When I came down a fierce battle had broken out spontaneously all over two floors of the brothel. If I wanted to get through to the outer door there was nothing for it but to join in.
I wound my belt round one hand with the buckle end free, and grabbed a torch in the other fist. Bawling viciously, I drove a path down the remaining stairs through people grappling untidily. It was unclear who was what. I ran the gauntlet of a corridor full of half-clothed screaming women, then met a fateful of what I hoped was washing water from a crazy man who was giggling repeatedly in a high-pitched monotone.
The main action surged within the large, refectory-like room. It was a sea of madly working limbs and tousled heads. One fellow singled me out. He had a tapered waist and shoulders so wide he looked as if he had been hung up like a tunic with a pole through its sleeves: a gymnasium freak. It did him no good. Without waiting for his carefully rehearsed approach, I kicked him below the belt, banged the stub of my torch down hard on his neck as he doubled up, and flung him back into the scrum. Across the room, Sergius grinned. I had no time to grin back, for someone else ran at me with a stool, legs first. I snatched one of the legs and yanked it aside, going in with my elbow and knee.
The girls who worked here were clustering together, some hanging in the doorways of the refectory. A small group rushed in with bigger ideas, spitting, chucking trays and cups about, pinching, scratching, and pulling hair. I could not tell which side they supported – perhaps any that enabled them to get even with men for once. One mighty dark-skinned amazon chose to come at me, huge breasts thudding as she ran. The charge petered out, to my relief, and she sank her teeth into my hand. I grabbed her nose and twisted it hard until she let go.
Two of the lads were working well together, knocking criminals out in a well coordinated routine. But elsewhere others were suffering. We were greatly outnumbered. We soon ran out of both energy and flair. There was a thunder along the main corridor. Prostitutes raced past screeching. Martinus came into the room backwards, using crossed broom-handles to fend off three or four attacking heavies. Behind him, laughing as they chose victims to slaughter, were the Miller and Little Icarus.
The small snarling form of Icarus hurtled straight at me. I grabbed an unconscious street villain by the shoulders of his tunic and used his body to block the impetus. Icarus had a knife. Well, it might be illegal, but I'm the kind of law-abiding citizen who fully expects to meet the other sort, so I had one as well. Sparks flew as we clashed hasp to hasp. I gripped his spare wrist with my free hand and banged against his knife arm to break the deadlock of our weapons. Then Martinus sent one of his own attackers flailing into Icarus. I disarmed him and knocked him over. He was still kicking, but after living in a Smaractus tenancy, I knew how to stamp on beetles.
As soon as Icarus gave up and just prayed that he could die now, I tried to help my comrades. The Miller was mashing bodies left and right; Sergius had been crowded into a corner by some street slime, but was keeping the honours even. Martinus was down; he was covered in blood, though still jabbing with his brooms. Identifiable customers were thin on the ground. Our chance had gone. We were facing a massacre. At that moment I saw in the doorway the bemused-looking figure of the Very Important Patrician who had been Lalage's best customer, hot for an evening of exotic massage with the sinuous proprietress.
No one could have told him Lalage was dead; only I knew. The magistrate (to allude to him with courteous vagueness) was finding it hard to comprehend that his gilded boots had stepped into the dark outer suburbs of Hades. As usual, he was followed by his lictors. They were shrewd men, trained to spot trouble two streets away. They grasped what was happening at once.
Martinus muttered, 'Oh gods. Do us all a favour, Falco – march the marble-prancer out of here before he knows what's happening!'
I had no need to bother. Macra, bright girl, was already wheeling him off somewhere. The lictors, having gaped at the blithe anarchy before them, rushed up the corridor after him, already forming into a protective phalanx. Well, all except one rushed off. He had spied the Miller, who at that moment was raising a table above his head with the aim of squashing Sergius like a rabbit beneath a wine-cart wheel. With a roar of delight the lictor unfastened the gold ribbon on his bundle of rods. Then he hooked out an axe.
