“It sounds as if he knows how to behave … But I am told he’s rather sinister?”
My informant, a spotty young male in a filthy tunic, laughed. “He never scares me!”
“You mean he’s not as fierce as he makes out?”
“No, I mean he wears eye paint and silly slippers.” In a lifetime of unexpected answers, that came as a genuine surprise. “The Illyrian?” The waiter thought my remark hilarious. “He’s as fierce as a wet sponge. He’s just a scrawny old queen.”
A couple of vigiles looked in at the door. I took that as my cue to leave.
I had no wish to hang around while members of the Fourth Cohort jumped all over the place like fleas on a scruffy dog. But the night was young, and I needed to think. I started to walk.
A short stroll took me away from the river and into the Forum on its western side. As an attempt to avoid the vigiles, that was a disaster: more of the Fourth were lined up in rows at the foot of the Capitol. I could see Rubella with them, so although they looked sick that they were missing the wine-shop inspection, they were on their best behavior. In general, most never saw the cohort tribune. They stared at him curiously.
Petronius was seconding Rubella, chewing his thumb and looking bored. I also recognized Fusculus, Petro’s deputy in Rome. Fusculus, an increasingly rotund, happy fellow, appeared to be the duty officer in charge tonight. He had formed up a small group in a halfhearted honor guard. The vigiles do not wear uniforms or carry armor, so they cannot parade with their gear highly polished, and insofar as they drill, it consists of lifesaving tips and equipment practice. They are reluctant to march. A vigiles salute is likely to be derisive. Neat lines don’t put out fires. If someone in the crowd here had screamed for help, the Fourth would have shown themselves to be good men. But ceremonial was not their strength.
So a shambolic group, of all heights and body weights, were shifting about in their motley homespun tunics, while Fusculus gave benign instructions when he felt like it. Relaxed by nature, Fusculus enjoyed catching villains; that was so he could pick their brains for a treatise on the underworld. He was an expert on criminal cant; this hobby had taken him far beyond the norms of laundry-snitching and the confidence trickster’s happy finesse of a plump mark, into farricking, boogle-squiddling, and the long toddle (which he told me once was a shorter version of marathon-running, which in Aventine street slang means fleeing justice). However, Fusculus defiantly had no interest in tonight’s long-winded civic bollocking, where his men had to stand arse-aching beside a diplomatic podium. Diplomacy? The Rome vigiles do not bother with such etiquette.
A cluster of locals was clearly unimpressed with our lot. Penned behind a temporary barrier, these folk were cheering a homegrown team: a large, brutally well-organized contingent from the builders’ guild wheeled in and began putting on a welcome for the new vigiles.
These men were good. They knew it too. Their crack troops were out today, demonstration-marching as if the Emperor was reviewing them. The display was skilled and meticulous. They could march and salute—and salute while marching. They stayed the correct distance from one another as if measured with a swagger stick. Their lines were straight. Their double and triple rows were square. Their right-angled turns were crunched to perfection. They swung and they spun and they halted on the spot as if parade drill was wondrous fun. (To anyone with a real military background, that was blasphemy.)
The toy soldiers all wore fake army uniforms in gaudy colors, with shorter tunics than normal. Startling epaulettes plumped up the already wide shoulders of their so-called officers. Each man carried a very clean rope and a shiny grappler. I found their gear a hoot, but the stamp of massed workboots made the ground tremble. It was sinister, and I reckoned it was meant to be.
I soon learned from bystanders that members of other guilds were always known as the plebs, but the builders called themselves the “booted ranks.” They had sixteen troops. Each troop consisted of twenty-two heavy men, headed up by a decurion. The decurions were all hoping to become a president. The guild always had not one, but three quinquennial presidents. They also owned a tame town councillor. Ostensibly appointed by the civic government “because of the builders’ extreme importance in Ostia,” he was a conduit for obtaining contracts. In any other town this would be called graft. Ostia, I was proudly informed, was different. I did not ask how.
