Aeacidas was big, lolloping, bushy-eyebrowed, with the longest beard I had seen in Alexandria. His tunic was clean, but had worn nap and was two sizes too big. He refused to leave his work station. That didn’t mean he would not speak to me: he just stayed where lie was, no matter how much annoyance his booming baritone caused to others nearby.

I said I had heard he was on the Director’s shortlist. ’I should damn well hope so!’ roared Aeacidas unashamedly.

I tried to murmur discreetly. ‘You may be the only outsider, the only one not from the Academic Board.’

I was favoured with an explosion of disgust. Aeacidas claimed that if Philetus was given his head, the Museion would be run by archaic representatives of the original arts assigned to the Muses. In case I was the ignoramus he took me for, he listed them, both good and bad: ‘Tragedy, comedy, lyric poetry, erotic poetry, religious hymns – religious hymns! - epic, history, astronomy and - the gods help us - song and bloody dance.’

I thanked him for this courtesy. ‘Not much room at the moment for literature.’

‘Damn right!’

‘Or the sciences?’

‘Stuff bloody science!’All charm.

‘If you wanted to get added to the Board to speak for your discipline, how are people elected? Dead men’s shoes?’

Aeacidas made a restless movement. ‘Not necessarily. The Board steers Museion policy. Philetus can co-opt anyone he thinks has a contribution to make. Of course he doesn’t. The ridiculous little man just can’t see how much help he needs.’

‘Drowning in his own incompetence?’

The big, angry tragedy teacher stopped and gave me a hard look. He seemed surprised that anyone could come in as a stranger and immediately grasp the institution’s problems. ‘You’ve met the bastard, then!’

‘Not my type.’ Aeacidas was not interested enough in other people to care what I thought. He only wanted to stress that in his judgement the Director lacked skills. That was old news. I cut him off. ‘So, wasn’t the death of Theon fortunate for you? Without it, you wouldn’t stand much chance of wriggling in among Philetus’ tight little clique. By putting yourself forward for librarianship, you may join the Board as of right.’

Aeacidas immediately caught my drift. ‘I would not have wished Theon dead.’ Well, tragedy was his medium. I guessed he understood motive; no doubt fate, sin and retribution too.

I wondered how good he was at spotting the essential human flaw that tragic heroes are supposed to have. ‘What’s your assessment of Theon?’

‘Well-intentioned and doing a decent job according to his abilities.’ Always, this man managed to suggest the rest of the world failed to meet his own grand standards. Under his rule, everything would be different - assuming he ever won the post. If sympathetic man-management was a requirement, he stood no chance.

I asked where he was when Theon died. Aeacidas was astounded, even when I said I was asking everyone. I had to point out that failing to answer would look suspicious. So he grudgingly admitted he was reading in his room; nobody could verify his whereabouts.

‘What were you reading?’

‘Well . . . Homer’s Odyssey! The tragedian admitted this lapse of good taste as if I had caught him out with a racy adventure yarn. Forget that; the Odyssey is one. Say, caught with a pornographic myth, involving animals - sold under the counter in a plain wrapper by a seedy scroll shop that pretends to be offering literary odes. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Falco - that’s all I can do to clear myself!’

I assured him only villains took elaborate precautions to establish their movements; to have no alibi could indicate innocence. ‘Note my gentle inflection on could. I adore the subjunctive mood. Of course in my trade the possible does not necessarily embrace the feasible or believable.’ Helena would tell me to shut up and stop being clever now; her rule was you have to know somebody extremely well before you engage in wordplay. To her, word games were a kind of flirting.

Aeacidas gave me a filthy look. He thought sophisticated verb deployment should be barred to the lower classes - and informing for the Emperor was definitely menial. I sneered like a thug who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty - preferably by wringing suspects’ necks - then I asked where he thought I might find Apollophanes so I could try out my grammar on him.

The philosopher, the Director’s sneak, was reading, on a stone bench in an arcade. He told me it was forbidden to remove scrolls from the complex, but the walks, arcades and gardens that linked the Museion’s elegant buildings were all within bounds; they had always been intended as outdoor reading rooms for the Great Library. Works had to be returned to staff at the end of opening hours.

‘And scholars can be trusted to hand them in?’

‘It’s not inconvenient. The staff will keep scrolls until the next day, if you still require them.” Apollophanes had a weak, slightly hoarse voice. At the Academic Board he had had to wait for a pause to open up and then jump in, in order to be heard.

‘I bet quite a few go missing!’ He looked nervous. ’Steady! I’m not accusing you of book-stealing.’ He was so jumpy he was quivering.

Perhaps Apollophanes had a good brain, but he hid it well. Away from the Director’s protection, he looked hunched and so unassuming I could not imagine him writing a treatise or teaching pupils effectively. He was like those idiots with absolutely no bonhomie who insist on running a bar.

I asked the usual questions: did he see himself as a shortlist candidate and where was he two evenings ago? He fluttered that oh, he was hardly worthy of high office - but if considered good enough, of course he would take the job . . . and he had been at the refectory, then talking to a group of his pupils. He gave me names, apprehensively. ‘Does this mean you will question them about whether I have told the truth, Falco?’

‘What is truth?’ I demanded airily. I like to annoy experts by wading into their disciplines. ‘Routine procedure. Think nothing of it.’

‘They will believe I am in some sort of trouble!’

‘Apollophanes, I am sure your pupils all know you as a man of impeccable ethics. How could you lecture on virtue, without knowing right from wrong?’

‘They are paying me to explain the difference!’ he quipped, still flustered but yet taking heart as he sank back into his discipline’s traditional jokes.

‘I have been talking to some of the young scholars. I liked their style. As one would expect at such a renowned centre of learning, they seemed exceptionally bright.’

‘What have they been saying?’Apollophanes anxiously pleaded, trying to gauge what I had found out. Anything I said would go straight back to his master. He was a good toady. Philetus must find him invaluable.

‘Nothing your Director needs to worry about!’ I assured him with a fake smile as I took my leave.

I could not find the lawyer. I asked a couple of people, suggesting that Nicanor might be in court. Both times this notion was greeted with bursts of hearty laughter.

Zenon the astronomer was easier. By now dusk was falling, so he was on the roof.

XIX

The purpose-built observatory was at the top of a very long flight of winding stone steps. Zenon was fussily adjusting a long, low seat which must be what he used when he gazed at the heavens. Like most practitioners who use equipment, astronomers have to be practical. I suspected he himself designed the star-watching lounger. He may have constructed it too.

After a swift glance at me, he lay down holding a notebook, tipped his head back and looked skywards like an augur out bird-spotting.

I tried being topical: ‘“Give me a place to stand and I will move the world!’” Zenon received my quotation with a thin, tired smile. ‘Sorry. Archimedes is probably too earthbound for you . . . I’m Falco. I’m not a complete idiot. At least I didn’t ask what your star sign is.’ He still gave me the silent stare. Men of few words are the bane of my job. ‘So! What is your stance, Zenon? Do you believe the sun orbits the earth or vice versa?’