I kicked off from his damned boat. I would have cursed him but there was no time and I went under the water again. The man I had seen was wide, sturdy, in his sixties, and with wild gray curly hair. Although I only glimpsed a blurred outline through the water in my eyes, I knew him. I tried to shout his name but swallowed a pint of sea instead.
It was too late. I was drowning now.
Then I blundered into something which nearly took my ear off, and heard a cry of “Grab the bloody oar!” After which that familiar voice said with casual irritation, “I’ve given birth to an idiot—”
So I grabbed the oar and gasped with my usual filial respect, “Shut up and pull me out, before I die here, Pa!”
LIII
Nice of you to drop in, Marcus. What are you doing, fannying about here all on your own, half dead?”
Half dead was right. I was lying barefoot in the bottom of his boat, completely collapsed. I could not even thank Geminus for the welcome. Someone thumped me between the shoulder blades. I threw up a lot of seawater.
“Gods, nothing changes with this boy—he was just the same at three months old—oops, there he goes again! Let’s try and aim him over the side next time …”
Someone else was in the boat.
With a lot of concentration, as other people hauled me upright, I managed to squirm around enough to be seasick over the rail as requested. Applause greeted this feat of willpower. I lay with my face on the rail, shivering uncontrollably. “Take me home, Pa.”
“We will, son.”
Nothing happened. The fishing boat continued to bob gently where it was. I was aware that Geminus was taking his ease, completely unconcerned. Eventually, I managed to squint around enough to see his companion: Gornia, Pa’s warehouse assistant. Beside him, my belt had been looped around a spar and my boots upended on the rowlocks to drain. Both Pa and Gornia were wearing hats. They had draped a tiny piece of sacking to provide shade for me. The August sun sparkled off the ocean, its light implacable and dazzling.
I could not face the major issue of why my father just happened to be drifting about the Tyrrhenian Sea. So I lost myself in wondering why Gornia, who ought to be supervising the warehouse back at the Saepta Julia in Rome, was instead sitting with my father in the same ridiculous boat. The answer was beyond me. Gornia, a little old chap who had spent many years with my father, just sat there and grinned at me with almost toothless gums. I did not waste effort on an appeal to him. He always let Pa take the lead in conversation, and Pa was a master of holding back essential facts. Gornia could have worked at some respectable establishment, where the pay would have been as scanty and the hours as long, but he gave the strange impression he enjoyed the thrills at the Geminus cavern of mysteries.
“Take me home, please, Pa!”
“All in good time, boy.”
Nothing had changed. I could have been five years old again, overtired and overfed with honeyed dates, at some long-winded auctioneers’ party to which Pa had been told to take me to get me out from under Mother’s feet for a few hours.
With two young children of my own, I knew all too well how to respond: “I want to go home now!”
“Not yet, son.”
I gave up. Maybe I had really drowned and this was a nightmare in Hades. “Pa, is it too much to ask—exactly what are you doing here?”
“Just a quiet fishing trip, Marcus.”
“Sharks?” I snarled, thinking of Uncle Fulvius. I could see a couple of lines dangling overboard, though neither Pa nor Gornia was paying them any attention. I could not remember my father going fishing before, ever. He was a grilled-pork man. Or as we used to joke, roast peacock, if ever he could impose himself on a dinner party where the host served such a luxury to spongers. Since nothing would ever happen until my annoying parent decided he was ready, I roused myself a little and struggled out of my wet tunic. Gornia kindly spread it out to dry.
Pa gave me a flask of water. After tentatively sipping, I recovered enough to ask if he knew where exactly Fulvius had spent his exile after he missed that ship to Pessinus.
Pa looked surprised, but answered, “Some dump called Salonae.”
“Where’s that?” Pa shrugged. I prodded, “Is it in Illyria?”
“Well …” He had known all along. “I think it’s more north.”
I did not believe him. “Not Dyrrhachium?”
“I told you, Salonae.”
“What was Fulvius doing there?”
