There were five men taking philosophy breaks, all strangers, all immersed in their tasks. No sign of Lemnus. No other exit. It would have been rude to run in, then run straight out again. I took a seat.
Enthroned on a spare spot, I recovered my breath, growling quietly. Nobody took any notice. There is always one loser who talks to himself.
At least there was a benefit in chasing a suspect in a high-grade imperial area: since Claudius and his successors might be caught short while inspecting harbor facilities, the twenty-seater latrine was fit for an emperor. The five-to-a-side seating benches were marble-clad, with the smoothest possible edges on their beautifully designed holes. The room was an airy rectangle, with windows on two sides so passersby could look in and spot their friends; if Lemnus did come in here, maybe he had vaulted out of a window. The cleansing water ran in channels that never flooded. The sponges on sticks were plentiful. A slave mopped up drips and splashes. What’s more, he wore a neat tunic and was discreet about expecting tips.
The conversation among the porters and negotiators was banal, but after a long morning out I had better things to do than chat. Informers normally have to manage without relief. In an empire that prides itself on high-class hygiene, bodily retention forms the main challenge for men in my profession. Slugging it out in fights or making your tax declaration creative is a cinch by comparison.
I sat lost in thought about the bad aspects of my work—the traditional musings of a man who has entered a lavatory alone. A couple of people left. Two new ones entered. Suddenly I heard my name: “Why hello, Falco!” This was the other traditional drawback: the idiot who insists he must talk to you. I looked up to see a white-haired, elderly fusspot, being very particular about checking that his seat was clean and dry: Caninus.
It was natural to run into the sea biscuit at Portus, though of course I felt annoyed. When navy men have the opportunity to enjoy decent facilities on firm ground, instead of being hung out over the stern of a prancing ship in a fierce wind, they tend to take their time. Caninus now looked set in here for days, and I was stuck with him.
In latrine etiquette, the others present were now able to relapse into private contemplation, while they pitied me for being spotted. I was forced to be pleasant. “Caninus! Hail.”
“Not your usual drop-in, Falco?”
I shook my head. “Just passing through.” This is an old army joke, but the navy seemed to know it too.
“So!” breezed the nautical menace with a meaningful glare. “Were you involved in that activity at the Damson Flower this morning, Falco?”
“Confidential,” I warned, to no avail.
“Yes, I thought you must have been. A ransom that went wrong, I hear?”
“You must have your narks in all the right places.”
“Was it connected with that case you mentioned? The missing scribe?”
“Diocles is supposedly up for ransom.” I saw no harm in the admission, even though the four other men present were now listening intently while pretending not to. “I think it was a try-on; nobody has kidnapped him. I just wonder how the speculators knew he had disappeared—and that people were sufficiently anxious about him to respond to a demand for money.”
“You were asking me about Cilicians,” said Caninus. “Traditional behavior. They sit in taverns and brothels, on the lookout. Exactly how pirates used to work: picking up news of ships with decent cargoes that they would subsequently follow out of harbor and assail.”
“Now the bastards stand at bar counters, listening out for recently landed rich men, who have wives or daughters with them,” I agreed. As a professional courtesy I lowered my voice: “You didn’t tell me, last time we met, that you were in port to follow up this racket.”
“Oh—didn’t I?” Caninus was offhand. “You never said it impinged on your missing scribe.”
“I didn’t know.”
We fell silent. The change of pace in our conversation allowed two of the other men to finish off and leave. The remaining two, who presumably knew each other, began a conversation about racehorses.
Caninus was being very friendly. “By the way, Falco—somebody pointed out a fellow recently who is supposed to be an uncle of yours.”
I was surprised to find myself known as a character around Portus—or to hear that my family tree provided wharfside gossip. “Are you sure you don’t mean my father, Didius Geminus? Everyone knows him for a rogue.”
