We walked up to the imposing marble-clad entrance. Inevitably it was flanked by stupendous pillars. Both the Greeks and the Egyptians are superb at monumental pillars. Put them together and the Library had a heart-stopping, heavyweight porch and peristyle. Huge statues of Ptolemy Soter, the ‘Saviour’, flanked the entrance. Coins showed him
as curly-haired and mature, thicker-set than Alexander - though he lived much longer; Ptolemy died at eighty-four whereas Alexander only made thirty-three. Polished in granite, Ptolemy was smooth and serene in the style of the Pharaohs, smiling, with the flaps of a traditional head-dress behind his long ears and the merest hint of eye makeup. Alexander’s closest general, he was a Macedonian, a fellow-student of Aristotle, but in the big share-out after Alexander died he grabbed Egypt, which he ruled with respect for its ancient culture. Perhaps it was because Ptolemy was a Macedonian that he made it his mission to establish Alexandria as a rival to Athens, to spite the Greeks who viewed Macedonians as crude northern upstarts. So Ptolemy not only built a library to outdo those in Athens, but he stole the Athenians’ books to put in it - ‘borrowing’ them to copy, then keeping the originals even though he had to forfeit his surety of fifteen gold talents. This tended to prove what the Athenians thought: a Macedonian was a man who did not care if he lost his deposit.
Demetrius Phalereus had built for Ptolemy one of the cultured world’s great statement buildings. Oddly, its core material was brick. ‘Cheapskates?’
‘Helps air circulation. Protects the books.’ Where did Aulus find that out? This was like him; whenever I condemned him as lackadaisical, he came out with some gem. The main library faced east; that, too, was better for the books, he said.
We craned up at enormous polished granite columns, topped by exquisitely carved capitals, florid in the Corinthian manner but earlier and with distinct Egyptian overtones. Around their mighty bases, clusters of off-duty readers littered the well-planned architecture in untidy groups - younger members of the academic world, all looking as if they were debating philosophical theories, but in tact discussing who had what to drink last night, and in what horrendous quantities.
Passing through the shadow of the intimidating porch, we entered the grand hall. Our feet slowed reverently; the floor, made from enormous sheets of marble, was so highly polished it showed our blurred images. A pervert could look up your tunic; a narcissist could look up his own. I slowed down cautiously. The interior space was enormous, sufficient to impart hush through size alone. Beautiful marble veneers cooled the air and calmed the spirits. A colossal statue of Athene as goddess of wisdom dominated the far wall, between two of the magnificent pillars that decorated the lofty lower area and supported the upper gallery. Behind this colonnade, which was repeated above with lighter pillars, were tall niches, each covered by panelled double doors.
These housed some of the books. Occasional open doors showed wide shelves of scrolls. The cupboards were set above a triple plinth; its steps ensured that anyone approaching the scrolls would be fully visible. Library staff could discreetly monitor who was consulting what valuable works.
The upper gallery was protected by elegant latticed banisters with gilded bosses. The lower floor had half-columns at intervals, bearing bearded busts of famous authors and intellectuals. Discreet plaques told us who they were. Many would have worked here in their day.
I laid a hand on Aulus’ arm and we stood for a moment watching. This alone should have drawn attention to us, though no one seemed to notice. The scholars ignored activity around them. They worked at two rows of handsome tables running down each side of the great hall. Most were lost in concentration. Only a few talked; it caused a frisson of irritation among the others. Some had mounds of scrolls on their tables, which gave the impression they were deeply involved in lengthy research - and also stopped anybody else trying to use the same table.
Men came in and looked around for empty seats or for staff to fetch scrolls from store, but rarely did anybody gaze directly at other people. Without doubt, some of these blinkered types avoided being sociable; they crept around unobtrusively and were nervous if anybody spoke to them. Some, I thought, must be well-known, but I reckoned others liked anonymity. In most public buildings, everyone has a common interest: they work as a team on whatever the building exists for. Libraries are different. In libraries, each scholar toils privately on his thesis. Nobody else need ever find out who a man is, or what his work entails.
I had used libraries. People condemn informers as low blockheads but I not only read for pleasure, I regularly consulted the records in Rome for my work. My main haunt was the Library of Asinius Pollio, Rome’s oldest, where citizens’ details are held - birth, marriage, citizenship status, death certificates and opened wills - but I had other favourites, such as the Library on the Porticus of Octavia, for general research or consulting maps. In just a few moments’ stillness, I began to recognise familiar types. There was the man who talked long and loud, oblivious to the bad feeling he caused; the one who came and sat right next to someone else, even when there were plenty of free seats; the fidgety one who seemed to have no idea how much he rustled and clattered his stuff; the one making furious longhand notes with an extremely scratchy stylus; the one who breathed maddeningly.
Moving around quietly with requested scrolls were staff members doing a thankless task.
We had already encountered the students hanging around outside, those who never did any work but just came to meet their friends. Inside were the weirder scholars who only came to work and consequently had no friends. Outside were the flighty souls who sat around discussing Greek adventure novels, dreaming that they could one day be authors of popular fiction, earning a fortune from a rich patron. Inside, I spotted the teachers who wished they could give it up just to be scholars. As a market gardener’s grandson, I admit I hoped that somewhere lurked a brave soul who dared wonder if he would be happier and more useful if he went back to run his father’s farm . . . Probably not. Why would anyone give up the fabled ‘freedom from want and freedom from taxes’ that scholars had enjoyed at Alexandria since the Ptolemies?