“Bit of this, bit of that.”
“Don’t wriggle. This could be serious.” I had some more water. “Bit of what, Pa?”
“Serious, how?”
“Uncle Fulvius could soon be arrested—”
“For what?” Pa seemed alarmed.
“Piracy.”
“You are joking, son!”
“No. What has he been doing in Illyria, do you know?”
“Just buying and selling.” That would give Fulvius an appeal to Pa; anyone in commerce overseas was a potential contact. Before I could ask, selling what, my father volunteered, “He was a supplier to the Ravenna Fleet. A negotiator.”
“Negotiator covers a whole range of business—legitimate or otherwise.”
“You look as if you’re going to be sick again, lad,” said Pa earnestly.
“Don’t distract me. I’ll be fine if you ever row me back to land. I’m wet and I’m cold, and I’ve had a bad experience. If you hadn’t turned up, I would have drowned. I am grateful, believe me, I am very grateful—but why can’t we go? For heavens’ sake, I’ll buy you some damned fish. I’ll get you a whole bloody swordfish and let you say you caught it yourself, Pa—”
Pa let me rant. When I stopped, he just said peacefully, “We can’t go yet.”
I looked at Gornia. The emaciated porter just grinned. Both he and my father seemed strangely at home out here.
“Whose boat is this?” I demanded suspiciously.
“Mine,” said Pa. That was news. It was an old boat. How long had my father had a boat?
“Where do you keep it—and what is it for?” Pa just smiled at me. I tried again: “Do you often row out as far as this, and just sit whistling under the sky?”
“Very health-giving.”
“Very dubious, Pa.” Gornia thought this was so witty he chuckled. Well, that was a first. He too seemed quite content to stay here forever, doing nothing. I stood up, managed not to faint, and grasped a long rowing oar. In theory I could handle small boats, though I was not as adept as Petronius. “If you don’t tell me what we’re waiting for, I’m going to scull us ashore myself, Pa.”
My father didn’t bother to get up and grab the oar; he knew three strokes would finish me. “We are waiting for a catch, Marcus. All that’s bitten so far is yourself—a delightful surprise, don’t get me wrong—but Helena won’t thank me if I grill you for supper … Sit down and stop playing up. If you’re hungry you can have my lunch.”
“He looks as if he’ll chuck up again.” For once, Gornia was moved to comment. He was worried that if I took after Pa, I would eat his share. Still, it looked a large hamper.
I worked things out. They had done this before. More times than I would like to know. Of course they were not fishing; they had an assignation. I could guess what for. Pa was expecting some international trader to drop goods overboard to him. He would take the booty ashore in secret, without paying import duty. I could hardly complain, since he had rescued me, but I now understood why he had been prepared to bash anyone who tried to climb aboard.
I was furious. My father was smuggling works of art—and if the vigiles or customs apprehended him today, I would be arrested too. I explained how inconvenient this would be to a man of my superior equestrian status—and Pa told me where to stuff my gold ring. “You’ll get caught, Pa.”
“I don’t see why,” my father assured me in a bland tone. “I never have before.”
“Just how long have you been doing this?”
“About thirty years.”<
br />
“It can’t be worth it—”
“It bloody is!”
“What’s import duty—two, two and a half percent? All right, so you have to add one percent auction tax but you make your clients pay that—”
“Duty on some luxuries is twenty-five percent,” intoned Pa, and let me absorb why such a swingeing tax made sitting in this boat worthwhile.
“It gives me a good feeling,” my father chortled eventually, “every time your sister Junia inflicts that fart-arse husband of hers on me!”
“Oh, if we’re cheating Gaius Baebius, well done!” I slumped down in the boat and prepared for more punishment.
For the next few hours I shivered and was seasick and acquired vicious sunburn, until I wished I had waited much more patiently for a chance to hitch a lift ashore with a dolphin.