“The auctioneer?” I was right. Everyone knew Pa, including naval investigators. It was no surprise. Geminus had shaken hands on plenty of dodgy deals. In fact, one of the men talking about horses cast a very quick glance at me then made his escape; maybe he had been involved in one of Pa’s murky art purchases. The endless supply of Greek athlete statues that Pa sold off in Pompey’s Portico were knocked out for him by a repro marble specialist down in Campania, but he had told me some rhytons and alabastrons which he supplied as cheap “old” vases to interior designers came in by sea. According to Pa they were genuinely Greek and almost certainly old—it was the source he preferred not to discuss. “No, I’m sure it was your uncle,” Caninus persisted.
“Fulvius,” I conceded. “Until last week I hadn’t seen him since I was a child … Why the interest?”
“I thought you might be working with him.”
“With Fulvius?”
“You were seen drinking with him and your father. Geminus came down here to look for Theopompus, didn’t he?”
“For heavens’ sake!” I was amazed and indignant. “I had a quiet drink with some relatives at a Forum bar; we only met by chance. Yet it got reported to you—and you decide we are an organized team? One that might tread on your toes, presumably?”
“Oh …” Caninus could see it was ridiculous now, and backed off quickly. “I was just in discussion with a fellow who thought he might have known your uncle abroad.”
“I don’t even know where he has been,” I said bluntly. “He is most famous for setting off to Pessinus and getting on the wrong boat. That was years ago. As far as I know, it wasn’t a boat to Cilicia.” If it sounded as though I was telling Caninus it was none of his damn business, then fine.
“Pessinus?” Caninus looked puzzled.
“Ancient shrine of the Great Mother,” I confirmed. I kept my tone solemn. “He wanted to modify himself. Uncle Fulvius takes religion all the way.”
“I thought it was illegal for a citizen to mutilate his—”
“Yes, it is.”
“Or to dress up and dance about in women’s robes?”
“Yes. Fortunately, Fulvius hates dancing. But as you may know, citizens are allowed to give money to the cult. Uncle Fulvius is so charitable, he could not bear to wait for the annual festival in Rome. He just wanted to contribute to the upkeep of the eunuch priests as quickly as possible—”
I was inventing freely, unable to take it seriously, but Caninus lapped it up. “He sounds intriguing.”
“With his lack of geography when booking a sea passage? No, I could not have had a more interesting uncle.” Ma would have been proud of me.
“And has he really cut off his whatsit with a piece of flint?”
“Not as far as I know.” Even if I thought Fulvius had done it, self-castration was an offense and he was still my relative. I was not going to give the navy an excuse to lift his tunic and inspect him. They could get their thrills elsewhere.
I stared at the attaché, wondering just why my long-lost uncle so fascinated him.
The fourth stranger, an unobtrusive man in his forties, was busying himself with a sponge. Caninus glanced at him then decided it was safe to continue. Without changing his tone or his expression, he told me the point: “The word on the docks is that your Uncle Fulvius came back here after living in Illyria.”
“That’s news to me,” I retorted in annoyance. “Last I heard, Uncle Fulvius was shark-fishing.”
I saw no reason to make polite excuses. I stood up and left.
XLIX
Coming out onto the quay again, I felt sick. I had no idea where Fulvius had spent the past quarter of a century. Even if he had been in Illyria that was no proof that he was involved with pirates and kidnappers. But the sea biscuit’s sly insinuation had a sure ring. I was related to several entrepreneurs whose business deals were best left veiled. Fabius and Junius were just embarrassing, but their elder brother had a streak of dark intelligence, plus loathing of the social rules; he took a joy in doing people down. I saw it clearly: as the kidnappers’ intermediary, Fulvius would fit.
The allegation that “the Illyrian” was a “scrawny old queen” also rang true. Fulvius had tried to run away to a cult whose goddess, according to myth, was born double-gendered; Cybele’s male partner was then created from her excised masculine genitals, only to castrate himself ecstatically … That was a family I did not envy. When they sat around the fire at Saturnalia swapping medical histories, it must be grim. But no hapless nephew had ever had to explain to Cybele, the Great Idaean Mother in her turreted crown, that Attis was not just a eunuch in a starry cap, but lead player in a nasty ransom scam.
