Scandal Takes a Holiday Read online

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did they take you to a sanctuary indoors somewhere, maybe in a private house? You would have gone through a changing room, where the men put on various colored robes. The shrine would be downstairs, perhaps with a statue of a god riding on a bull. Try to remember. Was there a room underground where they held daily services, and this pit underneath the nave?”

  “I don’t think it was like that.” Drowsy with grief and lack of air, Rhodope had lost interest and become unhelpful. “It’s no good going on at me, I don’t know!”

  Helena shushed her.

  I said to Petro, “It’s not Mithras. I searched for temples all over town. I know every damned place of worship in the whole of Ostia—I never found one Mithraeum.”

  “Mithras is a secret religion. They don’t have temples. Did you know what to look for?”

  “I know as much as you!” I felt bound to ask him, “Are you in the cult?”

  “No.” Petronius was also wondering. “Are you?”

  “No.”

  We were both glad to have cleared that up.

  I was fairly sure that before he died, my brother Festus had tried the whole Mithraic ritual of lying in a trench in the dark and having the blood of a sacrificed bull rain down on him. I doubt if he ever progressed beyond the first level; after initial curiosity, having to be serious about the cult would have put him off. The bull’s blood would be enough to deter me.

  “Of course,” jibed Helena, “as it’s a secret male cult, if either of you were in it, neither would own up.” Neither of us answered her.

  “Petronius is right,” I said at last. “If this pit is in a Mithraeum, it will be hidden away at the back of a private house or place of work—and we will never find it.” Wickedly, I added, “Unless, Petro, you have a file at the vigiles station house, with a list of them?”

  “We have the file,” he answered, a little reluctantly. “It’s the empty one.”

  The young flautist started coughing. He sounded asthmatic. That could be a contradiction, but the breath control when he was playing the flute helped him. That was what he told Helena, as she took up the new task of calming him.

  “This is a wonderful young man, Rhodope. It was quite superb how he rescued you. He is brave, athletic, polite, sensible—and he has a steady job. When you recover from your grief you should think about settling down with somebody like this.” I expected an outcry from the girl, but she was always up for new adventures. “Are you married, Chaeron?” Helena asked.

  “No!” answered Chaeron, eagerly.

  Who knows where the matchmaking might have led. But Helena fell silent apprehensively, as our hot, cramped tomb suddenly echoed to a hearty knocking sound.

  LVII

  I felt Petronius shift his bulk alongside me. He reached behind us so he could return the same knock with a dagger pommel. Someone then shoved the heavy door inward against our backs, so we tumbled in a heap. Familiar voices came in with the cool air. Hands reached to pull us out onto the roadway. Fusculus and some of the vigiles were our rescuers.

  Wiping the sweat from my brow as I cooled down, I caught Petro’s eye. “Prearranged bolthole!” I applauded his forethought.

  Angry noise was still coming back up the track from the funeral site. With nervous glances, Fusculus quickly arranged for the women to be taken under escort to Petronius’ house; the escort would stay there on guard. Rhodope was a valuable witness. On the excuse that her father had reported her missing, she would be kept secure—whether she wanted it or not.

  I kissed Helena and promised to be a good boy. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Marcus!”

  Petro and I, with Fusculus and the remaining men, walked back to the party scene.

  As I had hoped, the undertakers were true professionals. They had rebuilt the pyre, lashed down the corpse as if he had never jumped up for a look around, and rekindled the flames amid a fresh douche of scented oil. The priest was busy at his altar while the rest ensured that Theopompus would go down to the underworld with somebody paying him attention.