No town can support a paramilitary group of over three hundred and fifty hard bastards without their influence in civic life becoming dangerous. Gaius Baebius and I had seen the boot-boys being obnoxious on fire duty and this closer look did not fill me with joy. They went in for sleeveless tunics that would show off bulging biceps. They had big, boozers’ bodies. I knew what they would be like off duty too—big mouths and bloody politics.
The Ostians seemed happy, but this carnival had given me a chill.
I stood in the press outside the Curia. The quickest way home was to cross in front of the Capitol, where Rubella and Petro still stood glumly, beneath a canvas awning supported on posts; reluctant to be seen, I waited. Normally I would have hailed Petro. I was not in a mood to fraternize.
As the display reached its noisy climax and ended, top men in the guild approached Rubella. He and Petronius obligingly shook hands; their polite response seemed genuine, though I guessed otherwise. To the fore was Privatus, with his dark strands of stuck-down hair shining on top of his bald head. He had grown the back hair too long, so he looked like a vagrant from behind, despite wearing his holiday tunic and toga, all of brilliant white. With him was a man someone told me was the tame councillor; apparently the guild were about to erect a statue in his honor and there was no secret that it was a thank-you for favors. One of Privatus’ fellow presidents of the guild was an imperial freedman. Ostia seemed to attract ex-Palace functionaries. They could never take a formal position in civic life, but through the guild, where they could rise to the highest title, they might become big names locally. The biggest guest tonight was the Pontifex of Vulcan—the top priest, who came attended by his own little set of functionaries and public slaves.
I despised them all. That was not because of their origins. I hated them sliming a way into business deals through their trade camaraderie. The councillor who was now being gracious to Rubella would be praised on his statue plinth for his good works; the good works were nothing less than benefactions to the building contractors, in the form of fiddled contracts. I wondered if Diocles had discovered this.
The entertainment was breaking up. Whoever planned it must have intended that members of the Fourth Cohort would at this point mingle with the boot-boys. They reckoned without the Fourth Cohort, who were melting away. The boot-boys took no notice; they had their own associates. The troops who had given the display were being greeted and flattered by others in their guild. As they swanked about, I recognized one of the marchers: he had heavy sideburns and matted curls, plus an unforgettable swagger and sneer. It was the leading deadbeat from the fake vigiles guardhouse, in the street where the scribe’s aunt had died. Once I spotted him, I soon picked out the others.
It would have been fatal to make myself known. There were too many guild members present, and this was their turf. As the Forum piazza began to empty, I made my way discreetly across to the Decumanus. Spotting a large foodshop, I stopped to order wine. At the sound of my voice, a man standing at the counter next to me turned around, exclaiming to the waiter, “He’ll buy me another too!”
The shameless scrounger was my father, Didius Geminus. He was with a friend, a friend who had no objection to me buying him a drink as well.
XXXVII
My boy,” said Pa, acknowledging our relationship. He managed not to sound disparaging. I made no comment.
His companion tilted his winecup to me. No introduction was offered, though he looked vaguely familiar and viewed me with a whimsical air as if he were about to slap my back and remember some incident I would rather forget. I must have seen him around the Emporium. I assumed h
e was one of the group who had come from Rome today: as Justinus had warned me, Posidonius had recruited a few colleagues who had known him for years to help him find his daughter. My father had descended on Ostia among an informal posse of do-gooders. If these righteous old swine were all like Pa, for them it was just a good excuse for a seaside tavern crawl.
“If you all plan to thrash Theopompus into offal, Pa, don’t tell me.”
Pa looked cheerful. “I am sure the young man will respect our point of view, son.”
“Oh yes. Six or eight of you back him into a dark alley, and give your opinions in the customary manner—he’ll hand her back as quick as spit. The problem will be making the lovelorn girlie see her predicament.”
“Fathers know how to explain things.” From mine, that was rich. “Posidonius is a kindly fellow. He won’t push her too hard, he brought her up very nicely, and she will see his reasoning—”
I laughed bitterly. “Plainly you know nothing about daughters!”
