“Can you tell me about it? I heard there were problems getting help.”
“Of course there were. We all hate fires.”
“Vigiles too far away to fetch?”
“Oh, much too far. People around here would never go to them,” said the son, betraying the Ostians’ suspicion of the men from Rome.
“Who do you call on? The builders’ guild?”
He shook his head. “Not unless we’re desperate.”
As I raised my eyebrows in query, the mother rushed to moan about the guild. “Nasty lot. Looking after themselves, you know.”
“How’s that?”
The son gave the mother a warning look and she subsided. I stuck it out, now looking into the crayfish bucket as if I was considering a starter course tonight.
“I wouldn’t want to say anything bad,” murmured the mother, helping me to flip good specimens into a piece of sacking. Then she went ahead: “The firemen go into people’s houses and come out with their knapsacks filled.”
“They help themselves to valuables?”
“Famous for it,” said the son, now willing to blacken them. “And worse.”
“Worse?”
“Well, nothing can be proved, but some say when the builders’ guild are putting a fire out, they don’t try very hard.” I pretended to look blank, so he explained: “If the property is completely destroyed, there will be a nice profit, putting up a new building. They would rather obtain a contract than save a house or business.”
“I noticed a lot of empty plots over the other side of the junction. Is that builders on a redevelopment plan?”
“Could be. No sign of much happening. I reckon it will be years before they start.”
“Any hint of foul play in all this? Do the builders ever deliberately help fires to start?” Both mother and son swore they had never heard it suggested. They had a less cynical attitude than me. “So the night Vestina died, who did turn up to fight the flames?”
“Locals,” said the fishmonger. “We had to get water from the baths, and they were closed so that took time.”
“Wasn’t there a vigiles guardhouse hereabouts?”
“Oh, them!”
“Would they not turn out?”
“No, Diocles asked them.”
The son had been terse; the mother elaborated: “They just laughed at him. He begged in vain.”
“First most of us knew, he was running about from place to place screaming for help—”
“Well, you know why he was so upset,” said his mother. I turned to her and she said flatly, “It was all his fault. He was always feckless; some men are, you know. He caused the fire.”
“Accident?” I asked her, still thinking that Petronius Longus would wonder if the scribe was an arsonist.
“Oh yes. He let a lamp fall off a shelf, he admitted it. The poor man was hysterical about that. His aunt had been such a nice woman—quite cultured, you know; she had worked for an empress when she was a young girl. I think Vestina and Diocles were the only family each other had—freed slaves but perfectly respectable, with royal connections. He was left all alone when he lost her. And such a terrible way for her to go …”
“Have you ever seen him back again? Has he been this year at all?”
“Oh no. I don’t expect he’ll ever come here again,” said the fishmonger’s mother. “He wouldn’t want to remember what happened, would he?”
I sorted out more crayfish thoughtfully. Some were just large prawns but they would still be tasty. Now I had the full picture, my anxieties about Diocles were leaping up again. Whatever work motives had brought him here, he was asking for mental anguish. Or were his motives personal?
“I’m worried about him,” I told them. “He stayed in lodgings by the Marine Gate this summer. Then he disappeared suddenly.”
“He’ll be dead in a ditch,” said the fishmonger’s mother. “He couldn’t take the nightmare any longer, if you ask me. He’ll have done for himself. I can see him now, his torment was shocking. Tears streaming down his face, all blackened from the fire where he had tried to get back in the house. People had to drag him away. There was nothing he could do, the heat had gotten too intense. So he sat in the street then, whimpering to himself, over and over, ‘the bastards, the bastards!’—He meant the men who laughed at him, those ones in that guardhouse. He meant, they could have come to help when he begged them, but they just let Vestina die.”
XXXIII
Subdued, I bought my fish, then walked slowly home.