  But all around this somber, stoical group, chaos raged. The Illyrians and the Cilicians had each decided their blood brothers were bastards. Fusculus wondered what took them so long to fall out; Petro pretended to be a romantic who thought it was just a lovers’ tiff; I had never believed they were sincere in the first place. Now they had torn up their pact and were pounding each other like true marriage partners on the brink of divorce. The fight was as good as any last-night brawl after a tense series of games at a provincial amphitheater, a melee when one set of locals thinks the other bragging bullies have been cheating all summer with the magistrate’s connivance, while the others have just found out that the first side’s chief gladiator accepted their bribe but then failed to throw his fight. And his oversexed brother never turned up for training because he was too busy getting their trainer’s wife in pod …

  Petronius, Fusculus, and I found ourselves a mixed platter of finger food from the remains of the buffet, and watched in admiration as we chewed. These men-who-must-not-be-called-pirates really knew how to create fighting theater. Fists flew. That was only the start of it. Weapons were used, including knives; free-flowing blood soon told its story there. In addition, fingers, feet, elbows, knees, and heads were all part of the action. Several times, Lygon produced his speciality: he launched himself high in the air, then floored some unfortunate opponent with a two-footed kick. Cratidas was head-butting all comers, going at it like a demented woodpecker. Some of the women must have fled. The remaining few egged on their favorites.

  We were just in time obtaining our eats; the table went over. Three men, locked in a passionate knot, demolished the shaky construction. Now food was squashed and slimed underfoot on the gray thoroughfare slabs, adding to the risk of skidding and falling. Petronius advised the caterers’ slaves to go home. Like any sensible skivvies, they took the wine with them. We let it go. We already knew the flavor was merely adequate. I, for one, was to be grateful for my abstemiousness later.

  Members of the vigiles tiptoed around unobtrusively, retrieving those who could be tidied out of the way. After bodies had been sorted by nationality they were laid in neat lines on either side of the road, Illyrians to the left, Cilicians to the right A particularly pedantic trooper then sorted them into further categories: dead, dying, and comatose. In his free time he checked that he had placed all in each category satisfactorily in height order. This must have been to assist identification afterward. An Illyrian (or Cilician) flew out of the fighting center and staggered backwards into our group. Petronius quickly wiped his mouth on a napkin, then propelled this seaman back into the fracas by applying a boot to his backside.

  The fight was thinning out. Among those still on their feet, Cratidas and Lygon were the most prominent. Even they reeled uncertainly. They could still summon up physical resources, but like all the rest, they were starting to fade. Petro decided the fighters had tired themselves out enough. He gave a whistle. What followed was brief and methodical. His men entered the action and set to, me among them, finishing off whoever was left standing. Before long, they had all either run away or lain down in surrender. Petronius and Fusculus had Cratidas and Lygon under arrest.

  Orders were given for dealing with the dead and immovable. We set off along the roadway, taking the prisoners who could still walk. Behind us, I heard the mournful swoosh as the priest doused the pyre with water from a ritual vessel. Theopompus had now traveled with full Roman pomp to whatever barbaric gods he honored. Only his ashes remained. Sealed in their black-figure urn, they would remind his young lover of their fleeting time together and the innocence she had so eagerly given away.

  At least, as the past gradually came to be an embarrassment, Rhodope would always know that her dream lover had had a spectacular send-off. If it turned out that he had left her pregnant, she would think of Theopompus in his halo of green fire every time she was combing her child’s hair.

&n
bsp; LVIII

  Once out of the necropolis, we hit the main road and approached the Rome Gate. It was formed of an entrance and exit, between square towers set in the city walls—the very walls which were built by Cicero as Consul, after the devastating sack of Ostia by pirates. The protective walls were now half buried in habitation. Within a few years of their construction, Pompey had cleared the seas. Freed from fear of attack, people had built houses and workshops behind, abutting, and sometimes right on top of the defenses. A marble plaque told a poignant story. First it commemorated Cicero’s creation of the city walls; five years afterward Clodius, Cicero’s archenemy who was a kind of urban pirate himself, had erased the Consul’s name and covered it with his own, in blood-red lettering. Cicero, approaching political decline, had bitterly complained.

