Time to Depart

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘A pleasure, young man!’ Nonnius decided to treat me as the reasonable person in our party in order to show up Fusculus. The latter settled back again, quite content to simmer down. ‘What do you want, Falco?’

  ‘I know Balbinus was the uncrowned king of rat thieves and porch-crawlers. He ran small-time crime as an industry and had drop shops on every street corner to process the loot. I haven’t even mentioned the brothels or the illicit gaming houses yet –’

  ‘He could run an estate,’ Nonnius conceded, with visible pride at being an associate.

  ‘With your help.’ He accepted the smarm. I choked back my disgust. ‘It was more than stealing scarves from washing lines, however.’

  ‘Balbinus was big enough to have carried off the Emporium raid,’ Nonnius agreed. ‘Were he still in Rome!’

  ‘But sadly he’s travelling … So who might have inherited his talent? We’ll take it that you personally have retired to lead a blameless life.’ Nonnius allowed that lie too. ‘Were there any other big boys in the gang who could be showing a flash presence now?’

  ‘Your sidekick ought to know names,’ Nonnius sneered nastily. ‘He helped close down the show!’

  Fusculus acknowledged it with his normal grace, refusing to lose his temper this time. ‘They all had cheap nicknames,’ he said quietly to me, before running off one of his competent lists: ‘The Miller was the most sordid; he did the killings. The more brutal, the more he liked it. Little Icarus thought he could fly above the rest, the joke being that he was a complete no-hoper. Same for Julius Caesar. He was one of those madmen who think they’re an emperor. Laurels would get the blight pretty quickly on his greasy head. The others I knew were called Verdigris and the Fly.’

  We looked at Nonnius for confirmation; he shrugged, pretending at last to be impressed. ‘Clever boy!’

  ‘And where are they all now?’ I asked.

  ‘All gone to the country when the trial came off.’

  ‘Quiet holidays in Latium? You reckon that’s true?’ I put to Fusculus.

  He nodded. ‘Minding goats.’

  Petro would have kept tabs on them as far as possible. ‘So, Nonnius, those were the centurions, and now they’re living in rural retirement like a legion’s colony of veterans … Who were the big rivals to your dirty group?’

  ‘We did not allow rivals!’

  I could believe that.

  There was no need to press the point. Better to think about the other criminal gangs after we left him. I sensed that Nonnius was taking a gloating delight in my interest in the rivals – who undoubtedly existed, even though Balbinus Pius must have done his best to strong-arm them out of his territory. I saw no need to gratify the rent-collector’s pernicious taste for making trouble.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ I said, trying to make it sound worrying.

  ‘Don’t wait too long,’ leered Nonnius. ‘I’m a sick man!’

  ‘If the Fourth want you, we’ll find you in Hades,’ Fusculus chortled. A pleasant threat, which somehow carried a darker tone than his mild, cheery nature led one to expect. Petronius knew how to pick his men.

  Fusculus and I left then, without bothering to make contact with the Temple of Saturn auditor.

  XVIII

  When we returned to the station house Petronius had just come in. At the same time his deputy, Martinus, had gone off duty, so Petro was in an affable mood. In our absence the day patrol had brought in two suspected lodging-house thieves, and a man who kept an unleashed dog that had bitten a woman and a child (the ‘suspected wolf’ from the Temple of Luna). Petro told Fusculus to do the interrogations on these.

  ‘What, all of them, chief?’

  ‘Even the dog.’

  Fusculus and I exchanged a grin. It was his punishment for palling up with me. Petronius wanted to keep me on a very tight rein – one that could be personally jerked by him.

  ‘And you can stop smirking!’ he snarled at me. ‘I’ve seen Rubella. I know you’re setting up special little escapades that I haven’t agreed to!’

  Looking innocent, I made sure I told him how friendly my chat with his tribune had been, and how I had been given a free hand to interview Nonnius.

  ‘Bastard,’ Petro commented, though it was fairly automatic. ‘You’re welcome to the rent-collector. I warn you, he’s a snake nesting in a midden heap. Be careful where you shove your garden fork.’ He relaxed. ‘What did you think of Rubella?’

