Scandal Takes a Holiday mdf-16

by Lindsey Davis

  'Meanwhile,' I agreed, there will be awful legates' awful daughters holding orgies with the charioteers at the Consualia Games, and senators-elect going up the skirts of the priestesses at the Temple of Virgin Diana like geckos under rocks.'

  'While for light relief Infamia will say that the rumour is false that pirates are operating again off the Tyrrhenian coast.' I laughed.

  'No, that was real,' Helena said. Then she laughed too. The one thing every Roman schoolchild knows is that the seas were all cleared of pirates a hundred years ago by Pompey the Great. My old teacher, Apollonius, used to add thoughtfully that fewer people remember how Pompey's own son, Sextus Pompeius, a contender for the highest seat of power, then lured some of the same pirates from peaceful retirement and joined with them to cause upheaval, during his quarrels with Augustus. One place the noble Sextus and his colourful cronies had then raided was Ostia. Their stay on land, with its merciless rape and thoroughly well organised pillage, remained a horrific folk memory.

  'Don't let's get too excited, love. Not if Infamia says the pirate rumour is false.'

  'True.' Helena dug me in the ribs teasingly. 'But there are all kinds of shorthand ways to make insinuations in the scandal reports.' Now we were back to flute-playing. And it was giving me ideas.

  X

  Beset by family, I needed escape. We informers are tough men. Our work is grim. When not treading a solitary path, we like to be surrounded by other grim, tough men who feel that life is filthy, but that they have mastered it. I sought fellow professionals.

  I went to visit the vigiles. A weary group was hauling back a siphon engine after a fire last night. Begrimed and still coughing from the smoke, they trundled in listlessly through the tall gate of the squadron house. A couple dragged charred esparto mats. These seem crude, but used in quantity they can suffocate a small blaze, long before water can be fetched.

  One squat soul with meeting eyebrows, who must have been on punishment duty, was laden with everyone's axes and crowbars, and had all their ropes slung around him in diagonal coils; the others were joshing him as he dropped his load just inside the entrance and collapsed. They clanged down their empty fire buckets, and straggled off to wash. Ex-slaves to a man, they were used to exhaustion, dirt and danger. Each knew that if he survived for six years, he would receive a diploma of citizenship. Quite a few did not survive. Of those who did, some madmen would even choose to stay on afterwards. Self-preservation took second place to the free meals and camaraderie. And maybe they liked roughing up the populace while on the crime roster. I followed them inside. Nobody challenged me. Somewhere there should be an officer of the day, like Petro, an ex-legionary who wanted a secure job with a few thrills and plenty to moan about. He was invisible. I could hear the troopers exchanging insults as they cleaned up indoors, but the parade ground was deserted. It added to the impression that detached duty out at Ostia was the free-and-easy option.

  I walked around the porticoes in the heavy shade cast by the barrack-like buildings. In one of the rooms a handful of prisoners, burglars captured during the night watch, were being processed by a wizened clerk. He kept them subdued by his competent personality.

  When I coughed, he looked up from his charge sheet; he knew me and when I enquired about applicants, he suggested I might find Rusticus three rooms down.

  'Who's he?'

  'Recruiting officer. Your lucky day. He comes once in two weeks, Falco.' I had not reminded the clerk of my name. 'Rusticus will find time for you. He's never busy.' Rusticus had taken over a cold office, outside which he had hung a slate with a picture of a stick-man and an arrow to say: Enter here. Fresh from Rome, he kept up appearances. He was awake. There was no visible evidence of him eating his lunch or playing board games. He had unpacked a scroll for oaths of allegiance even though he had no one queuing. He would need an officer to witness any enlistment; I guessed he had one on call. Whimsically, he pretended to think I was an applicant. He gave me the open-faced grin of welcome, though I noticed he did not bother to pick up his stylus. He knew perfectly well I had some other errand. At thirty-six, I was too old, for one thing. I had a well-exercised body that had seen too much action for me to volunteer for more. My laundered oatmeal tunic with bilberry braid was a custom fit, my dark curls had been tamed by a half-decent barber, and I had treated myself to a professional bath-house manicure. Even if he failed to notice my firm gaze and tricky attitude, once I stuck my thumbs in my belt he should have seen that it was a damn good belt. Visible on my left hand was a gold equestrian ring. I was a free citizen, and I had been promoted by the Emperor to the middle rank.