Theon had told us that although he worked in such a glorious place he was ‘harassed at every turn’. I wondered if he was being chased by some number-crunching administrator who was trying to cut back funds. He had muttered against the Museion Director for undermining his kudos. From what I knew of public administration, he was also likely to have had an underling who saw it as his mission to disrupt. Institutions always possess administrative creeps. Should there be any suggestion of foul play in the Librarian’s death, I would be looking for whatever up-and-coming greaser had jealous eyes on Theon’s job.
I sighed. If we had shouted ‘Fire!’ many of these beings would have looked up vaguely, then gone back to their reading.
I did not relish making enquiries here for witnesses.
Aulus was more impatient than me. He had collared a library assistant.
‘I am Camillus Aelianus just admitted to the Museion. This is Didius Falco, who has been asked by the Prefect to examine the death of your director, Theon.’
I noted that the assistant was unfazed. He was not disrespectful, but nor was he awed. He listened like an equal. He was about thirty, dark like a Syrian rather than an African, square face, curly hair cut short, wide eyes. He wore a plain, clean tunic and had mastered walking silently in his loose sandals.
Whatever we said here would be overheard by many, even though the readers were all keeping their heads down, apparently. I asked, ‘If we are not interrupting, could you show us Theon’s room?’
Unusually for public servants, library assistants believe they exist to help people find things. This one put down an armful of scrolls and led us off immediately. Once away from the audience, I got talking to him. His name was Pastous. He was one of the hyperetae, the staff who were responsible for registering and classifying the books.
‘How do you classify?’ I asked, quietly making conversation as we crossed the mighty hall.
‘By source, author and editor. Then each scroll is labelled to say it is mixed or unmixed - whether it contains several works or only one long one. Each is then listed in the Pinakes, which were begun by Callimachos.’ He looked at me, uncertain how educated I might be. ‘A great poet, who was once head of the Library.’
‘Pinakes? This is your famous catalogue?’
‘Yes, the tables,’ said Pastous.
‘Defined by what criteria?’
‘Rhetoric, law, epic, tragedy, comedy, lyric poetry, history, medicine, mathematics, natural science and miscellanea. Authors are arranged under each topic, each with a brief biography and critical account of his work. The scrolls are stored alphabetically too, according to one or two initial letters.’
‘Do you specialise in a particular section?’
‘Lyric poetry’
‘I won’t hold that against you! So the Library has holdings of books - and books about the books?’
‘One day,’ Pastous agreed, showing a sense of humour, ‘there will be books about the books that are about the books. An opening for a young scholar?’ he suggested to Aulus.
My brother-in-law scowled. ’Too futuristic for me! I don’t see myself as original. I am reading law.’
Pastous saw that Aulus’ surly manner hid some wryness. ’Precedents! You could write a commentary on the commentaries on precedents.’
I broke in. ‘He is earning no fees currently. Would there be money in it?’
‘People write for money?’ Pastous smiled lightly, as if I had put forward a strange concept. ‘I was taught that only the rich can be authors.’
‘And the rich do not need the work . . .’ Then I asked the question Helena had asked Theon yesterday: ’So how many scrolls are there?’
Pastous reacted calmly: ‘Between four hundred and seven hundred thousand. Call it half a million. However, some say considerably less.’
‘For a place that is so heavily catalogued,’ I sniffed, ‘I find your answer oddly vague.’
Pastous bristled. ‘The catalogue lists every book in the world. All of them have been here. They are not necessarily here now. For one thing -’ He was not above a gentle jibe - ‘Julius Caesar, your great Roman general, burned a great number on the quayside, I believe.’
He was hinting that Romans were uncivilised. I glanced at Aulus and we let it pass.
We had reached an area behind the reading hall. Dim corridors with lower ceiling heights ran here like rabbit burrows. Pastous had brought us past one or two large, narrow rooms where scrolls were stored. Against the long walls, some were in big open pigeonholes, others contained in closed boxes. Smaller rooms had clerks working and craftsmen, all slaves I guessed, engaged on maintenance: mending torn sheets, adding scroll rods, colouring edges, applying identification tags. From time to time we were assailed by scents of cedarwood and other preservatives, though the main aura was timeless and dusty. Some of the workers were the same.
‘People stay here for decades?’
‘The life claims them, Falco.’
‘Was Theon enraptured by this life?’
‘Only he could have said,’ returned Pastous gravely.
Then he came to a stop and made an elegant arm gesture. He had indicated a pair of tall wooden doors that had recently suffered damage. One now stood half open. He did not have to tell us: we had reached the dead Librarian’s room.
VIII
A small black slave had been left to guard the room. Nobody had explained to him what that entailed. He let us go in with no attempt to check credentials. So comforting.
The corridor was otherwise deserted. All the milling sightseers described by the centurion Tenax must have gone away, bored. Aulus coughed nervously; he asked Pastous if the Librarian’s body was still here. The assistant looked shocked and assured us it had been taken for burial.