I realized that the cash must be sitting in the large chest beneath the cloak upon which the two scribes had laid out their lunch. Perhaps they thought robbers would fail to look under their tablecloth. Most likely, the daft pair had given absolutely no thought to security.
I told them to take their loot for safekeeping in the vaults of one of the Forum temples. “To be sure, tell them you are depositing imperial funds.” I paused. “Does the Emperor know about all this?”
They looked shifty. Eventually Holconius admitted with a lofty wave of the hand, “In view of the circumstances, and the need for secrecy, we were granted funds by the cashier in the Chief Spy’s office.”
I drew breath sharply. “I take it Anacrites is still at his holiday villa?” They both looked surprised at the familiarity with which I spoke of him. “He will be livid when he knows that you two have siphoned off his petty cash.”
“It’s more than petty cash …” Holconius blushed. “We told them you had authorized it.”
“You told them a lie then,” I replied quietly, keeping my temper. Helena covered her eyes with her hand, despairing. Anacrites had always posed a threat against me that frightened her. This was asking for more trouble. “You owe the Chief Spy a confession, and me an apology. Your action will gravely damage my relationship with Anacrites—” Nothing could damage it. We had no relationship. He and I were permanently out to get each other. These two ninnies had just given him the upper hand.
“Show me the ransom note now, please.”
“We left it in Rome.” Upset by my attitude, Mutatus tried bluffing.
“Holconius offered it to me. Let’s be sensible, shall we?”
They produced the document. I read it and gave it back to them. They seemed surprised I did so. That was the difference between scribes and informers. Scribes wanted to keep everything for their archives. I was used to learning the crucial parts of correspondence, then ditching the evidence. (Or replacing it exactly as I had found it in the owner’s ivory scroll box, so he or she never knew that I had read it …)
This was a waxed tablet, written in Latin, legible but not produced by a secretary. It said the usual: we’ve got him, you want him back; give us the money, or Diocles dies. The arrangements were in the letter. There was no mention of any Illyrian. The scribes were to leave the cash at a drop site. It was in Portus Augusti, an establishment named the Damson Flower. I was able to inform them that their venue was close to a bar called the Dolphin, and that I thought it was probably a brothel.
Helena looked impressed by my local knowledge. The scribes simply looked shocked.
“This is a confidence trick,” I assured them. “If you give them the money, you will lose it and never see Diocles.”
“They will kill him even if we pay?”
“They won’t kill him—because they don’t have him.” We had covered this already, but Holconius and Mutatus simply had not heard me. “Look, I wish I could say my investigation will lead to me finding him drinking with a maudlin face in some portside bar. All I have learned so far leads me to dread his fate—though in my opinion, he has not been kidnapped.”
“You think he is dead already?” Holconius was blunt.
“It seems a possibility. Maybe he has ended his own life, suicide for personal reasons after suffering depression. But there are other alternatives, some of which involve people and stories he may have wanted to write in the Gazette. I asked this before, but I will ask you again, was there any particular scandal that Diocles told you he intended to cover?”
The scribes shook their heads.
I warned them again not to pay the ransom. They thanked me for coming to give them this sound advice. They had not the slightest intention of following it.
They forgot, I had had many clients before. I knew the signs.
XLV
As Helena and I were going out, we met Rubella and Petronius coming in. We all stopped to confer on the doorstep of the lodging house.
“It’s a swindle,” I announced to the two vigiles. “Nothing about this matches the methodology of the Cilician gang. I advised Holconius and Mutatus not to deliver the money. They promised—but of course they will ignore me. I’m going to lie in wait at the drop site.”
“We’ll see you there!” breezed Rubella, in a jovial mood.
“Do you know where it is?”
“Falco, if you can get it out of a couple of scribes, we damn well can too.” Rubella paused, and became less jocular. “So what about the missing man? Could he have been kidnapped?”
“It’s possible.”
“Who would take a prisoner and hold him for two or three months, without contact?” Petro asked. “The story is illogical. What do you think?” he then asked me.
