Scandal Takes a Holiday Page 21

  “We found a load of drugs,” said Fusculus, gesturing to a basketful of glass phials now being removed. “Opium poppy, I reckon.”

  “So tomorrow we can expect to see the vigiles staggering about the streets, blissfully comatose?”

  Fusculus grinned in his happy way. “You want to volunteer to test the extracts?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Helena. “But if none of the kidnap victims will testify, don’t forget Marcus and Lucius Petronius once saw Pullia herself insensible after she had sampled the sleeping draft.”

  “Looks as if the woman is the only one we can snare with evidence,” Fusculus told us. “Rubella thinks he may have to release the males—”

  Helena was angry. “A whole gang of men are terrorizing victims, raping teenagers, extorting, and killing—but you will hold only their female assistant!”

  As she stormed off growling, one of the vigiles let out a shout from the interior of the gatehouse. A small figure scuttled out, ducked around Fusculus, and hared off up the road. It was Zeno. No one made much attempt to catch him, and he legged it out of sight.

  XLII

  There are various problems in letting the generals run a battlefield: mainly, they pay too much attention to their budgets.

  Marcus Rubella, the tribune of the Fourth Cohort of Vigiles, was keyed up to solve the Ostian kidnappings ahead of rival troops. However, he had already been forced to authorize a light supper and night-soil removal for thirty unexpected prisoners. When he realized that as a result he now had to choose between giving them breakfast or providing the customary Saturnalia drinks to his own men next December, it was no contest. The thought that by evening the pirates would be eating supper at the expense of a new candelabrum in his Rome office clinched it. He had set his heart on improved lighting and had spotted a faux bronze upright four-branch model with an Ionian top which he thought would do just nicely. So Rubella scrutinized his meager interrogation notes; he saw there was bugger-all chance of making charges stick; and he let the Cilicians go.

  That said, Rubella was not stupid. Nor, possibly, was he corrupt.

  His brain, according to Petronius Longus, worked on different principles from those of normal human beings, but brain there was beneath that short-haired, low-profile cranium. In fact Petro regularly tried to persuade Scythax, the vigiles’ doctor, that Marcus Rubella’s brain needed maintenance, in the form of having a hole drilled through his skull for inspection purposes.

  Trepanation would have been a good idea for the normally prescribed purposes: relieving pressure. Rubella liked to think. This was well-known. He spent long hours in his office on the Aventine apparently doing nothing at all, but in rare moments when he confided in people, he claimed that his method as a cohort commander was to do the thinking other people chose to omit. According to him (and Petronius had been given the benefit of this theory at some length, at one of the cohort’s legendary Saturnalia drinks parties) this method of leadership enabled Rubella to foresee problems, to anticipate criminal tendencies, and to plan cunning ambushes that other cohort commanders, with their less intellectual methods, would never achieve.

  Thus, on the next sunny morning when many of the vigiles were despairing of their leader’s stupid action, we were informed that when he let the Cilicians walk, Marcus Rubella had had a clever plan. This plan had been formulated as a result of research he had conducted in the few days between me paying him that visit in Rome and him bringing his men to Ostia. In order to be at the top of his profession in the matter of outwitting pirates, or pirates’ descendants, or ex-pirates, the thinking man had been to a library and borrowed some scrolls. The cohort tribune was now an expert on Cilician habits and Cilician ways of thought.

  “Stuff their habits!” muttered Lucius Petronius, who was no fan of literary research when it came to men who strangled their associates out on lonely salt marshes. “I want to see the bastards strung up on crosses where they can’t do any more harm.”

  “So do I,” said Rubella (who as well as a working brain beneath the crewcut had two big ears, one each side of his head in the customary manner, and both as sharp as a bat’s). “Stop mouthing off to Falco like a schoolboy in the back row. And in any case what’s bloody Falco doing here at my morning briefing?”