The crowds jostling in the main street seemed garish and crass. All looked vibrant and thriving in this multicultured port, but corruption ate at the heart of the local fabric, stinking like rotting seaweed. Many towns have a stench in the back alleys. Here it was subtle, but universal. The bullies from the builders’ guild preyed on their own people; the vigiles left them to their own devices. Interlopers from barren provinces homed in as parasites on other foreigners. A young girl had had her life ruined. She failed to see her loss, or how it would ruin her father. An elderly cripple had died because no one would help her. A scribe had vanished. All these busy people in the streets pushed and shoved, all these heavily laden vehicles rattled and bumped, along the sunny streets in the name of commerce, heedless of the polluting tide that sucked to and fro in the darkness under the warm wharves of Ostia and Portus.
I walked half the length of the Decumanus Maximus, one silent man amid the bustle. I was thinking about someone else who had passed along this street in solitude. I wondered if bereavement was the only force working on Diocles’ emotions, or if he too had burned with anger over this town. If he knew of the stench, I wondered what he did about it. I could not tell if I was any closer to finding him, but as I thought of Diocles that evening I knew that what had once seemed an easy, lighthearted task for me had assumed a blacker character.
I hoped he was here. I hoped he was nearby. I wanted to find him, merely maudlin and drowning his sorrows at one of his solitary suppers in a bar. But increasingly I feared for him.
It was just as well I had lashed out on the extra seafood. We had a houseful of visitors. Having shed my mother, we had suddenly acquired Helena’s mama—not to mention her father and her younger brother. They had all come to see off Aelianus, whose ship would leave for Greece the next day. Fortunately, I was not expected to cram in extra people. Senatorial families always stay in some noble friend’s villa when they travel around; they have the knack of finding one where the friend is not in residence to bother them. Unlike my own family, today’s relatives were going on to a nearby estate for the traditional patrician customs: criticizing their friend’s bedlinen and his favorite slaves, before leaving a very short thank-you note and mounds of unwashed foodbowls. Slaves had gone ahead to ensure there were beds ready and hot water in the bathhouse. Tonight, the travelers were staying to supper with us. Decimus Camillus and Julia Justa wanted to see their granddaughters.
Cooking arrangements in the apartment were not up to this, so we built an open fire down in the courtyard, over which I cooked the fish in relays: they were succulent and scented with herbs. Man’s work; I had to fight for my position against the senator and his sons. They had no idea how to keep a wood fire going, and I was skeptical of their skewering techniques. Never mind where our firewood came from—though I did hear the local baker had problems getting his oven fired up next day.
We took over the whole ground-floor outdoor area; other tenants of the apartment block could only gape jealously and mutter about us blocking access to the well. Helena and her mother went out for more provisions; there was a little market just inside the Gate of Fortune. Senators’ wives never normally shop in person, but Julia Justa had a pretty good eye for a bunch of dill. They were extremely cheerful when they came back laden; it was probably the first time for years they had been on an expedition together.
In fact there was so much giggling, I wondered whether the two of them had stepped into the Aquarius for a little spiced wi
ne toddy. Far be it from me to sniff my mother-in-law’s breath for cinnamon, or anything stronger. It is probably treason for an equestrian to suggest that a senator’s wife has been drinking in a public place. I could certainly have got myself smacked—and I knew that women who have had a tipple lose all sense of how hard they are hitting. I remembered when Maia, as a young girl, used to come home hysterical from a screaming night of fun at the loom-workers funeral club.
When I told this to Helena and Julia Justa, it caused so much merriment, I was quite sure about the hot toddy.
It was a very warm evening. Back in Rome, the Camilli might seem diffident, in comparison to their stately colleagues, but once they were let out of their town house on a spree, they knew how to throw themselves into a country feast. We could have been at an olive harvest. We were loud, we ate heartily, we laughed and talked until it grew so dark we had to light oil lamps and start batting at insects. The children scampered about. Nux sniffed and snuffled around people’s legs. Nervous at first, but then happier than I had seen her, Albia allocated bowls and spoons. Aulus hauled water from the well; Quintus opened up the amphora that had somehow found itself strapped in the luggage box of the senator’s carriage without Julia Justa knowing why there seemed so little room for her possessions.