  Assessing the tribune seemed to be a cohort obsession. It’s the same anywhere that has a hierarchy. Everyone spends a lot of time debating whether their supervisor is just an ineffectual layabout who needs a diagram in triplicate before he can wipe his backside clean – or whether he’s so poisonous he’s actually corrupt.

  ‘Snide,’ I said. ‘Could be more dangerous than he looks. He can make a sharp judgement. It was like being interviewed by a crap fortune-teller. Rubella chewed some magic seeds, then informed me that as a legionary I didn’t like my centurion.’

  Petro feigned an admiring look. ‘Well he was right there!’ We both laughed. Our centurion in the Second Augusta had been a brutal lag named Stollicus; both Petro and I were constantly at loggerheads with him. Stollicus reckoned we were a pair of unkempt, unreliable troublemakers who were deliberately ruining his own chances of promotion by dragging down his century. We said he marked down our personnel reports unfairly. Rather than waiting to find out after twenty years of failing to make centurion ourselves, we manufactured invalidity discharges and left him to it. Last I heard he was tormenting the local populace in Nicopolis. Interestingly, he was still a centurion. Maybe we really had been successful in blighting his life. It was a pleasing thought.

  ‘Your honourable tribune spoke as if it were a promise to find out who our centurion was, and ask.’

  ‘He loves handing out some hint of blackmail that sounds like a joke but might not be,’ scoffed Petro.

  ‘Oh well,’ I teased. ‘At least he won’t have any trouble tracing Stollicus. He will have already found him once, to ask about you!’

  Thinking about our military careers we were silent for a moment, and allies again. Perhaps, being more mature now, we wondered whether it might have been wiser to placate the official and salvage our rights.

  Perhaps not. Petronius and I both believed the same: only crawlers get a fair character reference. Decent characters don’t bother to argue. For one thing, the truly decent know that life is never fair.

  Changing the subject, Petro asked, ‘Did you get anywhere with Nonnius?’

  ‘No. He swears the Emporium raider isn’t him.’

  ‘Hah! That was why,’ Petro explained, fairly mildly, ‘I myself wasn’t going to bother to visit him.’

  ‘All right. I just thought I’d been assigned here to volunteer for the embarrassing jobs, so I might as well get on with one.’

  ‘Io! You’re going to be a treasure.’

  ‘Oh yes. You’ll be asking for a permanent informer on the complement … So what lying ex-mobster do you reckon we should tackle next?’

  Petro looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve had Martinus doing the rounds of the other big operators. They all deny involvement, of course. The only hope is that one of them will finger the real culprit out of spite. But Martinus can handle that. Why should we upset ourselves? The only trouble is he’s slow. Martinus reckons never to break into more than a decorous stroll. Asking three gang warlords where they were on a certain Thursday night will take him about five weeks. But left to himself he’ll tell us in due course if anything has an abnormal whiff.’

  ‘You trust him?’

  ‘He has a reasonable nose – with expert guidance from his senior officer!’

  ‘So while he’s sniffing villains extremely cautiously, what do we two speedy boys get up to? Investigating the races?’

  ‘Depends…’ Petro looked whimsical. ‘Do you see this as an office job, or will you take a mystery assignment that could ruin your health and your reputation?’

  �
�Oh the office job for me!’ I lied. If I had realised what mystery assignment he meant, I might have stuck to this joke.

  ‘That’s a pity. I thought we could go visiting my auntie.’ A very old euphemism. Petronius Longus did not mean his Auntie Sedina with the big behind and the flower stall.

  ‘A brothel?’

  ‘Not just any old brothel.’

  ‘Ooh! A special brothel!’

  ‘I do have my standards, Marcus Didius! You don’t have to come with me –’

  ‘True, you’re a big lad.’

  ‘If Helena wouldn’t like it –’

  I grinned gently. ‘She’d probably want to come too. The first time I slept with Helena Justina we’d been to a brothel earlier that night.’

  Petronius snorted disapprovingly. ‘I didn’t know Helena Justina was that kind of girl!’ He thought I had been implying she had once been one of those senatorial stiffs who descend on bawdy-houses for a thrill.