  Everyone looked at me. The vigiles were feeling extremely depressed, so picking on me came as light relief. They were usually friendly, but just at this moment each one of them would happily have seen me lightly roasted in a bread roll with a piquant dressing of fish pickle.

  I explained, with my informer’s mild manners, that I had dropped into the patrol house to inquire what progress—if any—had been made in solving either the kidnappings or the killing of Theopompus. Rubella said to get lost. This was what I expected; he had a limited repertoire. I started to move away slowly, but when he began talking again I stayed put. Informers also have their traditions. Hanging around at briefings where we are not wanted is one of ours.

  “You may all think that I have gone crazy—” Rubella’s men dutifully looked as if they were thinking, Oh no, sir. I was thinking how glad I was not to be one of his men. “Trust me. I’ve done the right homework. What you have to understand about Cilicians is that they pay great respect to their elders. They have key leaders who are called Tyrannicoi—that’s a Greek concept, just equates to a local king; we Romans view tyrants in a rather different light, of course—” By now we all reckoned Rubella had finally gone crazy. “Now, whether they are on board ship, where they elect their captain, or on land, where their leaders are more territorial, the oldest tyrants are the ones they honor most. We happen to be holding one who is about as old as you can get. So although it seems as if I have made a mistake in letting the rest go free, have faith. I kept back the fellow who matters. We are still detaining Damagoras.”

  Somebody cheered. Rubella could recognize a jibe; he glared. He glared at me, on principle, although I was not the culprit.

  Petronius was blunt: “Damagoras claims he has retired.”

  “And the rest all claim they are innocent!” Rubella retorted. “I don’t believe them either, Lucius Petronius.”

  Petro sniffed, but had to allow the point.

  “I like the neatness of this,” Rubella congratulated himself. “The people who take hostages are faced with a hostage themselves. Damagoras is being held against their good behavior. One slip, and their esteemed chief is for it.” Rubella favored us with a benign smile. “And to make sure we can find them again, I instructed them all not to leave town.”

  Well, that was reassuring.

  Of course if the Cilicians did leave town, Rubella would in one sense be vindicated. The kidnappings would stop. Then the tribune would be able to claim he had eliminated an extortion racket using minimal manpower and with little impact on the budget. Either way, Damagoras would cost nothing to keep; now that he had people on the outside, they sent in provisions daily. The pirate chief would be living a life of luxury, his only complaint being that he had to stick in his cell. Still, it was already a beautifully furnished cell.

  Unfortunately for Rubella, almost at once proof arrived that the extortion would continue. While we were still at the briefing Helena Justina hurried to find me with some startling news. Holconius and Mutatus, the two scribes who commissioned me, had just arrived in Ostia from Rome, wanting my advice. The Daily Gazette had received a letter which said kidnappers had captured Diocles and removed him to Sardinia. His captors had now brought him back to Ostia and a large ransom was demanded. They ordered the scribes not to tell anybody of the ransom demand, and not to involve the vigiles.

  “Still, you appear to have done that,” sneered Rubella.

  “It seemed vital you should know,” Helena said, just managing to keep her temper. “This is a chance to lie in wait and catch the ringleaders while the ransom is being paid.”

  An ambush! Marcus Rubella, the thinking commander, was now a happy tribune.

  XLIII

  Rubella might
have been cheerful. I was annoyed.

  “Helena Justina, would you care to explain to me exactly why you just did that?”

  Helena squared her shoulders. We were walking home. There was always a danger when we quarreled in the street that one of us would walk away forever. (Or at least until we thought the other party believed it might be forever just enough to enable a reconciliation scene.) We were both headstrong. Having two children, an adopted orphan, and a dog at home complicated matters slightly. Before striding off with too much hauteur, someone had to look over their shoulder and make sure the other one was going to look after the family.

  Today I was being far too grown-up for that. I wanted to stick around and make my presence felt.

  “You know why I did it, Falco.” If I was Falco, that meant she was determined not to be impressed by the head-of-household bombast. Marcus was allowed more slack.

