Scandal Takes a Holiday

by Lindsey Davis

  My brother-in-law mentioned a large maritime villa somewhere out of town. Holiday homes owned by wealthy grandees and the imperial family had long occupied the stretch of coast near Ostia. There was an attractive mix of forests full of huntable game and an ocean panorama; holidays could provide exercise and relaxation—and when they palled, Rome was only a few hours distant. That property-lover, Augustus, had owned a spread that passed to Claudius, who kept elephants in the grounds. A nosy tourist, Gaius Baebius had once taken a trip to gape at these places, which were mainly deserted nowadays; a local had pointed out one great house that was actually occupied, where a man called Damagoras lived. “I remember this, Marcus, because of the rather unusual name; it seemed to have a foreign ring—”

  “So give me directions to the incomer’s villa, Gaius.”

  “You’ll never find it. I’ll have to take you there.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble,” declared Gaius (implying it was enormous trouble, so that I would feel guilty). “As you said so wisely, Marcus, my work can wait. They very much rely on me, but I should take time off occasionally.”

  I was stuck. My dead-weight relation was now looking forward to a leisurely seaside day out. There was no alternative. I had no other clues to the whereabouts of Diocles. The mysterious Damagoras was my sole lead.

  XIII

  Once I prized him from his desk, Gaius decided to make the most of it. He suggested we take picnics, sunhats, and our families. I said that would look unprofessional. Respecting the work concept, he agreed even though he had always thought my sphere of activity had all the glamour of the mighty mound of horse manure outside the Circus Maximus. I managed to persuade him we still had enough daylight to hire donkeys, visit the villa, and be back before dinner. We could make up a bathing party some other day …

  Time was with us when we started. We left through the Laurentine Gate, riding fast through the enormous necropolis that lay outside town. Farms and orchards covered the plain, then when we hit the Via Severina, the main road to Laurentum, there were fancy villas every half a mile. After Gaius had lost himself down several wrong turnings, we were pushing it for time. Off-duty fishermen had stared at us in a tiny seashore village when he took us off the main road. Returning to it, we had ridden through miles of light woodland.

  Gaius rejected numerous villas built for people with too little leisure time and far too much money. The Laurentine coastline south of Ostia is a continuous ribbon of guarded homes set in elegant playgrounds, and we had ridden past many of them. The sun had mellowed and shadows were long when we took one final lumpy track off the high road, headed gloomily toward the sea, and turned up at the place we wanted: a large fenced property that by chance had no one at the gate.

  The gate was closed. We tethered our donkeys out of sight and climbed it. I wanted to go exploring by myself, but nobody went on a solo foray when they were out with Gaius Baebius. He had no idea of diplomacy, and no intention of covering the rear.

  We walked up the entrance drive, keeping our ears peeled. If the owner of this place was the usual rich enthusiast with a menagerie that roamed loose, we were sitting targets. Our boots sank into warm sandy soil on a soft track, where the coastal air was richly scented with pine needles. Cicadas whirred in the great trees all around us. Otherwise there was silence, except for the distant whisper of the waves, breaking in long low combers on the so-far hidden shore.

  The villa we reached was built so close to the sea that it must often be uncomfortable to unfold the panoramic doors on its various dining rooms, lest the sea view came in a little too close and spray reached the serving tables, tainting the rich contents of the silver dishes and tarnishing their heavy decoration. Sea breezes would waken sleepers in the lavish guest bedrooms. The salty air was already drying my skin. It must cause horticultural problems in the kitchen gardens beside the bathhouse, the trellised arbors covered with tough vines and ornamentals, and the wide, formally planted parterre where we ended up. There the paths had been graveled, but sand constantly blew over them, and some of the box edgings had suffered from too harsh a climate. Nonetheless, a dogged gardener had produced a green area where he let his imagination run riot on topiary. The estate did boast wild beasts—a half-size elephant raising his trunk (which had to be on wires) and a matched pair of lions, all clipped out of bushes. So proud was the topiarist of his careful handiwork that he had signed his name in box trees.

  He was called Labo. Or Libo. Or Lubo.

  L BO

  stood neatly at the end of the garden. But the topiarist was unlucky. The villa’s owner had wanted to see his own name in box trees. The missing vowel had just been beaten down to a stump by a furious man who now seized the topiarist by his hair. As Gaius and I arrived, he was about to cut off the screaming L bo’s head with his clipping shears.

  XIV

  Nobody had seen us. We could still scram out of the way.