  'The name's Falco. Friend of Petronius Longus.' Petro was in the Fourth Cohort. Rusticus must be from another, though not necessarily the Sixth who were currently on duty here.

  He conceded, 'Yes, Petronius Longus has supervised enrolments with me.'

  'A good lad.'

  'Seems it. What are you after, Falco?' I sat down on a spare stool. It was lower than his, so nervous recruits would feel vulnerable as they pleaded to join. This basic ploy failed to worry me.

  'I am making official enquiries about a man who has gone missing from a palace secretariat.' Although 'official' was pushing it, the Daily Gazette was a palace mouthpiece and the scribes would pay me from public funds.

  'I'm surprised they noticed!' Rusticus and I were not friends yet. I thought we would never be. But he took an interest.

  'Quite. Rusticus, this may be a false lead, but someone has told me my fellow recently tried to join the vigiles. His name is Diocles. If he gave a falsie, of course, I am stuck.' Rusticus shrugged, then he leaned back on his stool, arms folded. He made no move towards the scroll in which newly enlisted recruits were formally recorded; he did not even look at it.

  'Diocles? I turned him down.' Obviously nobody much was rushing to join up in Ostia. I kept that to myself.

  'Can you recall the circumstances?' He pursed his lips. He could not resist playing with an informer.

  'I do remember, because unless he only has one leg, no, we took a Moesian amputee once, and he hopped around brilliantly, until he fell through a floor, turning one down is a rarity.'

  'Something not right about him?' Rusticus took his time again.

  'Diocles. Thin fellow. Unobtrusive sort of maggot. He trotted in, and he had all the patter. Had been a slave but was manumitted. Had forgotten to bring his certificate, but would be able to produce it. Wanted a new life, with a chance of citizenship and the corn dole. Even said he wanted to serve the Empire. Some of them regard being a patriot as a recommendation, though personally I find it more natural if they are trying to get free dinner and fun with flames.' A cynic. I grinned my appreciation. Maybe he warmed up slightly. Or not. I decided he was just an unpleasant bastard.

  'Was he too old?'

  'I think he said thirty-eight. Not too far gone if they are tough.'

  'So why did you reject him?'

  'No idea.' Rusticus thought about it, as if amazed at himself.

  'Palace secretariat, you say? Fits. His Latin was a touch too nice. But it was instinct on my part. Always trust instinct, Falco.' I said nothing. Instinct can be a fickle friend. That significant feeling often only means your last night's dinner has played up, or you're getting a cold sore. The recruitment officer leaned forwards suddenly.

  'So what is the bastard? Special bloody audit?' I laughed. He thought Diocles was investigating the vigiles, some corruption enquiry.

  'You're not far out. He's Infamia.' Wasted. The vigiles never keep up with the news. He writes the scandal section of the Daily Gazette.' I was taking a chance; Rusticus might now close ranks and clam up. But as a recruiter, I reasoned that he was a half-day visitor, not bonded with the Sixth.

  'So,' I said, lowering my voice, do we conclude that someone in the current detachment is thought to need scrutiny, in the public interest?' There could be a number of reasons. Swiping funds. Having perverts for playmates. Blatant inefficiency… Wrong. inefficiency doe
s not make exciting news.

  'A skirt?' asked Rusticus, looking keen as he thought up his own ideas. 'No, sleeping around is allowed! The wrong skirt.'

  'Possible,' I agreed. 'I stayed here briefly. Things seem positively prudish. I've seen hardly any late-night visitations from women with togas.' On a female, the toga is the badge of a prostitute.

  'No; it would have to be big,' said Rusticus. 'An officer in bed with a town councillor's wife?'

  'Or sending very large presents to a superior officer's mistress?'

  'Or cosying up to a crook's floozy, even then, only if the crook was under special investigation.'

  'For at least import tax evasion.'

  'With backhanders.'