  “Pardon me; I left my personal priest at home today. Read me the auguries!”

  “Stop shouting.”

  “When I shout, believe me, lady, you will know all about it.”

  People had turned to look at us. I certainly was not raising my voice any more than the occasion demanded. Helena kept walking. An interfering idiot stopped to ask the respectable stole-wrapped matron if that unpleasant man was bothering her. Helena said yes. “Don’t worry; he is my husband.”

  “Oh, sorry! Have you considered divorce?”

  “Frequently,” said Helena.

  We walked on. I was biting my thumb. Too soon, we arrived at the entrance to the courtyard of our apartment. We stopped.

  “Explain now. We don’t argue in front of the children.”

  “Wrong, Falco. Anyway,” said Helena in a tight voice, “I think it’s best if I decide what should happen with the children. I am the one they have to rely on to be here looking after them … I’ll tell you why I went to the vigiles. Two reasons, really. One is that I genuinely feel Mutatus and Holconius are wrong not to involve the authorities. And then, what would have happened if I had just let you go and see them privately, Marcus? You know as well as I do—you would have taken on the issue, and you would have done it all alone. Aulus has sailed off, Quintus is crooning over his baby, you wouldn’t have wanted to tell Petronius what you were up to—and so you would have dealt with the ransom demands. Am I right?”

  I said nothing. I tried to think up alternative courses of action I could pretend would have been my choice. None came to mind.

  “So once again, Falco, I would have had to live with the terror of you going off into danger, on your own, ignoring sense—”

  “I never ignore sense.”

  “You are ignoring it now.”

  “No, I’m adapting. I’ve just had a shock today. I thought you and I were partners. We consulted on important issues—”

  “You were not here. Just for once I did what I wanted. And I chose to save you.”

  “I really did not think I had to say this, Helena: don’t interfere with my work!” That hurt her. I hated the sound of it myself. Now we really were quarreling. I tried to soften it. “Be reasonable. I’ve been going off alone on cases all the years that you have known me—”

  “Seven,” she said bleakly.

  “What?”

  “Seven years. That is how long I have known you. You could be dead in seven minutes if you make the wrong choice, in the wrong place, with nobody to back you up—”

  “Don’t make me feel too old to cope.”

  “You are not too old. But you are no longer a lone informer, giving your soul to a mission. You are a family man with a full life, and you need to readjust.”

  We glared at each other. There was no easy way out of this. “Are those your grounds for divorce, Helena?”

  “No. I’m still thinking up the grounds. They will be much more colorful; I want a big splash in the Gazette.”

  “Don’t even try. I’m the man of the house. The divorce is mine; I deal with legal niceties.”

  “Do what you like with the niceties,” scoffed Helena offhandedly. “Don’t forget I deal with the accounts.”

  “Oh, you may do—but don’t expect an expensive settlement!”

  We were still glaring. I convinced myself there was a difference in the glare.

  “So. Are you going to buy my forgiveness now by telling me where they are staying?” When she failed to react, I nudged: “Holconius and Mutatus.”

  “How do you know that I know where they are?”

  “Helena Justina, you’re the best partner I could have. You are efficient, farsighted, and although you would deny it, bossy. You didn’t mention this to Rubella—but I know, Helena, you will have asked for their address.”

  She knew the address, and she told me. Then she denied she was bossy.

  I thanked her gravely. “Be reassured, sweetheart. This is the first stage only; I am just exploring the situation. It will be perfectly safe. I’ll go now. Do I get a kiss?” Helena shook her head, so I kissed her, very firmly. We looked at each other, then I left.

  I walked back to Helena. She was still standing where I had left her, in the shadow of the courtyard arch. She looked shaken. I sympathized; it was how I felt.

  “Come with me.”

  “You don’t need me for this.”

  “No. But come anyway.”

  “It’s big of you to allow it.”

  “That’s right,” I said. I tucked her hand in my arm and kept it there. “I’m getting old and easy to outwit; even so, I should still be able to manage talking to a pair of Gazette scribes. But this way, if I find myself in any danger, I can use you as a shield.”