  ‘We were just passing through…’ Calling his bluff could be easy. ‘Oh get wise. Helena could have been a vestal virgin if she hadn’t met her heart’s delight in me.’ I shook my head at him. He winced. I didn’t worry him by mentioning the rest of the story. ‘So where is this palace of delight you’re luring me to? The dives in the Suburra where the practices are ancient and the whores positively mummified? The out-of-town cabins where runaway slaves solicit travellers for a bit of brass? Or the lousy dens of push-and-shove in the deeply plebeian Patrician Street?’

  ‘Home ground. Down by the Circus.’

  ‘Oh Jupiter! You can catch something just thinking about those filthy holes.’

  ‘Shut your brain off then. You get by without thinking often enough … We’ve had a hard morning. I thought we deserved an afternoon of exotic entertainment with the exquisite Lalage!’

  ‘I’ll buy you lunch first,’ I offered promptly. Petro accepted, agreeing with me that we needed to build up our strength before we went.

  XIX

  We had entered the Eleventh region. It was outside Petro’s area, although he said it was unnecessary to make a courtesy call on the Sixth Cohort, who patrolled here. His was the career in public service, so I let him decide. I could tell he didn’t like the Sixth. He was enjoying the fact we had sneaked into their patch privately, on the excuse of our special task.

  Most prostitutes around the Circus Maximus are pavement-crawlers and portico practitioners. They hang about during and after the races, preying on men whose appetites for excitement have been aroused by watching arena crashes. (Or men who have just come out hoping to waste money and don’t fancy any of today’s track runners.) Some of these women give themselves an air of moral rectitude by parading near temples, but the trade is the same: up against a wall, with the penalties of theft, a guilty conscience, and disease.

  The brothel known as Plato’s Academy offered a few advantages. At Plato’s, unless you were a nice boy who liked clean bedding, you could at least do the deed horizontally. Theft and the scald were still hazards. Your conscience was your own affair.

  Petronius and I carried out a reconnoitre of Plato’s. I won’t say we were nervous, but the place did have a lush reputation even by Roman standards. We wanted to be sure of ourselves. We walked to the Circus, scowled at the dark-eyed girls who hooted lewd suggestions after us from the colonnades, and ventured into a maze of lanes at the south end of the hippodrome. We stationed ourselves at a streetside drink stall opposite. While we decorated the marble with cups of the worst wine I had sunk in Rome for several years, I risked some chilled peas. Petro asked for brains; excitement had always made him go peculiar.

  The peas were completely tasteless. The brains didn’t look as if they had ever been up to much either, even allowing for the fact that calves don’t devise encyclopedias. Whatever they tasted like, something made Petro say gloomily, ‘There’s a rumour Vespasian wants to ban the sale of hot food in the streets.’

  ‘Well that’ll solve one of life’s great dilemmas: to go hungry or get the runs.’

  ‘The latrine-keepers are hopping with worry.’

  ‘Well they’re always on the go.’

  The chat was meant to divert the stallholder whilst we sized up our destination.

  Officially Plato’s appeared, from a very faint painted sign above the lintel, to be called the Bower of Venus. Depressed cherubs swinging on garlands at either end of the sign attempted to reinforce the dainty-sounding message. To reassure tourists who had been recommended in the vernacular, a larger chalked banner gave its common name at eye level, just alongside a stone Priapus with a horrible erection, for those who either could not read or were in too much of a hurry to stand about deciphering mere lettering. On the opposite side of the doorway another slogan announced, Come and Get What Every Man Wants, with a graphic doodle which made it plain that this did not mean a modest woman, an unexpected legacy, and a tranquil life. For all but the tragically short-sighted, there could be no doubt which trade was carried on within the drab-looking premises.

  There was a lumbering oak door, propped open with two staves. It looked too slumped on its hinges to be closed. No doubt it never was.

  This portal was barely a couple of yards from us, diagonally up the dirty street. Through it marched a regular line of last-time-before-recall soldiers, straight-off-the-ship sailors, slaves, freedmen, and small businessmen. Some of the sailors felt obliged to make a bit of noise. An occasional character who looked like an olive-oil salesman or corn chandler’s understeward had the grace to appear furtive and only slipped inside at the last moment. Most men just strode in clinking their coins. Even while we were eating, one or two we already recognised strode back out and carried on in the same direction as if they had merely stepped inside to say hello to their old mothers. Business at Plato’s must be matter-of-fact and brisk.

