Scandal Takes a Holiday Page 15

  We started straightaway, and observed the place for the rest of the week.

  Lygon, a relaxed lover with a callous attitude, hardly ever bothered to visit his drab ladyfriend, though I spotted him once and Petro reported another sighting two nights later. Pullia was always there. My worst problem was avoiding her boy, the seven-year-old Zeno. He played in the street, looking bored. He had no toys, but threw stones, stared at passersby, and kicked his sandals on the curbstones. Pullia rarely went out, but sometimes she sent him on errands; at mealtimes she would call him indoors, shouting his name abrasively. He was no worse treated than some of my elder sisters’ children, but his way of life meant there was a strong chance he would notice one of us while we were lurking across the street on observation. He seemed an intelligent child, who would probably remember us.

  Someone did eventually spot me—though the way it happened was unexpected. It was my watch. Helena, with Favonia in her arms, was just bringing me a lunch basket. I had stationed myself almost opposite the old gatehouse. There was an empty block, perhaps earmarked to be an overflow forum. Sometimes a mad old woman brought crumbs to feed the birds, but they were a standoffish flock and she shuffled around keeping well away from me. There were two houses on the other side of the street where the occupants kept looking out as if they thought I was a prospective burglar. At least when they saw Helena with me, they could comfort themselves that I must just be dawdling in the hope of an adulterous liaison. It was a good excuse for us to cuddle in public—always a cheap thrill. Meanwhile Sosia Favonia practiced toddling.

  The Ostians were not great humorists and disapproved of us canoodling. Fortunately our curly-haired child looked so sweet in her clean white tunic and tiny bead necklace, our behavior was soon overlooked. We stopped being lewd and passed ourselves off as proud parents parading their infant.

  I did not believe in using my children as props in a disguise. My mother would have been furious. Helena’s mother would have seized Favonia and sought sanctuary in the nearest temple.

  In my days as a lone informer, I had had other methods. Here, I would have sat against a pillar, huddled in dirty rags—except that Petronius had bagged this role of down-and-out for his observations at night. I had tried pretending to be an artist, but when I sat on a stool drawing townscapes in my note-tablet, the inevitable group of gawpers assembled behind me. They made it clear my sketching was awful. Several advised me to give up and get a proper job. It was not a situation where I could answer that I already had one, and ask if they knew Diocles.

  In the end, I assembled ropes and poles, with a bucket and some sponges, set up a barrier against the exterior of Privatus’ house (which lay on one side of the open area), donned a one-armed unbelted tunic, and pretended to clean the stonework. That would be accepted by everyone as an endless job, and one where I, as the useless workman, was bound to be a slacker. I was safe then so long as Privatus himself never came around, demanding to know who gave me instructions to ruin the patina of his building.

  I was still lazing there in my role as a renovator when Helena brought the lunch basket. To observe the gatehouse opposite, I had had to plant myself right on the street line. Down the Decumanus Maximus came all the day’s busy traffic. Plenty of carts and donkeys were entering the town, while the usual slow buildup accumulated in the other direction, all heading out to the city with their goods that evening. Then driving against them, rattling in from Rome and causing a fine drama, came a driver with no sense of social timing. Cursing him, the working teams who were trying to go the other way all slowed up and banged against one another.

  He was flash trash. In a bright crimson outfit, thirties, louche-looking, proud of his luxuriant hair, and wearing pounds of gold, he cut an expensive dash. He had a girl with him. Of course her admiring presence made him whip up his horses—there were two, clearly excellent and well matched in color (inevitably glossy black). In case anyone failed to notice them coming, they had bells on their harnesses. They were pulling the latest model in chariots for show-offs. A garish Medusa covered the front, with pseudo-Greek hoplites all around the sides, whose oversized helmets and long phallic spears were apparently laid on in real gold leaf. The equipage must have been a special order, and its salesman was probably sunning himself in Neapolis on his commission.