  XLIV

  Holconius and Mutatus were sitting glumly in their hired room. Between them, spread on a carefully laid-out cloak, lay an unpacked packed lunch, looking like food they had brought from Rome with them. They had divided it neatly into two portions, but seemed too disheartened to start.

  I introduced Helena, as if I forgot she had met them that morning. We both assessed them thoughtfully: two lean, middle-aged freedmen with excellent Latin accents and grammar, who must be equally smart at Greek. Two sophisticated, literate men, who seemed ill at ease outside their natural environment.

  “Marcus had heard you were both on leave,” Helena said, settling herself. As she spread her skirts and readjusted her bangles, Mutatus shook his head. It was a rapid, nervous gesture.

  “With our responsibilities, we are always available in emergencies.”

  I wondered if Diocles had been growing into a similar bald, bewildered-looking misfit. Somehow I thought not. The missing man had regularly covered worldly stories; he traveled; he could offer himself for work in diverse trades. Diocles was feckless and he drank. He owned a sword. The man could have been an informer—had he been able to choose a decent weapon.

  Holconius and Mutatus did not look like men who had brought swords. I doubted that either owned one. Nor could I easily imagine either with family connections. Both had the narrow, obsessed air of experts. Bachelors, or men with dim wives who were expected to admire their husbands’ culture and intelligence from the background. Holconius, the elder, was in a white tunic with cream undertones; Mutatus was in white that had a grayish tinge. Otherwise they matched as well as a pair of table ends.

  “Do you want to see the ransom note, Falco?” Holconius demanded.

  “All in good time. It is true that there has been a kidnap racket operating in Ostia—and that Diocles may have stumbled across it. But my first consideration, when a ransom demand is delivered like this, has to be whether it is genuine.”

  “Genuine?” They looked startled. Holconius scoffed, “Why should you doubt it?”

  “It’s too long since your man vanished.”

  Even Helena was watching me curiously. This was our first chance to evaluate what was going on.

  I had been thinking about it as Helena and I walked here. “This does not fit the pattern, Holconius. In the abduction cases we know about, there are strict rul
es: they carry off women, not men; they make their demands for money normally on the same day; they close the deal fast; they choose foreigners who will leave the country if threatened. Basically, they avoid coming to the attention of the authorities.”

  Holconius nodded. His role at the Gazette was to take the notes in the Senate. It must have been a pleasant change to hear a worthwhile argument, with points listed cogently.

  “What choice do we have?” demanded Mutatus. “None. The race is fixed. Somebody’s got Diocles; the outcome is a dead cert.” Mutatus covered the games. As a sports commentator he made swift assessments, then perhaps thought about it afterward while other people were howling that he was a complete idiot.

  “Kidnappers work by trading on their victims’ inexperience,” I told him. “They want you to be so scared for Diocles, you follow their instructions exactly. You two have never been in this situation before, and it fills you with consternation. But I am thinking it through. For one thing, they claim they have had Diocles ever since he disappeared, having transported him to Sardinia. Is this credible?”

  “It sounds like a cover-up.” Helena reinforced my argument. “Some opportunist has seized on the fact that people are looking for Diocles, and is hoping to cash in.”

  I agreed. “Someone has just heard that Sardinia is full of bandits, and they decided that would sound good. When people go missing, especially when there is high-profile anxiety about their fate, such nonsense happens.”

  “Cranks, maniacs, and confidence tricksters are drawn to a tragedy,” Helena told the scribes. “Families who lose loved ones in unexplained circumstances can be horribly exploited.”

  “That is why I have to advise you whether to take this demand seriously,” I said. “Frankly, I am doubtful.”

  “You don’t want us to pay the money?” asked Mutatus.

  “I don’t.”

  “But we brought the money with us!” This kind of illogical reasoning would be joy to a ransom gang or to any kind of exploiter.