I found out where the dead Librarian had lived and went to search his quarters. I should have done this before, but there had been no opportunity. I discovered nothing that might explain his death, though the apartment was sufficiently spacious and well furnished to show just why there was keen competition to inherit Theon’s post. Subdued staff showed me around meekly. They told me when the funeral was to be - over a month away because of mummification. It was clear they were upset at losing him. I thought it was genuine and saw no need to make them suspects. A personal secretary, who seemed a decent fellow, had written to the family and packed up Theon’s private possessions, but he had had the sense to keep them here in case I needed to see them. I looked through all the packages and again found nothing of interest.
‘Did he say what he would be working on at the Library, the evening he died?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Were any Library documents kept here?’
‘No, sir. If the Librarian ever brought work home, he always took it back next day. But that was rare.’
‘Who cleared his office at the Library?’
‘One of the staff there, I suppose.’
I asked if he knew of any anxieties Theon had, but a good secretary never tells.
XXIII
I had some time before I had arranged to meet Helena. I went to the Library and managed to find my way back to the Librarian’s room.
The damaged lock had been repaired and polished. The doors were closed. Even with the lock-bar off, they were hard to budge. I used my shoulder to barge my way inside, nearly damaging myself and landing in a heap. ‘Bull’s balls! I wonder if Theon kept the doors so tight to discomfit visitors?’
I had asked the question of Aulus, whom I found in the room by himself, sitting in Theon’s chair, with an enormous scroll half unrolled. He had made himself at home, with his sandals kicked off and his bare feet on a footstool. The scroll lay across his lap as if he was genuinely reading it. He looked like a classic sculpture of an intellectual.
‘If you stay here long enough, Aulus, you may see which of the notable scholars slips into the room to measure himself for Theon’s fancy chair.’
‘I thought we knew who wanted the job.’
‘No harm in a double-check. What are you reading?’
‘A scroll:
I had played that game when I was young and silly. Camillus Aelianus knew I was asking the title - just as I knew he was being awkward on purpose.
‘Cut out the daft answers; I’m not your mother.’
I could not read the title tab the way he was holding it. Instead I walked over to an open cupboard from which he had presumably lifted the scroll. The rest of the set were equally heavy and ancient. Three deep on their shelves, just one series took up all the cupboards. I started a rough count. There must be a hundred and twenty. I whistled. These were the legendary Pinakes, the catalogue begun by Callimachos of Cyrene. Without doubt they were the originals, though I had heard that men who could afford it had copies made for their personal libraries. Vespasian wanted me to find out about that. With the going rate for top-quality scribes at twenty denarii per hundred lines, somehow I could not see the old man opting for a new set.
I lugged a few down. There was a broad division into poetry and prose. Then there were subdivisions, into which Callimachos had placed each writer; I guessed that these must correspond with the shelf system in the great rooms where the scrolls were stored. In full the catalogue was called, Tables of Persons Eminent in Every Branch of Learning, with a List of their Writings. The authors were bunched together according to the first letter of their name.
‘I’ve written stuff myself. Do you think they’ll have me in, one day? “Investigator and genius. He studied at the Museion of Real Life” . . .’
Aulus was staring across the room at me as I mused happily. ‘You are listed now. I looked you up - since, Marcus Didius, an author of your standing will not want to be so immodest as to search for himself
‘You looked me up!’ I was astounded. ‘Camillus Aelianus, I am touched.’
‘The Pinakes are claimed to be comprehensive. It seemed a good test. Your play was publicly performed, wasn’t it? “Phalko of Rome, father Phaounios; prosecutor and dramatist.” They only credit your Greek play, not any Latin legal speeches or recital poetry: “His writings are; ‘The Spook Who Spoke”‘. There isn’t a section for Ridiculous Nonsense, so you are categorised as a Comedian. So appropriate!’
‘Don’t be snide.’
Aulus seemed depressed, and not just because the celebrated Library at Alexandria was prepared to acknowledge any old tosh just so long as it was written in Greek. ‘We don’t have time to read the Pinakes,’ he said, rolling up his scroll.’ I’ve been in here for hours, just absorbing the style. I’ve barely tasted one volume. Creating the Pinakes was a flabbergasting feat, but it says nothing about how Theon could have been killed, or why. I’m giving up.’
I was back poking about in the cupboard. ‘The collection of Miscellanea even has cookbooks. I’d like to be listed here too, with my “Recipe for Turbot in Caraway Sauce”. That’s worth immortality.’
‘It may be,’ growled Aulus. ‘But it’s my sister’s recipe.’
‘Helena will never know. Women are not allowed in the Great Library.’
‘Some bastard will tell her, knowing your luck. “Oh Helena Justina, didn’t I see your husband’s name on a fish recipe, when I was browsing through the Pinakes?” Or a copy will be made for Vespasian’s fancy new library and she’ll see it there herself. You know her; she will go straight to the incriminating evidence on opening day.’ As he grumbled on cantankerously, I wondered if he had a hangover. ‘Still, plagiarism has a grand old history here.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘While you think I have been sitting on a bench doing nothing for three days, I have been diligently applying myself to research.’
‘Really? I imagined you munching in the refectory and wasting your time at lewd plays. Did you like Lysistrata?’ He snorted. I sat on a stool, folded my arms and looked bright. ‘So what’s your thesis?’
‘I had no instructions for a thesis .’Tossing back his hair, Aulus knew how to sound like an unsatisfactory student.
‘Aulus, be inspired by your own area of interest. You need to find some previously untouched subject and pursue it independently. You may have been rubbish as an informer at street level, but now you are embellished with an expensive education so we expect better things . . . Just ask me before you run off and waste a lot of effort, in case I think your research is pointless - or I want to pinch it for my own. You mentioned plagiarism, I believe.’
‘Oh there’s a story that everyone here seems to be told. One Aristophanes of Byzantium, once a Director of the Museion -’
‘Not the Athenian playwright called Aristophanes?’
‘I said Byzantium; do try to keep alert, Falco. Aristophanes the Director systematically read every scroll in the library. Because of his well-known reading habits, he was asked to judge a poetry competition in front of the King. After he had heard all the entries, he accused the students of plagiarism. Challenged to prove it, he ran around the Library, going straight to the shelves where the right scrolls were. He gathered them up, completely by memory, and showed that every entry in the competition had been copied. I think this story is reiterated to new scholars as a dire warning.’
‘They would cheat? Appalling!’
‘Indubitably, it still goes on. Philetus can’t know. Unless you have the right calibre of man in charge, who will be capable of telling whether work is original or a blatant steal?’
I was thoughtful. ‘People speak well of Theon. Any indication that he had accused some scholar, or scholars, of plagiarism?’
‘That would be a neat solution,’ Aulus conceded. ’Unfortunately, no one knows of him doing it.’
‘You asked?’
‘I am thorough, Falco. I can see logical connections.’
‘Keep your ringlets on ... I wish I knew whether Theon was looking at the Pinakes that night.’
‘He was.’ Aulus had an annoying habit of withholding information, then dropping it into the conversation as if I already ought to know.
‘How can you tell?’
He stretched his sturdy legs. ‘Because.’
‘Come on; you’re not three years old! Because what, you flitterbug?’