Lindsey Davis - Scandal Takes a Holiday

At the uproar of the vigiles arrival, the bull had begun to vocalise again; I found the noise unbearable.

'The Fourth will have to catch Caninus then.'

'You know us, Falco!' I could relax. The experts were taking over. Shaken in body and sick at heart, I staggered outside.

The evening was beautiful. The selfish gods must be unmoved by our tragedy. I threw up on the steps of the Temple of Attis, to the horror of a priest.

Uncle Fulvius calmed down the bull in due course. Well, he was born on a farm.

Once it was clear I was no longer needed, I left them all without a word and went home to my wife and family.

Next morning, Helena kept the children quiet so I slept in long after everybody else had breakfasted. When she woke me, I was not pretty. A rough attempt last night to wash off the salt, blood, sweat and dirt had failed to produce much improvement. I was rested, but felt shaken and deeply depressed.

Helena knew all that had happened. I had unburdened myself to her before I fell asleep. Now she fed me, then told me a messenger had called that morning. Damagoras, still imprisoned by Rubella, was asking to see me. Helena reckoned she knew what he wanted.

'While you go out to play at dares with the boys, Marcus, I just sit alone at home, surrounded by old note-tablets.' I had been thinking about the tablets, actually. 'I suspect Damagoras wants his ancient diaries back. Remember you told me that Cratidas and Lygon made some joke about discussing literature?'

If she said so, she must be right. Too much had happened recently for me to remember.

'Maybe Damagoras had asked Cratidas and Lygon to retrieve his notes; when that dreadful slave, Titus, came here and saw Albia, he said that somebody had been asking about the tablets.'

'Albia said Titus was frightened.'

'Yes, Marcus; he would be scared stiff, if he had been threatened by Cratidas or Lygon.'

It all seemed long ago. But I still wanted to find Diocles; in fact, with Mutatus' death so much on my mind, I wanted it more than ever. Mutatus had paid a terrible penalty for his lost colleague. I owed it to both not to give up now.

'Go and see Damagoras.'

'I could take the shipping logs back to him.'

'No!' Helena instructed in her crisp way. 'You just find out if Damagoras is willing to exchange information for them.' She looked at me, with her head on one side.

'You're very quiet. Don't give in to him.'

'No chance,' I assured her gently. 'Believe me, fruit, anyone who gets in my way today will find me very tough.'

Helena produced clean clothes and my oil flask, accepting my filthy condition with no other comment. My daughters, playing down in the courtyard, were less diplomatic; they ran up to greet me, took in my disgusting state, then ran away squealing. Albia turned up her nose too. Nux came with me happily. Nux liked having a master who growled around the house and stank.

I went out to the set of baths by the vigiles station house. That was deliberate. The baths were handsome and comfortable, built by the old Emperor Claudius when he first brought the vigiles to guard his new corn warehouses.

After I cleaned up and slid into a new tunic, I left the dog sleeping blissfully on the filthy old one. She was loyal, but I saw no reason to subject her to the kind of scenes I knew I would find at the station house.

While his men continued to search through Ostia and Portus for Caninus, Marcus Rubella would be interviewing prisoners. I knew his methods. Since he got results, nobody ever argued. But for him, interviews' were never an intellectual exercise.

On leaving the baths, I crossed the street and entered the dark gatehouse. To me in my current dismal mood, these crumbling barracks reeked of misery. I could hear no Cilicians or Illyrians screaming, but the subdued manner of the vigiles in the exercise yard told its own story. Marcus Rubella was a master of pain management. The excruciating mixture of torture and delay.

I met Fusculus. He told me the prisoners were still reluctant to speak, but Rubella was slowly putting together a case. The vigiles had tracked down Arion, the man who was wounded with the oar during the ferry heist; with my evidence that I saw Cotys take him aboard the liburnian, this was enough to tie Cotys and the Illyrians to stealing the ransom chest. Rhodope's testimony damned them for abducting her. Against Cratidas, Lygon and the Cilicians, evidence was more circumstantial.

'Oh gods, Fusculus, don't say the Cilicians will get away with their part!'

'No, Petronius is on that aspect. He's out trying to find that boy, Zeno.' I pulled up.

'Last seen at the Temple of Attis. My uncle had some priest looking after him.'

'No sign of your uncle,' said Fusculus, looking at me carefully.

I scowled. 'Uncle Fulvius is famous for one thing, running away.'

'Well, you know Brunnus came yesterday with information from the fleet headquarters. According to him, they don't want their agent exposed.'

I told Fusculus that in my experience Uncle Fulvius was a grumpy, unhelpful bastard anyway, then I went to see that other reprobate, the Cilician chief.

'You are my only hope, Falco! That tribune says I have to give up all my little luxuries.'

I leaned on the doorframe at Damagoras' cell. So far he had managed to hang on to cushions, rugs, bronze side tables, a portable shrine, and a well padded mattress.

'There are worse jails, Damagoras. If you want to see a hell hole, try the underground tomb at the Mamertine in Rome.' The old pirate shuddered.

'Nobody gets out of there.' My voice was cold.

'I did!' He gazed at me. 'You're full of surprises, Falco.'

'Sometimes I surprise myself. At this moment, knowing that you run organised kidnap rackets, I am surprised to find myself talking to you… You had nothing to say when I approached you for aid before. Why do you want to see me, old man?'

I noticed now that Damagoras was thinner and older-looking than when he dealt with me so arrogantly at his villa. Time was running out for him. This cell in the decrepit barracks was no place for his ancient bones, already aching after a long, active life at sea.

'You still want to find Diocles, Falco?' he asked.

'In return, I am to offer you…?'

'My old ship's logs. You have them, don't you?'

'Evidence.' That was stretching it. Only Damagoras himself was implicated in those old sea fights, and only if he admitted that the logs were his. Reference to the Cilicians' violent past was mere colour. But the way Rubella worked, a sympathetic magistrate would be asked to review evidence like this, circumstantial but yet shocking, then his condemnation would send the kidnappers straight to crucifixion or to the arena beasts. Nobody would see a trial. The sailors were men of humble background, unlikely to possess proof of citizenship, and what's more, they were foreigners.

Enough said. I came further into the cell.

'All right, what have you got for me?'

'You'll give me the logs?' Damagoras demanded eagerly.

'If I find the scribe, I will give you the logs.' He was eighty-six. His own activities must be limited and any of his cronies who remained free after Rubella's purge would be kicked out of Italy, so he would lack subordinates. Things were different now, in any case. Damagoras was on a watch list. He leaned forwards from a battered chair.

'The scribe and I were closer than I may have said.' I nodded.

'Diocles knew a lot about me.'

'He stayed at your house.'

'You knew? He was with me for a couple of weeks. When he disappeared, I had my boys find out what had happened.'

'He is dead, isn't he?'

'I reckon so, Falco. That was why I stopped looking.' I crouched down in front of Damagoras, elbows on my knees.