To us it was theft. To the ship’s captain, it was fair trade.
Although we could not identify him, clues made us sure that he was a Cilician. First there was the name of his crony Lygon, who—if he was the one I knew of—came from Soli/Pompeiopolis. Apprentice sailors were mentioned, sometimes with their place of origin, also in Cilicia; many were farmhands and despite claims that the people of the mountains had no part in piracy, it became clear that there was a regular progression of young men being sent from the land to find experience, reputation, and riches at sea.
From time to time the logs recorded alliances with other groups and nationalities. “Agreed a treaty with the Pamphyllians—Korakesians (Melanthos). Side men in, but they won’t hold … Off Akroterion met the Fideliter and the Psyche. Cattle and slaves; Melanthos took the cattle; he won’t stay true … Meras of Antiphellos and his Lycians joined us. Meras left us again after could not agree over the hides … Sailing off Xanthos. Good pickings if the season holds, but the Lycians don’t like us being here. Met a large trader out of Sidon but Marion came up during our action and we had to fight him off. Later followed the Europa, out of Thera, but no luck; Melanthos got that … Offer to partner the Illyrians but they are faithless and too violent …”
“Too violent”? That was hilarious. Once he had stripped his victims of valuables, the writer never hesitated to hurl people overboard to drown. He only took prisoners if they were suitable as slaves. Otherwise, he eliminated witnesses. He and his seamen lived by the sword. If stabbing failed, they used strangulation. Helena had found repeated notes of wounding during robberies, limbs lost on both sides, frequent records of mutilation and reckless killing. Sometimes they would go ashore in search of booty; once they sacked a shrine.
“I looked for mention of Illyrians,” Helena said. “This sole mention of Illyrians being faithless and violent is all. But assuming the writer is Cilician, he does make partnerships from time to time, often swearing oaths of alliance with those he has quite recently quarreled with or accused of breaking faith.”
“Could ‘the Illyrian’ we know of just be a nickname?”
“I suppose so, Marcus. But it must have some link to where the negotiator comes from.”
“Now,” said Helena, gathering up a small pile of tablets she had placed separately, “the interesting part. I shall tell you what I believe Diocles was doing.”
“These other tablets are his own notes?”
“Yes. The handwriting and layout match the notes we found in his room. In these,” she went on, speaking calmly and without drama, “the scribe is making a summary of the old logs. You could call it an outline of a proposed new work—”
“Do you mean that Damagoras told me the truth—Diocles really was going to help him put together his memoirs?”
“No doubt of it.” Helena pursed her lips. “But it makes Damagoras a liar. First, he assured you, Marcus, that he just had a couple of brief discussions with Diocles, after which the scribe decided not to proceed. But for Diocles to make all these notes, the two of them must have gone into great detail together.”
“I was puzzled that he had given Rusticus, the vigiles recruiting officer, an address in the country, not the rental house at the Marine Gate …”
“Yes.” Helena was with me. “Diocles probably went to live for a while at the villa. He worked up these notes while staying there. So Damagoras lied about how close their relationship was. But the main area where he lied—and he’s lying through his teeth, Marcus—is this. If these ship’s logs are what Diocles had to use as the raw material for the memoirs, then there is no doubt, no doubt at all, about what Damagoras used to do for a living. The captain who composed these old records was a pirate.”
I nodded. “And I’ll tell you something else, my love—I don’t believe the virtuous claim that he has long ago retired. He was a pirate—and I reckon he still is.”
Next morning I began to read the note-tablets myself. I took them down to the courtyard and sat on a bench in dappled sunlight, with Nux fast asleep up against me and the children nearby. From time to time I had to break off, because Julia Junilla was playing at shops and wanted me to buy some pebble that was supposed to be a cake. This happened so often that I asked for a trade discount—only to be given the same surly reaction I would get at the counter of a real shop.