“One: Diocles could have topped himself while in some mental crisis over a dead aunt, his only relative. Two: he upset Damagoras, a likely suspect. Or three: something bad happened because Diocles held a grudge against some members of the builders’ guild—more suspicious bastards.”
Petro and Rubella cheered up at three, delighted to have their firefighting rivals implicated.
“What’s the betting?” Rubella demanded.
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Typical informer!”
Helena looked defensive, then asked Rubella, “How did you know the scribes lived here?”
“Oh, we have ears everywhere, young lady!”
Petronius was more open: “They arrived in Ostia in a big carriage, clearly carrying a chest of gold—and at the Rome Gate they stopped to ask directions to a good lodging house.”
I groaned. “So the whole of Ostia knows they have something to steal? The money box is in their room; help yourselves before somebody else does … I advised them to stash the cash at the Temple of the Capitoline Triad.”
“We’ll recommend the Temple of Rome and Augustus,” scoffed Rubella. “That should confuse the stylus-pushers nicely.”
The two vigiles officers were going upstairs, no doubt to repeat the conversation Helena and I had just held there. We parted in lighthearted mood. We were all fired up because at last we could make progress. Whether we caught the real kidnap gang or some other chancers, at least now there was an opening for action.
“Oh, by the way,” Rubella called back to me. “That silly girl, Posidonius’ daughter, came to plead for the body to bury. I allowed her to have it.” I was amazed he had been so gracious to Rhodope, but I knew why: it saved the vigiles having to dispose of Theopompus themselves. “I said she had to hold a decent Roman funeral at a quiet local necropolis, not some damned great pirate feast on the beach, and she is to let me know in advance where and when the ceremony is.”
I gave him a light salute. “See you there as well then!”
Rubella had paused again. Two steps above him on a flight of stairs, Petronius watched us. Petro knew what was coming. “Another thing, Falco—she let slip a curious fact. Theopompus was not one of the Cilicians. He was an Illyrian.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Not the one who acts as an intermediary; his description is quite different … So, Rubella, what does this mean?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” admitted the tribune. “But if Illyrians and Cilicians have been working in partnership, maybe we can somehow put a rift between them.”
“Play politics!” exclaimed Helena admiringly. Rubella looked suspicious, but was unable to tell whether she was mocking him.
When we reached our apartment, Julia and Favonia were engaged in a screaming quarrel. Albia let out a final exasperated yell at them, failed to make any impact, then ran out to sit by herself in the courtyard. Helena and I seated ourselves on either side of her, each holding one of her hands in consolation as we listened to the high-pitched volcanics up above.
“Just to let you know,” I told Helena over Albia’s head, “when we get divorced, I shall provide decent necessities without protest, and I am surrendering all my paternal rights to the children.”
“O
h, they must live with you, Falco. I am a traditionalist,” Helena lied.
“No, I absolutely insist on this. Little children should be with their loving mothers. I am a generous man. I shall compel myself to make this sacrifice.”
Helena gazed back at me. “We could both run away,” she suggested, rather wistfully. “They have two grandmothers who will fight for adoption rights.”
“Done!” I cried. “Let’s run away together; that sounds like fun.”
Other tenants were starting to look out to see what the noise was. Some wag asked us whether we wanted him to call in the army to quell the tribal rebellion. Leaving Albia to sit in peace, Helena and I went up dutifully to wrench apart our offspring. So long as we only had two, we could grapple with one each. Normally the bruises went down after about five days.
If the two scribes followed their instructions, they had to take their money to the drop the next morning. Rising when it was still dark, I prepared for action. I hammered loose studs back into my best boots. Nux was lying on my feet. Albia had come from the other room and was observing the ritual.
“I don’t have a boot-mender in Ostia.”
“You won’t use a boot-mender in Rome, Marcus Didius.” We both spoke in hushed voices.