I was tough. But not so tough that I wanted to be stuck with this. The specters of my mother and of Great-Auntie Phoebe on the family farm rose up alarmingly. We informers may not be known as scared of our mothers, but we are accustomed to assessing dangers correctly—so of course we are.
I walked back inside the lavatory. The other customer came out past me, giving me a funny look. Caninus was now in close conversation with the young attendant; tipping him, presumably. The youth turned away quickly. The navy man looked up, surprised and wary.
“I think you are wrong,” I said. “If you are wrong, you just libeled a senior member of my family. If not, Caninus, don’t waste my time with insinuations. You raised the issue—you must turn Fulvius in.”
I left again. This time I would not be going back.
I was striding along toward the exit that would take me to the Island and the return route to Ostia when I saw them. It was just a glimpse. The sun was high, the day was hot. A haze had arisen over the open sea. All around close at hand the stone wharf was shimmering. I had a long morning, lunch, and a brisk chase behind me. I was tired and angry. I was angry with the navy man and more angry, much more angry, with my uncle for exposing me to the navy man’s allegations. I wanted to go home. It would have been easy to dismiss what happened next and to leave Portus.
But I had just seen two men in colorful costumes, who were carrying a wooden chest.
I first noticed them as they passed between a crane and a pile of grain sacks. In a second they were hidden by the clutter on the dock. Then, as I waited, they emerged farther on. They went trotting along at a comfortable speed, one at each end of the chest, which must have convenient handles. It looked a good weight, but not impossible to maneuver. Yesterday when the two scribes were having their lunch off their booty box, I had not been able to look at it properly, but this container was about the same size. The two carriers appeared to be seafarers.
I glanced around. Sometimes the docks are crammed with officials. This was too close to lunchtime. No assistance was available. I set off after the men alone.
It was tempting to shout. I was too far away from them. If they ran with the chest I could catch them, but they wouldn’t do that; they would drop it and scatter. I was gaining, but they were still too far ahead to confront. I dodged around a mound of marble blocks, leapt over a whole bundle of mooring ropes, snaked among untidy handcarts—and found that the two men had vanished. I ran on, and reached a clear part of the quay. I had been here this morning. Everywhere seemed deserted. The berthed vessels rode quietly, crammed into moorings, all looking empty of people. Then a wizened deckhand popped up his head on a merchantman. I asked if he saw the chest-carriers go by; he reckoned they had taken the treasure trove aboard a trireme. I asked if he would come and help. Suddenly unable to understand Latin, he dived out of sight again.
His explanation seemed correct. The first trireme was the next ship along from me, tied up with its stern to the quay; the second and third lay beyond it. Had the two men continued far along the dock past the triremes, they would still be in sight. They could only have turned off and boarded.
The trireme rode high, its deck eight or nine feet above the water. I could not really see up to the deck. In the tightly packed harbor, these enormously long vessels must have been backed into their moorings, either punted in or perhaps hauled by the crew with towing ropes. Now steep gangplanks came down on either side of the curved stern ends; they had light halyards across them to deter boarders. I scissored over the nearest. Then I walked carefully up the incline and stepped out through the knee-high side rails onto the quarterdeck.
I had been on military ships before. As a young recruit I had sailed on army transports, perhaps the bleakest experience of my army life; I could still taste the fear as we were carried across to Britain, all wanting to go home to our mothers and throwing up throughout the whole freezing journey. Later, I had had a brief experience in calmer waters in the Bay of Neapolis, feeling the huge surge of speed as a trireme chased conspirators, the unbelievable smoothness as its rowers turned expertly almost on the spot, the almost undetectable crunch as the ram struck home and wrecked our suspects’ boat. Triremes were supposed to be unsinkable. Such a comfort.
