge of the table where we were sitting, while he stared at the board about a foot from his hands, not meeting anybody’s eye.
I let out a low whistle. Then I said, matching his regret, ‘Don’t tell me: he tries to buy scrolls from the Library?’
‘I have heard that, Falco.’
‘Theon used to give him the bum’s rush - the Director sees it differently?’
‘Whatever Philetus is doing,’ answered Pastous, his voice now extremely gentle, ‘I have no idea. I am below the level at which such an important man would share his confidence.’
He was a library administrator. His life there was quiet, orderly and on the whole free from anxiety or excitement. He worked with the world’s knowledge, an abstract concept; it could cause dissension, though rarely to the extent of physical violence. If library staff ever see anyone attacked - and of course it must happen, for they are dealing with the public, a mad crew - it tends to be a sudden, inexplicable outburst from someone who is mentally unstable. Libraries do attract such people; they act as a refuge for them.
But deliberate harm is almost never levelled at librarians. They know time-wasters, book thieves and ink-spilling desecraters of great works - but they are not targets for hit-men. It was all the more chilling, therefore, when this open, clearly honest man at last raised his eyes and looked at me directly.
‘There is one other thing I overheard, Didius Falco. I heard Theon give a warning to the old man: “Take my advice and keep quiet. Not because these matters should be concealed - indeed, they should not, and I have tried to correct things. But whoever drops the white handkerchief to start this race, Nibytas my friend, needs to be a brave man. Whoever speaks out will be placing himself in the gravest danger.” Falco, I cannot help remembering,’ Pastous ended quietly, ‘that both of the men who had that conversation are now dead.’
We had a fine meal. I said afterwards, the proprietor must have been the library assistant’s cousin, giving us special treatment.
‘No Falco; I am not specially known here,’ Pastous replied seriously.
XLII
I handed Aulus cash to settle up for lunch, and led Pastous aside. ‘Be very careful. Theon was right: speaking out against your superiors is always risky. I am very unhappy about what we are dealing with here.’
If this Diogenes was involved in murky business, aided and encouraged by the Museion Director, and if both Theon and Nibytas had found out, that would explain much. Bad feeling, at the very least. But Philetus could well claim that as Director he had full authority to sell off scrolls if, in his judgement, they were no longer required. Who had the power to overrule him? Probably only the Emperor, and he was too far away.
What was going on might be no more than sleazy. Philetus might be turfing out work by writers he personally hated, discredited material, outdated books that would never be looked at again. He might well call this routine housekeeping. Any difference of opinion on the philosophy behind it could resolve itself when they appointed a new Librarian. In any case, if weeding out works was decided to be more than just unorthodox, if it was deemed to be wrong, then Vespasian could issue a directive that no scrolls held at the Great Library were ever to be sold. Only one thing deterred me from making such a recommendation at once: the famously stingy Vespasian might like the idea. He was more likely to insist scrolls were sold in large numbers, with the money raised all sent to him in Rome.
It could be assumed that if Philetus really was selling off scrolls to Diogenes, the income was used for the overall benefit of the Museion or the Library. But if Philetus was removing books on the sly and taking the money himself, that was different. It was theft, no question.
Nobody had suggested that. Nobody had given me any proof of it either. But perhaps it never crossed their minds that a Director could do such a thing.
There could be worse. Trouble about the scroll-selling could have led to foul play. We had two recent deaths at the Library. I would need the strongest kind of evidence to suggest a scroll fraud had caused them. Most people would guffaw at it. To proceed on my suspicions would mean going over the head of the Director, since he appeared to be involved. That meant taking matters to the Roman Prefect.
I was not stupid. Unless I found proof, it was out of the question.
I made Pastous promise simply to observe. If he saw Diogenes in the Great Library, he was quickly to alert Aulus or me. If the Director appeared again, Pastous was to watch surreptitiously what Philetus was doing, keeping a record of scrolls he asked to see.
Aulus and Pastous went off to finish reading the old man’s documents. I took Helena home to my uncle’s house. I wanted to discuss with her, alone, the other aspect of this story: Diogenes was connected to Uncle Fulvius.
‘If Diogenes is a trader,’ Helena mused, ’he could be involved in all sorts of commerce with numerous people. It doesn’t follow that what he is doing at the Library also involves your uncle.’
‘No, and the sun never sets in the west.’
‘Marcus, we could ask Fulvius about it.’
‘The trouble with Fulvius is that even if he is completely innocent, he will give us a tricky answer on principle. And what am I to do, love, if I find out there is a scam - and a member of my own family is in it? Possibly more than one member.’
‘You are thinking of Cassius?’
‘No,’ I said grimly. ‘I meant Pa.’
All three were out when we arrived home. That saved me having to tackle them.
When they rolled in, we could tell they had all been at a very extended business lunch. We could hear them coming even before they wove unsteadily into the outer courtyard. Crossing it took about half an hour from when they staggered in through the gateway telling the porter that they loved him. All of them were extravagantly good-humoured, but almost incomprehensible. I had given myself the task of interrogating three elderly degenerates who had lost all reason, plus any semblance of manners or bladder control. We would be lucky if none of them suffered a stroke or a heart attack; even more lucky if no irate neighbours came to complain.
What do pensioners do for vandalism? Write graffiti on a Temple of Isis in very neat Greek? Untie a row of donkeys then put them all back in the wrong places? Chase a great-granny up the street, threatening to give her a little kiss if they catch her?
Pa was in the lead. He took a run at the stairs and managed to propel himself as far as the salon. He aimed at a couch, missed, landed face down on a pile of cushions and immediately fell asleep. Helena insisted we turned him on his side lest he suffocate. I poked him hard, just to be sure his sleep was genuine. For me, he could choke.
Fulvius stumbled and fell down as he came up the stairs. This made him even more woozy, and there was a chance he had broken his leg, which had twisted awkwardly beneath him. Cassius spent a long time trying to get Fulvius first to their bedroom and then into, or at least on to, the bed. Fulvius was cursing and being unhelpful. Cassius was cursing back and, I think, weeping mildly. Various household slaves were watching goggle-eyed from doorways, always dodging out of sight the minute anyone invited them to lend assistance. I offered. Either nobody heard me in the kerfuffle, or nobody was capable of taking in what anybody else said.
I removed to the roof with my family. We read Aesop’s Fables to the children. Eventually we ran out of fables and just enjoyed the sun’s last evening rays.