  ‘I suppose there’s a difference,’ Petro commented in his dark, philosophical voice, ‘between men who come because it’s not allowed, and those who come because it is.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘One kind who buy it actually get a thrill from the guilt. That’s not Plato’s trade. Around here, you purchase a whore in between picking up a chicken for supper and putting your boots in at the cobbler’s to have a strap mended.’

  ‘Daily shopping!’ I was feeling silly. ‘Do you think the madam lets you feel the girl first, to convince yourself she’s ripe?’

  He dug me in the ribs. ‘We’re like recruits again, wondering what went on in the canabae outside Isca fort!’

  I could not quite tell whether my old comrade Lucius Petronius thought this comparison was reprehensible, or a positive hoot. ‘I think I know what went on in the canabae,’ I said gravely. ‘I’ll explain it to you some day, when you’ve got a lot of listening time.’ This time I sidestepped and managed to avoid his elbow before it had a chance to cause a bruise.

  We were so near to the open doorway we could hear the bargaining as customers arranged their treats. The bug-eyed foreigners were obvious. So were the Roman goldfinches, men with too many sesterces in their purses, picked like flowers in the Forum by affable pimps; they had been lured here to be gulled, fleeced, and if possible heavily blackmailed. Otherwise it was impossible to tell which of the crumpled tunics who entered were straightforward customers, which wanted to defy the anti-gambling laws with a few games of soldiers, and which were small-time members of the criminal underworld gathering to exchange news of likely homes to burgle.

  Not many women were visible in the vicinity.

  ‘Too busy?’ I speculated.

  ‘Their conditions of employment don’t encourage popping out for a length of hair-ribbon.’ Petro meant the prostitutes at Plato’s were slaves.

  We had finished our lunch. We paid, leaving a meagre tip. It was what the barman expected, but he roused himself to spit with disgust after us. Petro said over his shoulder, ‘Do that again, and you’ll lose your food licence.’ The man retorted something we could not quite catch.
>
  We crossed the street, and glanced at one another. We had a justifiable job to do, but inevitably felt like conspirators.

  ‘If my mother gets to hear of this, I’m blaming you.’

  ‘Falco, it’s not your mother you should be worried about.’

  He was wrong about that, but it was no time to block the entrance arguing. We went in.

  * * *

  A flaunty piece in the scarlet toga that was the strict legal badge of her trade was taking the money and fixing the arrangements. It was not a requirement that the toga should be vermilion and make her blaze like a corn poppy, nor that she wear it within the brothel; this lady liked to defy the law by obeying it with too much flourish. None of the other girls we glimpsed inside were in togas, though in fact most of them were not wearing many of their clothes – if they possessed any. The doorkeeper was watched over by a hound-dog male whom she sensibly ignored. He couldn’t have bounced a feather ball, let alone a determined rioter. Having a dozy protector did not seem to cause her much anxiety. She looked like a girl with a good uppercut.

  ‘Afternoon, boys. I haven’t seen you before. I’m Macra and I’m here to see you enjoy yourselves.’ It was the kind of aggressive sales talk I dread.

  ‘He’s Falco, I’m Petronius, and we’re with the vigiles,’ announced Petronius immediately. I had been wondering how he would handle that aspect.

  ‘We’re always pleased to see the hornets…’ She must have been chosen for her manners, though her tone managed a sneer. Her eyes sharpened slightly as she weighed up what we expected. We could see her deciding we were definitely not foot patrol. Nor were we Sixth Cohort, the regulars for this district, whom she was bound to know. She had soon worked out Prefect’s office, or tribunal staff, from which she made the inevitable smooth transferral to troublemakers. Clearly a young lady of some initiative, her reaction was: Find out what they want, and humour them. ‘This is a decent house, with all clean young girls. I can choose you something a bit special,’ she offered. ‘We like to do business with the forces of law and order.’ Her gaze flickered to the hound dog. Even we could see he was supposed to run for reinforcements at this point, but he was no help.