To those of you who may have wondered, I can now reveal that the axe in a lictor's ceremonial bundle is a real one – and sharp. The honed edge glittered briefly. The lictor had only had time to grip his weapon by the far end of its handle, but he knew what to do. He swung low. He swung his axe in a wide, beautiful half-circle like a scythe. He swung to cut the Miller off at the ankles… Hooked away.
I never saw what happened to the lictor. I reckon he escaped. I doubt if he wanted any credit: there was a man who had truly enjoyed himself.
The omens suddenly grew more bleak for us. Tibullinus and Arica had returned with a century of men. They were fresh, and they were mean. They burst in ready to kill us all. For a few hairy moments Tibullinus and his patrolmen squared up to clear the party. I managed to scramble across the wet, bloody floor towards Sergius, who was smashing down shutters at a window. The other lads forced their way through to us, dragging Martinus. Opposite, the two narrow doorways both filled with ugly vigiles. Any criminals who could move were dragging themselves aside to leave room for these heroes from the Sixth to charge. We lined up to do our best. The shutters would serve us as weapons. Maybe one or two of us could climb out to the street. There were more troops in the street, however – we could hear that.
Someone said something to Arica. He passed it on to Tibullinus. Next minute the two doorways were empty, and so was the outer corridor. Girls rushed past again, this time in the other direction, jostling to reach the street door. We stood feeling abandoned, then we tore outside after them.
We fell out into a streetfight. It looked like some crazy public-service exercise. There were vigiles everywhere. They were fighting each other. Suddenly I realised that in their midst were Petronius, Fusculus and Porcius. These were not the Sixth Cohort attacking themselves, but the Sixth being set upon by the Fourth. Nothing like it had happened since the civil war.
A man adept in violence crashed across the street towards me. He was locked in a hold with Tibullinus, a hold of painful illegality. As I winced, stepping back to give him space, he broke a bone somewhere in the centurion with a horrendous crack, then put in a punch like a pile-hammer. Tibullinus lay still. His assailant stood up. He jerked his chin up derisively as if despising the weak opposition.
Across the road, Petronius clung in the doorway of the Oily Jug, catching his breath: He grinned at me wryly. The vanquisher of Tibullinus looked at both of us.
'Nice work,' I said. I meant it too.
Whatever we thought of him, Marcus Rubella had come good.
The turmoil continued. It was a head-to-head conflict of the foot patrols now; I stood back, near the tribune, and watched. Then I glimpsed through the fighting that Petro had someone with him. He was talking to Porcius.
The lad looked confused. He was shaking his head vigorously. Even though not a word was audible I knew what I was witnessing: my old friend had chosen this moment of grief and commotion to put his raw recruit through a disciplinary interview.
I knew why. Petronius had remembered the time when Balbinus Pius, awaiting sentence and his legal right to exile, was under house surveillance by the Sixth Cohort. He had been guarded by Tibullinus and Mica, whom we now knew were in his pocket. An officer of the Fourth had been assigned to them as an observer. That man was among the party, led by Tibullinus and Mica, that had brought Balbinus to Ostia. Presumably that officer had known Linus would be on watch Once Balbinus joined his ship. The observer had been Porcius.
Petronius must have been suspicious for some time. This explained why he had been so hard on the recruit; why, too, when he needed the little black slave Porcius had been looking after, Petro had been so insistent it was Fusculus who fetched the child, pro
tecting the witness against 'accidents'. It explained why Petronius had lost his temper so badly with Porcius.
He was angry again now.
I saw Martinus and Fusculus conferring as they kept Petronius under scrutiny. They too had worked out what was going on. Marcus Rubella, completely expressionless, stood at my side with his arms folded, watching them all. Ex-centurions are the hardest men you can meet. When Martinus and Fusculus began walking grimly towards Porcius and their chief, Rubella and I both turned and left the scene.
