Lindsey Davis - Vesuvius by Night

Nonius had seen every variant of the mosaic doggie doormat. He knew all those bristling creatures, black ears pricked, big collars stiff with spikes, eager to have your leg off with their bared teeth, yet harmlessly stuck in tile limbo. He knew from experience that homes guarded by motto mats with silent barks generally did not have a real dog, but relied on nothing worse than a half-asleep porter who spent too much time in the kitchen. If someone banged the big bronze seahorse knocker, the porter would drag himself to the door to insult them and, if possible, refuse them entry. Nonius therefore did not knock. Why invite problems?

Sometimes front doors had locks. Often, in fact. This was a bustling seaboard town, full of sailors, traders, horny-handed fisherfolk, the occasional soldier, runaway slaves, and countryfolk with straw in their hair who had been sent down from the hills to make money any way they could. Windows that overlooked the street had heavy bars too. Nonius had ways around that. He carried a big metal ring full of different latch-lifters. Most locksmiths sold picking tools for people who had lost their keys, and many had encountered Nonius making obviously false claims about ‘his’ house key having gone missing inexplicably. But his favourite method was simply to wait until some oversexed young master popped out for a secret tryst with a prostitute, or a careworn kitchen-maid was sent running for more bread rolls in a hurry; if they left the door slightly ajar to assist their return, he weaselled in.

When he strolled out again, perhaps carrying a filched pillowcase that he tightly wound to stop its contents rattling, he liked to close the front door properly behind him. He had a mischievous streak.

These days, however, Nonius maintained that his burgling career was over. He was moving up.

The crunch had come while he was first badgering his landlord to agree their rooming arrangement. The painter refused to share his doss with a sneak-thief. This unreasonable attitude ought to have been the first sign he was no airy-fairy soul with stars in his brain, but so hard-headed he was positively ethical. He could be stubborn too. When he would not budge, Nonius firmed up an idea he had for branching out. Pompeii was a town full to its battered old defensive walls with businessmen who thought they knew all about commerce. Nonius planned to convince them that they needed his financial know-how to help make even more money. He was going to help rich people get richer quicker. At least, that would be the claim. Certainly a hunk of what they already possessed would be withdrawn from an armoured bankbox to find its way to Nonius in advance of whatever ‘rock solid’ investment he proposed. When the mad scheme failed to materialise, he would be long gone.

Nonius had explained his sparkly new career to the painter, calling himself a financial adviser, which he insisted was so much more worthy than being a thief. The painter suspected it was much the same thing, but felt other people must take their chances. They were free to exercise choice. So was he, and since hiring out his bed would help pay his rent, he chose to take Nonius at face value.

When Nonius moved in, his meagre luggage included an awning pole he had filched from a schoolmaster, which left a class of seven-year-olds sitting out in full sun while they chanted their times tables. This stolen pole could be threaded through the top of a smart tunic and hung up to keep the garment nice. The tunic was a pleasant emerald-coloured number he had picked up from one of the clothes-mangers in a bathhouse changing-room; it had red braid around the neckline, extended down the front in go-faster-to-the-top stripes. In his new business outfit he could pass himself off as acceptable in a better class of bar, where men with cash to invest could be singled out as potential clients, otherwise known as victims.

The routine was one he had always used: Nonius quietly attached himself to their party in a way that made them feel they had known him for years. He wormed his way in with screamingly funny, very raunchy jokes and an offer of drinks all round, while he generously called for more olives and nuts. He stuck with them all evening. Along the way, he sold them the dream. They paid for the wine out of gratitude.

Greed, Nonius knew, overcomes natural intelligence. Men who were perfectly capable of managing estates or industries complained with dreary predictability that the big earthquake had damaged their livelihoods. These were Pompeii’s wine-suppliers, parfumiers and fish pickle brewers; statue importers and bronze vessel manufacturers; not to mention accountants, auctioneers and lawyers who serviced the other businessmen. To Nonius’ mild surprise, the latter class, advisers themselves, were the easiest to bamboozle.

It was true Pompeii had been devastated by that earthquake; the damage was so bad even the Emperor, Nero at the time, had paid for some repairs. Not many; just enough to make him look good – not enough , griped the businessmen routinely. A second earthquake two years later happened when Nero was performing a harp concert for what he viewed as his adoring public; he insisted on continuing to the end of his recital, then the theatre collapsed moments after it was evacuated. That barely dented his local popularity, especially since his gorgeously beautiful, fabulously rich wife Poppaea came from these parts.

Money counted here. Though they were still prosperous in fact, townsmen of substance hankered for the better days they believed they had known before the quakes. Such men were ready to fall for a promise from Nonius of easy returns; even the astute among them – those canny few who, like his landlord, doubted his probity – even they would eventually follow their colleagues like sheep. No one wants to be left out.

Nonius possessed no investment experience. All he knew was how to bluff. He had noticed that most advice on any subject is handed out by people with no practical knowledge, only the ability to sound good. Self-assurance happened to be his chief talent. He had also reached a time of life when he looked as if he had kicked around the world enough to have gained special insights, so his lived-in features and silver-grey sideburns made him very persuasive to men who were on their fourth flagon of mellow Vesuvian wine. They loved to think they caroused with other men of the world. They were blind to the fact that the world of Nonius was a stinking midden.

Perhaps Nonius sensed that time was running out; some day he would lose his luck. Clumsiness already threatened his touch as a thief, and his slippery trickster skills might start to waver too. So he was aiming for a different existence, one with fewer risks of exposure. The Bay of Neapolis was the best place in the world for leading a life of leisure. Nonius planned to make a quick killing, then retire on the proceeds.

The first trial of his business plan had been convincing the potential landlord that his new career was a goer. Fortunately the painter had vaguely considered having a roommate. Daywork tradesmen often bunked down together, for company and to save money; as a worker in the building trade, sharing was nothing new to him so winning him over had merely been good practice as Nonius tried out his spiel.

That was how the new career would operate too: identifying a perceived need in a client, then saying that he, Nonius, was here to satisfy he need. Mutual advantage. Good as my word. Utterly reliable. Grasp this wonderful failsafe opportunity, honoured sir, for it cannot be kept open much longer, I am cutting my own throat as it is. I, Nonius, through my private contacts have secured a risk-free privilege, which is available for a limited period only. Don’t tell your friends or they’ll all want it. I would jump in myself, but I am heavily committed elsewhere at the moment. I like you. There is no need for the tiresome burden of documentation, I trust you, simply give me your deposit and the deal is clinched…