Helena had just come down to mediate in our commercial wrangling. As she agreed with Julia that I was being mean, someone came in through the entrance looking for me. It was Virtus, the slave from the vigiles patrol house. I was surprised to see him, and even more startled that Petronius Longus had sent him with a message.
“Fusculus and Petro have been called out to an incident. Apparently you will be interested, Falco. Some madman drove a chariot off the road in the middle of last night. Seems the ‘accident’ wasn’t an accident, though—the horses both had their throats cut. They found a body. I can’t stop; apparently the chariot is a known vehicle and I’ve got to go and see that man Posidonius—”
Tablets scattered as I stood up abruptly. “Sounds as if the worst has happened. They must have killed the girl—” I had been too abrupt; Helena gasped. “Sorry, love. Give me directions, Virtus.”
Helena was now calling for Albia to bring her a cloak and look after the children. I normally kept her as far from death as possible. But in Rome she had talked to the foolish girl, persuading her to confide her hopes and dreams. I knew that Helena would be determined now to pay her last respects to Rhodope.
XXXIX
We had to go out to the old salt workings. Salt was the staple that brought about the founding of Rome. A large marsh lies out on the Via Salaria—the Salt Road—just before Ostia as you travel in from Rome. Virtus said the wrecked vehicle was there. The chariot had been spotted by passing drivers that morning, off road and upended.
Helena and I set off down the Decumanus on foot, intending to hire donkeys if we saw a stable. Luck was with us; an open cart rattled past, bearing a group of vigiles fresh from their patrol house. They were going out to the scene of the crime, and they let us hop on board with them. It would be a short journey. We could have walked, but it would have taken time and effort.
“What do you know about it, lads?”
“Debris was noticed at dawn. Salt workers were alerted and went over to see if there was anything to salvage. When they saw the situation with the dead horses, they got scared and sent a runner into town. Rubella dispatched Petronius; he passed back a message that we are to meet him on site, bringing transport and gear. Chariot fits a description of one we were looking for.”
“What’s Petronius want the gear for?”
“Lugging back the chariot.”
“Get away! It’s not his style,” I joked glumly. “This is a rich boy’s passion-wagon. Lucius Petronius is a stately oxcart man.”
The vigiles grinned nervously. They were restrained, because I had Helena sitting silent beside me. I was feeling anxious myself about bringing her. The body we were going to see was probably mutilated; if my suspicions were right, we had a witness being silenced—silenced by men who controlled their victims through fear. Next time they took a female captive, they would make free with ghastly details about what had happened to today’s corpse.
I had seen violated bodies. I did not want Helena to experience that. Clinging to the sides of the cart on that short bumpy trip, I never managed to think up a solution to spare her.
When the cart stopped, I jumped out feeling queasy.
This was a lonely place for anybody to be brought to die.
There was high ground up ahead toward Rome, but these wetlands formed a great marshy hollow, probably lower than sea level. Parts had been filled in by dumping the rubble from buildings destroyed by Nero’s Great Fire in Rome, but the dumps only made the place seem even more unwelcoming. Most salt was now produced north of the river, but there were still a few workings here, as there had been since the dawn of Roman history. The main road ran on a raise
d causeway. The Tiber must be some distance away to our left. A brisk breeze was whipping across the low ground when we arrived, though when it occasionally faltered, the sun was burning. Wind and heat are the tools of salt manufacture.
In the marshes on our right stood the hunched wattle huts of the saltpan workers, among the shine of low rectangular drying pools. By one of the huts dilapidated carts were waiting to ply their ancient trade up the Salt Road to Rome. Hillocks of sparkling salt grains were mounded beside a turning area where they loaded up.
Nobody was about. Everyone had gone to stare.
The wreck was on the other side of the main road. “Better wait here,” one of the vigiles suggested to Helena, but she stuck tight next to me. We walked down a slip road onto the marsh. Under our feet, the rutted path had a white gleam; we trod with care in case it was slippery. The worst risk was turning an ankle in a boggy hole.
