Scandal Takes a Holiday

by Lindsey Davis

  “And for that, an informer gets paid?” Damagoras scoffed. Clearly he held the widespread view that informers are money-grubbing leeches.

  “That’s rich, from a man who is said to be a pirate!”

  Damagoras took it well. In fact he laughed his head off. “Who told you that rubbish?”

  I smiled back at him. “Can’t be true, can it? Everyone knows that Pompey the Great swept the seas clean of pirates.” When Damagoras made no reply, I added, “So did he?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good old Pompey. How did you acquire your exciting reputation then?”

  “I come from Cilicia. Every one of us is believed to be a pirate by you Romans.” True. Cilicia had always been the pirates’ most notorious base.

  “Oh, I hate easy generalizations. I had dealings with a Cilician recently. He was just an apothecary … So what part of Cilicia are you from, Damagoras?”

  “Pompeiopolis.” Damagoras made the declaration with mock pride. Anywhere with such an overblown title had to be a dump.

  I chuckled. “I can guess who your hometown is named after!”

  Damagoras shared the joke. “Yes, it is one of the settlements where reformed pirates all took to farming for a living.”

  “So now you come from farming stock?” I grinned. “Of course it’s past history, but wasn’t it all rather neat: Pompey sails out with his grand mission to remove the scourge. At his fearsome approach the whole pirate fleet says they are terribly sorry for being a nuisance to shipping, and will be good boys now?”

  “I believe,” said Damagoras, “Pompey explained very carefully where they had been going wrong.”

  “You mean, he bribed them? In order that he, with his inflated ambitions, could look good back at home?”

  “Does it matter how or why? It was a long time ago.”

  “I really do come from farming stock,” I said. On my mother’s side it was true. “Well, my grandfather had a market garden, which two of my uncles still try their best to ruin … We’re country shrewd. I take the cynical view, I’m afraid. I cannot believe a whole nation suddenly gave up a lucrative trade, one they had been plying for as long as human memory, and all sat down to herd bloody goats. For one thing—take my word, Damagoras—goats don’t bring in much.”

  “Ah, you upset me, Falco!”

  “With my attitude to husbandry—or my view of human nature? Come on, you must agree. Laden cargoes are still sailing past Cilicia—more than ever, in fact. I never heard that Pompey burned the pirate fleet—that in itself is curious and it smacks of complicity. So popping out from inlets and snatching the loot must be second nature. Once a thief, always a thief.”

  Damagoras still demurred. “Don’t call it theft, Falco. Anyone who engaged in the old occupation would have seen it as business. Acquiring goods and selling on.”

  “Past tense?” I challenged.

  “Oh, very much so.” As if to disturb my line of questioning, Damagoras abruptly turned to Gaius. “You are quiet! Are you an informer too?”

  “No, I work with accounts. Just dull work, adding up figures all day …” Aha—the upright Gaius Baebius! I would enjoy teasing him later about his reassuring half-lies. “How did Diocles happen to know you?”

  I sat up, startled, as Gaius turned the conversation back to my quest. “Yes, tell us, Damagoras. What is your connection with my missing person?”

  The big man shifted and lowered his arm from the seat back, but he still looked relaxed. “He came out here a couple of times. We were discussing a project, working together on it.”

  “What project? A man of your years ought to be spending his days asleep under a blanket in his orchard. What do you do, Damagoras?”

  “I was a ship’s captain. Obviously I gave up years ago. Haven’t been to sea for decades.”

  “Why was Diocles interested?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t. I assume he lost interest but didn’t want to offend me by saying so. Just when I thought we were off to a good start, he stopped coming here. That would be …” Damagoras paused, thinking. “I’m losing track of the date these days. I imagine it was about a month ago.” It was now just over a month since Diocles had disappeared from his lodgings at Ostia.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Someone must have told him I was looking for assistance. He approached me.”

  “So what was the project?” Gaius asked, with his usual dogged persistence.

  Damagoras smiled and looked down at his hands in his lap, almost coyly. “Oh … it’s no secret really. I’m eighty-six, Falco. Would you believe that?”

