Lindsey Davis - Scandal Takes a Holiday

'Don't be unreasonable, Petro. You have lists of prostitutes, actors, mathematicians, religious maniacs, astrologers,… and informers.'We all chorused the last one, an old joke. Not so funny if you thought your name was in the files. As mine was, undoubtedly.

'So, Falco, are you looking for an evangelical astrologer who hires out his body and appears in tragedies?'

'I don't know what I'm looking for, and that's the shitty truth.'

'Should be easy to spot.'

'Never mind,' Helena soothed us gently, as she placed lunch bowls before us. 'Junia is planning to ask super Gaius Baebius to help you, so everything will be all right.' For an instant Petronius stared at her, almost taken in.

'Donkey's arse! I can't wait to get rid of them.' Petronius might be living and sleeping with my youngest sister, but he thought the same about the rest as I did. Mind you, I always thought something funny had happened between him and Victorina. But when she was alive, you could say that about Victorina and pretty well anybody masculine in Rome. Had she been a person of note, my rowdy eldest sister could have kept Infamia in dirty stories for months at a time. So had some siren lured the scribe to a seashore love nest and kept him trapped in sexual bondage? That should be fun to investigate. Later, Helena told me that from her research so far into the Gazette, several females of quite illustrious lineage were current favourites for mention.

'Empty-headed socialites seem to enjoy the attention. Silly girls made pregnant by outrageous boyfriends almost court discovery.'

'What's new, sweetheart? But these lasses are in Rome, not Ostia.'

'The big story ought to be how Titus Caesar is living openly at the Palace with Queen Berenice. That will never be mentioned.'

'For one thing, they are in love,' I said. Helena laughed at my romantic streak. 'Well, Berenice is so gorgeous he can hardly hide her. Every male at the Circus Maximus thinks that Titus is a lucky dog… and Titus has no objection to them knowing all about his luck.'

'The Emperor disapproves,' replied Helena with some sadness. 'Vespasian is bound to persuade Titus to end it one day. That won't be mentioned either, except as a note under diplomatic events, when the poor woman is sent home. The Queen of Judaea has concluded her state visit and returned to the East.' How much genuine heartache will that leave unsaid? The Queen of Judaea is far too exotic to be received in stuffy patrician homes. Her oriental origins make her unacceptable as a consort to the heir to the Principate. The mean-spirited snobs with 'traditional' values have won; lovely Berenice is to be torn from her lover's arms and dumped.''

'Meanwhile,' I agreed, there will be awful legates' awful daughters holding orgies with the charioteers at the Consualia Games, and senators-elect going up the skirts of the priestesses at the Temple of Virgin Diana like geckos under rocks.'

'While for light relief Infamia will say that the rumour is false that pirates are operating again off the Tyrrhenian coast.' I laughed.

'No, that was real,' Helena said. Then she laughed too. The one thing every Roman schoolchild knows is that the seas were all cleared of pirates a hundred years ago by Pompey the Great. My old teacher, Apollonius, used to add thoughtfully that fewer people remember how Pompey's own son, Sextus Pompeius, a contender for the highest seat of power, then lured some of the same pirates from peaceful retirement and joined with them to cause upheaval, during his quarrels with Augustus. One place the noble Sextus and his colourful cronies had then raided was Ostia. Their stay on land, with its merciless rape and thoroughly well organised pillage, remained a horrific folk memory.

'Don't let's get too excited, love. Not if Infamia says the pirate rumour is false.'

'True.' Helena dug me in the ribs teasingly. 'But there are all kinds of shorthand ways to make insinuations in the scandal reports.' Now we were back to flute-playing. And it was giving me ideas.

Beset by family, I needed escape. We informers are tough men. Our work is grim. When not treading a solitary path, we like to be surrounded by other grim, tough men who feel that life is filthy, but that they have mastered it. I sought fellow professionals.

I went to visit the vigiles. A weary group was hauling back a siphon engine after a fire last night. Begrimed and still coughing from the smoke, they trundled in listlessly through the tall gate of the squadron house. A couple dragged charred esparto mats. These seem crude, but used in quantity they can suffocate a small blaze, long before water can be fetched.

One squat soul with meeting eyebrows, who must have been on punishment duty, was laden with everyone's axes and crowbars, and had all their ropes slung around him in diagonal coils; the others were joshing him as he dropped his load just inside the entrance and collapsed. They clanged down their empty fire buckets, and straggled off to wash. Ex-slaves to a man, they were used to exhaustion, dirt and danger. Each knew that if he survived for six years, he would receive a diploma of citizenship. Quite a few did not survive. Of those who did, some madmen would even choose to stay on afterwards. Self-preservation took second place to the free meals and camaraderie. And maybe they liked roughing up the populace while on the crime roster. I followed them inside. Nobody challenged me. Somewhere there should be an officer of the day, like Petro, an ex-legionary who wanted a secure job with a few thrills and plenty to moan about. He was invisible. I could hear the troopers exchanging insults as they cleaned up indoors, but the parade ground was deserted. It added to the impression that detached duty out at Ostia was the free-and-easy option.

I walked around the porticoes in the heavy shade cast by the barrack-like buildings. In one of the rooms a handful of prisoners, burglars captured during the night watch, were being processed by a wizened clerk. He kept them subdued by his competent personality.

When I coughed, he looked up from his charge sheet; he knew me and when I enquired about applicants, he suggested I might find Rusticus three rooms down.

'Who's he?'

'Recruiting officer. Your lucky day. He comes once in two weeks, Falco.' I had not reminded the clerk of my name. 'Rusticus will find time for you. He's never busy.' Rusticus had taken over a cold office, outside which he had hung a slate with a picture of a stick-man and an arrow to say: Enter here. Fresh from Rome, he kept up appearances. He was awake. There was no visible evidence of him eating his lunch or playing board games. He had unpacked a scroll for oaths of allegiance even though he had no one queuing. He would need an officer to witness any enlistment; I guessed he had one on call. Whimsically, he pretended to think I was an applicant. He gave me the open-faced grin of welcome, though I noticed he did not bother to pick up his stylus. He knew perfectly well I had some other errand. At thirty-six, I was too old, for one thing. I had a well-exercised body that had seen too much action for me to volunteer for more. My laundered oatmeal tunic with bilberry braid was a custom fit, my dark curls had been tamed by a half-decent barber, and I had treated myself to a professional bath-house manicure. Even if he failed to notice my firm gaze and tricky attitude, once I stuck my thumbs in my belt he should have seen that it was a damn good belt. Visible on my left hand was a gold equestrian ring. I was a free citizen, and I had been promoted by the Emperor to the middle rank.

'The name's Falco. Friend of Petronius Longus.' Petro was in the Fourth Cohort. Rusticus must be from another, though not necessarily the Sixth who were currently on duty here.

He conceded, 'Yes, Petronius Longus has supervised enrolments with me.'