LXIV
For days Rome revelled in the stories: how down in the Eleventh region fighting had broken out among the vigiles, leaving several dead and many sorely hurt. It had been necessary for a Very Important Patrician, horrified by the breakdown of order, to send one of his own personal lictors to the Praetorian Camp to call out the Urban Cohorts, who, with the advantage of being armed to the teeth, speedily put down the riot. The Very Important Patrician was reputed to have composed a scroll for the Emperor denouncing the lax discipline of the foot patrols, the astonishing complacency of their officers, and the possibility that the whole event had been orchestrated by undesirable republican elements in the vigiles in order to distract attention from some sinister web of public-service fraud…
My contacts said that the Emperor was delighted to be supplied with the great man's views, though Vespasian was already taking action on the basis of another report that had been slapped in fast by Marcus Rubella and the official anti-corruption team.
Crushed by this rebuff, the Very Important Patrician had adopted a new interest. He was now devoting himself to opposing obscenity and reforming prostitutes. Obviously this meant he would have to force himself to survey brothels personally. Some of us thought this had its hilarious side.
The Sixth Cohort were to be broken up and re-formed under new officers. Their tribune and several centurions had resigned. Petronius Longus was delighted by this because Martinus was now devoting all his efforts to trying to get promoted into one of the vacant postings in the Sixth. Martinus was of the opinion that his talents for relaxed enquiry and demonic draughts would fit in well in the prestigious Palatine and Circus Maximus regions. Like a decent superior, Petronius was strongly supporting his bid to have these talents recognised.
The Fourth Cohort had been formally reprimanded by Rubella for running wild. They had been confined to their patrol houses overnight to calm them down. This had the useful side benefit of allowing Rubella to visit each station and ensure that the official story of their incursion into another cohort's district was understood by all. Luckily most civilians were unable to distinguish between one cohort and another anyway.
Among the dead, the Fourth had lost one of their youngest officers, Porcius. The burial club was to provide him with a basic funeral, though his tribune had to tell the family that regretfully his short time in service, and other factors, meant that no claim for compensation could be allowed.
Official annoyance about the disturbance had been mitigated by the night's other results. Arrested at the brothel called the Bower of Venus were an astonishing number of criminals. It was estimated that tracing and returning stolen property recovered would take the vigiles three months. So many runaway slaves had been rounded up that the Prefect of the Vigiles held a special all-day session for owners wanting to reclaim them (those owners, that is, who were prepared to give house room to a sullen slave who had been exposed to bad company at Plato's). The power of a notorious organised gang had been broken. Among the street operators rounded up were every kind of hustler, cat burglar and cudgel boy, and in addition there was evidence of a kidnap racket operated by some of the prostitutes.
The main evidence of this pin-money racket had been provided by Helena Justina. There was one intriguing aspect that we did not make public: Helena had obtained a confession that the baby I found in the rubbish skip had been stolen by the girls. One of the hags at Plato's had realised he was deaf. When his family refused to ransom him, he was taken up on the Aventine and dumped there by a one-time doorman at the brothel. Macro told us this was the man who did all their snatching – Castus, who had also stabbed the Lycian when Lalage and Nonnius were setting out to betray Balbinus Pius. Castus no longer worked at the brothel; he had been a Balbinus stooge, and Lalage had sent him packing after the trial. He had been apprehended and was awaiting his turn for detailed questioning.
Helena Justina knew who the stolen baby's family were. The last people on the list had finally spoken to her: they denied that they had ever had a baby, let alone that the child was missing, even though a frightened nurse had originally reported it. And who were these forgetful parents? None other than a certain Very Important Patrician and his well-connected, extremely wealthy wife. According to gossip the woman was now pregnant again. Helena and I had decided not to insist on restoring their son to them. We did not even tell them he had been identified.
The famous brothelkeeper at the Bower of Venus had been discovered dead. As a result the authorities believed that one of Rome's most sordid bordellos might now lapse into decline. (Not everyone shared this fond hope.) Its landlord had promised to take action, anyway.
I had met Florius standing outside Plato's Academy with a long scroll in his hand. He had been informed by the Prefect of the Vigiles that this was one of his properties. Horrified, he told me that he had called for a full list of the sites he had acquired with Milvia's dowry. Obviously, as a decent equestrian he would now inspect the estate, and do everything possible to clean it up.
There was only one failure amongst all this fervent reform. We had scoured the brothel, and other places named to us by arrested criminals. Nowhere had we found any trace of Balbinus Pius.
