That night Helena Justina sat up suddenly in bed with a shriek of “Cybele!” This did not enthrall me. Eastern gods are generally deplorable and I really wince at the Great Mother with her self-castrating sidekick, Attis. No man with a love life can think calmly of a consort who cut off his genitalia. Anyway, I had done the Eastern cults already. I had examined houses all around the Temple of Isis. Seemed a good bet: Isis equals Nile god equals very important water if you live in Egypt. Isis is also a sea goddess, and protects sea voyagers. Her temple was in the west end of town, on the riverbank. To match the slave’s description, this was about as likely as anywhere could be, so I scoured the neighborhood thoroughly. Always uncomfortable with the sistrum-shaking priests, the dubious priestesses in their topless, see-through pleated linen, and the unnerving portraits of dog-headed fellows with their arms folded, I was glad to escape.
I had had no luck searching around the Isis enclosure for waterfront houses where a scribe’s aunt might live. To cheer myself up, I bought a good hanging lamp in the form of a ship, and only noticed when I got it home that it had three little shrines of Isis, Anubis, and Serapis. Ours was not a household that liked statuettes of gods. We did not even own our own Lares. (Thinking of that, I went back out and checked around the Forum shrine of the town Lares.)
“No, it’s Cybele we want,” Helena insisted that night. “The cult statue was brought from the East to Rome by sea when Claudius decided to legitimize worship. There’s that story of the young woman with the soiled reputation—”
I perked up. “Oh, my kind of girl!”
“Think again, Falco. The ship got stuck in the estuary. Whatever-her-name-was went and claimed that if her chastity remained intact she would touch the ship with her girdle—”
“She did the girdle trick: the ship moved off up the Tiber. Now can I go to sleep again?”
“You can go to the Temple of Cybele tomorrow, Marcus.”
I did; I found nothing. Cybele had a huge enclosure by the Laurentine Gate where she was attended by various associate gods in their own little shrines but, as far as I could discover, no aunts. Helena allowed me to resume my dogged search elsewhere. I investigated temples of Castor and Pollux, Mars, Diana, Neptune, Liber Pater, round and rectangular temples of divinities whose names were not even obvious, Pater Tiberina, and the Genius of the Colony. The craft guilds had their own temples, prominently the Temple of the Ship Builders and a temple in the Forum of the Wine Growers (I enjoyed that morning).
I was running out of podiums.
At this point, my dedicated religious trek must have caught the eye of some softhearted Olympus deity. I had been poking around backstreets on the west side of the Forum, where somebody had suggested there might be a shrine with ships on it. I never found them. Despondent, I headed back to a road that would take me to the Decumanus. It had a couple of small temples which I had already dismissed. Squashed in on the same site was one major temple: to Hercules Invictus. Empathizing with any other hero afflicted with hard labors, I paid it more attention than previously and walked right up the steps. There were nine. On a hot day it was a steep climb, which was why I had omitted this last time. I entered the sanctum. There I had my breakthrough.
In the interior, a set of friezes depicted how the cult statue had been discovered years before: Hercules had been dredged up from the sea by some fishermen. Probably some ship carrying works of art had foundered in the shoals off Ostia, taking the statue down, club, bearskin, beard and all. I tipped my forelock to the hero’s smooth, handsome torso.
“Thank you, delectable demigod. And by the way—nice arse!”
I began a fast search of the neighboring area. Parts appeared to be in the process of redevelopment; there were cleared spaces and a couple of elderly atrium houses standing empty. In a side street, I finally found the place where Diocles used to stay. I learned that his Auntie Vestina, a freedwoman of the imperial house, had lived for many years right beside the Temple of Hercules Invictus. The aunt’s house had burned down about this time last year. The first woman I spoke to had not seen the aunt since.
That would have been bad enough, but if Vestina had escaped and relocated I might have tracked her down eventually. Sadly, I found another neighbor who knew the whole story. The fire had started at night. Help took a long time coming. Vestina had been crippled with arthritis and she was asthmatic. She could not struggle out of her burning house quickly enough, and was killed by the smoke before she could be rescued.
