XII

THE TWINNED library had had grandiose proportions but an austere atmosphere. Outside was a small lobby which contained a fancy wooden shelf system, displaying a half-hearted Athenian pottery collection, and an empty side table with marble supports. The far exit door was guarded by two Egyptian pink granite miniature obelisks. Right across this lobby led a wide trail of sticky footprints, in various sizes, all well smudged.

`Too many sightseers trampled the scene, Fusculus.' `Happened before I got here,' he assured me righteously. `Well, thanks for clearing the mob out.'

`That was the boss.'

I could imagine what Petro's full reaction to a milling crowd had been.

We emerged onto what must be the main axis of the house. The libraries and lobby had followed the line of the street outside; this suite crossed that line at right angles, coming in from the main entrance door which was to my left. An impressive set of lofty halls ran away to the right.

The style changed. We were amongst walls painted in repeating patterns, warm gold and crimson mock-tapestries, their divisions formed by trails of foliate filigree and filled with roundels or small dancing figures. Ahead and to either side stretched superb floors in assorted cutwork marbles, endless circles and triangles of elegant greys, blacks and reds. More inky footsteps marred the gorgeous stones, of course. The formal entrance to the house was nearby to the left, as I said. Prominent on the right, forming the central vista in this series of formal public spaces, was a huge hall like,. a private basilica.

The vigiles were finalising their staff interviews there. Slaves were holding their hands out for inspection, picking up their feet to show the soles of their sandals like horses with a farrier, quaking as they were spun on the spot by large rough men who intended to check their garments and generally terrorise them. We walked down to join this group.

`What a place!' exclaimed Fusculus.

Within the enormous dimensions of the hall, interior columns supported a canopied roof. It made a kind of mock-pavilion at the centre of the room. Decoration on the outer walls was dark and dramatic – friezes, fields and dados in formal proportions and expensive paints, depicting tense battle scenes. The colonnades made it all feel like some eastern king's audience chamber. There ought to be obsequious flunkeys moving constantly in the side aisles on slippered feet. There ought to be a throne.

`Was this where Chrysippus was intending to munch his hardboiled eggs, Falco?' Fusculus was caught between admiration and plebeian contempt. `Not what my granny brought me up with! It was bread rolls on a lumpy cushion in a yard at our house. First-comers got the shady bit. I always seemed to be stuck out in full sun.'

Curiously, the bronze tray with what must be the uneaten lunch was still clutched by a distraught slave. He was being closely guarded. Others, who had submitted to interview already, now clustered in frightened groups while the few last specimens were put through the vigiles' notoriously sensitive questioning technique:

`So where were you? Cut out the lies! What did you see? Nothing? Why didn't you keep an eye out? Are you fooling me, or plain stupid? Why would you want to kill your master then?' And to the weeping plea that the poor souls had no wish to do Chrysippus harm, came the harsh answer: `Stop messing about. Slaves are the prime suspects, you know that!'

While Fusculus consulted to see what gems this sophisticated system had produced, I walked up to the slave with the tray. I signalled his guard to stand off.

`You. the one who found the body?'

He was a thin, Gallic-looking scrag-end, of around fifty. He was in shock, but managed to respond to a civilised approach. I soon persuaded him to tell me it had been his daily duty to deliver a snack for Chrysippus. If Chrysippus wanted to work, he would order a tray from the kitchen, which this fellow would place on a side table in the lobby of the Latin library; the master would break off and clear the victuals, then go back to his reading. Today the tray had been untouched when the slave went to retrieve it, so he had carried it through to the Greek library to enquire if Chrysippus was so absorbed he had forgotten it. Rare, but not unheard of, I was told.

`When you saw what had happened, exactly what did you do?'

`Stood.'

'Transfixed?'

'I could not believe it. Besides, I was carrying the tray -' He blushed, aware now how irrelevant that sounded, wishing he had simply put it down. 'I backed out. Another lad took a look and rushed o f shouting. People came running. Next minute they were haring about in all directions. I was in a daze. The soldiers burst in, and I was told to stay here and wait.'

Thinking about how silent the library had been, I was puzzled. Sound would never carry from indoors to the street. 'The men in red were very quickly on the scene. Someone ran out from the house?'

He looked vague. `I think so.'

'Do you know who it was?'

'No. Once the alarm was raised, it all happened in a blur -'

'Was anybody in either area of the library when you first went in?' 'No.'

'Nobody leaving as you arrived?'

'No.'

'Anybody there the first time you went? I mean, when you first delivered the tray?'

'I only went in the lobby. I couldn't hear anyone talking.'

'Oh?' I eyed him suspiciously. 'Were you listening out for conversation?'

'Only politely.' He kept his cool at the suggestion that he eavesdropped. 'Often the master has somebody with him. That's why I leave the meal outside for him to collect when they have gone.'

'So go back a step for me: today you delivered his lunch as usual; you put down the tray on the side table, then what – did you call out or go in to tell your master it was there?'

'No. I never disturb him. He was expecting it. He normally comes out for it soon after.'

'And once you had delivered the tray, how long elapsed before you returned for the empties?'

'I had my own food, that's all.'

'What did you have?'

'Bread and mulsum, a little slice of goat's cheese.' He said this without much enthusiasm.

'That didn't take you long?'

'No.'

I removed the tray from his resisting fingers and laid it aside. The master's lunch had been more varied and tasty than his own, yet not enough for an epicure: salad leaves beneath a cold fish in marinade, big

green olives, two eggs in wooden cups; red wine in a glass jug. `It's over now. Try to forget what you saw.'

He started trembling. Belated shock set in. `The soldiers say the slaves will get the blame.'

'They always say that. Did you attack your master?'

'No!'

'Do you know who did?'

'No.'

'No need to worry then.'

I was about to check with Fusculus what else had turned up, but something made me pause. The waiting slave seemed to be staring at the luncheon tray. I peered at him, querying. 'He's had one thing,' he told me.

'What do you mean?'

The slave looked slightly guilty, and certainly troubled, as though there was something he could not understand.

I waited, keeping my face neutral. He seemed intrigued. 'There was a little slice of nettle flan.' He sketched out the size with his thumb and one finger, a couple of digits of finger buffet savoury, cut as a triangle; I could imagine it. We both surveyed the food. No flan slice.

'Could it have dropped on the floor when you panicked and ran out?'

`It was not there when I went for the tray. I noticed specially.'

`How can you be sure?'

'He doesn't like pastry. I had seen it when I took the tray in. I thought he would leave it.'

'You were hoping to eat it yourself?'

'He wouldn't have minded,' he muttered defensively.