'Shift yourselves, idiots!' The burly brute gave us no chance for backchat.
A colleague angrily slapped the donkey Gaius rode; it was a vicious blow, so the donkey reared, tottering almost upright on its back legs. We had our work cut out controlling the beast, while Gaius clung on; then mine played up. It was easiest to carry on down the street, calming our animals as we went. Next we had to mount the pavement and squeeze against house walls as we ran into a short convoy of builders' carts, rattling towards us. They were empty apart from workmen, who were no doubt going to effect demolition. This was all extremely efficient. I could not say why I experienced unease.
We returned our donkeys to the hiring stable and I managed to shed Gaius at Maia's house without being lured inside. The last thing I could face was an altercation with Junia. Helena was in fact waiting when I entered our apartment. She was sitting at a table opposite the door, leaning her chin on her hands. She was dressed, in a short-sleeved light blue dress, but with her fine hair loose and minus jewellery. Her great brown eyes met mine, asking if I was safe. I smiled wearily, acquiescing. When I went across to her, I just managed to put down the new bread I had bought, before her arms went tightly around me. I could feel her heart pounding as she absorbed my presence and settled down.
'It's all right, fruit. Something delayed us last night.'
'Oh I knew Gaius Baebius would look after you!' Helena Justina leaned back to inspect the bruises from the hammering I had received from Cratidas. I was home now and as an informer's girlfriend Helena had seen far worse damage. She was almost calm. Only the fierce compression of her lips spoke of hidden emotions.
'So he is a pirate,' she commented, fingering my sore cheek. While I was away, she must have persuaded Junia to confess what Gaius Baebius knew about Damagoras.
'He says he is not.' Helena Justina surveyed me with her intelligent dark eyes. Rueful thoughts were working in that clever brain.
'I think he is a pirate who tells lies.'
'That will be part of his calling. But he claims he is merely an honest, long-time retired sea captain, who wanted Diocles to help write his life history.' Helena took me in her arms again. Against my neck she murmured, so the words tickled me alluringly, 'A pirate who lies about his past… so did he want the missing ghost-writer to fake his memoirs?' We agreed that it seemed ludicrous.
But as Helena and I talked it through, we wondered if Diocles had started the project innocently to make extra cash while on holiday – only to discover an unexpected story. Had Damagoras stupidly hired the wrong person? Did the scribe learn something that aroused his investigative instincts, and had he been about to expose a scandal in the Daily Gazette? That could have got him into serious trouble. Would Damagoras then have harmed the scribe? He certainly had cronies, – Cratidas, for one, – who could be vicious.
I went back a stage. Might Diocles all along have suspected there was a story here? Did he come to Ostia deliberately, intending to expose Damagoras? I had allowed the scribe's two colleagues to fob me off regarding his motives, – or their colleague might have kept them in the dark on purpose. Either way, I would have to find out for myself whatever the scribe had learned at the villa. I needed more information on Damagoras' background, and I needed it fast.
XVII
I met Petronius at the vigiles station house shortly afterwards. We had made no specific arrangements. With Junia and Gaius causing a bad atmosphere at his lodgings, I knew he would have rushed to work.
I walked around to the station house, and found Petro sharing a room with the officer in charge. Petro feigned surprise at seeing me, but he was being daft. The officer heading up the Sixth's Ostia detachment was a short ex-army heavy with a beard, the same caricature of leadership whom I met yesterday. The unhelpful one. I had asked his background so I knew he had been a legionary centurion and was intent on higher things. According to him he was taking the vigiles route to a post with the Praetorian Guard. No doubt it would happen. He looked like a clunk to me. He would fit in nicely. With this delight, whose name was Brunnus, Petro acted as an intermediary. I explained my interests with regard to piracy. Brunnus blustered.
'Well, if this villa-owner is eighty, and supposed to be retired, no wonder I couldn't find him in our lists of deviants.' I refrained from reminding Brunnus that he had refused to consult the lists at all. Petronius had done it for me privately so there was no need to cause friction. I could save crushing Brunnus for later; good things, are best allowed to take their time.