Finally the expected ship approached, a flag was dipped, Pa and Gornia leapt to their feet, waved cheerfully, and when the vessel hove to, they sprang into action as various oddly shaped, heavy packages were lowered in rope cradles. I stayed where I was, pretending to be comatose. My two companions caught the bundles expertly and stowed them, working at speed, filling this fishing smack and the little jollyboat which it towed behind. Gornia, who had once seemed a complete townie, clambered between the boats with unexpected agility. Even Pa, as he began trimming up the sail, looked like some old whelk who had lived in a fishing village all his life. Gornia manned an oar with all the aptitude of a ferryman.
The merchant ship had moved off again, and at last we were heading shorewards. I dragged my salt-stiffened tunic back on over my head.
“Where will you land, Pa? I can’t face a long trip back to Ostia.”
“No need, son. Soon be all over—you’ll be tucked up in a cozy bed with some hot spiced wine to lull you off … We’ll look after you.” I gazed at him. A new secret was about to break. Some hideous revelation that I would feel obliged to keep at all costs from my mother. “I have my own villa,” Pa meekly informed me.
Well, of course; he would. Stuffed with art galleries full of Greek statues. Paid for by contraband. “You should let him show you his collection, Marcus,” Gornia confirmed enthusiastically. Pa looked shifty.
A thought struck as I glared at him. “Fulvius acquires stuff for you—has he been a long-term supplier?”
“Don’t tell your mother.” Ma would strangle Fulvius.
“How astute! You two have been contacts for years?”
Pa nodded. That meant, if Uncle Fulvius was in league with modern pirates, so was Pa. I closed my eyes in despair.
“Nearly there,” my father soothed me. “This has been a wonderful treat for me. Sea and sun. A happy day out in a fishing boat, with my boy …”
It was dusk when we arrived at his villa. It was as luxurious as I expected. I tried not to look.
There was no shortage of slaves. A messenger was sent to Helena.
“You might have consulted me. What did you say, Pa?”
“Nothing to worry about, darling—gone fishing with Geminus.” Oh great.
I tried to think of other things. “Isn’t this villa close to Damagoras?”
“He’s just up the coast. Is it true he’s banged up?” Pa wheedled.
“Jailed in a vigiles cell.”
“Is that a nice way to treat an elderly man?”
“No, but the vigiles are heartless—so watch out! What do you know about Damagoras?”
“We don’t mingle,” uttered Pa. “I hold my soirées at my place in Rome; I keep myself to myself here. Lot of interlopers—you never know what class of person you might find you’re dealing with.”
I said I could well see that a smuggler would not want to mix in with a pirate chief—and that was when I went to bed.
The bed was as comfortable as promised, and I slept as soundly as any man who had been tormented and thrown into the sea to drown, before he endured ghastly family revelations and drank a lot of wine to blot out a horrendous day.
A night’s recovery time was all I needed. I was anxious to be on my way. I slept in longer than I meant, but still found the breakfast buffet (served by yet more slaves) before Pa put in an appearance. Gornia, an anxious type, was already up and packing a discreetly covered wagon. He took me up to Ostia. He dropped me close to my apartment, then drove on toward Rome. I walked swiftly home, only to find a note written on the back of the one Pa had sent Helena yesterday. Dear skiver, If you turn up, have gone to funeral. Necropolis at Rome Gate. I trust you caught a big one. HJ
I washed in cold water, changed into new clothing and my second-best boots, tried and failed to put a comb through my salted curls, then stood for a second beside Favonia’s crib. My family were absent, but it helped me reconnect with them.
I detoured via Privatus’ house. My children were there, being looked after; I did not disturb them. Young Marius and Cloelia were in the peristyle garden; they had discovered how to fiddle with the Dionysus statue’s waterworks. The wine god now performed a huge, arching pee at which they fell about in fits of giggles. Then they looked up, saw me, and threw themselves upon me with delight. Nux and Marius’ young dog Argos, who were sleeping in a patch of shade, looked up, wagged lazy tails, and went back to sleeping.
