They wrote that down too. One of them could do shorthand. ‘Sounds good.’

‘I am an informer. We earn our fees.’

‘Anybody else?’

‘If the Prefect - or his noble lady - has ever shown a particular interest in tragic drama, suggest a man called Aeacidas.’ ‘His wife enjoys lyre music. He follows gladiating.’

‘Goodbye, sad tragedian then!’

The Palace was cool. Out of doors, the Khamseen had dropped but without the wind we had a stonking hot midday which made me just as stressed. Wherever I decided to go next, even home for lunch, I would find myself sweating and debilitated. I faced this prospect with mild depression.

Fortunately, I spotted Numerius Tenax, the centurion. I told him if he could find an excuse to go for lunch so I could pick his expert brains, I would buy him the drink he had offered to buy me when we first met. He pretended to be unravelling the clauses in my offer. But he appreciated drinking on my imperial expenses (as he thought). When he took me to his local bar, we raised a toast to Vespasian.

I relayed the latest developments. Tenax grimaced. ‘I’m glad you’re in charge, not me.’

‘Thanks, Tenax! The gods know where I go next.’

We drank, and ate saucers of savouries, in silence.

Tenax had nothing to tell me about the intellectuals’ feuds. However bitter their rivalries, it would be a war of words. Only if they started throwing punches would the military be involved; that was unlikely. ‘They tend to fix things themselves. When I saw you at the Museion the other day, Falco, it was my first visit for ages. The Prefect leaves them alone. We never get involved.’

I mentioned my theory that there were financial difficulties. ’Anything cropped up on audit, do you know?’

‘What audit? The Museion is given a big fat annual budget; it’s from the imperial treasury now, of course. They can spend the money how they like. The Prefect doesn’t have the staff to oversee an institution of that size. Not in any way that would be meaningful.’

I swirled my drink. ‘Someone was afraid the Prefect - or higher - was about to start taking notice. They all seem scared stiff of my appearance on the scene.’

Tenax surveyed me. He pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Scared of you, Falco?’ he mused whimsically. ‘Gods in Olympus, however could that be?’

I produced a dutiful grin and ate more olives. Maybe the salt would rebalance my tired body.

Tenax went on thinking about it. ‘The way it looks from here, the current Director has a poor grip. You know from the army how that works.’ How did he know I had been in the army? ‘Once people get a hint supervision is a bit limp, everyone overspends madly. One tribune orders himself a new desk, probably because his is genuinely riddled with woodworm, then the next man along sees it and wants one, and next minute, gold-handled desks with ivory-inlaid tops are being sent halfway across the Empire in multiple quantities. Then headquarters asks a question. Immediately, there is a crackdown.’

‘At the Museion, the crackdown hasn’t happened yet?”

‘I can’t see that it will, Falco. The Museion is run by that miraculous system called self-certification.’

We both laughed hoarsely.

Tenax did remember some kind of incident involving the Great Library, maybe about six months ago. He had not bothered to involve himself. ‘I never went down there. It faded out, as I recall. I can ask my boys . . .’

I did not wait around to hear what his legionaries might have to say. I had already seen Cotius and Mammius. Not much chance of obtaining a significant lead through them.

I thanked the centurion for his time and advice. Chatting with a like-minded professional did me good. I returned to my investigation feeling much more vigorous.

I entered the Museion complex on a route that took me near the Great Library. I passed through its pleasant colonnades, enjoying the shade and the beauty of the gardens. My attention was drawn when I noticed a man I recognised. He had passed out of sight by the time I remembered who he was: the trader who had called last night to visit Uncle Fulvius. I wondered idly whether he merely used this as a route elsewhere, or if he had had business here. Although he had fitted in well with my uncle’s circle, he seemed an incongruous visitor to the Museion. Still, it could be on his way to the Forum.

Then as I came through to the open area in front of the porch, I stopped wondering about him. I spotted Camillus Aelianus, so I set off after him. Aulus must have subconsciously recognised my footfall, for once in the Library porch, he slowed and looked back over his shoulder. I caught him up on the threshold of the great hall. Concerned, I checked him over. He looked pale but calm.

We might have stepped back away from the study area to exchange greetings and news, but we became aware of excited activity in the reading hall. A crowd of scholars and library staff were milling around to our left, at the far end. Aulus and I exchanged a glance, then at once moved towards the commotion. Some of the staff were urging the others to move back. They seemed to need little encouragement. A small stampede occurred. As we arrived, we discovered the reason: a strong, distinctive smell. My heart sank.

Even before we could see anything, I realised we were about to encounter yet another corpse.

XXXV

Flies zoomed, in the way only flies who have been laying eggs in a corpse do.

Pastous, the assistant we had met on our first visit, pushed out through the crowd, one hand covering his mouth. Previously so calm, he stumbled towards us, horrified and agitated. He stopped when he recognised us, his expression a mixture of relief and anxiety.

‘Pastous! Smells like you need an undertaker - better let me take a look.’

People were falling over themselves in their haste to retreat. Aulus told the staff to clear the hall completely. We waved away everyone except Pastous, then cautiously approached. We batted at the flies with ham-fisted motions; they were not interested in us, however.

The commotion had centred on the table where I had been told the man called Nibytas worked. It had been moved - in a hurry, scarring the floor marble. Behind it stood a stool and beside that lay the body. We leaned over, but failed to see enough. I nodded to Aulus; we took an end of the table each, heaving the furniture towards us then swinging my end sideways to leave a clear path.

‘People tried to pull the table; he must have been propped against it, so he fell.’ Gazing at the dead man, Pastous whimpered faintly.

‘That is Nibytas?’

‘Yes. He was just here as usual, apparently working . . .’

He must have been ‘apparently working’ for a long time after he was actually dead.

Pastous stepped back, leaving Aulus and me to investigate. ‘Jupiter,’ I confided. ‘I could have done without this!’

‘What do you think, Marcus? Suspicious circumstances?’

‘Died of old age, by the looks of it.’

That would be very old age. The dead man looked a hundred and four. ‘A hundred and four, plus about three days he’s been sitting here, I’d say’ Aulus was suddenly the expert.

I held one forearm over my nostrils. ‘The last time I smelt decay that bad was -’ I stopped. The dead man had been close to Helena and Aelianus, an uncle of theirs; I was not supposed to know his fate. That was nearly seven years ago. I was respectable now; other people could clear up the mess this time . . . Aulus had looked up, curious. I avoided his gaze, in case he worked out just what it had meant over the past years, being the Emperor’s man. My job had its sombre moments. ‘Best not remembered.’

Nibytas was shrunken, papery, desiccated with age and self-neglect. His shoulders were hooked in a drab tunic; his skeletal legs were mottled. He must have been a stranger at the refectory, though entitled to eat there. Like many old folk, he probably skimped on baths too. Thin feet dangled in oversized sandals. We could tell that he had barely lived, by our standards, while he was alive. No wonder nobody had noticed for days that he did not move. The corpse lay on its side now; it must have stiffened at right angles, but was flexible again. The slight fall from his low seat had simply left him as he must have been sitting when concerned helpers finally disturbed his last reading session.