  The old orator would have had caustic things to say about the modern interlopers we held in custody. The vigiles caused quite a stir as they hit the main road and held up the traffic in both directions so their parade of downcast prisoners could be marched in through the gate. As our battered human trophies emerged on the Ostia side, a familiar white-haired figure hove into view. He was the navy man, Caninus. The vigiles neither looked at him nor paused. But I did both. I glared him in the eye and planted myself right in front of him.

  “If you’re going to the funeral, it’s over.”

  “I was unaware of it until too late. I should have been there on surveillance.”

  “Well, the vigiles have wrapped up the kidnapping problem—and solved the Theopompus murder.” He gave me a bland smile. I remained unmoved. “You were a damned failure yesterday, Caninus!”

  “Clearly no harm came to you, Falco—”

  “No thanks to you! I didn’t expect you to row a trireme by yourself, but a word to the harbormaster, and a search party, would have helped. I’m amazed that when a citizen is being carried off by force, the navy just give him a cheery farewell.”

  “Sorry. I thought you were just waving a greeting—”

  “Caninus, you let the Illyrians take me. You never expected to see me alive today.”

  “Oh, be reasonable, man. A trireme in harbor cannot be moved without retensioning the main cables, the hypozomata—” I raised an eyebrow and let him burble nervously. “Run fore and aft; hold the timbers in a lock along the length. We slacken off the hawsers, to rest the frame, when we dock for any period—standard practice. It’s impossible to sail like that; the ship could break her back.” The attaché, who had always talked too much, finally stopped.

  “Caninus, I never expected pursuit by trireme. Tell me—how come a bunch of Illyrians who are working new versions of the old trade, ever felt comfortable with their liburnian moored tight against three naval warships? Do the Cilicians cozy up to you in the same way? Caninus, what exactly is your game?”

  “Excuse me—” He was turning away. “I will be needed to brief Marcus Rubella.”

  I had already briefed Lucius Petronius with my own thoughts on Caninus.

  We walked in silence until we came to the side street that led to the vigiles station house. The prisoners and their escort must all be inside already.

  “Aren’t you coming, Falco?” Caninus asked in some surprise when I made it plain I was heading off down the Decumanus.

  “I’m still looking for my scribe. Besides, I have a sense of family. I have no wish to be present if you are intending to proscribe my Uncle Fulvius.”

  A small tight smile disfigured the navy man’s well-barbered face. He turned down the side street. I continued along the main highway toward our apartment, hoping to find Helena Justina there.

  I never made it. I ran into Passus. He was on Petro’s team, a comparative new boy though he must have been with the Fourth for a couple of years. Headhunted by Petronius, Passus was short in stature, with clipped hair, and big hands and feet like a puppy. That belied his casual competence. I gave him a quick roundup of the day’s events. He told me he had been trusted by Rubella as the sole invigilator on Holconius and Mutatus, and was watching their apartment in the hope of developments.

  “So what’s the word, Passus?”

  We had worked together previously on the murder of an art patron; Passus knew me well enough to open up. “I think I bungled it,” he said.

  “You were on your own,” I sympathized.

  “All the lads were on the necropolis exercise so I had to manage … A child brought a note. I had nobody to send for backup. Either the scribes had spotted me, or someone warned them. So they both came out, but they split up. I tailed the one with the boy—Holconius. But he and the boy just walked around in a bloody big circle, then he went back inside the apartment. The boy ran off. I am depressed, Falco.”

  “You think the scribes have a new ransom demand? Mutatus gave you the slip, and went alone to a meet?”

  Passus nodded and swore bleakly. Then he took himself off to report to Rubella. I gave up my plan to find Helena, and went to see Holconius.

  Of course at first he denied everything. But sitting alone in the apartment had sapped his courage. He admitted the new ransom demand. Rubella had firmly warned the scribes to do nothing—but again they ignored advice in case it rebounded on the so-called captive Diocles.

  They still had money. Mutatus had gone to fetch the cash. The new ransom note said only one man was to handle this exchange. Mutatus would be contacted.

