Trade Secrets

ELEVEN

I left for Ostia at first light, and got there just after mid-morning, dropping in at Agron’s cart-building yard first to say I was there, arrange to meet him in a wineshop I knew by the docks later on, and cadge a bed for the night if it proved necessary. Not that I hoped it would: Agron and Cass’s first-floor tenement flat is pretty spacious as these things go, but with five hyperactive and very loud kids in the family however they fixed it it wasn’t something I was looking forward to. I left the mare in the stables next door to rest up for what would hopefully be a one-day round trip and set off on foot for the main harbour and dockland area, just outside of town beyond the Tiber Gate.

OK. So first port of call, as it were, the harbour master’s office, to check that Poetelius hadn’t been spinning me a line on the basic whys and wherefores. They’d keep detailed records; certainly, they’d be able to point me in the right direction. I found it, went inside, explained what I wanted and was referred to a sharp-looking freedman at a desk in the far corner.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Just some information, pal,’ I said. ‘First off, about a ship called the Circe that was berthed at Quay Twenty-five A ten days ago.’

He smiled. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, sir. If you’ll just excuse me for a moment, I’ll go and check.’ He went off. I kicked my heels for two or three minutes until he came back with a hinged set of beechwood flimsies. ‘Here you are, sir, the Circe. Thousand-amphora size, mixed cargo, largely domestic ware, pottery and glass, bound for Syracuse. Leaving the same day.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s the one.’ OK; so far so good. At least that checked. ‘I understand there was an accident on the quayside. A crane slipping its load.’

He frowned and consulted the flimsies again. ‘No record of that, I’m afraid.’

‘Would there be?’

‘Of course. We’re very careful about recording accidents, particularly where the loading and unloading of cargo’s involved. The ship’s captain would’ve lodged a claim with the quay-master, and he would’ve submitted a report. He hasn’t, in this instance, so unless it was very minor and no damage or injury was involved no such accident occurred. Certainly a dropped load would’ve merited one.’

‘You’re sure?’ He just looked at me. ‘OK. So maybe it was elsewhere on the quay, connected with a ship at another berth. That possible?’

‘It might be.’ He turned over a leaf of the flimsies. ‘There was one other ship, the Porpoise, at Twenty-five B. Cargo of wine and olive oil, bound for Aleria.’

‘Wine and oil, right? That’d fit. The accident involved some dropped amphoras.’

‘Perhaps so, sir, but there’s no accident report attached.’

‘Nothing else was berthed at that quay?’

‘No. Not on the day in question, at least. You’re sure you have the correct date?’

‘Yeah. Absolutely certain.’ Shit. This didn’t make sense. ‘You mentioned a quay-master. Could I talk to him myself, do you think?’

‘Of course, if you like.’ His tone implied that it’d be a waste of everyone’s time. ‘His name’s Arrius. He’s in charge of quays twenty to twenty-five, so you’ll find him at one of them, no doubt. But really, I don’t think he’ll be able to tell you any more than I have.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and left.

I found him chatting to a couple of stevedores on Quay Twenty-three.

‘Your name Arrius, pal?’ I said. ‘The quay-master?’

‘Right on both counts, sir.’ He nodded to the stevedores, who drifted off. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I was told there was an accident ten days back on Quay Twenty-five.’

He shook his head. ‘Nah. You’ve been misinformed. What kind of accident?’

‘Involving a netful of amphoras dropped from a crane.’

‘Nothing like that, no. Absolutely not.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Certain sure.’ I must’ve looked doubtful, because he said patiently: ‘See here, sir. My lads are responsible for the cargos until they’re safely on board, right? Unless the shipper decides to use his own men, in which case the responsibility’s his. If one of my lot had dropped so much as a wine flask on the quayside, five minutes later the ship’s master or the owner or whoever was supervising the transfer would’ve been round at me screaming blue murder and demanding compensation, and quite rightly so. A whole netful of amphoras, now, well, I’d remember that no bother, wouldn’t I? And it wouldn’t matter who did the loading, the accident report would go in all the same.’

Hell. ‘Fine, pal. Uh … just out of interest, who would’ve been the crane operator that day? You got a name for him?’

‘Let’s see, now.’ He frowned, thinking. ‘Quay Twenty-five, ten days ago, you say? You’re sure that’s right?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Then that’d be the Circe and the Porpoise. No, I tell a lie; the Circe had already been loaded the day before. She was just waiting to sail. The Porpoise, now, she used her own loaders. But the crane operator himself was one of ours, sure enough. More’s the pity.’ He chuckled. ‘Name of Gaius Siddius. I’ll grant you this much, sir, if anyone was likely to mess up on the loading – which, take my word for it, no one did – it’d be that dozy bugger.’

