'Sounds good. Your Flavia is hot stuff?'
'Always popular on the bachelor circuit.'
'Blonde?'
'Auburn, I should say. No figure, but a lovely nature; she'll do anything for anyone.'
'You can take that several ways.'
'Oh quite!'
'Tell me, is flute-playing' some ripe shorthand in scandal column terms?' I queried.
'Very much so,' said Helena, with the gravity I loved so well. 'You would think all Rome would sound like a wind instrument orchestra, given the prevailing loose morals. Flavia's fingering is legendary, her breath control is lovely, and it's thought she even sometimes has a go at the double-ended tibia.'
To avoid encouraging my loved one's filthy mind, I concentrated on squeezing the bundle of clothes between a temple portico and a mason's cart that had been left parked rather tight against the streetside building line. Hot and weary, we stopped by at the house where Petronius and Maia were living, where we allowed Maia to fan us and furbish us with mint tea. We were forced to be introduced to the owner, who was visiting to oversee the installation of a fountain. It was a statue of a naked Young Dionysius; in the throes of his early wine-drinking lessons, the handsome god [who I thought looked rather like me when young,] made the waterspout by peeing. Since the house-owner was a building contractor, I assume this tasteful artwork had been pinched from some unfortunate client.
Perhaps it had been chipped slightly on the bunch of grapes as it was delivered, and became a return, with no visible refund on the final account. Petro's benefactor was called Privatus and had a shiny bald head, over which he had drawn long strands of thin greying hair. They crossed on top, creating a loose darn of fake locks which would blow apart in the slightest gust of wind. Not tall, the builder was bony and knock-kneed. I had met men who were more flash, but he reeked of social ambition and consciousness of his own success. You guessed. I did not take to him. Petronius was out. In an uppity mood, Maia took great delight in explaining to Privatus that I was an informer, in Ostia to find a missing scribe. I prefer to keep quiet about a mission, until I have the measure of a new acquaintance. Maia knew that.
'So, what would you say are your chances of finding this Diocles?' asked Privatus. It was a fair question. I tried not to bridle.
'At the moment it looks unlikely I can go much further.' I sounded more pleasant than I felt.
'Marcus Didius is being modest,' Helena declared loyally. He has a long history of solving difficult cases.' Privatus looked nervous. It takes people that way. So what do you reckon happened, Falco?'
'At this juncture, it's impossible to say.'
'How does an informer, excuse me asking so much, by the way, how do you go about finding a lost person, Falco?' People are always curious about my work. I sighed, then went through the rigmarole.
'Before I left Rome, I checked at the Temple of Aesculapius in case he had been hospitalised, or dumped there for burial. Here, I asked Petronius Longus to see if my man has been arrested by the vigiles for some reason, negative, and now the patrols are looking out for him. They should spot him if he's wandering in a daze. If he just changed lodgings because he couldn't stand his landlady, my task will be much harder.'
'Sounds like hard work!' exclaimed the builder, clearly unconvinced. I smiled bravely.
'Have you ever heard of anyone in Ostia called Damagoras?' Privatus posed, pretending to think.
'Afraid not, Falco.' I should have asked Privatus about his work. Still, he had probably heard that informers are famous for their bad manners. His life presumably was one long happy round of rebuilding the docks when holes he left the last time started letting in water. Helena and I quickly drank up our mint tea, then I took her home. She remembered the note-tablets. With skill, I managed to leave behind Diocles' dirty laundry, which I had left standing on the wellswept marble floor, in the atrium of Privatus' tasteful home.
VIII
Next day I went back to the scribe's lodging, this time in the morning. With luck, the landlady would be out then, and I could ask her new tenant to show me the scribe's room.
I left Helena continuing her task of reading old copies of the Gazette. She was doing this in the presence of our daughters. Julia Junilla, aged three last month, could start a riot that required quelling by the urban cohorts when she felt obstinate; at the moment she was playing cute. She did it with style and my heart melted. Sosia Favonia, a sombre thug of only fourteen months, was standing up naked in her crib, having learned how she could pull herself upright even as it rocked.
