Lindsey Davis - Scandal Takes a Holiday

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 flavour 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 afterwards.

An Illyrian [or Cilician] flew out of the fighting centre 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 travelled with full Roman pomp to whatever barbaric gods he honoured. 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.

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 defences.

A marble plaque told a poignant story. First it commemorated Cicero's creation of the city walls; five years afterwards Clodius, Cicero's arch-enemy 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 harbour master, 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 harbour cannot be moved without re-tensioning 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 attache, 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 cosy 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 towards 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. Head-hunted 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 round-up 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 sympathised.

'All the lads were on the necropolis exercise so I had to manage

… A child brought a note. I had nobody to send for back-up. 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.