  'Above-average ones!' We both subsided, at the limit of not-very-shocking offences to name. 'I can't see it, Falco,' sighed Rusticus. 'Wouldn't raise a flicker in Rome.'

  I was ready to leave. 'You're right. It's tame. I don't know why he came here, but I don't believe Diocles was looking into the vigiles themselves.' He had gone after other jobs, for one thing. 'So; is there anything else you can tell me about my missing man?'

  'He was fine when he left here. I said we had no vacancies but I'd keep his name listed. He took it quietly enough.' I had reached the door before an impulse made me turn back.

  'Did he give you a contact address? A room by the Marine Gate?' Rusticus looked surprised. 'He said he'd come in that day from out of town; I had the impression he stayed somewhere on the coast. Afraid I didn't bother to take down the details. I wasn't interested in him, after all.'

  I did find the officer of the day. As I left, he was entering through the main gate, in company and laughing with Privatus, that builder with the stranded hair who was giving Petro houseroom. Maybe he was seeking a contract to rebuild the squadron house. The builder acknowledged me pleasantly, looking vague about where we had met. He seemed at home here. It was too much to hope that it was because he was regularly arrested.

  I managed a private interview with the officer and asked whether any Damagoras' featured in their special lists. He said the lists were confidential. He refused to look them up. Sick of unhelpful blockheads, I went home for lunch. There, my very intelligent and normally helpful girlfriend was awaiting my return. But even Helena Justina looked as if she might turn nasty.

  XI

  Albia was playing with the children, head down, not meeting anybody's eye. For once, the two little girls were keeping very quiet. My brother-in-law Aulus was acting unconcerned, as if whatever had happened was none of his fault; he greeted me with a silent grimace, then stuck his head in a note-tablet. I could not even see Nux. They all seemed grateful that I had come home, to fend off the ballistics and rescue them. Helena Justina continued for a moment to slice leeks on an unpleasant wooden board we had inherited with the apartment. Leeks are an Ostia speciality. I had been promised my favourite recipe. It looked as if grit would be left in among the fronds. On purpose.

  'Helena, dear heart! Shall I go out and come in again, more contrite?'

  'Are you suggesting there is something wrong, Falco?'

  'Of course not, fruit. I would just like to make it plain I never touched that barmaid, whatever the girl may be saying, and if somebody has left a dead rat in the gutter overflow, it wasn't me; that is absolutely not my idea of something funny.'

  Helena took a long, deep breath, and looked up from her knifework with a stare that said she was considering the barmaid suggestion very, very thoroughly. Maybe that joke had been too big a risk. She was still holding the knife. I really could not think of any reason to feel guilty, so I stayed quiet and looked meek. Not too meek. Helena was easily irritated. She was still holding her breath too; now she let it all out, extremely slowly.

  'Nobody should be blamed for their family,' she announced.

  'Ah!' It was one of my relatives. No surprise. I could have run through the possibilities mentally, but there were far too many.

  'Your sister came,' said Helena, as if it had nothing to do with the atmosphere.

  'Maia?' I did not even bother to mention Allia or Galla. They were useless lumps who tried to borrow things, but they were safe in Rome.

  'Junia.' Right. Junia came back. How typical.

  'Whatever she did or said, I apologise for her, dearest.'

  'It wasn't what she did,' snarled Helena, my mild, tolerant, diplomatic partner. 'It never is what Junia does. It's what she damn well is. It's how she sits there in her neat outfit, with her careful jewels, and her struggling son in his very clean tunic, and her slobbering dog who gets himself everywhere, and I can't actually say what leads it to happen, but maybe her trite conversation and self-satisfied behaviour just, – make, – me, – want to scream!' Now she felt better.

  I sat down, nodding sympathetically. Helena went back to chopping. For a girl who had been brought up to consider kitchens as places into which she was only expected to wander to give orders about recipes for patrician banquets, she could now wield sharp knives adeptly. I identified a handy cloth that would stanch blood, then I watched with caution. I had taught her to try and avoid chopping off her fingers, but it seemed best not to distract her until she finished. Helena had long, beautiful hands.

