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 anymore.
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 onetime hotspot caupona that she had inherited—which 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 customhouse 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 on joining 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 afterward, 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 favorites 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 Bereni
ce. 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.’”
“Meanwhile,” I agreed, “there will be awful legates’ awful daughters holding orgies with the charioteers at the Consualia Games, and senators-elect going up the skirts of the priestesses at the Temple of Virgin Diana like geckos under rocks.”
“While for light relief Infamia will say that the rumor is false that pirates are operating again off the Tyrrhenian coast.”
I laughed.
“No, that was real,” Helena said. Then she laughed too. The one thing every Roman schoolchild knows is that the seas were all cleared of pirates a hundred years ago by Pompey the Great.
My old teacher, Apollonius, used to add thoughtfully that fewer people remember how Pompey’s own son, Sextus Pompeius, a contender for the highest seat of power, then lured some of the same pirates from peaceful retirement and joined with them to cause upheaval, during his quarrels with Augustus. One place the noble Sextus and his colorful cronies had then raided was Ostia. Their stay on land, with its merciless rape and thoroughly well-organized pillage, remained a horrific folk memory.
“Don’t let’s get too excited, love. Not if Infamia says the pirate rumor is false.”
“True.” Helena dug me in the ribs teasingly. “But there are all kinds of shorthand ways to make insinuations in the scandal reports.”
Now we were back to flute-playing. And it was giving me ideas.
X
Beset by family, I needed escape. We informers are tough men. Our work is grim. When not treading a solitary path, we like to be surrounded by other grim, tough men who feel that life is filthy, but that they have mastered it. I sought fellow professionals: I went to visit the vigiles.
A weary group was hauling back a siphon engine after a fire last night. Begrimed and still coughing from the smoke, they trundled in listlessly through the tall gate of the squadron house. A couple dragged charred esparto mats. These seem crude, but used in quantity they can suffocate a small blaze, long before water can be fetched. One squat soul with meeting eyebrows, who must have been on punishment duty, was laden with everyone’s axes and crowbars, and had all their ropes slung around him in diagonal coils; the others were joshing him as he dropped his load just inside the entrance and collapsed. They clanged down their empty fire buckets, and straggled off to wash. Ex-slaves to a man, they were used to exhaustion, dirt, and danger. Each knew that if he survived for six years, he would receive a diploma of citizenship. Quite a few did not survive. Of those who did, some madmen would even choose to stay on afterward. Self-preservation took second place to the free meals and camaraderie. And maybe they liked roughing up the populace while on the crime roster.
I followed them inside. Nobody challenged me. Somewhere there should be an officer of the day, like Petro an ex-legionary who wanted a secure job with a few thrills and plenty to moan about. He was invisible. I could hear the troopers exchanging insults as they cleaned up indoors, but the parade ground was deserted. It added to the impression that detached duty out at Ostia was the free-and-easy option.
I walked around the porticoes in the heavy shade cast by the barrack-like buildings. In one of the rooms a handful of prisoners, burglars captured during the night watch, were being processed by a wizened clerk. He kept them subdued by his competent personality. When I coughed, he looked up from his charge sheet; he knew me, and when I inquired about applicants, he suggested I might find Rusticus three rooms down.
“Who’s he?”
“Recruiting officer. Your lucky day. He comes once in two weeks, Falco.” I had not reminded the clerk of my name. “Rusticus will find time for you. He’s never busy.”
Rusticus had taken over a cold office, outside which he had hung a slate with a picture of a stick man and an arrow to say: Enter here. Fresh from Rome, he kept up appearances. He was awake. There was no visible evidence of him eating his lunch or playing board games. He had unpacked a scroll for oaths of allegiance even though he had no one queuing. He would need an officer to witness any enlistment; I guessed he had one on call.
Whimsically, he pretended to think I was an applicant. He gave me the open-faced grin of welcome, though I noticed he did not bother to pick up his stylus.
He knew perfectly well I had some other errand. At thirty-six, I was too old, for one thing. I had a well-exercised body that had seen too much action for me to volunteer for more. My laundered oatmeal tunic with bilberry braid was a custom fit, my dark curls had been tamed by a half-decent barber, and I had treated myself to a professional bathhouse manicure. Even if he failed to notice my firm gaze and tricky attitude, once I stuck my thumbs in my belt he should have seen that it was a damn good belt. Visible on my left hand was a gold equestrian ring. I was a free citizen, and I had been promoted by the Emperor to the middle rank.
