I picked up the short end of the scroll rod that had been wielded so revoltingly against the victim. `Ask your evidence officer to label that and keep it, Passus. We may find the matching finial somewhere, if we have any real luck.'

`So, what do you think, Falco?'

`I hate cases where the first person you interview looks as guilty as all Hades.'

`The wife did not kill him?'

`Not in person. Both she and her clothes would show damage. And although I can imagine she can wind herself into quite a frenzy when she wants to, I doubt if she is strong enough to inflict this.' We forced ourselves to resurvey the corpse, at our feet. `Of course she could have hired someone.'

`She virtually fingered this son, Diomedes.'

`Too convenient. No, it's too early to accuse anyone, Passus.'

Passus looked pleased. He was curious to know the answers – but he did not want Petronius' pet private informer to be the outsider who provided them.

His hostility was a cliche, one I was well used to, yet it annoyed me. I told him to give orders for the corpse to be removed to an undertaker's. Spitefully, I added, `Get this room cleared, not by the household slaves but by your own men, please. Keep an eye out for any clues we may have missed under the mess. And before they are flung out in a basket, I shall need a list of what all these unrolled scrolls on the floor contain, by subject and author.'

`Oh shit, Falco!'

`Sorry.' I smiled pleasantly. `You may have to do that yourself, I suppose, if your rankers can't read. But what Chrysippus was working on today may turn out to have some relevance.'

Passus said nothing. Maybe Petronius would have wanted the scrolls listed, had he been in charge. Maybe not.

I went back to the scriptorium, where I told the guard maintaining quarantine for Euschemon that he could be released into my custody. I could see he was not the killer; he was wearing the same clothes as when he came to see me at home this morning, with not a bloodstain on them.

There were too many scribes within earshot, and I reckoned it would inhibit him when he talked to me. I took him away for a drink. He looked relieved to be out of there.

`Think nothing of it,' I said cheerfully. After a grisly corpse and a flagrant wifelet, I was feeling dry myself.

XV

THERE WAS a popina on the next street corner, one of those grim stand-up foodshops with crude mock marble countertops on which to bruise your elbows. All but one of the big pots were uncovered and empty, and the other had a cloth over it to discourage orders. The grumbling proprietor took great pleasure in telling us he could not serve eatables. Apparently the vigiles had given him a bollocking for selling hot stews. The Emperor had banned them. It was dressed up as some sort of public health move; more likely a subtle plan to get workers off the streets and back in their workshops – and to deter people from sitting down and discussing the government.

`Everything's banned except pulses.'

`Ugh!' muttered I, being no lover of lentils. I had spent too much time on suveillance, gloomily leaning against a caupona counter and toying with a lukewarm bowl of pallid slush while I waited for some suspect to emerge from his comfortable lair – not to mention too many hours afterwards picking leguminous grains from my teeth.

Privately I made a note that this ban might affect business at Flora's – so Maia might not want to take on Pa's caupona after all.

`I gather you had the red tunics here, just when the alarm was raised about the death at the scriptorium??

'Too right. The bastards put the block on today's menu right at lunchtime. I was furious, but it's an edict so I couldn't say much. A woman started screaming her head off. Then the vigiles rushed off to

r investigate the excitement and by the time I had finished clearing the counters, there was nothing to see. I missed all the fun. My counterhand ran down there; he said it was gruesome -'

`That's enough!' I gave a tactful nod towards Euschemon, whom he probably knew. The popina owner subsided with a grouse. His counter-hand was absent now; perhaps sent home when the hot food was cleared away.

Euschemon had shambled after me from the house in silence. I bought him a cup of pressed fiuitjuice, which seemed the only thing on offer. It was not bad, though the fruit used was debatable. The bill, written out for me with unusual formality, cancelled any pleasure in the taste. We leaned on the counter; I glared at the owner until he slunk into the back room.

`I'm Falco; you remember?' He managed half a nod. `I called at the scriptorium this morning, Euschemon. You were out; I saw Chrysippus.' I did not mention my disagreement with him. It seemed a long time ago. `That must have been just before he went in to work in his library. Now I have been appointed the official investigator for vigiles. I'll have to ask you some questions.'

He just held his cup. He seemed in a daze, malleable – but perhaps unreliable too.

`Let's do some scene setting – at what point did you arrive back?'

He had to search for breath to answer me. He dragged out his words: `I came back at midday. During the fuss, but I did not realise that at first.'

I swigged some juice and tried to pep him up. `How far had things got – were the vigiles already at the house?'

`Yes; they must have been indoors. I thought there was rather a crowd outside, but I must have been preoccupied…' With what?' I grilled him sternly.

`Oh… the meaning of life and the price of ink.' Sensing he might be in trouble, Euschemon woke up a bit. `How hot was the weather, what colour olives had I chosen for my lunchpack, whose damned dog had left us a message on the pavement right outside the shop. Intellectual pursuits.' He had more of a sense of humour than I had previously realised.

`Surely your staff knew what was going on indoors?'

`No. In fact, nobody had heard any noise. They would have noticed the fracas in the street from the shop, but they were all in the scriptorium. The lads were battened down, you see, just having their lunchbreak.'

`Was the scroll-shop closed then?'

`Yes. We always pull the rolling door across and shut right down. The scribes have to concentrate so hard when they are copying, they need a complete full stop. They get their food. Some play dice, or they have a nap in the heat of the day.'

`Is the shutter actually locked in place?'

`Have to do it, or people try to force their way in even though they can see we have packed up for lunch. No consideration `So nobody could have come in that way – or gone out?'

He realised I meant the killer. `No,' he said sombrely.

`Would the shop have closed pretty early?'

`If I know the scribes, and given that I myself was not there, yes.' `Hmm. So around the time of the death, that exit was blocked off.'

If the killer made no attempt to use that route, maybe he knew the

scriptorium routine. `So how did you get indoors when you returned?' `I banged on the shutter.'

`They unlocked again??

'Only because it was me. I ducked in, and we jammed it back.' `And when you arrived, the staff did not seem at all disturbed?' `No. They were surprised when I asked if they knew what was going on in the street. I had realised the crowd was outside the master's house door -'

`Where's that??

'Further down. Past the bootmender. You can see the portico.' I squinted round; beyond the scriptorium and another shop entrance, I noted important stonework intruding onto the pavement. `I was going to go and speak to Chrysippus about it when one of the vigiles burst in, from the house corridor.'

`By that time he was well dead. So all the previous action had been muffled? You were out, and the scribes missed everything until after the body's discovery?' Euschemon nodded again, still like a man dreaming. `I'll have to check that nobody came through the scriptorium after Chrysippus went indoors,' I mused.