  “Excuse me!” Gaius shot forward, a righteous clerk at full pelt with his chin up stubbornly. He was interfering dangerously and I should have abandoned him.

  The shears may never have been sharp enough to decapitate the gardener, but they had drawn blood. The furious man was gripping the blades together one-handed, digging them into the neck of the topiarist as if he was tackling a stout branch. He was strong and handy.

  Pompous and plump, Gaius Baebius shook his finger like a feeble schoolteacher. “Now I suggest that you stop right there.” Judging by the furious man’s expression, we were next for having our fronds lopped. Gaius carried on calmly, “I’m all for chastising errant slaves, but there are limits—”

  The man with the shears hurled the gardener to the ground, where he lay gurgling as he clutched his throat. Killing your slave is legal—though unless you catch him screwing your wife, it is generally frowned on.

  The attacker stamped on the topiarist and marched toward us. He was not Roman. His clothing was rich and colorful, beneath a patina of careless grime; lank hair tumbled down to his shoulders; gold glinted at his throat. Most knuckles on the hand that gripped the long-bladed shears were armored with gemstone rings. He had dark skin, weathered in some open-air occupation; from his manners, he had reached the top of his career by trampling on subordinates and bludgeoning rivals. Whatever that career entailed, I did not think he earned his living by delicate silk-thread embroidery.

  I tried to defuse the tension: “Your fellow looks in need of help,” I called, still at a distance and keen to stay there. “He may never clip a spiral again—pity. His work is a fine standard …”

  It was debatable whether this man could understand Latin, but he clearly disagreed. I expected trouble—though not what happened. He threw the shears straight at me.

  The tool came flying at neck height. If he had targeted Gaius, Gaius would be dead. As I swerved aside, my brother-in-law shrieked. “Hey, this is Didius Falco! You don’t want to mess with him!”

  That was a challenge—one I myself would not have issued. I feared that our attacker had very sharp knives tucked into every fold of his richly layered tunics and cummerbunds, but that he could kill an enemy with his bare hands anyway. Now he was going to kill me.

  Experienced in conflict, I made a quick decision: “Gaius—run like mad!”

  We both took off. The furious man roared. He pounded after us. So did the gardener, now staggering to his feet to join in. As we reached the end of a hedge, several other men appeared.

  We ran past a detached sun lounge and guest suite. We reached the limits of the grounds. We hit the beach. The sand was dry powder, hopeless for running. Gaius Baebius carried too much weight so he was floundering; I grabbed his arm to haul him along faster, and as I glimpsed his flushed face I saw that this was the most exciting thing to have happened to my staid brother-in-law since Junia broke her toe on an empty amphora. To me, it felt like disaster. We were unarmed, way out in the country where they make their own rules about strangers, a long way from o
ur donkeys, and heading in the wrong direction. Our pursuers caught up with us five yards across the beach.

  Some slaves overpowered us first. I ordered Gaius not to fight. Quickly I owned up to trespassing at the villa, and appealed to good sense. I had just had time to introduce myself when the furious man strolled up, glaring. On his side the courtesies were basic. I was thumped. Gaius Baebius suffered the fate of the foolish: he was thumped, knocked to the ground, and given a kicking. Then he made the mistake of scolding the topiarist for ingratitude—and got kicked some more. By the topiarist, this time.

  We were dragged back to the main villa and pushed somewhere, headlong. When our eyes grew accustomed to the dim light filtering through an air vent above the doorway, we knew we were locked up in a small empty storeroom.

  For a while I did not want to talk. Gaius Baebius shrank into himself; temporarily, he too stayed silent. I knew he would be feeling sore, hungry, and terrified. I was in for a lot of complaints, none of which would help.

  I did think that if they intended to kill us, they would have done so. But there were plenty of other horrible things that could yet happen.

  Although Helena Justina knew vaguely where we were going, it would be some time before she realized we must be in trouble. Then we would have to wait for her to alert Petronius Longus, and for him to find us. It would soon be too dark for him to search. Given our captor’s brutality, an overnight stay as his prisoner did not appeal.

  I wondered if this was what had happened to Diocles. If so, he might still be here. But somehow, I felt it more likely the scribe was long gone.

  “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 anymore.

  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 that 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? Not Damagoras. 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 jeweled colors and a carved ivory box from much farther 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 apologize 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 skepticism show. “Men who profe
ss easygoing 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 seemed normal behavior. 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.”