'What's the official stance on pirates nowadays?' I followed Petro's lead in handling the man civilly, even though I wanted to poke his vine-stick somewhere dark and personal.
'No pirates exist,' stated Brunnus. 'Officially.'
Petronius rephrased the question, with a peaceable smile. 'What's the unofficial position?'
'Pirates never went away. Pirates are a filthy rash that will always reappear. But they operate out of Sicily, Sardinia, Cilicia. The vigiles are a land force, so, thank the gods, we don't have the bastards in our remit.'
'I can see that a retired old pirate who never leaves his seaside home would be of little interest,' I suggested, 'but doesn't your undesirables list for Ostia include current leaders, should they come ashore?'
'We have enough to do,' grumbled Brunnus, 'guarding the corn supply and catching dockside pilferers.'
'No watching brief?'
'The navy cover it.' He was terse; I detected jealousy. Inevitably for someone so intensely ambitious, who was not an idiot, Brunnus knew more than he had said.
'I can suggest a naval contact with expertise,' he offered. 'He happens to be at Portus with some of the Misenum Fleet.'
I remembered the three triremes I had seen there. Petronius, with his free access to chamberlains, chefs and huge dining couches, volunteered to ask the naval contact to dinner. Since Brunnus was our go-between, we ended up inviting Brunnus too. At least we were confident he would not steal the household linen; Brunnus was so keen to advance himself, he was bound to own his own dinner napkin, ready for when he was allowed to attend fancy banquets with the elite. He was not sufficiently aware to know that the real elite give you one to take away. I bet Brunnus already had a Praetorian uniform, and tried it on in secret every night.
When dinnertime came, both Brunnus and the contact were late. Maybe they had wives somewhere, but away from home base they behaved like single men. I reckoned they had gone for a drink on the way here. Possibly they would go for more than one.
Petro and I were soon in trouble over their casual behaviour. We were a large family party which included infants, children and other young people, all clamouring to be fed at the right time, – not to mention women who grew frosty when we messed up their domestic plans. Luckily the building contractor's house had several dining rooms.
While we hung about waiting for our visitors, Petronius arranged with a steward to feed the family group at once. We would have a small men-only dinner served up separately. Getting restless in our party clothes, Petro and I morosely had a drink ourselves. Brunnus arrived, solo. The naval attache must have gone for a drink on his own. The two men were less pally than we had supposed. We gave Brunnus some wine. As we picked at nuts, to make conversation I mentioned the fire that Gaius and I had passed that morning. The brusque behaviour of the men who were clearing up still bothered me.
'Sounds about right!' Brunnus nodded sagely.
'I was surprised the fire-fighting was not being done by the vigiles,' I hinted, with one eye on Petro. I wondered if the Sixth's detachment were slackers.
'If only! What you saw is standard practice in Ostia, Falco. Goes back to before the vigiles came here. Prior to us, the builders' guild always put out fires; they had the right equipment, see. They have retained the role.' When I raised my eyebrows, Petronius explained further. Only for fires in domestic property.'
'I don't get it,' I said.
'There was local resentment about the Rome vigiles being stationed here. S
ome prefect decided we would respect sensitivities, so we let the builders' guild carry on as before, in residential areas.'
'I gather your landlord, Privatus, is top of the guild? Is that why he is so willing to be hospitable?' I tried to sound non-judgmental, though it seemed an awkward situation. Brunnus poured himself another silver winecup of Privatus' elegant table liquor.
'We don't necessarily want to cuddle up.'
'Problems?' I asked.
'The guild can be a bit pushy,' Brunnus admitted. From what I had seen of their street behaviour, that was an understatement.
'How powerful is this guild?'
'Too powerful!' growled Petronius.
'Look, Ostia is packed with craft guilds and associations,' Brunnus told me. 'They do no harm; we tolerate them. You know how it works, the leading lights in a trade meet for dinner parties; they club together for burial funds; they raise civic statues. The wine merchants have their own forum; when I want to spend a happy afternoon, I descend to check their licences. The shipwrights are traditionally the bigges mob, but the builders are coming up fast due to all the public works contracts in and around the harbour.'
