Who scared him?"
He knew no names."
I had a quick look at the tablets," said Helena. I imagined her speed-reading before she rushed back to the Aquarius for lunch. Two different authors, I would say. Some look like old diaries, don't get excited; it's not love affairs of the famous. They are ship's logs, or similar."
Boring! I can do without a load of notes saying wind nor" by nor nor" west, sea choppy; had beans for supper, farted hilariously." Helena had been teaching Albia to read on quiet evenings. Albia must have scanned the tablets too and now piped up, Marcus Didius, it is more like Termessos. sold Jive from the Constantia; good price for the wine… Off Samos, met the Iris. Brisk but a result."
Who wrote these logs?"
It does not say. There are a lot of meetings." Albia was a bright girl. She knew we had been talking about pirates. Most are brisk" and end with a list of good prices."
Sold five what?" I met Helena's eyes. Like me, she suspected the worst.
The lists of sales are endless," Albia told me unhappily. Are they people, these numbers? These fives and tens and threes and even twenties? Are they people, being sold into slavery?"
The tablets are old and battered," Helena tried to reassure her. I think we'll find these events happened many years ago." Realistically, Albia knew that not all stricken people could be saved from their misfortunes as she had been. Eventually she said in a low voice, Wrapped in one of the clean tunics was a sword, Marcus Didius/
Did Titus say anything about it?" Albia saw Titus as one of life's lowest characters. No, he shrugged it off as unimportant, but he is keen to get rid of it to you now." I told her she had better show me, so we went indoors. The sword was a plain, short-bladed model in an ill-fitting, twisted leather scabbard. No soldier or ex-soldier would have given it a second glance, but an imperial palace freedman, brought up among bureaucrats, would not have known it had poor balance and blunt edges. There was rust on the blade, which had never been oiled and looked after, and a great deal more rust where the handle was attached with a crude weld. One sharp blow and I reckoned the ensemble would fall to pieces. I doubted if Diocles had ever used this weapon; he must have had it for reassurance only. So when he went out the last time, Diocles had left the weapon in his room, because he thought he was going somewhere safe, either alone or among people who meant no harm to him. More importantly, he had believed that he would be coming back.
XXXVI
I left Helena with the new note-tablets. The children were contented, so she was ready to read and interpret this written work. There were enough tablets to cover a side table. Most looked ancient, their wooden boards bleached and dried up; these were filled with uneven scribbles of the kind Albia had described earlier. A few newer tablets matched those we had found before in Diocles" room. Perhaps they would give a lead as to what had happened to him. Helena assured me this task needed one person to review everything, that was, her. I went out instead to investigate the two bars where Banno had told me he went to negotiate his kidnapped wife's release. I found the bars fairly easily. One charmless nook was called the Clam, its neighbour was the Venus. Blurred pictograms advertised them. They were one-room holes of the type that occur in rows fringing every seafront or riverfront. smoky innards where food and drink were prepared, with crude tables outside squashing up against the next establishment in an unending line. The waiters, when customers could find one to take an interest, seemed interchangeable. These places prided themselves in serving excellent fish meals, which meant they overcharged mightily for a weak bowl of soup with shell in it, a very small piece of yesterday's bread, plus red wine so acidic that if it was painted on your corns your whole toes would drop off. I approached the bower of the love goddess first, on principle. Given its name I was not surprised to find a pale waitress with a weary expression, whose duties must include going up the back stairs with customers who wanted extra services.
Something to eat, sir?" No thanks. I was grown up now. I knew what would happen if I ate in a dump like this. I could not spare the time to be that ill. I'm looking for the Illyrian."
Not here. Get lost."
Has he ever been here?"
If you say so. Everyone seems to think he has."
Who's everyone?"