“The name’s Falco. Friend of Petronius Longus.”
Petro was in the Fourth Cohort. Rusticus must be from another, though not necessarily the Sixth, who were currently on duty here. He conceded, “Yes, Petronius Longus has supervised enrollments with me.”
“A good lad.”
“Seems it. What are you after, Falco?”
I sat down on a spare stool. It was lower than his, so nervous recruits would feel vulnerable as they pleaded to join. This basic ploy failed to worry me. “I am making official inquiries about a man who has gone missing from a Palace secretariat.” Although “official” was pushing it, the Daily Gazette was a Palace mouthpiece and the scribes would pay me from public funds.
“I’m surprised they noticed!” Rusticus and I were not friends yet. I thought we would never be. But he took an interest.
“Quite. Rusticus, this may be a false lead, but someone has told me my fellow recently tried to join the vigiles. His name is Diocles. If he gave a falsie, of course, I am stuck.”
Rusticus shrugged, then he leaned back on his stool, arms folded. He made no move toward the scroll in which newly enlisted recruits were formally recorded; he did not even look at it. “Diocles? I turned him down.”
Obviously nobody much was rushing to join up in Ostia. I kept that to myself. “Can you recall the circumstances?”
He pursed his lips. He could not resist playing with an informer. “I do remember, because unless he only has one leg—no, we took a Moesian amputee once, and he hopped around brilliantly—until he fell through a floor—turning one down is a rarity.”
“Something not right about him?”
Rusticus took his time again. “Diocles. Thin fellow. Unobtrusive sort of maggot. He trotted in, and he had all the patter. Had been a slave but was manumitted. Had forgotten to bring his certificate, but would be able to produce it. Wanted a new life, with a chance of citizenship and the corn dole. Even said he wanted to serve the Empire. Some of them regard being a patriot as a recommendation, though personally I find it more natural if they are trying to get free dinner and fun with flames.”
A cynic. I grinned my appreciation. Maybe he warmed up slightly. Or not. I decided he was just an unpleasant bastard.
“Was he too old?”
“I think he said thirty-eight. Not too far gone if they are to
ugh.”
“So why did you reject him?”
“No idea.” Rusticus thought about it, as if amazed at himself. “Palace secretariat, you say? Fits. His Latin was a touch too nice. But it was instinct on my part. Always trust instinct, Falco.”
I said nothing. Instinct can be a fickle friend. That significant “feeling” often only means your last night’s dinner has played up, or you’re getting a cold sore.
The recruitment officer leaned forward suddenly. “So what is the bastard? Special bloody audit?”
I laughed. He thought Diocles was investigating the vigiles, some corruption inquiry. “You’re not far out. He’s Infamia.” Wasted. The vigiles never keep up with the news. “He writes the scandal section of the Daily Gazette.” I was taking a chance; Rusticus might now close ranks and clam up. But as a recruiter, I reasoned that he was a half-day visitor, not bonded with the Sixth. “So,” I said, lowering my voice, “do we conclude that someone in the current detachment is thought to need scrutiny—in the public interest?”
There could be a number of reasons. Swiping funds. Having perverts for playmates. Blatant inefficiency …
Wrong: inefficiency does not make exciting news.
“A skirt?” asked Rusticus, looking keen as he thought up his own ideas. “No, sleeping around is allowed! The wrong skirt.”
“Possible,” I agreed. “I stayed here briefly. Things seem positively prudish. I’ve seen hardly any late-night visitations from women with togas.” On a female, the toga is the badge of a prostitute.
“No; it would have to be big,” said Rusticus. “An officer in bed with a town councillor’s wife?”
“Or sending very large presents to a superior officer’s mistress?”
“Or cozying up to a crook’s floozy—even then, only if the crook was under special investigation.”
“For at least import tax evasion—”
“With backhanders—”
“Above-average ones!”
We both subsided, at the limit of not-very-shocking offenses to name. “I can’t see it, Falco,” sighed Rusticus. “Wouldn’t raise a flicker in Rome.”
Scandal Takes a Holiday Page 5