  The girlie was screaming with glee. When she saw us, she could not help waving wildly, even though she had to cling on tight as her lover swerved from side to side, causing as much havoc as he could. She wanted us to know how proud she was to be tearing along through Ostia with this wondrous man. Her hero loved her. He had come to fetch her. She was absolutely radiant at being with him.

  He must be Theopompus. The passenger he was so busy impressing was Posidonius’ daughter, Rhodope.

  XXXI

  They did not stop. That was just as well. Rhodope might be ecstatic, but Helena and I saw it differently.

  “Oh, Juno! She looks in her element. Marcus, her poor father!”

  “I should have warned him to keep a guard on her.”

  “If she was determined to run off, she would have escaped somehow.”

  “You’re the expert on young girls with dreams.” I had always had the impression that Helena Justina, a shy and reserved young woman, had nonetheless led a wild imaginative life before I met her.

  She never confirmed it. “Oh, I was scrupulously sensible—until I met that informer in Britain. The dark, dangerous one with that look in his eyes and the way with words … You have gone quiet, darling.”

  She always understood me. I was smitten with fear about this adventure.

  Among the more mature female prisoners who were usually taken, Rhodope must have been a one-off. When he bedded her, however, Theopompus could never have been serious. Afterward, we had been sure that only heartache awaited the besotted creature. Rhodope was not bad-looking—but not good-looking either. From what we had seen, she was a pale little character, completely inexperienced. She lacked the fire to ensnare a man of action, and yet she had too many romantic expectations to be suitable for the hard life led ashore by the worn-out womenfolk of pirates. The fact that Theopompus had gone back for the girl seemed out of character.

  “She offers easy pickings, though.”

  “Yes. She was young, an easy lay who would not argue—making it awkward for her father to pursue a seducer afterwards.”

  “I meant, she is the only child of a rich and loving widower,” Helena remarked astutely. “Theopompus can bleed Posidonius dry. The father knows it; I saw the dread in his expression when we talked to him. It is not just that his daughter has lost her virginity and is unlikely to agree to a good marriage while she’s pining.”

  “No, you are right. Posidonius has paid heavily to get her back once—and even if Theopompus returns her to him this time, it is bound to involve cost.”

  “The father is helpless, Marcus; he knows the girl is making a horrible mistake. If Theopompus is a real villain, he will string Rhodope along, maybe even marry her, then expect her papa to pay out a permanent retainer to save her being hurt.”

  “Or worse.”

  “Or worse,” agreed Helena, shuddering.

  After a moment I confessed my real anxiety. “I just hope Theopompus has not picked her up because Damagoras told him to.”

  “You think that would be your fault.” Helena loved me, but was an unsparing critic.

  “Admitted. I am scared that Damagoras was annoyed when he found out—from me—that Rhodope had named Theopompus. The old villain may want her put out of the way.”

  “Want her killed, you mean?”

  “Let’s hope not. Theopompus may just have been told to bring her into the clan where they can keep her quiet.”

  Helena bent to Favonia, who was dragging at her skirts. Holding our daughter on her hip, she gave me a long look. “Can’t we believe the warmhearted Damagoras has allowed a new tryst because he likes to see love triumph over adversity?”

  “What adversity?�
�� I scoffed.

  “All right. A silly wretch has thrown herself at a lout who wastes cash on garish transport—”

  “Helena, she is rich and ridiculous, but she’s up against worse than she knows. And I don’t just mean she’s in danger of crying her eyes out when her cupid dumps her.”

  Helena sighed. “You must find her, Marcus. Go and see Petronius. At least tell her father where she is.”

  That was my intention. I wanted to hear whether Posidonius already knew the whereabouts of the eloping couple. If he had been informed of their plans by Theopompus, then I could relax. That meant Theopompus was holding the girl now in order to rake off more of her father’s fortune. The father had his troubles and for him they might be long-term ones, but at least the girl would stay alive.

  Since the contractor’s house stood right alongside where I had been on watch, I abandoned my position, and rushed to see if Petronius was at home.

  “Oh, look; now we have the whole set of dice!” Maia greeted me. I took it for affection. She let me kiss her cheek.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Roll yourself into the second courtyard and you’ll see.”