  “You’re a credit to whatever you drink,” I hinted, gravel-voiced from sand in the air and tiredness. Still no offer of refreshment was forthcoming. So much for the hospitality of seafaring men.

  Damagoras was a talker who ignored interruptions. “Anyone who says I was a pirate can expect a call from a libel lawyer. I’ve lived long enough in Italy to know how things are done! I told you, the old trade is dead nowadays. Absolutely. But I had a long life at sea. Plenty of adventures. Met some odd characters. I have opinions on all sorts of things. I had success—that’s a story that’s always worth telling. I have a large family; I would like to leave something of my knowledge to future generations.”

  “So why Diocles?” I had a queasy feeling.

  “He is a clerk of some sort, isn’t he? Well, he told me he wanted work. He was going to help me write my memoirs.”

  I pointed out that, from what I knew of commercial publishing, the memoirs of a sailor who had not been a pirate might fail to attract a readership.

  “That is exactly what Diocles said,” replied Damagoras, sadly.

  XVI

  Making yet another claim that he was an old man, Damagoras retired to rest. I imagined him having more drink, freshly warmed for him with fine spices, and snacks on a galley tray. It would not surprise me if his bed was warmed by a couple of lithe young women, scented with high-quality Persian oils and skilled in the performance arts.

  Very basic pleasures awaited us. We were allowed to stay the night in a guestroom. It had two narrow beds, with a plain coverlet on each, and no exciting comforters. A dusty jug of water, which could have been there since last market day, was the only refreshment.

  We were no longer prisoners, but they stopped us wandering. We were led to our quarters by slaves; more slaves were hanging about in the corridor every time we tried putting our heads out. There was no chance to explore the villa.

  In the morning, a minimal breakfast was delivered by a silent wench. We had barely time to wash the crusts down with more brackish water, then we were led outside to find our donkeys waiting. An escort to the gate ensured that we left the property. We did not see Damagoras again.

  “We could sneak back later,” claimed Gaius, emboldened by a night’s sleep.

  “You’ll go on your own, then.”

  “Oh, right,” he capitulated wistfully. “Best to be sensible.”

  “Junia will wonder where you are, Gaius.”

  “No, Marcus,” my brother-in-law disagreed. “Junia will be expecting trouble. She knows I am with you.”

  It was still early when we entered Ostia by the Laurentine Gate. Late-night revelers would only just have fallen asleep down in the dingy bars by the Marine Gate; holiday visitors must still be lying in. Traders and regular inhabitants were going about their business. The baths would not open until noon, but thin columns of smoke marked laundries and fullers as their furnaces were brought back to life, while the scent of fresh loaves and rolls wafted delectably from the bakeries. Mullet and sardines were being laid out in rows by fishmongers beneath heavy swordfish, hung head down from metal hooks; baskets of fruit and vegetables were arranged in neat patterns; commodity shops had their big front doors pulled half open while owners sluiced the outside pavement clean. As we rode through the narrow side streets, above our heads busy housewives already had their bedding hung over windowsills to air.

  I imagi
ned how in the building contractor’s house, Junia would be up and bossing the slaves about as she fretted over the missing Gaius Baebius. Hiding in bed, Maia would bury her head against Petro’s back, pretending to ignore the bustle. At my apartment, Helena would be lying fully awake, trying not to worry about where I was.

  Anxious about our reception, both Gaius and I wanted to hurry, but we were delayed by a blocked street. There had been a fire. Early morning was so often the time for gawpers to view the remains of a blaze, a frequent result of lamp-oil accidents. A small crowd had gathered by a burnt-out house from which cindered furniture was still being dragged. The owner slumped on the remains of a ruined chest, with his head in his hands; his wife, deep in shock, simply stared at the blackened frontage of their home.

  “Looks like they have lost everything!” Gaius Baebius greeted other people’s tragedy with relish.