“Don’t be like that, son.” As usual, my father was shocked to find anyone criticizing his past behavior. He really had convinced himself that abandoning a wife and infant children was fine. Now he was hurt and I was angry. Some things don’t change.
I noticed his silent companion watching us with a kind of reserve. He was older than Pa by as much as a decade—if the entire crowd supporting Posidonius were of this type, the vigilantes were hardly in their prime. This man was overweight too, flabby and hook-shouldered. I wondered if he was another auctioneer, like Pa; I could imagine him fingering fine art objects with those chubby, rather white fingers. He wore what must be a valuable cameo ring, vivid white glass over deep lapis blue, which appeared to show a miniaturized pornographic scene. It was the kind of thing that appeals to men who call themselves connoisseurs, men with cold eyes, who subject their wives to buggery and then talk openly of their perverted streak, as if vicious taste makes them better than the majority.
Pa was completely different; he had simply fathered too many children then could not endure the domestic results. In despair at him, I tried to drink up quickly. The wine had been flavored with spices and honey; it was too sickly to knock back in a hurry. As a distraction, I mentioned the builders’ guild. This pair must have noticed the noisy display. “Petronius has a house on loan from their president—one of their three presidents. I gather they do nothing as a singleton that can be a triplet.”
“They act as if they own the streets,” said Pa.
“Maybe they really do—public works are the main activity at Ostia. I reckon they are trying to take over.” I licked my lips, agitated by the honey’s stickiness. “This is a sick town.”
“What do you think?” Pa asked the man with him.
“Marcus is right.”
Cheek. Calling me Marcus was too damned informal. But with my father always ready to see me as prudish, I bit back my irritation. Sons are treated as children by their fathers’ friends. Arguing about it gets you nowhere.
Never one to be outnumbered in a vote, Pa changed the subject. “Marcus is chasing Cilician pirates.”
“I am looking for a missing scribe,” I corrected patiently for the other man. “Pirates, I am reliably informed, do not exist—and absolutely not in Cilicia nowadays.”
“So who’s doing the kidnaps?” scoffed Pa, while the other man looked on in silence.
This time I grinned. “Ex-pirates.”
Pa’s companion finally allowed himself to be drawn. “Only to be expected.” He spoke in a dry, depressed tone, which chimed in with my own attitude more than I had expected. Having made the statement, he stopped. He seemed to enjoy leaving his listeners hanging.
“How’s that?” I prompted. I was still being polite, but something about him was getting on my nerves. He gave the impression he enjoyed being controversial.
“They had a way of life,” he said. “Some called it piracy; to them it was their natural mode of business. If it was all taken away from them, they were bound to find a new occupation. People have to live.”
“You sound sorry for them.”
“I understand their position.” He seemed detached, yet added, “We had the same thing here, with the dispossessed farmers. It caused absolute misery.”
I could remember my grandfather, the one on the Campagna, sounding off about old land “reforms,” which drove countrymen out of tenancies where they had farmed for decades. Gramps kept his farm—but we all thought he had done it by tricking someone else. All his neighbors thought so too. “So you view the Cilician pirates as unfortunate displaced persons?”
“Naturals for a life of crime,” Pa sneered. He hated most other nations. He would say that was because he had done business with them and learned what they were like.
“Naturals to be blamed for everything, anyway,” his friend said. “So what do Cilician pirates have to do with your missing scribe, young Marcus?”
Once again I tried to ignore his overfamiliarity. “Diocles may have been writing memoirs for one of them—but my hunch is that he was really interested in this kidnap racket. Theopompus and Posidonius’ silly daughter may yet gain a mention in the Daily Gazette.”
“We won’t be the only ones chasing Theopompus!” growled Pa. “His comrades won’t thank him for publicity.”
“You have tied the kidnaps to the Cilicians?” asked the other man of me.
“They have inadvertently let me identify a couple of their group.”
“Could be dangerous for you.”