I could see that. Our absent host Privatus was rolling in money. This dining room opened on to a small interior garden, which was frescoed in ocean scenes. At the far end stood a grotto made from intricately patterned seashells. Floating lamps drifted among waterlilies on a long pool between the couches. I had a horrible feeling our dinner would come served on pure gold model ships.
'I can see Privatus is raking it in.'
'Privatus hasn't even started,' moaned Petronius. 'He wants to redevelop the whole bloody town. So tell us, Falco, was there any unacceptable pushing and shoving at this fire you witnessed?' I guessed he and Brunnus would like to collect evidence of bad behaviour to pressurise the vigiles management into ditching the builders as fire-fighters.
'Now Lucius, old pal, if you're so keen to jump out of bed with Privatus, why did you ever agree to be put up here in his house?'
'Rubella.' Rubella was the tribune of the Fourth Cohort, Petro's chief. Rubella knew that Petronius Longus was a damn good officer, but suspected him of subtle insubordination. Rubella would not usually provide letters of introduction.
'Rubella's a joke to you!' Petronius pretended to have a nervous tic, brought on by stress due to mention of his senior officer. But then he said, 'Have to admit, he fixed me up very nicely.'
'What's he up to?'
'Official initiative to improve relations with the builders. Rubella asked me to fraternise.'
'So where have you been fixed up to socialise?' I asked, turning to Brunnus.
'We're not that fraternal. I have to rough it at the station house.' There was a pause, during which we all fraternised mentally with the wealthy Privatus by swigging more of his fine wine. 'Go on, Falco, what upset you about the bastards on fire duty?'
'Well, be fair; they were rough lads and it was an emergency situation.'
'Being rough was justified?'
'All they really did was jostle the donkey Gaius was riding.' Petro and Brunnus looked at one another and laughed. Jointly they decided that this was acceptable. To find Gaius Baebius in your way counted as provocation.
'The vigiles would probably have shoved his donkey backwards all the way to the Marine Gate,' scoffed Petro.
'With Gaius Baebius tied upside down under it,' elaborated Brunnus. Petronius had gone quiet, watching me.
'You think we need to watch those builders, Falco?'
'I do.' We let the subject drop.
XVIII
The naval man was older than I expected, a white-haired, fussily dressed type, with a meticulous way of speaking. He looked like a freedman who had previously worked as the Emperor's wardrobe master, when the Emperor was not the old soldier Vespasian, but one of the dissipated young divinities, – Nero or Caligula, – who liked incest and murder. The marine came laden with hostess-gifts to beg forgiveness for his late arrival; he carried in a whole armful of garlands for our womenfolk, who were unimpressed.
'Charming,' I murmured to Petro, who grumbled back under his breath. Caninus was the sea biscuit's name. We were not surprised that a contact recommended by Brunnus turned out to be a liability. Caninus obviously arrived hours late everywhere he went and believed a few blossoms would absolve him. Maia was barely polite as she passed the floral gifts straight to a slave; Junia sneezed loudly; Helena had a defiant glint. Only the children fell screaming with excitement on the long streamers of roses, which would be torn apart in moments. At last we could eat.
'I hope the cook can find you something that's still warm,' Maia called after us sarcastically.
'Your sister's a dour piece!' observed Caninus, too loudly.
'Bit of a drink habit,' Petronius lied, in a more cautious undertone.
'Try bringing her a half-amphora of Falernian next time…' Unfortunately for him, Maia had not disappeared yet, but was leaning on a faux marble column with a purse-lipped intensity that reminded me of our mother as she overheard the libel.
It was a good dinner. I let Petro enjoy his food without telling him what trouble from my sister lay ahead. When the slaves removed the serving tables after three elegant courses, we signalled that we would pour our own wine now; they left us plenty, being well trained from times when the builders' guild settled down for a long night discussing measured rates for waterproof concrete and how to fix the voting for the next guild elections.
'We hear you're a pirate specialist.' Petro was hoping to pick Caninus' brains, then shed him. No such luck; he liked to talk too much.
