Scandal Takes a Holiday mdf-16

by Lindsey Davis

  'Marcus.'

  'Get some rest, Gaius.'

  'But won't we try to escape?'

  'No.' I had scanned around for possibilities. I could see none.

  'All right. So – we'll jump them the next time anyone comes in?' I was thinking of that, but would not forewarn Gaius in case he messed it up.

  'There's nothing we can do; try to save your energy.' We lay in the gathering darkness, trying to work out from a vague, unsettling smell what had been kept in this store before us. Gaius Baebius groaned as our hopeless position finally struck him. Then conscience made my sister's ridiculous husband confess something. He had kept to himself one very important fact about this villa and the man who owned it.

  'I was told something curious about Damagoras. Is now the time to mention it?'

  'Gaius, the time for information was way back. Before we climbed over his gate, I'd say. What do you know about this man?'

  'I was told he is a retired pirate,' said Gaius Baebius. He had the sense to make it a simple statement, then not to goad me any more.

  XV

  Torches announced a new arrival. This was no swine of a pirate in theatrical robes, baring his teeth wildly in the flickering light. Instead, the door swung open to reveal a tall, big-bellied, elderly man, wearing a clean white Roman-style tunic, and accompanied by two neat house slaves. I would have thought him a retired banker. There was an air of money about him, and I don't just mean that he lived in a minor palace with bayside views. He was sure of himself- and very sure that he despised us. We were lying on the ground, Gaius lolling against me for comfort. Unable to shift him in time to jump the new people, I stayed put. Extremely depressed and subdued by this stage, Gaius followed my lead.

  'What are you?' asked the big man bluntly as he stared down at us. He had a thick accent which I could not place, but spoke Latin as if he was used to it. He could be a trader, – a successful one.

  'My name is Didius Falco. I am a private informer.' There was no point hiding why we were here. 'I am looking for someone.' I noticed that Gaius did not try to mention his own occupation. As customs officers go, he was good at his job and even bright. Piracy and collecting tax don't mix. Well, not unless you think the Treasury is a bunch of pirates.

  'And your colleague?' The man with the debatable pedigree missed nothing.

  'He is called Gaius Baebius.' Gaius had gone rigid. 'My brother-in-law.' That was accepted, but I felt Gaius stay tense. We waited for reverse introductions, but none came. The man jerked his head for us to get up and follow him. I ignored it.

  He turned back and said rudely, 'Stay there and rot, if you prefer.'

  I stood up, wincing at my aches. 'Whom are we addressing?'

  'Damagoras.' So who was the short-tempered maniac who captured us? Damagoras spoke as if we were supposed to know exactly who that was. Then he was gone.

  The slaves with the torches followed him, so I pulled Gaius to his feet and we set off stiffly after them. Damagoras had returned to a sun lounge, recently occupied. I could not tell if he had been here previously on his own, though I doubted it.

  There was no sign now of the furious sidekick; I assumed the two of them had discussed their strategy for dealing with us. Damagoras seemed quite casual. That could be a ploy. The villa was stuffed with high quality furniture and fancy objects. My father, an auctioneer and fine art dealer, would have grown ecstatic at this chaotic jumble of marble seats, silver lamps and gilded statuettes. The stuff was sourced in many countries, all from the upper end of the cost spectrum. Pa would have loved raising a sale for it.

  There were slaves everywhere too; they went about their business, looking efficient, while their master stumped by them without acknowledging their existence. He had brought us to a room that was heated by braziers against the night chill, even though the folded doors were still half open, admitting the smell and murmur of the sea. Frugality had no place here. Light blazed from many lamps, some the inevitable pornographic phalluses, others tall and tasteful candelabra, plus some everyday oil lamps that were shaped like boots or double shells. Cushions with rich coverings and fringes padded out the sofas almost to excess. Rugs runkled untidily on the geometric marble floor. Expensive things were crammed everywhere, but not displayed to cause envy as in so many wealthy households; like my own father's, these objects were part of the life their owner had always lived. They gave him security. They were a hedge against needing loans from financial sharks. Property as collateral, instead of land; portable; fashionable; fast profits when required. There was no thematic unity in the collection. This room contained both Egyptian stools painted in jewelled colours and a carved ivory box from much further east. Baltic amber was housed in a display cupboard. One very large Greek bronze water container sat in a corner. Maybe Damagoras collected people too.

  A woman who was clearly not one of his slaves came in. Younger than him, she was wearing a dark crimson, long-sleeved tunic over which were many gold necklaces and rows of bangles. She topped up a cup he had been drinking from and kicked a footstool nearer to his slippered feet; she glanced at Gaius and me, making no comment, then left the room. A relative, maybe. Maybe the man who had nearly killed the gardener was a relative as well. All of them were similar national types. Members of the household must have had their evening meal.

  Gaius was growing fidgety. He had a fixed routine. He would be panicky about staying out all night without prior warning to Junia, and he needed regular nourishment. I preferred to ignore my hunger and anxiety until I had the measure of the game. Damagoras looked over eighty. To survive so long he must have led a life of luxury. Numerous brown age spots mottled his rather loose skin, but he remained handsome and fit in appearance, with large bones. He was less tanned than the other man. What hair he had left, probably white, had been cut very short. He leaned back, surveying us.

  'You have invaded my house,' he said.

  'I apologise for that,' I replied. Now the householder was all smiles.

  'Forgotten!' he assured me. I liked him less now that he was friendly. He sounded like my father, who was as devious as they come. 'I am an old man, no time for grudges. I'm a happy soul, generous, easy to get along with. Now, what's that look for?' I had let my scepticism show.

  'Men who profess easy going ways, Damagoras, tend to be narrow-minded despots. However, I can see you are a wonderful character, all warmth…' I too could fake the charm. Who was your friend who apprehended us?' I asked him lightly.

  'Oh, just Cratidas.'

  'Is he always annoyed?'

  'He gets a bit hot.'

  'Relation?'

  'He happened to be here.' Damagoras evaded the question. 'I don't go out these days. People drop in to see if I am still living.'

  'How nice. They bring you the news and a punnet of pomegranates – then half kill your slaves, demolish your garden, and batter any visitors?'

  Damagoras shook his head at me. 'Now then!'

  'If Cratidas is a mere acquaintance, you are very tolerant.'

  'Cratidas is a fellow countryman.' I sensed a tight-knit community clustering together in this remote villa. Few strangers settle on the Ostian shore. I felt uneasy about where they had come from, – and why.

  'So he lives here with you?'

  'No, no. He has his own concerns. I am an old man, completely retired from the world. So what do you want, Falco?'

  I gave up waiting for an invitation to sit, and made my way to the nearest couch. Gaius, like a tame lamb, tailed me and perched on the other end. He looked lumpish, unhappy, and out of his element. All his pedantry had been crushed by the beating. I kept it neutral. 'I am looking for a man who has gone missing. I found your name in a note-tablet he left. He's called Diocles.' Did Damagoras modify his attitude? Probably not. He looked unperturbed. He stretched one arm and thumped it down along the back of the couch he was sitting on. He supped wine, slurping audibly. Then he crashed down the beaker on a three-legged bronze side table. Both the arm position and the crash seem
ed normal behaviour. Not significant. Even at eighty he was a big, relaxed man whose gestures were large too.

  'What's he done, this Diocles?' His curiosity was straight nosiness, as far as I could tell.

  'People who know him are concerned. He vanished and left all his stuff in a lodging house. Maybe he fell ill or had an accident.'

  '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 generalisations. 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 home town 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 posed, 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 revellers 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 imag
ined 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 organised.

  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.