“Uncle Marcus! Everyone has been searching for you.”
“I’m in trouble, then.”
“Well, if they kill you at the funeral,” Cloelia consoled me, “that will be convenient. Would you like red roses or white ones on your bier?”
“You choose for me.”
“The double ones are my favorites.”
“I lost my sword,” I told Marius. “Does Petronius have a spare here?” My nephew was not supposed to know, but he did and he fetched it for me straightaway. It was a basic weapon in a plain scabbard, but sat in the hand well and was perfectly sharpened. Buckling it on, in the familiar high military position under my right armpit, I felt better at once. “Thanks, Marius. Kiss the girls for me.”
“We’ll be their guardians,” Cloelia assured me in her solemn way, “if Mother and Aunt Helena make you fall on the sword.” While Marius was fetching the sword she too had scampered off, to return with Petro’s second-best toga so that at the funeral I could be properly clad, with my head veiled in its capacious folds.
Nice children. I decided not to mention that their great-uncle was a pirate’s associate and that their grandfather smuggled art.
LIV
Marcus Rubella may have tried to prevent the funeral of Theopompus from becoming a wild party on a beach; what he had achieved was a wild party at a necropolis. Since Rhodope had chosen to give her lover his send-off at the Rome Gate, this was about as public as it could be. When I arrived, the event had been in full flow since sunrise, and its fervor showed no sign of abating. Everyone who passed by on the main road to and from Ostia must have been aware of it. Rubella looked glum as he supervised a group of vigiles, who were attempting to divert the crowds.
“No entry!”
“You tell them, son.”
With a cheery wave to the tribune, I eased in past his traffic controls. Aiming for the noise, I made my way between the rows of columbaria. The necropolis was laid out like a small town of miniature houses for the dead. They were solidly brick-built, many with pitched roofs. Some had their doors standing open; most had a main room, with niches all around the walls at two levels, for receiving urns. One wide, travertine paved street ran parallel to the main road from Rome; it was full of people, all heading for the Theopompus send-off.
“Stop right there!” A fist hit my chest. “Is that my toga?”
“Oh, damn. I thought I hid that blob of sauce you copped last time you wore it.”
Petronius Longus was a sharp-eyed bastard—and he was growling. “That toga was clean when you filched it, Falco. I can see it’s mine, not the hairy affair you normally trip over.” My own toga, which I had left in Rome, had been inherited from my brother Festus, who had favored a luxurious nap and an exceedingly long hem
. I had never yet had it altered because I hated wearing it.
This one was too long for me as well; Petronius Longus is half a head taller. I draped a fold of the borrowed garment over my lugged curls. This created a sad parody of a devout man going to a sacrifice, but I pulled a long face and used mincing steps for extra effect. Petro whistled flirtatiously. “Stop sounding like a brickie on a scaffold, Petro—I need to be disguised.”
“Hiding from Helena? So where in Hades have you been? I had to give the whole port a going-over for you yesterday—then some mad message came.”
“Pa on good form—” I did not give him away. “How is Helena?”
“Apart from furious?”
“I’m innocent. If the harbormaster had done his job, he would have seen me being stolen away by a cutthroat gang of Illyrians.”
“The ones who are here today?” Petronius perked up and attached himself to me. “Oh fun! Will they be angry you’ve escaped? I’ll come and watch.”
He poked my toga, felt the sword, then showed me the pommel of the one he carried beneath his cloak. I admitted that I had borrowed his own spare. “Mine is at the bottom of the sea. I wish I hadn’t wasted effort polishing it first.”
“Lucky it wasn’t you who fell in.”
I grinned weakly.
The funeral was taking place in the middle of the wide road, which at that point was packed with people. The ceremony was getting under way, but it looked as if nothing much had been happening for several hours. Mourners who knew one another were sitting around in groups trying to remember the name of that fat man who got very drunk the last time they went to a funeral. People who knew nobody were stretching their stiff limbs and looking bored.
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