XXVII
Feeling melancholy, I cut back toward the Forum and started walking home. I hit the Decumanus Maximus at a crossroads, where it took a slight bend as it turned from its original axis toward the Marine Gate. This was a major junction with a shrine and market stalls, old established fishmongers and butchers. Ahead were public buildings, first the Basilica and then the Forum itself. Those bore the marble stamp of Augustus, telling locals and new arrivals how exceedingly rich the spoils of Egypt had made him, and how determined he was to be seen as ruler of the world. The area where the streets met was full of life. It made a sad contrast to the dead spaces behind me—though when the empty lots were redeveloped, that part of town would be a fine place to live: central and probably select. Some builder was due to make a killing if he could get his hands on the land, and it did look as if a steady acquisition program was in progress.
Around one corner from the Decumanus, in a scaffolded block that seemed to be already earmarked for redevelopment, I found a small group of vigiles. It was unexpected; Petro had never mentioned an outstationed unit, though we were a long way from the creaky patrol house, so it did seem a good idea. It was miles to run to the main patrol house to report a bathhouse on fire or to ask for reinforcements when someone had left his wife sitting on a captured burglar.
They had a deserted shop set up as an office. The frontage of what must once have been an artisan’s workshop was now a gaping hole, minus its pull-across doors. There were four men on duty, not the liveliest bunch I had ever met. At a beaten-up table they lolled around while awaiting citizens with complaints. I could see bits of chewed old loaves on the floor, which was rubble. There was a smell of wine, though none in evidence. I made a mental note to warn Petronius this bivouac needed sharpening up.
“Name’s Falco.”
“What’s your problem?” I had not expected to be offered chamomile tea and an almond fancy. Even so, the approach seemed belligerent.
“Can you supply some information?”
“We are not encyclopedia salesmen.” The pallid oaf who was addressing me showed too much of his surly slave origins.
“Whatever happened to shmoozing the public? I pay my taxes, you washed-out bucket of whey!” Well, I was supposed to pay, and in a previous job for the Emperor I had made many wealthy tax evaders say they were sorry and cough up. That was much more useful to the state than if I had paid my own.
A new face homed in. “Now then, sir!” This one must have attended a neighborhood-relationships lecture. “What were you wanting?”
“Apart from a bit of courtesy? I’d like to know about a fire in the next street where a woman died last year.”
“We can give you courtesy, high-class saluting, and a very hard kick up the arse,” said the second man—the charming, witty one—while his idiot cronies ogled. “We don’t know anything about that fire. Details of past incidents are not made available to the public.”
“Not unless you pay the record-search fee,” inserted a third specimen. I saw his partner thump him, telling him to shut up.
“Search fees?” I folded my arms and looked thoughtful. “Whose bright idea was that one? I know Vespasian needs to raise money for his civic building program, but this is new. Is it special to the Sixth? Does it only apply when you cheerful lot are on duty, or is the procedure cohort-wide? Is this Ostia only? Or Rome-led?”
Mistake, Falco. The mood grew sinister. Two vigiles who had so far only chewed apples now closed in on me. The loon who had asked for f
ees squared up. The main spokesman was already only a foot from me. None of them were tall. All were sturdy and wide. By definition they came from rough backgrounds and were employed for hard labor, fearless of danger. They were ill-shaved, dirty-tunicked heavy-duty boys, who reeked of smoke and building dust—and none were frightened of me. They were off their home patch, twenty miles from Rome, and confident that their actions here were unlikely to be criticized. I could see why the people of Ostia must have ambivalent feelings about them.
The spokesman placed a muscle-bound arm in front of two others. “Now then, lads. This seems to be the sort of grand fellow who will tell us he is best friends with the Urban Prefect.” He made it plain that did not worry him.