Next trick, falling out and cutting her head open. Still, Albia had laid a rag rug beside the crib to limit the damage. In order to read, Helena resorted to the old wheeze; she produced a new toy, [all the doll, ball, hoop, whistle and wooden animal makers in Rome knew and adored us,] then she moved away quietly as the children grew absorbed. She was safe with her scrolls until the next screaming quarrel started. I kissed the girls. They ignored me; they were used to me leaving home. Sometimes they seemed to think I was just the greengrocer's delivery boy. No; he would have been more exciting. With Nux darting through my ankles in an attempt to trip me up, I returned to the Marine Gate. It was a long way to walk, only to find the new tenant was out.
Depressed, I went to knock on the landlady's door, and at this point the Fates took pity. She was out too, so I finally met her all-duties slave, Titus. A snub-nosed, scar-faced rascal in a loose-fit one-shouldered tunic, this Titus had been kept away from me on previous calls. He was sharp as a nail; like all his tribe he knew exactly his value to a man in need. The pittance the Gazette scribes were paying me would not go far around many like Titus, but according to him he was unique. So that was all right. It was Titus who had actually cleared the room after Diocles went missing.
'Excellent news. Now earn those tinkling coppers you just squeezed out of me, Titus. I know what Diocles is supposed to have left behind, a few used tunics and some empty note-tablets. Now you tell me what else was there, and don't hold back.'
'Are you saying I nicked something?' Titus demanded indignantly. Always eager to join in a rumpus, Nux walked over and sniffed him. The slave eyed her uneasily.
'You are entitled to perks, young fellow.'
'Well, that's how I see it.' He settled down. Nux lost interest. 'He had a couple of other tunics, clean ones. As he wasn't coming back, I had them off him.'
'Sold in the second-hand market?'
'Too right.'
'Diocles came to Ostia for the summer,' I mused. He wouldn't have walked in with just one knapsack and a packet of squid dumplings, but even if he did.'
'What you saying, Falco?'
'Where did his knapsack walk off to?'
'He had two. I got a good price for them.'
'Were they empty?'
'Oh yes.' It sounded true. I looked at him steadily. 'I shook them out, Falco.'
'Where did his cash go, then?' Titus shrugged.
'No idea, honest.' There was no point pressing it. I noticed the slave had not asked me, what cash?
'How much luggage did he have when he first arrived? Would you say Diocles could have moved gear to some other lodging?'
'What he brought with him was left when he bunked off. A stool, and stuff…'
'Forget the stool!' I had retrieved it. The folding stool was wobbly and I had pinched my finger when trying it out. 'Was there a weapon?' I growled.
'No, sir!' Now that was wrong. In Rome it is illegal to go armed [not that that stops people] but when travelling we all tool up. I knew from Holconius and Mutatus that Diocles always carried a dagger, and sometimes he took a sword too. The other scribes had told me these were standard precautions, in case he ran into an offended husband or a furious wife's huge whip-wielding driver.
'I don't want them back, and I won't report you, Titus. I just need to know.'
'There was none.'
'Right.'
'You don't believe me!'
'I believe you.' I believed no sla
ve would ever confess to stealing anything with which he could arm himself, even if he had sold on the weapon. Slaves and swords don't mix.
'So is that it?' asked Titus, looking hopeful.
'Almost. But since the new tenant has gone out, I'll have you show me the room, please.' Knowing he was on shaky ground over the stolen goods, Titus agreed to this. But we found that while I had been talking to Titus, the tenant had returned.
He was a run-down furtive corn factor, now sitting on his narrow bed eating a cold pie. Nux ran in as if she owned the place and he jumped up looking guilty; maybe the landlady forbade food indoors. While he recovered, being mainly ashamed that he had gravy all down him, I showed I was tough.
I searched the room, without bothering to ask permission. The corn factor must have known that the previous tenant had vanished; patiently he let me do what I wanted. He and Titus watched, as I went into all the special places where travellers hide things in hired rooms, from obviously, under the mattress, to more subtly, on the top of the window-frame. The floorboards were all well nailed down. The wall cupboard was empty apart from dirt and a dead wasp. I found nothing. I ordered Nux to search, which as usual she declined to do, preferring to sit staring at the factor's pastry.