Old crystallization pools were everywhere, though on this side of the road they looked unused. There was no reason for anyone to stop on this road, unless they had business at the saltpans. A lover might possibly bring his girl out here for a giggle somewhere private, but he would have to have heard there was a very good moon that night to romance her by.
It was a stupid place to try driving a chariot off road deliberately. Everything was far too spongy underfoot.
Birds flew above us as we walked over to the scene of action. We could just make out two wheel scars where the vehicle had careered in a long curve across the saline floodplain, sinking deep into the wet ground and crushing the coarse vegetation. It was amazing that the chariot had made it so far without bogging down completely. Maybe it had had a lot of help.
The sad corpses of the two once-handsome black horses were lying together beside the vehicle. A knot of people were gathered around. One chariot wheel was off, the other leaning at an angle. From the road, you would think it had simply careered from the highway and crashed. Close to, I thought someone had used a mallet on the coachwork.
Petronius Longus was talking to some locals. He saw us approaching; he gestured for me to keep Helena back.
“Stay here.”
“No, I’m coming.”
“Your choice, then.”
The vigiles who had brought us immediately did what they were trained to do: they moved back the gawpers. The salt workers were gnarled little men with particular features and little to say. Their ancestors had stared at Aeneas in the same way these were staring at us now; their ancestors’ ancestors knew old Father Tiber when he was an adolescent lad. Others in the audience were contract drivers who had noticed the crowd and left their carts up on the road. The men stood about with their thumbs in their belts, giving out opinions. Carters always know what’s what—and they are usually wrong.
I walked up to Petronius. We clasped hands briefly.
Helena had gone straight to the chariot, but it was empty. “We had to hunt for the body.” Petro muttered, but ever alert, she heard him. “Come and see.”
He walked with us across the marsh, away from the cluster of people. When we had gone beyond earshot and our feet were soaking wet, we saw something lying up ahead. Helena ran forward, but stopped in shocked surprise: “It is not the girl!”
A sudden rush of tears caught her. I stood at her side, bemused. There was some relief not to be looking at Rhodope, but at the body of a man instead. Petronius watched us both.
“This is Theopompus.”
“Thought so.” Petro and I were now back on old terms.
Helena had crouched to look at his face. It was not pretty. Theopompus was lying on his side, curled slightly. He must have been dead here half the night; what remained of his clothing was sodden. He had been beaten and then robbed of his finery. Troubling discolorations covered what we could see of him, though at least there was little blood. It looked as if he had been finished off with strangulation.
“Not easy to see what the girl saw in him!” Petro commented.
Theopompus must have been twice Rhodope’s age. He was short-limbed and sturdy, deeply tanned even where his braided crimson tunic was drawn high up one thigh; the fine material was now filthy and stained. If it had stayed clean, we would probably have found him naked; his belt, his boots, and all his jewelry had been taken. Some of the gold at least had been worn a long time so it had left white skin on removal: a tight arm bracelet, finger rings, even earrings probably, because a trickle of blood had dried on his neck.
I was not convinced the killers stripped the corpse. Those salt workers would have had a good look this morning; that could even explain how Theopompus came to be so far from his vehicle. The salt workers might have dragged the corpse away before they lost their nerve and sent for the vigiles. But he may have been alive when the chariot crashed, then ran for his life until he was brought down and finished off.
Though none too handsome by classical standards, he had had more or less even features, before someone broke his nose for him last night. His dark, triangular face was slightly hook-nosed. I supposed he was attractive—to a young woman who was ready for adventure.
“I don’t imagine the girl did this.” Petronius was in the dry, brutal mood that often afflicted him when faced with a vicious death. “Well, not unless she was built like a barracks, and she had just found out he was a love rat …”
“Her name is Rhodope,” said Helena, in a tight voice. “She is timid and slight, aged seventeen. I hope she never saw him like this.” She gazed around anxiously. “I hope she is not out here!”
