Lindsey Davis - The Spook Who Spoke Again

The next time we were waiting for something to happen, I asked whether, being a magistrate, Faustus could help me investigate. He replied rather regretfully that his remit didn’t really cover that, because apart from organising public festivals it was more about patrolling markets and bath houses. Rome has a lot of those. Some are disreputable. And brothels, I suggested, since I had heard my two younger sisters giggling over it when they were discussing our Albia’s new friend.

‘Unfortunately, yes; brothels,’ agreed Faustus in a solemn tone. Clearly he was a man of duty. I knew these were rare so I was pleased to have met one.

The next thing that happened was that a new group of people arrived. Thalia loudly greeted them. They were actors. Their leader was called Davos. Thalia had only announced the names of the other performers when it was their turn, but she brought Davos right over and introduced him. His troupe was here to show Faustus their acting in the hope he would accept them for a play at the Roman Games.

‘I’ve known this fellow for years,’ Thalia said in a glowing voice. ‘You will find him the best — and I’m not just saying that because he happens to be my husband!’

That made me jump. Davos was a solid man with straight grey hair. If he and Thalia were married, surely that made him my father? Another? This was rather complicated. I took a good look at him, finding him preferable to the animal-seller, Soterichus. But when he noticed me staring he gave me a strange look, not friendly.

In other respects, Davos seemed at ease. He tossed the golden crown at someone standing on the track, then sat himself down right alongside Faustus. He began explaining their play, a comedy which he said he had just dug out of their chest of scrolls in honour of my father, Falco that is, who once wrote it. He writes things but we try to avoid having them read out to us because we think they are terrible.

Faustus said that he was a new friend of Falco’s daughter, Flavia Albia, so he (Faustus) hoped he (Falco) would be pleased if his play was accepted for performance. ‘I’m being judged — Don’t get me into trouble here!’

‘He’s a mad bugger,’ answered Davos, as if this was a compliment. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be thrilled we haven’t dumped his piece of nonsense on a midden-heap.’ That sounded as if disposing of the play might have been a possibility.

‘Make your pitch then.’ I noticed Faustus gave such orders in an easy way; he was comfortable with his importance and people seemed to take it well. I would like to be like that. He listened patiently while Davos confessed that the scrolls had become rather jumbled up since the last performance; in fact, he said with a chortle, to be honest The Spook Who Spoke (which was the play’s strange title) had always seemed jumbled even in performance. Mind you, that was in the Palmyra desert, which explained a lot. The night had ended in a riot, though he assured Faustus that had nothing to do with Falco’s play’s noble lines or vibrant theatricality. If Faustus liked the sound of it, the actors could unscramble the scrolls in a twinkle. Something could be made of it.

I wondered if we would see a riot here in Rome?

Davos began describing the play. He had a deep, powerful voice that was lovely to listen to, even though his conversation was crude. ‘You get the usual comedy banalities. Innocent, slightly dim adolescent is passionately in love with a gorgeous girl in a brothel — ’ I glanced at Faustus who smiled at me. ‘I can’t remember offhand whether loverboy’s dad is a soft touch or a scheming miser, but he’s lost at sea, until he turns up alive and well. The mother’s a harridan in a fright wig. Always gets laughs. A ghost pops up to put the mockers on everything, everyone pairs off and we have a sing-song with a folk dance to send the audience home in good spirits.’

‘Any extras?’ asked Faustus. He seemed to know what to ask. I wondered how you learn to be an aedile. Perhaps there was an instruction book.

‘As many as you can take. A young woman — well, she’s got five children and isn’t as young as she looks — plays the water organ. That usually follows on its own, because getting the organ on stage is a palaver. If Thalia’s still got her donkey who does tricks, we’ll write him in for extra light relief.’

‘The crowd generally likes “business”?’

‘Absolutely — if Ned’s dead, the lads can mess about with a rope. We once tried to use Jason as the rope — you know, he starts stiff, the rope wrestlers don’t notice what they’ve picked up, suddenly they get a big surprise that it’s a live snake, so they run off screaming while the audience hysterically wets itself — sadly, the scaly bugger was too unpredictable on stage.’

‘Hmm,’ commented Faustus, who now knew from me that Jason was a murderer of ferrets. ‘Is this python dangerous? I have a remit to deal with marauding wild animals.’

‘Oh Thalia has him under control. She loves the thing. Owned him for years without incident.’ Davos continued talking about the acts, in ignorance that the question was asked for my investigation. ‘Originally old Falco wrote in a pair of stand-up clowns who commentated — ’

‘Clever cook and boasting soldier?’ asked Faustus, raising an eyebrow. He looked tired.

‘Got it in two! You may be glad to hear we have Congrio, who is all the rage. Very big star. I’m lucky to employ him. You must have heard of Congrio.’

‘A barber, a fisherman and an intellectual went into a bar …?’ suggested Faustus.

Davos winced. ‘Hilarious, trust me. It’s the way he tells them.’

‘Hmm,’ said Faustus again, making a short note on his tablet.

‘Would you like to hear him do his set about the man from Kyme?’

‘Too Greek. Make it a place that people in Rome may have heard of, Davos.’

Davos waved up the comedian who was a thin ugly person with bandy legs, very sure of himself. After a huddled discussion, Congrio announced grumpily, ‘Ditch Kyme then. For you, legate, it shall be the man from Ostia.’

‘Thanks,’ answered Faustus instantly. ‘I come from there.’

‘Shit!’ muttered Davos. ‘Quick! Think up another town, Congrio, for god’s sake! Any damned town, so long as it’s not famous for libel lawyers …’

‘Ostia is fine,’ Faustus soothed him. ‘I was having you on. I grew up at Fidenae.’

‘Too many comedians here!’ Davos commented, pretending to be hard done by. I could see that insulting a magistrate didn’t really bother him. This was like Falco, so if Davos was my real father, I would know what to expect.

Davos saw me looking at him again, so gave me another suspicious frown. Faustus saw that. ‘Davos, this is Marcus Didius Falco’s adopted son.’

Davos groaned. ‘Oh, you’re Thalia’s unexpected little bundle, are you!’

He didn’t seem pleased. I told him in a stiff voice, ‘I am Marcus Didius Alexander Postumus.’

‘Very nice!’ Davos didn’t sound as if he believed that. He wasn’t interested in me either, and went off to organise a rehearsal of The Spook Who Spoke for the aedile.

I took the chance to ask Faustus an important question. If Davos and Thalia were married, did that mean Davos was my father? Faustus replied, not necessarily. Then he assumed a kindly expression, adding that Flavia Albia was bound to say, he was almost certainly not. My sister Albia is famous for her wise experience of life.

‘You mean, Albia will ask, was any handsome wine-seller passing by, ten months before my birth?’

‘That would be like her.’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t here.’

‘And that,’ said Faustus, ‘sounds like the punchline of a joke about the man from Kyme.’