The senator sat in the middle of everything, looking as if he wished he could retire to a vineyard in the sun.
“Classic,” I said, handing him a dish of prawns to pick apart for Julia and Favonia. He was a devoted grandfather. Like many, he probably had more enjoyment from the younger generation than he had allowed himself with his own children. “You are a traditional Roman, devoting yourself to city politics as a duty, while yearning for the simple life when our ancestors were robust farmers.”
“And if they had stayed farmers, Marcus, we would all be tenants under the thumb of some Sabine elite!”
“Working all hours to pay the rent to our heartless masters.”
“I thought you were a republican, lad.”
I wondered who had told him that. “It’s easy to be a republican when you live in a thriving empire,” I admitted. “I’m not sure that I really fancy the hard old days of plowing and porridge.”
Decimus posted a peeled prawn into little Favonia’s mouth, while she sat on the stone bench beside him, looking up patiently for the next morsel. “Gone soft!” he said, grinning. “When I first knew you, you were as cynical as Diogenes, a moody loner with a black soul.”
“Now I’m staid? Your daughter’s mellowing influence.” On the other side of the courtyard, Helena and her noble matron mother, who were unpacking vegetables, appeared to be tossing radishes at each other, in fits of laughter. The senator and I thought best to ignore it. Men dislike too much uncharacteristic behavior. Women should stick to the rules we have learned.
“Now you are rather sensible,” said Decimus. “You still do good in the community—but you don’t resent yourself for it. On a night like this, Marcus Didius, I think you manage to be happy with life.”
“True. As I said, thanks to Helena.” I always gave him credit for the way he had brought her up. He was a fair man, but secretly Helena was his favorite. He liked her willingness to rebel; he may have felt proud of it. “I wouldn’t give Favonia any more shellfish, not until we’ve got some plain bread into her—”
Favonia saw the game was up. Without a backward glance of thanks to her grandpapa, she wriggled off the bench. She toddled straight over to Aulus, steadying herself against his knee with sticky fingers; she had spotted that he was peeling the really big crayfish. Favonia only liked the best. Aulus, always a standoffish uncle in his own mind, would be entirely at the mercy of those big pleading eyes. Nux saw the scrounging in progress, and squirmed in alongside Favonia, adding her own silent pressure.
The senator gave another prawn to Julia, who snuggled up to him, pretending to be much better behaved than her little sister. “I know you don’t want to talk about work tonight, but make sure you speak to Quintus at some point. A man came to see him. Quintus will tell you.”
It could wait. It would have to. There was a sudden flare-up of the bonfire. I had a crisis with my fish.
Later, when stars were lighting our good-byes, I did snatch a moment with Justinus. The senator was supervising packing up with his carriage driver. Helena was soothing a sleepy, whining child. Aulus had to calm his mother, who had definitely supped too much of the red wine, so she had become weepy about losing him tomorrow.
“Quintus! I hear you have things to tell me.”
Camillus Justinus was leaner and cleaner-cut than his elder brother, a quiet and thoroughly stable young man on the surface, though I knew he had another side to him. He lived at home with his parents, his serious wife, and his new son—but he had adventures abroad behind him. Too many, in my opinion.
He leaned on my shoulder; to save carrying empties, he had helped ensure the amphora was empty. “A good night! A wonderful send-off for Aulus. Oof!” He puffed out his cheeks, sobering up quickly. “I should have brought Claudia.”
“You never bring Claudia. You’re very unfair to her.”
“Ah well … Of course she could have come. She chose to stay with the little chap.” I knew why that was. It had nothing to do with feeding the baby or keeping his routine. Claudia had once been betrothed to Aulus. He had learned not to be rude about being dumped, but she found the situation awkward. It was possible she now thought that when she married Quintus, she had chosen the wrong brother. Sad to say, in her lowest moments, that pleasant, grave young woman probably thought she should not have married either of them.