I thanked him for making his facilities available. He offered me a bite of pie, but my mother brought me up to decline food from strangers.
I dragged Nux and Titus outside, put the dog on a string to stop her going back inside to beg for food, then grilled the slave further. I wanted to know Diocles' habits. 'Did he sit in his room waiting for an earthquake to happen, like that quiet soul you're renting to now?'
'No, Diocles nipped in and out all the time.'
'Sociable?'
'He was looking for work, he said, Falco. He kept going off and trying places. Never had no luck, though.' As a slave, who would make a copper on the side whenever possible, Titus did not think this odd when Diocles was already employed.
'Where did he apply?'
'All sorts, I think. He went to the docks, of course. Everyone does. All the jobs there are well sewn up. Once or twice he hired a mule and trotted off to the countryside; he must have fancied lettuce-picking. He wanted to be a hod-carrier one week, but he was no good at it and they kicked him out. Vulcan's breath, I reckon he even tried joining up for the vigiles!' That was a facer.
'Surely not?'
'No, you're right, Falco; he must have been ragging me. No one is that daft.'
'Anything else?'
'Not that I can think of.'
'Well, thanks, Titus. You've given me a picture of his movements.' It was a faint picture, and one in which Diocles had either gone nuts and was trying to run off to another life or had laid a false trail to hide whatever sensational story he was looking into as Infamia. Several false trails, by the sound of it. I was not quite discounting the first possibility. The man had disappeared. Whatever the other scribes thought about Diocles being irresponsible and whatever I suspected about his work having gone wrong, he could still have deliberately chosen to vanish. People do run off without warning. For no obvious reason, some decide to start afresh and it is often in a new role that would amaze their friends. I had an uncle who bunked off like that, my mother's eldest brother. He had been even more odd than her other two weird brothers, Fabius and Junius. Now he was the one nobody talked about any more.
IX
There was a large, mad-eyed, paw-scrabbling, tooth-baring black and white dog tied up on the landing when I went home for lunch. Hades. it was Ajax. I knew what that meant. Nux growled at him with long-term animosity. I patted and shushed Ajax, who was desperate but harmless.
On hearing my name called, I dutifully slunk indoors. Lunch was on the table; Julia was hiding under it. Favonia was trying really hard to clamber out of the crib. Helena looked frosty. Julia was hiding because we had been visited by her cousin, Marcus Baebius Junillus, an infant who was deaf, rather excitable, and given to sudden shrill exclamations. Favonia was frantic to play with him; she loved anyone eccentric. Helena was frosty because little Marcus [and also the slavering dog Ajax] had been brought to see us by my sister Junia, famous for her unlovely temperament, for her ludicrous husband Gaius Baebius the customs clerk, and for ruining Flora's, the one-time hotspot caupona which she had inherited, that was how Junia saw it, when my father's mistress died.
'Hello, brother.'
'Hail, sister. You're looking a picture.' Junia squinted at me, rightly suspecting I meant a picture I would not find a nail for. She dressed formally, every pleat in place, and primped her hair into regular fat rolls. A self-righteous snob, she had always imagined her stiff mode of attire made her look like the matrons of the imperial family, the old-fashioned, severe ones that never slept with their brothers or the Chief of Police, the ones nobody cares about. No amount of forcing would groom Junia's spoiled little son to be an emperor, however. That was why Helena always made me be polite; lacking children, Junia and Gaius had willingly adopted Marcus when he was abandoned as a baby. They had known he was deaf. They tackled it stalwartly. Junia milked this act of charity every time we met. I had never liked her, and my patience was close to evaporating.
'That was even before,' she said shamelessly, 'We heard you were on holiday in Ostia and all the family are planning to come and stay with you. I rushed down to get in first.' Gaius Baebius worked here at the port. He had done so for years and anyone else would have acquired an apartment by now; instead, meanness made him sleep on a pallet at the customs house when he stayed overnight. For him, the lack of an apartment must have the extra benefit of preventing Junia visiting.