  We were in a residential district not far from the Forum. It lay some way from the vigiles station house, so maybe there had been no time to summon them when the flames were spotted. Instead of the proper fire brigade, some local men were overseeing the action. They seemed pretty well organized. As we arrived we saw them removing equipment amid the acrid smell of smoke and clouds of filthy dust. We could hear loud crashes of walls and stairs being dismantled with grapplers; presumably they thought the interior had become unstable. They gave the impression that this situation, with civilians in charge, was normal in Ostia. Worn-out now, they had become bad-tempered. A group strode into the street and started to move back the crowd; people scattered fast, as if they were expecting rough treatment. Gaius and I were slower to respond.

  “Shift yourselves, idiots!” The burly brute gave us no chance for backchat. A colleague angrily slapped the donkey Gaius rode; it was a vicious blow, so the donkey reared, tottering almost upright on its back legs. We had our work cut out controlling the beast, while Gaius clung on; then mine played up. It was easiest to carry on down the street, calming our animals as we went.

  Next we had to mount the pavement and squeeze against house walls as we ran into a short convoy of builders’ carts, rattling toward us. They were empty apart from workmen, who were no doubt going to effect demolition. This was all extremely efficient. I could not say why I experienced unease.

  We returned our donkeys to the hiring stable and I managed to shed Gaius at Maia’s house without being lured inside. The last thing I could face was an altercation with Junia.

  Helena was in fact waiting when I entered our apartment. She was sitting at a table opposite the door, leaning her chin on her hands. She was dressed, in a short-sleeved light blue dress, but with her fine hair loose and minus jewelry. Her great brown eyes met mine, asking if I was safe. I smiled wearily, acquiescing. When I went across to her, I just managed to put down the new bread I had bought, before her arms went tightly around me. I could feel her heart pounding as she absorbed my presence and settled down.

  “It’s all right, fruit. Something delayed us last night.”

  “Oh, I knew Gaius Baebius would look after you!”

  Helena Justina leaned back to inspect the bruises from the hammering I had received from Cratidas. I was home now and as an informer’s girlfriend Helena had seen far worse damage. She was almost calm. Only the fierce compression of her lips spoke of hidden emotions.

  “So he is a pirate,” she commented, fingering my sore cheek. While I was away, she must have persuaded Junia to confess what Gaius Baebius knew about Damagoras.

  “He says he is not.”

  Helena Justina surveyed me with her intelligent dark eyes. Rueful thoughts were working in that clever brain. “I think he is a pirate who tells lies.”

  “That will be part of his calling. But he claims he is merely an honest, longtime-retired sea captain—who wanted Diocles to help write his life history.”

  Helena took me in her arms again. Against my neck she murmured, so the words tickled me alluringly, “A pirate who lies about his past … so did he want the missing ghostwriter to fake his memoirs?”

  We agreed that it seemed ludicrous.

  But as Helena and I talked it through, we wondered if Diocles had started the project innocently to make extra cash while on holiday—only to discover an unexpected story. Had Damagoras stupidly hired the wrong person? Did the scribe learn something that aroused his investigative instincts, and had he been about to expose a scandal in the Daily Gazette? That could have gotten him into serious trouble. Would Damagoras then have harmed the scribe? He certainly had cronies—Cratidas, for one—who could be vicious.

  I went back a stage. Might Diocles all along have suspected there was a story here? Did he come to Ostia deliberately, intending to expose Damagoras? I had allowed the scribe’s two colleagues to fob me off regarding his motives—or their colleague might have kept them in the dark on purpose.

  Either way, I would have to find out for myself whatever the scribe had learned at the villa. I needed more information on Damagoras’ background—and I needed it fast.

  XVII

  I met Petronius at the vigiles station house shortly afterward. We had made no specific arrangements. With Junia and Gaius causing a bad atmosphere at his lodgings, I knew he would have rushed to work. I walked around to the station house, and found Petro sharing a room with the officer in charge. Petro feigned surprise at seeing me, but he was being daft.