This long ship slept in silence, oars shipped and sails furled, eerily deserted. A narrow gangway stretched away up the center. At the far end the beaked goose figurehead nodded gently. On the bow at water level, I knew a great armored ram bared its fangs to the waves—six or seven feet of reinforced wooden jaw, sheathed in bronze, with teeth for forcing apart the planks of ships being attacked. These warships were Rome’s weapon of control for the pirate menace.
I walked the full length of the ship. At the fo’c’sle end was a tiny cabin beneath the deck, for the captain and the centurion. The complement of two hundred or so crew, including a handful of peacetime soldiers, were provided with little shelter, though a light canopy protected them from missiles and some of the weather. The cabin was locked, but I looked through its tiny window: no wooden chest.
As I walked back, I wondered where they all were. Six hundred men, from the three boats, had melted away. I had seen no obvious ratings’ presence at Portus or Ostia, no boastful trierarchs getting drunk in their loud, legendary way. Caninus was supposed to have put spies in the bars, but six hundred was a lot of spies to secrete. Maybe some had gone up to Rome. The two Mediterranean fleets had permanent offices there. The Misenum Fleet’s central staff were quartered in the Praetorian Camp, though rumor had it they were to be moved nearer to the Flavian Amphitheater soon, because sailors were to operate the proposed great awnings that would shade the crowds. The Ravenna Fleet headquarters was over in the Transtiberina District.
None were here. The entire ship was empty. There was not even a watchman.
Nothing for it. I walked across the warm quarterdeck to the far side and cautiously crossed to the next trireme. I could have gone down one gangplank and up another, but I had wasted enough time. Each trireme had an outrigger running its length, to support the upper bank of oars; I climbed out and jumped across from one oarbox to the next. I did it with trepidation, nervous that I would slip and fall into the dock.
The second trireme was empty too. I searched it quickly then made my way with increasing discomfort across its deck, then jumped over to the third vessel. Being alone on these enormous empty ships was starting to unnerve me. Each time I crossed to a new one, explaining my presence became a more difficult option. Boarding one warship without permission was probably treason. Boarding three would be three times as bad.
From habit now, I walked right across the last trireme and looked over the far side. There I saw another ship, lower in the water and so previously invisible. It was a monoreme liburnian, a classic light galley. For some reason a gangplank ran down from this trireme’s quarterdeck to the liburnian. Had triremes carri
ed a cargo, I might have thought the liburnian was raiding it. When moored parallel to the quay, with the smaller vessel farther out in the harbor, it would be customary to allow access to land with a link—though any commercial ship’s captain would think twice about using a navy warship as a bridge. But this had no obvious explanation. Still, the lower ship also looked deserted. I took the handy gangplank and went down.
Almost at once I heard somebody coming. There was no way back to the dock without meeting the arrivals face-to-face. I braced myself to tell a good story.
They shot into view on the quay, coming fast aboard. In battered seaboots and colorful trousers, these bare-armed, wild-haired sailors smacked of the Eastern seas. There were just two of them, but one was being hauled along, stumbling and helpless. A great, very recent bruise disfigured his swarthy face, and an ear was swollen to twice its normal size. He was being helped aboard by a determined seaman with great gold brooches on his shoulders, who must be as strong as a small ox, judging by the easy way he half carried his concussed crony. He saw me on their ship.
“What happened to your friend?” I played it cool.
“He walked into an oar.” I felt a chill. One of the Fourth Cohort, Parvus, had struck a thief with an oar, during the fracas at the river.
We glared at each other. The man in charge was dark, domineering, and displeased. His fierce gaze suggested he was ready for a fight.
“What are you doing here?”
“Making some routine inquiries. The name’s Falco.”
“Cotys.”
“And—?”
“Arion.” The wounded man had stiffened up; now the pair moved apart, covering my escape route.
“Where are you from, Cotys?”
“Dyrrhachium.” Where in Hades was that?
“Not on my personal trade route—” I guessed wildly: “Would that be Illyria?”
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