Petronius and the Fourth Cohort spent all their time searching Rome for him. Balbinus had lost his empire. His wife and daughter were under surveillance. He had no regular income, though we knew all too well he would never lack funds. Petro looked hard at any property where he was known to have had connections, but if he had any sense he would take out a lease anonymously somewhere else. He could be anywhere. He could even by now have left Rome altogether. All the ports and all the provincial governors had been notified, but he could have slipped away to anywhere in the known world. Lalage had warned me he would have adopted a disguise.
For days the search continued. I helped, whenever I was free from the eternal writing of reports. I also spent a great deal of time at the gymnasium, trying to get in shape. For one thing, it was my belief that the big rissole would never leave Rome, which was his natural territory. If we cornered him, it would be highly dangerous. In addition, I needed all my strength for a domestic event: on the day before the Kalends of November, Helena and I, Petro, his wife and children, his enquiry team, my family and many of my relatives were going to a wedding.
It had been planned for the Kalends, but at the last minute my mother took charge of the chaotic arrangements. Her first action was to change the date. She pointed out to Lenia that it is regarded as unlucky to many on the first day of a month. Lenia burst into tears, then plumped for the last day of October instead.
Some of us thought that for marrying Smaractus the unlucky day would have been far more appropriate.
LXV
Two days before the Kalends, I was going crazy trying to obtain a cheap white sheep. All it had to do was behave nicely while I cut its throat and skinned it – a task which as a town boy I viewed with distaste, though for Lenia's sake I would grimly go through with it. She wanted all the trimmings. Auguries, and the bit where the bride and groom sit together on the sheepskin – the sheepskin that I had to provide. Yes, I had to skin it neatly because everybody would be watching, and I also had to keep the blood off so none marred the bride's highly expensive wedding gear.
Those with an aptitude for logistics will have worked out that to avoid disaster it was necessary to choose and purchase my animal the day before it was needed. I could not risk ending up as the wedding priest who had nothing to sacrific
e. Having bought it, I then had to find somewhere to keep the thing.
Maia made Famia agree it could go to the Greens' stable. The laundry yard would have been a more sensible overnight billet, but by then Lenia had become hysterical at the thought of any action that might bring bad luck. I could have stowed the woolly one with a neighbour, but I was afraid I would wake to the tantalising scent of roast mutton with garlic and rosemary.
I had to take the sheep to the stables myself. And on the morning of the wedding, I had to cross the city to fetch her back. I made a nice little lead for her. I felt like a clown. From the Plain of Mars to the top of the Aventine is a damned long way.
On the way home I decided to stop at the Temple of Castor baths, so I would be sweet-smelling and ready to put on my clean outfit. As a gesture to Lenia I took the sheep through with me and washed her as well. For some reason Glaucus was horrified. Don't ask me why. There was nobody important there in the morning, and I had paid her entrance fee.
Returning home I ran into turmoil as young women rushed around trying to deck the laundry with garlands while old crones sat sipping strong drinks and discussing other people's bowel problems. The facade on Fountain Court had been hung with elaborately painted sheets. The doorway was almost impenetrably blocked with a prickly fringe of branches and flowers. Unlit torches lining the street outside were crying out to be sabotaged by passing youths.
The whole neighbourhood had been disrupted by this ridiculous fling. Lenia and Smaractus had taken to heart the dictum that a good wedding should advertise itself. The back yard of the laundry was being used for huge bonfires, already slowly roasting various whole beasts. Fountain Court was full of delivery men and curious onlookers. As a temporary measure the unhappy couple were even using the empty apartment above the bakery, the one I had rejected summarily. There they had stored the amazing number of presents given to them, together with llttle parcels of sweets that would be bestowed on guests (in return for their ordeal, no doubt) and the nuts which Smaractus would fling to any onlookers watching the torchlight procession (as a symbol of fertility: dreadful thought). Smaractus was coming to live at the laundry after the marriage, so for one night they were even using the place opposite as a token 'bridegroom's house'. Workmen had mended the floor and installed a bed.
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