I kept cool and looked him straight in the eye. Prefects are too remote to count, even if I knew any. I could have mentioned Brunnus—but most likely they hated him; citing their officer could be a very bad idea. I wondered what their names were, but thought better of asking.
“We don’t know anything at all about any fires last year,” the spokesman repeated, inches from my face. His filthy finger prodded my chest. “So, Falco—” He repeated the poke, much harder. “We would like you to remove yourself!”
The others all took a step toward me. Behind me, my exit was clear so I took it. I heard them laughing.
I continued home, feeling soiled and disconcerted. On the first stretch of the Decumanus I kept looking over my shoulder, and I made sure I mingled quickly with the crowds once I reached the Forum. The moron who talked of search fees had plainly asked me for a bribe. The general threat of violence was real. I wondered whether this showed the reaction local people had met when they called for help, the night Diocles’ aunt found her house on fire.
Then I wondered whether Diocles had been staying with her, last year when the blaze happened.
When I returned to our apartment I was gloomy and introspective. Any joy at finally locating the scribe’s aunt had vanished when I learned of her death. My confrontation with the vigiles added to my foul mood. I told Helena about the episode, playing it down.
We discussed the aunt’s tragedy. “I can see,” I said, “that if Diocles had always stayed with her in summer, he may have come back automatically this year. Once he got here, he could have booked into lodgings and then started brooding about what happened to his aunt. If he’s sensitive, this could be why he has gone off somewhere.”
“You think he can’t stand being here again, so he’s taken himself to have a holiday at Lake Nemi instead?” After Helena asked, “You don’t think Diocles was applying to join the vigiles so he could expose some inefficiency that caused his aunt’s death?”
I pulled a face. “I know what Petro would suspect if Diocles has a fascination with fires: he’ll think Diocles is an arsonist.”
“No!”
“Arsonists don’t just start fires, you know. Some like to hide in a portico and watch what happens, but some want to show themselves as heroes who can save people and put fires out. Types like that regularly apply to join the vigiles. Smart recruiting officers have a nose for it and reject them.”
“You met a recruiting officer. You thought Rusticus was smart, didn’t you, Marcus?”
I pondered that. “Yes, I did. But thinking back to what he said, he was uneasy—Rusticus was fazed himself and didn’t know why he had said no to the scribe. Diocles was a puzzle, not a phenomenon he recognized.”
“Doesn’t sound as though Rusticus suspected he was an arsonist. You still think Diocles was up to something?”
“Yes, love. But it may have been nothing to do with his aunt.”
Helena was silent for a moment. Then she said, “His aunt was on his mind, Marcus. When Diocles told Holconius and Mutatus he was coming to Ostia, he said he would be staying with her.”
“True. Maybe subconsciously he forgot her death. Maybe his mind played a trick on him.”
Now Helena and I were both worried that Diocles might have come here and had a breakdown.
“Talking of breakdowns,” Helena said, smiling and changing the subject as she tried to cheer me up a little. “I had a surprise today—I met your uncle!” I raised an eyebrow, sensing what would come next: “That’s right, Marcus. The one nobody ever talks about.”
XXVIII
It was a quarter of a century since I had seen Uncle Fulvius. He did have a name; it was just damned to the memory. Had Ma’s family been able to commission statues, his would have been broken up and reused by Fabius and Junius to build a pigsty.
I was curious to know how he had weathered.
“We hardly exchanged more than a few words,” said Helena. “He wanted your mother; I told him Junilla Tacita was staying with Maia now, as they have more room than us, and I gave him directions.” In the act of repinning an enameled shoulder brooch, she paused for a moment. “Mind you, I did gain the impression he was slightly odd.”
“In what way?” I asked, grinning.
Helena merely shrugged, unsure. “I just felt happier when he left.”
Albia looked up from the floor, where she was playing with the children. “What has your uncle done, Marcus Didius?”
I suspected I had been too young to be told the full story. I supplied the safe part: “He ran away to Pessinus, but he got on the wrong boat.”