'Oh I'm your man!' Caninus intoned, flinging his right arm madly towards the ornate figured plasterwork of the ceiling and its coving above, like some slurred orator in the afternoon court session. He was left handed. I noticed that. He kept his left hand clamped firmly round his goblet, so the brimming wine barely rippled, despite the frenetic posing. My physical trainer, Glaucus, was a devotee of keeping your main body still while exercising legs and arms until your eyes watered; he would have loved Caninus.
'Naturally, it depends how you look at it,' Caninus raved. 'Let us land and beat up the locals. you are a pirate; I am a heroic warrior with expansionist pretensions on behalf of my city-state… Goes back at least to Athens.'
'The Greeks. Great seafarers,' Petro agreed. From him this was no compliment. Caninus seemed not to notice. 'Piracy was the fast alternative to diplomacy. Same with the damned islands. Rhodes, Crete, Delos – Delos in particular – nothing more than enormous free markets where plunderers could sell off their booty, no questions asked. Think of the Delos bloody slave market, ten thousand souls shifted daily, in peacetime or war. They say prisoners are sold as soon as a captain unloads them, and nobody asks were these once free men and women, who never ought to be in chains.'
'Still?' I managed to get in.
'Still? What do you mean still, Falco? Has some joker told you the slave trade ever stopped?'
'No, Rome's enormous appetite for slaves has kept the Delos market going.'
'With donkey bells on!'
'Tingaling! I meant, are pirates still the slave merchants who supply the bodies?'
'Who else?' Caninus slammed down his cup. He could do this in safety because it was now empty. Brunnus, who had introduced him to us, was starting to look nervous at the man's capacity. At least seeing Brunnus sweat made the evening worth while. 'We have the Pax Romana, Falco. No war, no prisoners of war.'
To save his host's wine cellar Petronius tried ignoring the empty goblet, – so Caninus poured his own. In fairness, he was not selfish; he poured for all the rest of us too. 'Drink up, young man,' the nautical lush chivvied Petro, as if to a novice. Fortunately my old drinking partner could pretend to be tolerant.
'Tell us more,' I croaked, although I was now so drunk I had lost interest in research. Caninus obliged happily, like some awful philosopher groaning into the next part of a three-hour lecture.
'Let us h
ave some definitions: piracy, characteristics of-'
'We can send out for a slate if you need to do diagrams.' Brunnus stopped taking this seriously. Caninus ignored him.
'Risk; violence; plunder; death. The four pillars of organised sea theft. Death is the best one, for your average sea thief. Raids on land, setting on merchant ships, they all involve robbery with violence and part of the thrill is…'
He stopped himself, puzzled that he could have overlooked a vital element. 'Thrill… Risk, thrill, violence, plunder, death, the five pillars.' Brunnus had a lamp table beside him, on which he carefully arranged three apples, a fig and a half-eaten hard-boiled egg to represent the crucial quincunx. Quincunx was his word, and I was frankly surprised that he knew it, or was capable of summoning it from his bleared brain.
'Especially death,' intoned Petronius. He was lying on his back on the dining couch he shared with me, inspecting the ceiling. Petro's dough-coloured tunic with the rope patterned braid, his favourite off-duty wear, had crumpled around the armpits. He had a glazed expression that I had not seen since our last night in Britain, the night we left the army. A story in itself. I felt sick. I told myself it would pass.
'Killing,' Caninus informed us, 'is your pirate's favourite party game.'
'Rape?' suggested Petro.
'Rape is good, but killing is best.'
'In perspective,' Petronius applauded. 'Thanks.'
'To these people-' Caninus could burble for hours without thinking about it. 'Their way of life is just business. Piracy equals trade. Ships equal investment. Plunder equals profits. That's profits from legitimate activities, to your pirate.'
'Do you -' Brunnus woke up suddenly. 'Do you do this talk for recruits?'
'Knowing the enemy,' confirmed Caninus, tapping his nose. 'My grand speciality. Every time we get a new bloody admiral who has only been a shore woozle until his best friend the Emperor gives him a fleet to play with, – on such an ill-starred occasion, I have to do this talk for the woozle. I wear my best whites then. Sometimes I even stay sober while woozle-waffling. In between, I do it once a year for the trierarchs at their Saturnalia bash. Extremely drunk, all parties; with gestures.'
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