A stupid stiff from the vigiles." Brunnus. Did you hear me?, Push off!" Brunnus had messed up the scene just as well as he could for me. Then when I emerged from the Venus, cursing, what should I hear but his voice? I ducked and hid. I realised what was going on. it must be the Ides of August today. The Fourth Cohort had just arrived to take post in Ostia, and their vexillation was being shown around by the departing Sixth, led by Brunnus, on the traditional familiarisation walk. That is, identifying the enormous corn warehouses they were supposed to guard, as a prelude to trying out the local bars. The Fourth had been in Ostia before. They must remember the place from two or three years ago, though to be fair, since the vigiles had a six-year turnover among their ranks, a proportion of the present detachment might be new. The warehouses had not moved position. But some of the bars might have changed hands or altered their wine suppliers, so old haunts might no longer feel the same. Men of action would need to reconnoitre urgently. Before they could spot me, I dived into the Clam. Few customers ever bothered to venture indoors from the tables outside. There might be a latrine out at the back, but most men walked over and peed in the river; I could see one customer doing exactly that. First, the chef and waiters thought I must be in here to complain. Once I reassured them, I was treated as a novelty. Forewarned at the Venus, here next door I straight away moaned about Brunnus. It worked. Soon I was told that the Illyrian sometimes dropped in for business purposes. Of course they claimed to have no idea what business he was furthering. Many trades need to operate through their proprietors meeting people in bars, or so many proprietors would have you believe. Publishing. Racehorse owning. Pimping. Fencing stolen goods… The Illyrian knew the ropes. He gave the waiters a tip in advance, so they would point him out to anyone who asked for him. He left another tip on the bill when he left. While that meant he could be sure of a welcome if he came here again, the lavish behaviour also meant the staff very clearly remembered him.
It sounds as if he knows how to behave… But I am told he's rather sinister?" My informant, a spotty young male in a filthy tunic, laughed. He never scares me!"
You mean he's not as fierce as he makes out?"
No, I mean he wears eye paint and silly slippers." In a lifetime of unexpected answers, that came as a genuine surprise. The Illyrian?" The waiter thought my remark hilarious. He's as fierce as a wet sponge. He's just a scrawny old queen." A couple of vigiles looked in at the door. I took that as my cue to leave. I had no wish to hang around while members of the Fourth Cohort jumped all over the place like fleas on a scruffy dog. But the night was young, and I needed to think. I started to walk. A short stroll took me away from the river and into the Forum on its western side. As an attempt to avoid the vigiles, that was a disaster. more of the Fourth were lined up in rows at the foot of the Capitol. I could see Rubella with them, so although they looked sick that they were missing the wine-shop inspection, they were on their best behaviour. In general, most never saw the cohort tribune. They stared at him curiously. Petronius was seconding Rubella, chewing his thumb and looking bored. I also recognised Fusculus, Petro's deputy in Rome. Fusculus, an increasingly rotund, happy fellow, appeared to be the duty officer in charge tonight. He had formed up a small group in a half-hearted honour guard. The vigiles do not wear uniforms or carry armour so they cannot parade with their gear highly polished, and insofar as they drill, it consists of life-saving tips and equipment practice. They are reluctant to march. A vigiles salute is likely to be derisive. Neat lines don't put out fires. If someone in the crowd here had screamed for help, the Fourth would have shown themselves to be good men. But ceremonial was not their strength. So a shambolic group, of all heights and body weights, were shifting about in their motley homespun tunics, while Fusculus gave benign instructions when he felt like it. Relaxed by nature, Fusculus enjoyed catching villains; that was so he could pick their brains for a treatise on the underworld. He was an expert on criminal cant; this hobby had taken him far beyond the norms of laundry-snitching and the confidence trickster's happy finesse of a plump mark, into farricking, boogle-squiddling and the long toddle [which he told me once was a shorter version of marathon-running, which in Aventine street slang means fleeing justice. However, Fusculus defiantly had no interest in tonight's long-winded civic bollocking, where his men had to stand arse-aching beside a diplomatic podium. Diplomacy? The Rome vigiles do not bother with such etiquette. A cluster of locals was clearly unimpressed with our lot. Penned behind a temporary barrier, these folk were cheering a home-grown team. a large, brutally well organised contingent from the builders' guild wheeled in and began putting on a welcome for the new vigiles. These men were good. They knew it too. Their crack troops were out today, demonstration-marching as if the Emperor was reviewing them. The display was skilled and meticulous. They could march and salute, and salute while marching. They stayed the correct distance from each other as if measured with a swagger stick. Their lines were straight. Their double