Part 37 (1/2)

'She's got it wrong,' he scowled.

I signalled to Aelia.n.u.s. He moved those who were seated on the furthermost bench; Fusculus went to help him kick the seating aside, fling the doors open, and wheel in the great trolley that bore Diomedes' property.

I crossed the room towards the heaped baggage. First, I pulled out a scroll from a chased silver container. 'Helena, glance at this, please. Tell me if you recognise the handwriting from the tale you and Pa.s.sus hated so much.' She nodded almost immediately. Fusculus came up behind me, probably intending to hint at where I ought to look in the cart, but I managed without any help from him. 'Diomedes, you agree that all this is your personal property?'

Shoved roughly inside a knee-high boot I could see papyrus. 'What have we here? An interesting boot-shaper. Two very crumpled sheets that purport to be - let's see: the t.i.tle pages to Zisimilla and Magarone and also Gondomon, King of Traximene. What's that about, Diomedes?' I dragged him to his feet. 'Looks like proof of who wrote Gondomon - this t.i.tle page is written on the back of a used popina drinks bill.'

'Mine!' Diomedes bl.u.s.tered recklessly. 'I often drink there -'

'Urba.n.u.s, it says.'

Urba.n.u.s looked unfazed; then told me, 'I leave the bills behind. Philomelus tucks them in his pouch. He has no money for equipment and I'm happy for him to reuse them for writing.'

Lysa, resplendent in maternal wrath, swept to her son's side. 'Foolish boy,' she reproved her son. 'Now tell the truth!' She turned to me. 'These prove nothing!' she snorted at me. 'Blame Chrysippus. He wanted to exchange the t.i.tle page on the scrolls he stole from the s.h.i.+pper's son. He was planning to publish the story under our son's name. Diomedes was far too sensitive and honest to agree... In fact, Diomedes removed and kept the original, so he could prove what had happened if his father went ahead -'

Oh, she was good!

'Very generous!' Among the swathes of rich brocaded curtaining, pillows and floor rugs, lay one cus.h.i.+on that looked extremely lumpy, ill-stuffed and quite untypical of this house. It was nothing like the smooth, fat items I had thrown on the floor from Vibia's couch that time. I dragged it from the pile. 'This is from your room too?' Deeply perturbed, Diomedes gave a brief nod.

Wrenching open some loose and amateur st.i.tchery that cobbled one seam on the slipcase, I flung the innards across the floor at his feet. People gasped.

'One heavily bloodstained tunic. A pair of b.l.o.o.d.y shoes. A scroll rod finial, with a dolphin riding on a gilded plinth - the exact match of the finial on the rod you forced so crudely up your father's nose.'

Diomedes leaned across me and grabbed a spear from his pile of belongings. Helena cried out.

'Jupiter!' I muttered, as I grabbed the shaft. I went hand-over-hand up it in a couple of swift moves, until I was leaning on Diomedes' chest. 'Where exactly were you planning to shove that?' I demanded sarcastically.

We were inches away from each other, but he hung on to the spear. Petronius had reached us. He and Fusculus grabbed Diomedes. I wrenched the spear from his grasp. They twisted his arms up his back.

I took hold of his fancy tunic, either side of his miserable neck. 'I want to hear you confess.'

'All right,' he admitted coldly. Lysa burst into uncontrollable and hysterical wails.

'Thank you,' I said in a polite tone. It was worth a fee bonus to me. 'Details would be useful.'

'He refused to take my work, although I was his only son. Mine was as good as anyone else's - but he said he had found something wonderful. He was going to pretend Philomelus' story was worthless so he could pay nothing for it. He would even make Pisarchus pay the production costs, and then take all the profits. He was beside himselfwith excitement. Then he said that as the publisher of a high-cla.s.s work, he could not afford to soil his name by selling mine alongside it.'

'So you killed him?'

'I never meant to do it. Once we started to fight, it just happened.' His hysterical mother was now battering me, as she tried to fling her arms protectively around her boy. I let go of him and pulled her away. 'Leave it, Lysa. You can't help him. It's all over.'

That was true for her too. She collapsed, sobbing. 'I can't bear it. I have lost everything -'

'Chrysippus, the bank, this house, the scriptorium, and your crazy son - then of course without the bank, you have probably seen the last of Lucrio...' I tried wheedling encouragement: 'Admit to us that you had Avienus killed, and we can lock you up as well.'

Some women fight it all the way. 'Never!' she spat. So much for my wild hope of claiming not one but two confession bonuses.

As the vigiles logged the evidence and prepared to take their prisoner away, Diomedes remained surprisingly calm. Like many who confess to ghastly crimes, ending his silence seemed to bring him relief. He was very pale. 'What will happen now?'

Fusculus reminded him tersely: 'Just like your evidence.' He kicked at the empty cus.h.i.+on case. 'It's the Tiber for you. You'll be sewn in the parricide sack!'

Fusculus refrained from adding that the wretched man would share his dark death-by-drowning with the dog, the c.o.c.k, the viper, and the ape. Still, I had told him yesterday. From his terrified eyes, Diomedes was all too aware of his fate.

LIX.

IT SEEMED to take hours to conclude the formalities. The vigiles are hard, but even they dislike taking in parricides. The dire punishment strikes horror into everyone involved.

Petronius left the patrol-house with me. We went home via my mother's, where Helena had gone to fetch Julia. I told Ma what Lucrio had said about her money being safe. Naturally, Ma replied that she had been well aware of that. If it was any of my business, she informed me, she had already reclaimed her cash. I mentioned that Nothokleptes seemed a good bet as a banker to me, and Ma proclaimed that what she did with her precious sacks of cash was private. I gave up.

When she asked if I knew anything about stories that my father had been involved in an altercation with Anacrites the other day, I grabbed Julia and we all went home.

By chance, as we crossed the end of the street nearby where my sister lived, who should we see but Anacrites himself.

Petronius spotted him first and caught my arm. We watched him. He was leaving Maia's house, unexpectedly. He was walking along with both hands in his belt, his shoulders hunched up, and his head down. If he saw us, he pretended not to. Actually, I don't think he noticed us. He was in his own world. It did not appear to be a happy place.

Helena invited Petronius to dine with us that evening, but he said he wanted to set his apartment straight after the fight with Bos. After she and I had eaten, I sat out on the porch for some time, unwinding. I could hear Petro cras.h.i.+ng about opposite. From time to time he tipped trash off the balcony in the traditional Aventine manner: making sure he shouted warnings, and sometimes even allowing long enough for pedestrians to scuttle out of danger in the street below.

Eventually, with Helena's approval, I sauntered off alone. I went to see Maia.

She let me in, and we went out onto her sun terrace. She had been having a drink, which she shared with me; it turned out to be nothing stronger than the goatsmilk she normally kept for the children. 'What do you want, Marcus?' She was always abrupt.

We had been too close for too long for me to mess about being delicate. 'Came to check you were all right. I saw Anacrites, looking grim. I thought you and he had had plans?'