  Petronius was talking to Marcus Rubella. They looked at ease, reaching up for grapes from a pergola and speaking in quiet voices. The tribune must be so intrigued by what I had told him of events at Ostia, he had come a day in advance of the rest of his detachment. As men talking together professionally about their unit, he and Petro both looked annoyed at seeing me.

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  They had the seats. Petro was in a woven chair that Maia normally used; her wool basket sat on the ground at his feet. Rubella had sprawled on a marble bench, with one leg along the full length of the seat. He did not move up. I stood. I was too impatient to wrangle about his manners, and merely told my tale.

  “I already knew the girl, Rhodope, was missing.” Rubella stayed calm. “The father came bellyaching at the patrol house. Relax, Falco. We are onto it.”

  “Well I’ve told you she is in Ostia. No need to thank me,” I sneered. He did not blink.

  “That’s a bummer.” Petronius was more forthcoming. He even pulled out a cushion from behind him and tossed it to me so I could sit on a low wall. “She’s put the whole operation at risk.” So it was an “operation” now, was it? Rubella in charge, and even Petronius Longus following his chief’s orders. I knew where that placed me. “The charioteer didn’t stop at the gatehouse, Falco?”

  “Theopompus never looked at the place. That may have been to conceal the hideout—or he may just have been enjoying himself too much with his crazy driving.”

  “And you believe this girl is at risk?” Rubella’s tone was ponderous; he reminded me of Gaius Baebius. When I spelled out my fears that Damagoras would eliminate Rhodope, the tribune’s interest was cursory. “There has been no direct threat to her?”

  “No, there has been no threat. But what villain issues a statement of intent when he is about to snuff out a witness?”

  I knew what Rubella would say. Even Petronius would support him. “We can keep a watching brief on the girl. But we can’t go in and fetch her. There is too much at stake,” warned Rubella bluntly. “Until we identify the others and position ourselves for a swoop, Rhodope cannot be my priority.”

  Petronius Longus then gave me the fixed stare treatment. “I know what you’re thinking, Falco. Don’t do it!”

  Rubella also jumped on me: “Falco, I don’t want you carrying out an independent mission. Leave the girl and her boyfriend strictly alone from now on, do you hear?”

  “We’ll do the drama.” Petro reinforced his words.

  “So what about the watch on the gatehouse?” I demanded.

  “Leave that to us,” said Rubella.

  I stood up. “Well thanks, both of you. I would like to say that if the girl dies, her blood is on your hands. Unfortunately, I can’t let myself off so lightly. If she dies it will be my fault—my fault for having foolishly trusted the vigiles to defend law and order.”

  “We are accountable to the whole community.” Rubella’s tone was so bland I could have pushed his teeth down his throat. “I don’t want to see the girl harmed—I don’t want to explain that to her father.”

  “You know the score, Marcus,” Petronius said. “She must take her chance.” It was tough. That’s the vigiles for you.

  Rubella was making statements: “I want to round up the entire gang and put a stop to this kidnapping, once and for all.”

  “Once and for all” is political jargon—which makes it absolutely meaningless.

  As I took myself off from the contractor’s house, who should I meet coming in but Brunnus, the Sixth’s detachment leader.

  “What are you doing here, Brunnus?”

  “Marcus Rubella has arrived in Ostia. We have a meeting arranged, Falco. Handover and joint strategy discussion.”

  Joint balls-up, more likely. After Rubella and Petronius had both expressed a wish to show up their colleagues in the Sixth, I could hardly believe this. “Inter-cohort liaison? Whatever happened to rivalry?”

  Brunnus grinned happily. “What rivalry, Falco?” He was an innocent. Rubella was probably picking his brains, prior to shafting him and his cohort. “We have to interleave our efforts on some critical initiatives—”

  “The kidnaps,” I stated.

  As far as he knew, I was chasing pirates over Diocles but had never heard of the kidnap racket. Fired up, Brunnus failed to notice. “Be wonderful,” he gloated, “if the vigiles can get ahead of Caninus and the navy!”