and triple rows were square. Their right-angled turns were crunched to perfection. They swung and they spun and they halted on the spot as if parade drill was wondrous fun. [To anyone with a real military background, that was blasphemy] The toy soldiers all wore fake army uniforms in gaudy colours, with shorter tunics than normal. Startling epaulettes plumped up the already wide shoulders of their so-called officers. Each man carried a very clean rope and a shiny grappler. I found their gear a hoot, but the stamp of massed site-boots made the ground tremble. It was sinister, and I reckoned it was meant to be. I soon learned from bystanders that members of other guilds were always known as the plebs, but the builders called themselves the booted ranks." They had sixteen troops. Each troop consisted of twenty-two heavy men, headed up by a decurion. The decurions were all hoping to become a president. The guild always had not one, but three quinquennial presidents. They also owned a tame town councillor. Ostensibly appointed by the civic government because of the builders" extreme importance in Ostia', he was a conduit for obtaining contracts. In any other town this would be called graft. Ostia, I was proudly informed, was different. I did not ask how. No town can support a paramilitary group of over three hundred and fifty hard bastards without their influence in civic life becoming dangerous. Gaius Baebius and I had seen the boot-boys being obnoxious on fire duty and this closer look did not fill me with joy. They went in for sleeveless tunics that would show offbulging biceps. They had big, boozers" bodies. I knew what they would be like off duty too, big mouths and bloody politics. The Ostians seemed happy, but this carnival had given me a chill. I stood in the press outside the Curia. The quickest way home was to cross in front of the Capitol, where Rubella and Petro still stood glumly, beneath a canvas awning supported on posts; reluctant to be seen, I waited. Normally I would have hailed Petro. I was not in a mood to fraternise. As the display reached its noisy climax and ended, top men in the guild approached Rubella. He and Petronius obligingly shook hands; their polite response seemed genuine, though I guessed otherwise. To the fore was Privatus, with his dark strands of stuck-down hair shining on top of his bald head. He had grown the back hair too long, so he looked like a vagrant from behind, despite wearing his holiday tunic and toga, all of brilliant white. With him was a man someone told me was the tame councillor; apparently the guild were about to erect a statue in his honour and there was no secret that it was a thank-you for favours. One of Privatus" fellow presidents of the guild was an imperial freedman. Ostia seemed to attract ex-palace functionaries. They could never take a formal position in civic life, but through the guild, where they could rise to the highest title, they might become big names locally. The biggest guest tonight was the Pontifex of Vulcan, the top priest, who came attended by his own little set of functionaries and public slaves. I despised them all. That was not because of their origins. I hated them sliming a way into business deals through their trade camaraderie. The councillor who was now being gracious to Rubella would be praised on his statue plinth for his good works; the good works were nothing less than benefactions to the building contractors, in the form of fiddled contracts. I wondered if Diocles had discovered this. The entertainment was breaking up. Whoever planned it must have intended that members of the Fourth Cohort would at this point mingle with the boot-boys. They reckoned without the Fourth Cohort, who were melting away. The boot-boys took no notice; they had their own associates. The troops who had given the display were being greeted and flattered by others in their guild. As they swanked about, I recognised one of the marchers. he had heavy sideburns and matted curls, plus an unforgettable swagger and sneer. It was the leading deadbeat from the fake vigiles guardhouse, in the street where the scribe's aunt had died. Once I spotted him, I soon picked out the others. It would have been fatal to make myself known. There were too many guild members present, and this was their turf. As the Forum piazza began to empty, I made my way discreetly across to the Decumanus. Spotting a large foodshop, I stopped to order wine. At the sound of my voice, a man standing at the counter next to me turned around, exclaiming to the waiter, He'll buy me another too!" The shameless scrounger was my father, Didius Geminus. He was with a friend, a friend who had no objection to me buying him a drink as well. XXXVII My boy," said Pa, acknowledging our relationship. He managed just-not to sound disparaging. I made no comment. His companion tilted his winecup to me. No introduction was offered, though he looked vaguely familiar and viewed me with a whimsical air as if he were about to slap my back and remember some incident I would rather forget. I must have seen him around the Emporium. I assumed he was one of the group who had come from Rome today. as Justinus had warned me, Posidonius had recruited a few colleagues who had known him for years to help him find his daughter. My father had descended on Ostia among an informal posse of do-gooders. If these righteous old swine were all like Pa, for them it was just a good excuse for a seaside tavern crawl.