  The officer heading up the Sixth’s Ostia detachment was a short ex-army heavy with a beard—the same caricature of leadership whom I met yesterday. The unhelpful one. I had asked his background so I knew he had been a legionary centurion and was intent on higher things. According to him he was taking the vigiles route to a post with the Praetorian Guard. No doubt it would happen. He looked like a clunk to me. He would fit in nicely.

  With this delight, whose name was Brunnus, Petro acted as an intermediary. I explained my interests with regard to piracy. Brunnus blustered. “Well, if this villa-owner is eighty, and supposed to be retired, no wonder I couldn’t find him in our lists of deviants.”

  I refrained from reminding Brunnus that he had refused to consult the lists at all. Petronius had done it for me privately so there was no need to cause friction. I could save crushing Brunnus for later; good things are best allowed to take their time.

  “What’s the official stance on pirates nowadays?” I followed Petro’s lead in handling the man civilly, even though I wanted to poke his vine-stick somewhere dark and personal.

  “No pirates exist,” stated Brunnus. “Officially.”

  Petronius rephrased the question, with a peaceable smile: “What’s the unofficial position?”

  “Pirates never went away. Pirates are a filthy rash that will always reappear. But they operate out of Sicily, Sardinia, Cilicia. The vigiles are a land force, so, thank the gods, we don’t have the bastards in our remit.”

  “I can see that a retired old pirate who never leaves his seaside home would be of little interest,” I suggested, “but doesn’t your undesirables list for Ostia include current leaders, should they come ashore?”

  “We have enough to do,” grumbled Brunnus, “guarding the corn supply and catching dockside pilferers.”

  “No watching brief?”

  “The navy cover it.” He was terse; I detected jealousy. Inevitably for someone so intensely ambitious, who was not an idiot, Brunnus knew more than he had said: “I can suggest a naval contact with expertise,” he offered. “He happens to be at Portus with some of the Misenum Fleet.” I remembered the three triremes I had seen there.

  Petronius, with his free access to chamberlains, chefs, and huge dining couches, volunteered to ask the naval contact to dinner. Since Brunnus was our go-between, we ended up inviting Brunnus too. At least we were confident he would not steal the household linen; Brunnus was so keen to advance himself, he was bound to own his own dinner napkin, ready for when he was allowed to attend fancy banquets with the elite. He was not sufficiently aware to know that the real elite give you one to tak
e away.

  I bet Brunnus already had a Praetorian uniform, and tried it on in secret every night.

  When dinnertime came, both Brunnus and the contact were late. Maybe they had wives somewhere, but away from home base they behaved like single men. I reckoned they had gone for a drink on the way here. Possibly they would go for more than one. Petro and I were soon in trouble over their casual behavior. We were a large family party that included infants, children, and other young people, all clamoring to be fed at the right time—not to mention women who grew frosty when we messed up their domestic plans.

  Luckily the building contractor’s house had several dining rooms. While we hung about waiting for our visitors, Petronius arranged with a steward to feed the family group at once. We would have a small menonly dinner served up separately. Getting restless in our party clothes, Petro and I morosely had a drink ourselves.

  Brunnus arrived, solo. The naval attaché must have gone for a drink on his own. The two men were less pally than we had supposed.

  We gave Brunnus some wine. As we picked at nuts, to make conversation I mentioned the fire that Gaius and I had passed that morning. The brusque behavior of the men who were clearing up still bothered me.

  “Sounds about right!” Brunnus nodded sagely.

  “I was surprised the firefighting was not being done by the vigiles,” I hinted, with one eye on Petro. I wondered if the Sixth’s detachment were slackers.

  “If only! What you saw is standard practice in Ostia, Falco. Goes back to before the vigiles came here. Prior to us, the builders’ guild always put out fires; they had the right equipment, see. They have retained the role.”

  When I raised my eyebrows, Petronius explained further. “Only for fires in domestic property.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “There was local resentment about the Rome vigiles being stationed here. Some prefect decided we would respect sensitivities, so we let the builders’ guild carry on as before, in residential areas.”

  “I gather your landlord, Privatus, is top of the guild? Is that why he is so willing to be hospitable?” I tried to sound nonjudgmental, though it seemed an awkward situation.