  No doubt Caninus had some other navy unit he was hoping to outwit. The Ravenna and Misenum Fleets were bound to be rivals. So it would go on: each branch of the services locked into doing down the next. Never mind Posidonius losing his daughter. The important thing was to establish cohort supremacy. All any of them wanted was an honorable mention from the Emperor.

  Brunnus headed in to see the others, but I caught his arm. “Word of advice,” I said, feeling tetchy and wanting to land someone in muleshit. “You need to jolly up that dozy group of bullies you keep farmed out in the west sector.”

  “We don’t have any farmed-out men, Falco. I don’t believe in it. Leads to lack of discipline.”

  “I saw them myself. Four great laggards. Streetside, sleeping on the job in an abandoned lot, chucking their weight about, just beyond the main Forum.”

  “Not ours,” Brunnus assured me.

  “Then get there and arrest them. You’ve got impostors, using a fake guardpost to defraud the public of bribes. Isn’t impersonating the vigiles a crime?” Taking a bribe was a crime too, though that was theoretical. The gang I met would never have succeeded in their ploy, had the real vigiles been lily white. They were behaving as the public expected.

  Brunnus could not be bothered. “Frankly, we have more exciting things on. You must have been dreaming, Falco.”

  I pulled up and smacked myself around the ear. “You’re right. I must have seen some ghost troopers left behind decades ago by the Divine Emperor Claudius … Forget I mentioned it.”

  Now Brunnus looked worried. But it would not affect him long. Brunnus had a thrilling afternoon ahead, plotting joint exercises with Marcus Rubella and Petronius Longus of the Fourth Cohort.

  Relegated to the role of an outsider, I found myself something else to do. If the men who had threatened me the other day were nothing to do with the vigiles, I was free to challenge them. The vigiles were accountable to the community; as a private informer, I was accountable to no one—but I had a social conscience. I could back it up with intellect, cunning, and if needs be fisticuffs. I marched off to confront the bastards, all set to wreak havoc.

  No use.

  I walked along the Decumanus to where I had seen the fake patrol house. At the same time, I kept one eye out for the crass chariot Theopompus drove; it made me feel better to be looking for him, and Marcus Rubella could not stop me using my eyes.

  The empty shop
near the Temple of Hercules was now completely abandoned. The impostors were no longer to be seen. They had packed up and vanished. I was relieved Brunnus had not sent an inquiry team, or I would have looked stupid.

  But the old crusts still lay on the rubble-strewn floor; liquor fumes still hung in the air. So did the rank smell of deceit. The fraudsters had been here. Now they were hunkered down somewhere else, preying on new people in a new locality. I would find them eventually. And next time, I would put them out of business.

  XXXII

  Back at the Decumanus I crossed the junction to a run-down row of fishmongers’. There was no chance of me and mine eating with Maia and Petronius this evening. Taking Rubella’s part against me was utterly hypocritical. The vigiles may look down on private informers—but when it suited, we were good enough to help them out with their clear-up figures. Petronius Longus damn well knew that.

  Stuff him. I would take home something to cook up myself for a supper with my own brood. It was a few days since we had enjoyed my mother’s mullet. I decided I was ready for pan-fried sardines. They were a favorite of mine, and easy to prepare even in an apartment with limited facilities. Back in the old days at my dilapidated Fountain Court rental, I ate sardines all the time.

  The stall I chose had been here for a century. Surely soon some emperor who wanted to look good would provide new premises with smarter fish tanks and big marble slabs. In the meantime, they gutted fish on a wooden table which they scrubbed each night. The produce was fresh and the stallholder friendly. I asked if he had known the scribe’s aunt.

  “Oh, Vestina was a regular until she got too creaky. Then she used to send her maid—unless she had her visitor. He would help her along here herself.”

  “Her nephew? Diocles?”

  A woman appeared from the cramped living quarters in the rear. Elderly and nosy, she was introduced to me as the stallholder’s mother. It was no surprise. They shared similar squashed noses. “That was a terrible night,” she said, clearly referring to the fire.