“If my scribe turned up, I’d be out of here. The kidnappers have both the navy and the vigiles on their tail now. It can’t be long to a showdown.”
“So then good-bye, Cilicians! If the navy and the vigiles are closing in, they may find your scribe for you. You might lose your fee.” Well, thanks for that! “Favonius, I have to go …”
The man had slipped away almost before we registered his polite self-extraction. He left behind a whiff of shaving unguent and, for me, a slightly cheated feeling.
Nobody at the Emporium called my father Favonius. He was Geminus, his long-adopted cognomen. Geminus to everyone. Well, to everyone except Ma, in one of her vengeful moods. She insisted on using the name he had had before he ran away from us.
“You do know who that was?” Pa was signaling the waiter to refill our cups. He had already laid money on the marble to cover it so I was trapped.
I shook my head. “Should I?”
“Too right, my boy! That weird streak was your Uncle Fulvius.”
I gazed at Pa. He nodded. Suddenly, I grinned back. Now I could see it—though Fulvius had gained age, weight, and a much more truculent attitude. “As dreary as I remember! It’s hard to see what all the fuss was,” I commented—though my uncle’s deliberate way of annoying people explained a lot about his reputation.
Pa and I both saw ourselves as members of the solid Didius clan; we were two bumptious boys from Rome, the only place worth living. So now we two kings of society lifted our winecups, saluted each other with a clink, and were for once at peace together. Now we were doing what town boys really enjoy: laughing at an eccentric country relative.
XXXVIII
Helena was intrigued when she heard of my meeting. “So why didn’t you recognize your uncle?”
“It’s been years since I met him. I never saw much of Fulvius anyway. I can’t have been more than five or six the last time—it was before Pa left us. My long holidays on the farm were later; Ma used to take us all to run around and tire ourselves out—when she could get somebody to give us all a lift into the Campagna. By that time Fulvius had gone.”
“Gone to do what?” asked Helena. “What is the real story?”
“He didn’t fit in.”
“He was driven out by the others?”
“No. Fulvius voluntarily took himself off.”
“Unhappy?”
“Just bloody awkward, I’d say.”
“Oh, nothing his nephew inherited then!”
I got out of that by asking how Helena was progressing with the Diocles tablets.
She had read them all already. I was not surprised. On a waxed tablet of her own, she had quoted bits she wanted me to see. A large proportion of what she had collated involved the meetings Albia had described, which were clearly confrontations between ships, where the named vessels came off worst. People were sold into slavery. Goods were seized and marketed for profit. Then occasionally deaths were noted.
“Deaths? Unnatural ones?”
Helena gave out a restless sigh. “No doubt of it. ‘We took three losses.’ Another time, ‘Too many to handle; five overboard.’ I think that may mean thrown overboard. Later, ‘They lost ten, the master caught it; would not give up—Lygon finished him.’ Yes, Lygon is named. Do you think that’s the same one you are interested in?”
I shrugged. We had no way of knowing—though it seemed a big coincidence. “Any other familiar people?”
I was hoping for Damagoras or Cratidas, but was disappointed. Helena looked up her own notes to be sure. “No, but Lygon is mentioned twice. The second time is horrible—‘Woman screaming; Lygon took her head off for us; silence!’”
“Hey! I’m sorry I let you read this stuff.”
As I shuddered, Helena embraced me. I hoped that would distract her from the horror. We then sat huddled together, looking through the tablets. Try as we might, we could find no internal evidence as to who wrote them. Unfortunately, only schoolboys sign their personal note-tablets Marcus owns this. Hands off, or the kindly Furies will strike you …
The logs must be from a captain. He never said what his own ship was called. It had traveled widely around the eastern Mediterranean, operating for years, from the Greek islands across to the Phoenician seaboard. His trade was bloody, and there was no doubt it was criminal. Nobody could call it anything other than piracy. This vessel preyed on other shipping. Plunder was its sole reason for putting to sea. It never took a cargo out, though almost always came back to land with one or more commodity for sale.
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