“True.” By the light of an oil lamp, I checked bootstraps methodically. “Menders are useless.” I wiped the oil from my sword, having first produced the weapon from my hiding place, to Albia’s astonishment. Turning it to the light, I checked the blade and sharpened it with my sharkskin buffer. Then I filed my dagger with pumice, just to keep occupied. “Tell me, solemn girlie from the wild north, why are you so intent on what I am doing?”
“Aulus Camillus said, if there was to be any action, I should watch you getting ready.”
“Aulus, eh?” I winked at her. People tended to assume Albia was a pallid soul, but she could take teasing. “Watch for what, exactly?”
“He said it always impressed him to see you change from a clown to a soldier.”
“Aulus thought well of me, eh?” That came as a surprise.
“He said: ‘When the eyes stop smiling, you can feel safe.’ Of course,” Albia assured me quickly, smiling herself, “I feel safe all the time now myself. He meant, that was how he felt, if he was in an action with you.”
I stood up. The dog jumped back, and whined softly. She knew something was up, and that she would not be taken out with me when I left. I made sure I had on a tunic which allowed free movement of the arms, tightened my belt a notch, buckled on my sword.
“I did not know you had a sword with you,” Albia observed gravely. “You never wear a sword in Rome.”
“In Rome, it is against the law.”
“So it is safer for you here, where you can wear one?”
“No. It is more dangerous, because here there may be idiots wearing weapons who don’t know how to use them properly.”
“But you do?”
“I do.”
“Have you ever—”
“Albia, don’t ask.” I had to say good-bye to Helena now; she was in the other room with the children, pretending not to know what I was doing. “Do me a favor, Albia. When I have gone, tell Helena Justina what her brother said.”
Albia nodded slowly. “That will comfort her.”
“Perhaps. If not, just remind her that on this operation I am not alone; I am going out to play with the big boys from the vigiles.”
Instinct had brought Helena to the doorway. Nux ran to her, seeking help to deter me from going; Helena bent to stop the dog pawing the flimsy undertunic she wore in bed at night. Seeing me ready and with my sword on, Helena closed the door gently between me and the children. Julia, who was always too alert for convenience, was already just the other side of the door, silently staring. Behind her, I glimpsed Favonia sleepily standing up in the crib. “Given what I know of the vigiles, should their presence reassure me, Marcus?” Helena kept her voice low.
“Trust in what you know of me.” I took off my gold equestrian ring, then gave it to her for safekeeping; sometimes it was best not to reveal my status. I kissed her quietly. Only Helena could tell whether my eyes were still smiling.
“Don’t fall into any water,” she answered. An old joke between us. An old, and very loving joke.
She was still anxious, but I had all her affection. It shows what great forbearance Helena allowed me—given that she knew I was going out now to a brothel in the port.
XLVI
The lighthouse had gone dark. Its great bonfire had been allowed to die down as dawn wanly lit the wharves. The working day in Portus had begun long before I arrived, even though I had crossed the river on one of the first ferries. There could have been only a few hours between the last sailors rolling back to their ships after their night’s carousal and the arrival of the most hard-worked laborers. The brothel appeared to be closed.
I made my way slowly up the mole, gazing at the moored ships. Everywhere was quiet, but activity had begun on some of the vessels. A sleepy sailor spat into the harbor; I pretended to assume it was nothing personal. At the customs post, a clerk was sluggishly setting up the table. Ships with taxable goods could arrive in port even this early; in fact, a vessel was out by the lighthouse, maneuvering so badly it was impossible to tell whether it was going out or coming in. The clerk and I exchanged faint nods; maybe he had seen me recently, talking to Gaius Baebius. Neither he nor anybody else seemed surprised to see a stranger at the port this early. On the docks, people take most things for granted—apparently. More likely, eyes were watching my every move.
The three naval triremes were still moored together, still apparently deserted. Matched pennants wilted on their sterns, from which lines ran down to bollards on the quay. The usual sordid harbor litter bobbed in the dark water between them.
The air was chilly. I had come with a cloak. It would be a nuisance later when the sun started to burn, but this way I could keep my sword out of sight.