Petronius shrugged. For him, the girl had tangled with the wrong people and her fate was her own fault. If anything, he blamed her for making him and his men have to come out here and deal with this.
“So where in Hades is she?” I mused.
“We don’t know if she was with him. If she was, and could walk after the crash, she may have wandered off,” said Petronius. “Fusculus has gone to the river to look.” We could see remote figures, moving slowly along a line of vegetation that marked what must be the course of the Tiber. It took a long loop away from the road and right around the marsh.
“Was Theopompus brought here dead or killed here?”
“Can’t tell. I suppose it’s just as bad being beaten to pulp in a tavern—but there’s something about this place …” Petro tailed off. He was a townsman. He hated the thought of murder taking place in isolated country spots.
“Did the salt workers see or hear anything last night, Petro?”
“What do you think? Not a thing.”
“They huddle in their huts and if late-night marauders come out from Ostia in crazy vehicles, they bolt the doors?”
“They don’t want trouble.” Petro sounded restless and irritable. He might pretend a scene like this left him untouched, but he was wrong. “Drunks come out here for crazy fun. They see the people on the salt marshes as weird sprites, just waiting to be knocked on the head by town sophisticates. And revelers looking for trouble suppose they will get away with it.”
“The killers of Theopompus probably will.”
We started to walk back toward the crashed chariot. “We have nothing to pin this on anyone,” Petronius grumbled. “I wouldn’t want to go to court with it. A defender could argue that those bruises were acquired when the chariot went off the road …”
“Hard work explaining the slit throats on the horses,” I reminded him.
“True. But unless we come across someone who actually saw Theopompus with his killers, they may be in the clear.”
“Rhodope may have seen something,” Helena interrupted.
Neither Petro nor I pointed out that Rhodope was perhaps also dead. Even if not, if she saw the killers, that put her straight back in the kind of danger that had made me earlier suppose it was her body we would find lying here.
Petronius looked at me. “I’ve been told the girl’s father is in Ostia trying to find her. Rumor has it, he brought muscle. Know anything about that, Falco?”
I toyed with deni
al. Petro continued to stare, so I said, “As far as I know, the muscle consists of just a few old-timers, looking for a good day out.”
“I shall ask where her papa and his day-trippers were last night,” said my old friend, with a distrustful grunt. It sounded as if he were passing them a message through me. “I bet they will all give each other nice little watertight alibis.”
“I’m sure they will.” I did not want to be involved. “Can you blame them, once they find they are being scrutinized by you?—You know the other kidnappers silenced Theopompus,” I growled. “Somebody said only yesterday that if he drew attention to their racket, his cronies would not thank him.”
“Who said that? Are they connected to the gang?”
“No, just an uncle of mine who I happened to run into. We were chatting generally.”
“I didn’t know you had an uncle here.”
“Neither did I.”
Helena walked away from us and went back to the road. She stood on the causeway, where a brisk wind blew her mantle against her body. The fine blue cloth flapped like tent canvas, fighting its embroidered border, which moved to and fro more heavily. Helena hugged her arms close around herself, staring across the opposite marshes.
“What’s your plan for the chariot?” I asked Petro, as I prepared to go to Helena.
“Drag it to the Forum. Stick up a board saying, ‘Anyone see this fandangle yesterday?’ Then put a man alongside to take notes. One good thing—it was a very noticeable craft.”
I nodded, and went to my girl. I tried to hold her, though she turned away from me. Her dark hair had been tugged free by the wind; she was still clinging on to her mantle with one hand while struggling to collect loose hairpins. I stroked her hair, gathering the long loose strands in my own hand, then held her hard against my chest.
Both of us must have been thinking about that momentary sighting we had had of Rhodope and Theopompus when they drove into Ostia—he, showing off madly and barely able to control his high-strung black horses, she screaming with excitement at the sheer thrill of being with him.
Scandal Takes a Holiday Page 19