“And now he has come back? That took him over twenty years?” exclaimed Helena, amazed. “Surely when his brothers are restless, they just disappear for a couple of seasons and then come sidling home?”
“Fabius and Junius are normal, compared to him. My uncles quarrel with each other,” I explained to Albia. “Fabius thinks Junius cheated him over his share of the farm when my grandfather died; Junius is certain that Fabius will ruin everything through his unwise friendship with a neighbor’s wife; Junius got depressed when the walnut harvest failed and he hates his brother’s plans for intensive chicken-rearing—he is a filthy-tempered rat’s tail anyway. Fabius knows he could be something big in the world if he could just find the right medium for his so-far-undetermined talents. Junius is looking for love, specifically; he thought he had found it but he had to go to market with the eggs because it was his turn that week—there are a lot of eggs because Fabius really has cracked it with his chickens in baskets—and the girl left town.” I ran out of breath.
“Auntie Phoebe told me the girl Junius wants is engaged to a sewer contractor anyway,” Helena put in.
“Great-Auntie Phoebe, my grandfather’s freedwoman, keeps the farm together while the brothers are messing about. She stanches the blood when they attempt suicide. She keeps them apart with a pitchfork when they try to kill each other.”
“I see!” Raising her finely feathered eyebrows, Albia went back to playing with my daughters. I took Helena to Maia’s house, hoping Uncle Fulvius might still be there.
Since he was the elusive one, Fulvius had been and gone.
Instead, I ran into Gaius Baebius. Junia was trying to persuade Ma to take the invalid back to Rome in her cart. Ma very crisply disabused Junia. She seemed low in spirits; whatever she wanted from Fulvius, he must have been difficult about it.
Now that she had talked to her brother, Ma was returning home to the Aventine, but there was no chance she would share the journey with my sister and her whining husband. Ma thought one benefit of being elderly was that she no longer had to be polite about Gaius Baebius. This presupposed she had ever been polite in the first place.
“Ah, Marcus!” Rebuffed by Ma, Gaius latched on to me. “I am thinking I shall go out to the Damagoras villa and place a formal complaint about the way we were treated. I shall never be the same man again—” An amateurish cough confirmed it.
Junia rounded on me too. “You will have to go with him! I cannot put myself in danger among a group of violent pirates, and Gaius is no longer fit to drive.”
I saw my mother pin her skeptical gaze on Gaius. Wickedly, I heard myself promising to go to remonstrate. I had a fair idea what Damagoras and Cratidas would say if
asked for money. I had no intention of antagonizing them, but thought I might have another look at the Cilicians for my own purposes.
“You ought to have a strong word with Uncle Fulvius too,” Junia instructed me. “You are the head of the family.” Since my grandfather died, that ought to be Fulvius himself, but he declined the duties. From what I knew, he would sell off the busts of our ancestors (had we owned any). “Here’s poor Mother trying to mediate and bring him back into the family, but he just refused to have anything to do with us. He upset Mother very badly.”
“I am not upset,” lied Ma. She liked to choose for herself when to play helpless.
“Do Fabius and Junius really want him back?” I queried.
“Fulvius is the clever one,” Ma retorted as if the farm needed someone with intelligence. It was true, but I saw that as the very reason why his brothers might be happier if Fulvius stayed in exile.
“So what is he doing, Ma, and why has he come to Ostia?”
“He never said.”
“What—and you failed to screw it out of him?”
My mother must be holding back. Obviously Uncle Fulvius had found yet another wild career that would cause us huge embarrassment. Ma read my mind. So she quickly muttered, “He told me he had taken up shark-fishing.” She had a way of making a declaration so you were never intended to believe it to be true.
I was none too sure how old my mother was, but Uncle Fulvius was known to be ten years her senior—a bit geriatric to wrestle with deep-sea man-eaters. It was typical of my family. Their craziness rarely led to real harm, but they never knew what was appropriate. I could have sat back and seen them only as good entertainment—but nowadays members of the family were always pressuring me to reform other relatives, under that deathly edict, “You are the head of the family.”
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