Reaching the far end of the mole, in the shadow of the lighthouse I turned and walked back the way I had come, tripping over half the ropes I had managed to avoid the first time. I could have wandered all around the other mole, but it was too far from the venue. Instead, I joined the men who stood at the bar of the Dolphin, warming themselves with hot drinks and breakfast snacks. Most had the glum fatalism of those starting their day’s labor. One stood out: my brother-in-law. My heart sank.
“Hello, Gaius. This is a surprise.”
“Marcus! I’ve taken a real liking to this place,” Gaius Baebius informed me. His pomposity was already irritating. “It has become my local, since that day you and I discovered it.”
As he took my order, the noncommittal eyes of the proprietor told me the delight was one-way.
“Ha! ‘Discovered’ makes us sound like territorial pioneers. All we did was walk along here with Ajax. How are your aches and pains?”
“Still agony—”
Cursing myself for asking, I cut in brutally: “Anyway, what are you doing here so early?”
“I always come down to the port at this time. I like to get settled. Sometimes the view of the sunrise is very affecting.” I was not capable of replying to poetic ideas, not at this hour—and certainly not from Gaius. “And you are working too, I suppose?” he asked me loudly.
“I enjoy a good sunrise myself.” There was no point kicking his shin as a hint to shut up; he would want to know, equally loudly, why I had kicked him.
“Yes, I thought you must be here on surveillance; there are some of your friends from the vigiles.” I groaned.
As the somber working men at the Dolphin all turned from their breakfast in one synchronized motion to stare, Petro, Fusculus, and a selection of their troops sauntered from the ferry direction in twos and threes, unobtrusively—or so they had thought. The stevedores and bumboat rowers might have noticed the newcomers anyway; port workers could smell law-and-order men a mile away. But the vigiles’ arrival was enough to disperse the breakfasters,
leaving only a couple of stubborn loaders who watched what happened next with sour expressions, chewing their handfuls of bread and refusing to be bumped out of their routine.
The vigiles replaced the departing breakfasters at the counter, where they ordered snacks of their own.
“Got an operation on today?” Gaius asked, with his usual lack of tact. Fortunately, Lucius Petronius was chewing at that moment so could not bite off my brother-in-law’s nose.
“The sunrise will be lovely,” I informed Petro as his brown eyes spoke movingly of overwrought feelings.
“Nice!”
Standing at the bar of the food stall, we turned our backs to the counter, elbows on the marble. That way, we could gaze across to the Damson Flower unobtrusively. I saw a couple of the men go over to the building, then start surreptitiously checking for the back door. There was bound to be one. No self-respecting bar or brothel lacks a rear exit for a quick getaway—or to serve as a secret entrance for those who burst in for armed debt collection or a surprise mass raid on the purses of the customers.
“That place over the road does a roaring trade,” observed Gaius. For a sleepy bug, his feelers were acute. He had homed in dangerously on our object of observation. “The Damson Flower.”
“Yes, the first rays of sunlight are just starting to glint charmingly on the wonky roof finials,” seethed Petro. “Oh look, now the worn-out pornographic board is shining in the newborn light … Gaius Baebius, shouldn’t you be at your tax table?”
Gaius Baebius turned his large watery eyes to Petro, and made a huge show of catching on. “Yes, Lucius Petronius, I must supervise those slackers who work for me.”
“Good man.”
Gaius left. The atmosphere improved immediately.
The door of the Damson Flower opened a crack. A young man in a rust-colored tunic and with rather short hair slipped outside and came over to the bar. He ordered bread and a drink, as if he had just come from a bout with a good-time girl. Maybe he had. But he was undoubtedly a vigilis. He gave a slight shake of the head to Petronius, drank up, and then left. Another man, in a streaky green tunic, arrived on foot from the direction of the Island, and went straight to the brothel, where he was soon admitted. He definitely belonged to the Fourth Cohort; I recognized him.
Scandal Takes a Holiday Page 22
