Scandal Takes a Holiday mdf-16

by Lindsey Davis

  XLVIII

  I bought lunch. In open defiance of the imperial foodstall rules, dish of the day at the Dolphin was a hot fish stew. It should have been pulses but the waiter had a line over the harbour wall; fish were free. Portus was awash with officials, from the corn-supply aediles to the tax beetles to the harbour master, the lighthouse staff and the watchmen; this should have been a completely regulated area. No chance. In ports disobedience is as common as silt. I was mopping my bowl with a lump of rustic bread when who should I see come trotting back to the Damson Flower but Lemnus. His bandy Cretan legs were still kicking up dust like a house slave in a flaming temper. With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he scampered inside the brothel. A minute later so did I. The male bouncer had gone off to lunch. A short, round gloomy girl was now guarding the door.

  'You again!' she greeted me.

  'I love to be so memorable, where's Lemnus?'

  'Mind it.'

  'Listen, fatty-chops, take me to the Cretan, fast!'

  'Or what?' She was expecting a threat so I showed her a half denarius.

  'Or I won't give you this.' I was not intending to give her that much money whatever she did, but she was less than bright and she fell for it. With what she thought was an alluring smile, she led me along the corridor. She was about as alluring as a pregnant duck, and she only looked about fourteen. Bad enough to be overweight and miserable at that age if you have a decent life; working in a brothel as well must have been deadly. Lemnus was sitting in a cell by himself.

  'Now then, little man from Paphos, what are you doing back here?'

  'Hadn't finished.' Petro's men had already established that under questioning Lemnus whimpered. He only showed his real style when he was out of reach. Then the curses flew as fast as his bent little legs.

  'Since you are in here on your own, the jokes are obvious and crude, Lemnus. Has he paid?' I demanded of the girl from the door, who was still hanging around in the hope of the coin.

  'He has a slate.' She tossed her hair derisively, which caused a mist of dandruff and cheap scent. I let her see me put away the coin I had offered, so she went back to her duties.

  'Time-waster!' she muttered, scowling.

  'I assume that's you,' I told Lemnus cheerily, just as he stopped being a timid weasel, flicked open a folding knife, and lashed out at me.

  I had expected trouble. I elbowed his arm up and just escaped slashing. Lemnus barged out of the cell past me, but I had my boot out at ankle level. He crashed to the floor. I would have disarmed and overpowered him, but the doorkeeper had turned back and jumped on me. She was still after that half-denarius – and prepared to fight dirty for it. I freed myself from being choked and gave her a kneejerk that doubled her up, squealing. The Cretan had legged it again at top speed. As I followed, women appeared from all directions.

  The madam had been right: they were all highly trained, trained to get in my way. I shouldered aside a desert princess, squashed her pale friend against a doorpost, deflected one fury with my hip and another with my forearm. Lemnus had bolted out of doors and when I burst back on to the quay he had vanished from view. However, men were staring towards a public latrine as if a fugitive might have rushed in there, so I raced inside too.

  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 harbour 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 passers-by 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 behaviour. They sit in taverns and brothels, on the look out. Exactly how pirates used to work. picking up news of ships with decent cargoes that they would subsequently follow out of harbour 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 one another, 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 organised 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 offence 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 attache, 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 on to 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 spectres 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 libelled 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 towards 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 colourful 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 further 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 manoeuvre.

  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 harbour, 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 on to 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 acro
ss 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 centre. At the far end the beaked goose figurehead nodded gently. On the bow at water level, I knew a great armoured 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's'le 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 rumour had it they were to be moved nearer to the Flavian Amphitheatre 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.