  After a time she threw the leeks in a bowl of water, rattled them about to clean them, wiped the knife, banged down a pan on the cooking bench I had improvised, looked for the olive oil distractedly, and allowed me to find it for her. I took hold of the pan handle. She snatched it away from me. I stood aside politely. She elbowed me back into position and allowed me to take over cooking. Aulus, with unheard-of domestic sense, unwound himself and poured a beaker of red wine, which he placed formally in his sister's hand. Helena leaned against the table, sipping. Her frown relaxed. Soon she told me glumly that Petronius had called that morning; he had looked up the lists of undesirables kept by the vigiles, and found no mention of any Damagoras. Then we got to the nub.

  Helena added that the reason Junia had called was to gloat that Gaius Baebius did have some information on the name. Being Junia, she would not tell Helena what. Well, that was why Helena was annoyed. I would have to see Gaius Baebius. Now I was annoyed too. Still, the leeks were good. I crumbled in some goat's cheese and de stoned black olives, frisked it all around with a little salty fish-pickle, I served it into bowls, and topped off-with a dribble of extra oil. We ate this with yesterday's bread. Helena had been too angry to go out to the baker for fresh.

  XII

  I took the ferry to Portus, where Gaius Baebius worked in his capacity as a customs clerk, or, as he would pedantically add, a supervisor. The vital labour of harassing importers for their tax took place at the main harbour, the big new one planned out by the Emperor Claudius and finished by Nero. Meant to replace the clogged facilities at Ostia, Portus had been inadequate for the task since the day it was inaugurated. I knew Gaius would explain that to me all over again, whether or not it affected my enquiry and despite me reminding him that he had moaned on about it before. I had promised Helena I would use the ferry trip to calm down.

  Instead, as I sat in the boat being rowed slowly over, stress gripped me. Portus Augusti had been constructed about two miles to the north of Ostia itself.

  I tried to concentrate on geography. Ostia was the only real harbour on Italy's western coast for many miles in both directions, or nobody would ever have made land here. You probably had to go up as far as Cosa to find a decent berth to the north while to the south, grain ships which came from Africa and Sicily still often unloaded at Puteoli on the Bay of Neapolis, after which the corn was transported overland to avoid the difficulties here. Nero had even wanted to build a canal all the way from Puteoli, as a' simpler' solution than trying to improve the Ostia maritime gateway. Rome had been founded upstream on high ground at the earliest bridgeable point on the Tiber, but that presupposed ours was a useful river. Romulus was a shepherd. How would he know? Compared with the grandiose waterways in most major provincial capitals, old Father Tiber was a
widdle of rat's piss. Even at Ostia, the muddy river mouth was not much more than a hundred strides across; Helena and I had been given much amusement the other morning, watching large ships trying to manoeuvre past each other amidst shouts of alarm and clashing oars.

  And the river was unfriendly. Swimmers were regularly plucked out of their depth and swirled to their death by drowning. Children did not paddle on the Tiber's brim. The small, meandering Tiber was too full of silt, its current was unpredictable, and it wound all over the countryside.

  That said, although it flooded often and suffered droughts, it was rarely impassable. Vessels could make their way inland to moor right up alongside the Emporium in Rome, and some still did.

  However, rowing upstream meant the fast flow was against them. Sailing was ruled out because of the bends; square-rigged ships lost the wind at every turn. So they were towed. Some were hauled by draught animals, but most were dragged up or down the twenty-mile distance by teams of despondent slaves. That imposed a weight limit. And it was why Ostia, together now with Portus, was so important. Many ships had to moor and unload when they arrived at the coast; then they had to lay up, while they awaited their out-going loads and passengers.

  So Ostia had always served as a docking anteroom to Rome. Unhappily, it had been chosen and founded by saltpan workers, not sailors. The Tiber mouth was perfect for an industry that required shallows, but there had never been deep moorings. Worse, it was an unsafe landing point. The largest trade vessels, including the huge imperial corn transporters had to disembark at least part of their cargoes into tenders out in the open sea. That was dangerous, and only feasible in summer. Two currents met, where the river dashed out into the oncoming tide. There were treacherous west winds to contend with. Add in the coastal shoals and the sand bar at the mouth of the river, and merchantmen arriving from foreign lands had a good chance of foundering.