'I'm not on holiday,' I said curtly. Helena made haste to add, 'Sadly, I have had to say we don't have space for you, Junia. Albia and Julia are in our second room, the baby has to sleep with us, and poor Aulus is having to stretch out on the floor in here…'
Straightening her numerous strands of necklace, Junia brushed Helena aside. 'Oh don't fret. Now that I've seen Maia's living arrangements in that lovely house, we shall all stop with them.' I said Maia would be thrilled. Junia glared at me.
'If you're not having a break here, Marcus, I suppose you are on one of your daft exploits. What is it this time?'
'Missing person.'
'Oh, you should ask Gaius to help. He knows absolutely everyone in Ostia.'
Who thought that one up? My brother-in-law was completely unsociable; people fled his company. He was a ponderous, pontificating, boring, boasting drone. He knew how to wind me up too. He always insisted enjoining me if he caught me in a wine shop, then he always let me pay the bill. 'Have you any leads?' Junia preened herself for knowing the right jargon.
'Ask Gaius if he's ever heard of someone called Damagoras,' Helena told her, rather more crisply than usual.
'He's bound to know. Your case is solved already.' If there was one person who was unlikely to provide me with information it was Gaius Baebius. Her son was fractious so we managed to get rid of my sister. That was just as well, because Petronius arrived soon afterwards, urgently needing to rage about Junia booking herself in with him and Maia.
'Privatus can't be expected to put up all your bloody family, Falco! I can't stand that woman.'
When he calmed down, I asked him to check if there was a Damagoras on any vigiles list. 'We don't keep lists,' he insisted.
'Don't be unreasonable, Petro. You have lists of prostitutes, actors, mathematicians, religious maniacs, astrologers,… and informers.'We all chorused the last one, an old joke. Not so funny if you thought your name was in the files. As mine was, undoubtedly.
'So, Falco, are you looking for an evangelical astrologer who hires out his body and appears in tragedies?'
'I don't know what I'm looking for, and that's the shitty truth.'
'Should be easy to spot.'
'Never mind,' Helena soothed us gently, as she placed lunch bowls before us. 'Junia is planning to ask super Gaius Baebius to help you, so everything will be all right.' For an instant
Petronius stared at her, almost taken in.
'Donkey's arse! I can't wait to get rid of them.' Petronius might be living and sleeping with my youngest sister, but he thought the same about the rest as I did. Mind you, I always thought something funny had happened between him and Victorina. But when she was alive, you could say that about Victorina and pretty well anybody masculine in Rome. Had she been a person of note, my rowdy eldest sister could have kept Infamia in dirty stories for months at a time. So had some siren lured the scribe to a seashore love nest and kept him trapped in sexual bondage? That should be fun to investigate. Later, Helena told me that from her research so far into the Gazette, several females of quite illustrious lineage were current favourites for mention.
'Empty-headed socialites seem to enjoy the attention. Silly girls made pregnant by outrageous boyfriends almost court discovery.'
'What's new, sweetheart? But these lasses are in Rome, not Ostia.'
'The big story ought to be how Titus Caesar is living openly at the Palace with Queen Berenice. That will never be mentioned.'
'For one thing, they are in love,' I said. Helena laughed at my romantic streak. 'Well, Berenice is so gorgeous he can hardly hide her. Every male at the Circus Maximus thinks that Titus is a lucky dog… and Titus has no objection to them knowing all about his luck.'
'The Emperor disapproves,' replied Helena with some sadness. 'Vespasian is bound to persuade Titus to end it one day. That won't be mentioned either, except as a note under diplomatic events, when the poor woman is sent home. The Queen of Judaea has concluded her state visit and returned to the East.' How much genuine heartache will that leave unsaid? The Queen of Judaea is far too exotic to be received in stuffy patrician homes. Her oriental origins make her unacceptable as a consort to the heir to the Principate. The mean-spirited snobs with 'traditional' values have won; lovely Berenice is to be torn from her lover's arms and dumped.''
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