“How are things, Quintus?” I asked carefully.
“Things are fine, Marcus.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Things are just fine.” People never mean that.
Quintus rallied from a brief fit of melancholia and told me his news: he had been visited by Posidonius. (I had myself told Posidonius he could contact us.) After he reported to the vigiles that Rhodope had eloped with her lover, he had felt dissatisfied and decided to seek further help from us.
“The situation is depressing,” said my young partner, now in efficient professional mode. “He knows there is little he can do. Theopompus has already demanded cash for a wedding, plus more money for the couple to set up house together.”
“So the pressure is on—‘Surely you don’t want your little girl to be unhappy, Posidonius?’ Appeals to his love, backed by unspoken threats. Theopompus claims to adore her—while making sure the father knows he could make her really miserable.”
“Exactly, Marcus. Poor bastard. Posidonius is being begged for a trousseau and dinner service already, and knows future bills will mount. The vigiles had sparse consolation to offer him—”
“Are we surprised?” I asked bitterly.
“Anyway, the girl thinks her dreams have all come true but the father knows better. He won’t simply take it, though. He intends coming to Ostia to search for Rhodope; he is bringing people he knows in Rome. A group at the Emporium are getting together …” Quintus paused, unsure how I would take this. “I think your father may join in.”
“Heaven help us!”
“Anyway, I told Posidonius where to find you.” Now Pa would know too. “I can stay if you want, Marcus, but I would rather go back and head up the Rome office.” He had a fancy way of putting it. Our Rome office was just my house, with whoever knocked on the door bringing their troubles. “Claudia would be happier,” Quintus confessed.
I said, whatever made Claudia happy would make me happy. With one associate bunking off to Greece, I had to keep the other sweet. Otherwise I would go back to pounding the pavement night and day as a lone investigator.
The senator had been right: I liked to enjoy life nowadays.
As Aulus helped their mother into the carriage, which she achieved with less agility than normal, I muttered to Quintus, “When your mother comes to Portus tomorrow, warn her to leave her jewels behind.”
Julia Justa was always smart in a restrained way. She chose her tunics to tone or contrast aesthetically with her overmantles; today she was in two shades of violet. Even for a journey and an informal alfresco fish supper, she wore a necklace formed from two rows of suspended gold spindles, large earrings with big central pearls and pearl drops, bracelets on both arms, and various finger rings. If she used the public baths, her embroidered girdle would be a magnet for pilferers; likewise her beaded shoes.
“You don’t think my mother will fall prey to kidnap!” Quintus guffawed. “They’ll get more than they bargain for. They would end up paying us the ransom, pleading for us to take Mama back!”
“The point is,” I suggested, “she looks wealthy—and since your father eagerly throws off his purple-edged toga when he leaves Rome, nobody will know she is the wife of a senator. Don’t scare her, but make her be sensible.”
Decimus himself had now clambered into the vehicle after his lady, and was waving cheerfully through the small curtained window. Originally, theirs must have been a marriage of convenience. I knew Julia Justa had brought in money—though less money than the impoverished Camilli really needed. Nonetheless, they had made it a marriage of affection and stability.
“She’s safe if they do know her rank?” Quintus was moving to join them.
“This gang is clever. They don’t invite trouble. They choose merchants from overseas, to limit the support their victims can call on here in Italy. Then they scare them so badly they just want to flee back home. It works. Picking on outsiders, they have—up until now—avoided an outcry.”
“Was Diocles going public on them?”
“Maybe he just inadvertently gave that impression.”
Quintus waited while Helena leaned into the carriage to kiss her parents. “So what’s happened to Diocles, Marcus?”
“Maybe some frank Cilician seafarer has explained that he would like Diocles to keep quiet.”
“And carried him off?”
Maybe—but I still had the feeling that Diocles had not gone far from Ostia.
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