  “So you see, Falco,” Holconius declared self-righteously, “I cannot tell you anything about how the money will be handed over—because I don’t know!”

  I ordered him to go to the vigiles station house and confess to Rubella. I made Holconius tell me which temple was their bank. Then I set off there.

  LIX

  I stood on the steps of the Temple of Rome and Augustus, thinking.

  This temple must have been one of the earliest symbols of imperial power. Built by Tiberius in honor of his stepfather and of our lucky city, it was entirely composed of marble. Six fluted columns adorned the front area, which had a platform whence political speakers could bore the luckless crowds on festive days. A couple of extra columns turned around each side to entrances where stone stairs led to the interior. To call the edifice triumphalist would be an understatement. Not only did Victory fly her stuff on tiptoe from forty feet up on the top pinnacle of the fancy frieze, but indoors the cult statue was Roma Victrix—a large lass dressed up in an Amazon costume. She had a figure like Helena—though Helena would kick me for saying so. Let’s say, Roma Victrix was in good shape, but as the incarnation of the Golden City she headed up a great new trading empire which imported tidbits from every part of the world—and quite clearly she enjoyed her food.

  Roma was shown as an Amazon, with one extremely round, awkwardly prominent breast, revealed naked among her curiously full draperies. Amazons are usually famous for wearing nothing but a short skirt and a snarl. Roma mainly dressed sensibly. Her other breast was properly covered up, and seemed less well developed. It may have been amputated, as is supposed to happen in the best Amazonian circles, for purposes of avoiding her bowstring. She had one sturdy foot steadying a little globe and looked as if she were about to kick off at the start of a ball game.

  I had had plenty of time for these musings. I had been inside, but now I was outside again. Indoors, I had glimpsed a priest of the cult, a snooty flamen who thought I was about to steal the ritual vessels and donated treasure. Once I was spotted by this haughty factotum, the temple-keeper—an ex-town slave who did all the work around there—was sent to ask if he could assist me. That meant assisting me back outside onto the front podium.

  Now I stood there, pretending I was a little boy who wanted to be an orator. I surveyed the Forum. It was a long rectangular area, with the tall Capitolium at the far end, the statutory Temple of the Capitoline Triad. That was where Rubella and Petro had been trapped the other day, when they watched the builders’ guild stamp around in their marching display. I could see a shrine, which I knew was dedicated to the city Lares
. Midway across the Forum ran the Decumanus Maximus. To my left, I had the Basilica and Curia. To my right and behind me were baths, public latrines, and shops. Ahead, on the far right-hand corner though more or less out of my vision, stood the house of Privatus where Petronius lodged.

  Things here were not progressing. If Mutatus was on the premises, he must be downstairs in the strongrooms beneath the temple podium. The keeper had refused to let me down there. Saying I wanted to talk to a visitor who was making a withdrawal had failed to impress him. The keeper was doing his job, protecting money on deposit. He might already know that Mutatus and Holconius had had some of their cash stolen—for all he knew, by thieves who had followed them after they came here and made a withdrawal.

  The temple-keeper had courteously promised he would let me know when Mutatus came up from the strongrooms. To his credit, he did give me the nod—though he waited until the scribe had left.

  I knew Mutatus had not passed through the Forum. I would have seen him. The piazza was packed with people, the late afternoon surge of pedestrians going to the baths and workmen walking home, but I was on a vantage point and I had the whole Forum area in plain sight. Mutatus must have gone out at the back, and on the Basilica side; from my position, which was on a corner, I had been watching the other exit.

  I walked down the steps and went to the rear of the temple. At a street-corner caupona no one could tell me anything. I crossed the back of the temple. Here began the main road to the Porta Laurentina. This was a seriously important part of town, and although light industry—cornmills and laundries—lurked among the private houses, the neighborhood lacked the proliferating bars and brothels that clustered around the Marine Gate and the riverfront. It was not the kind of area “the Illyrian” had favored for meetings. This convinced me that someone else had muscled in. The ransom demand for my scribe was a new scam.