‘Great! You think I could talk to him?’

‘Nah. He doesn’t work here any more.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since the following day, as a matter of fact. He turned up for work pissed as a newt – this at first light, mind! – so I sacked him on the spot. It wasn’t the first time, either, so he couldn’t complain.’

‘You know where he lives?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’

‘It’s not possible that he could’ve covered things up, is it? I mean, if he somehow managed to square it with the captain?’

The quay-master laughed. ‘Look, sir,’ he said. ‘Your average ship’s captain isn’t too forgiving when some dozy bastard of a crane-man writes off part of their cargo. And if Siddius had dropped a load of amphoras on the quayside, the damage would’ve amounted to more than he earned in a month. They’d be filled with wine or oil, right?’

‘One or the other, yeah. So the clerk in the harbour office said, anyway.’

‘There you go, then. And if it was the Porpoise, Siddius’s chances of getting himself off the hook’d be zilch. Captain’s a man by the name of Nigrinus, and he’s the meanest-minded bugger in the trade. Plus if we’re talking spilled oil or wine the quay would be swimming with the stuff. Me, I’m round there three or four times a day, just to check everything’s as it should be, and believe me something like that I’d’ve spotted straight off, even if he’d tried to clean it up. So your answer, sir, is no. There was no accident that day, I’d stake my reputation on it.’

I thanked him, and left.

Shit!

The wineshop where I’d arranged to meet Agron was right by the Tiber Gate. Nothing special from the outside, nor on the inside, either, to tell the truth – with that location it catered almost exclusively for dockhands and the like, and those guys don’t go much for the frills – but it sold a very decent Massic and the owner was a cheese-lover like Agron, so it suited both of us.

I was early, but not early enough to put off ordering. Besides, if I’d waited Agron would’ve insisted on picking up the bill. So I went up to the counter and asked for a jug of Massic and two cups.

‘What’s your best cheese today, pal?’ I said while the landlord was filling the jug.

‘I’ve just got a very nice sheep’s one in, sir,’ he said. ‘Fidenan. Not one of your classy names, but none the worse for that.’

‘Fine. Give us a double portion.’ I thought for a moment. ‘No, make that a triple. And some olives, bread, and sausage. Two lots of those’ll be enough.’ The olives and sausage were mainly for me; Agron would account for most of the cheese, which was fair because he wouldn’t make too much of a dent in the Massic.

The wineshop door opened, but it wasn’t Agron, just a guy with the look of a stevedore. The build and muscles, too. I turned back to the counter, laid some coins down, and picked up the jug and the two cups to take them to one of the side tables.

The big guy moved towards the bar. There was plenty of room to pass, but as we drew level he deliberately lurched sideways. His shoulder caught mine. It was like colliding with a bullock, and I spun round, spilling half the wine.

‘Jupiter, pal, watch where you’re going, right?’ I said to his back.

He stopped and turned. He gave me a long stare. Then he grinned.

‘Is there a problem, friend?’ he said.

Uh-oh. Without taking my eyes off him, I set the wine jug and cups down slowly on the nearest table and straightened.

‘Because if so,’ he went on, ‘then you know what you can fucking do about it.’

He took a step towards me and raised his fist, just as the door opened a second time. I steadied myself.

‘Having trouble, Corvinus?’

I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. Agron was standing there, frowning. He’s a big lad, Agron, and he filled most of the doorway. Then I looked back at chummie. He lowered his fist, and I relaxed.

‘Just a little accident,’ I said. ‘No harm done.’

Agron’s eyes never left the stevedore’s. ‘So long as you’re sure,’ he said evenly. ‘That’s OK.’

Chummie pushed past me, heading for the door. After the barest hesitation, Agron stepped aside to let him through.

Yeah, well, we’d certainly caught the attention of the rest of the punters. You could’ve heard a pin drop as I picked up the cups and half-empty wine jug and went back to the bar.

‘Fill it up again, would you?’ I said to the landlord. He took the jug without a word, filled it, and handed it back.

‘On the house,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘So.’ Agron was standing beside me. ‘What was that all about?’

‘Search me.’ I filled one of the cups and drank. ‘I’d never set eyes on the guy until two minutes ago. Who was he?’ I asked the owner.

‘Name of Nigrinus.’ The landlord set the plate of cheese, sausage, and olives on the counter and added a hunk of bread. ‘Sextus Nigrinus. He and his brother’ve been in here a few times, but I don’t encourage either of them. They’re both bad lots.’

‘Nigrinus?’ I said sharply. ‘Connected with the Porpoise?’

‘Yeah. The brother is, anyway. Titus. He’s the captain. You know him?’

‘No, we’ve never met. I’ve just heard the name.’

‘Sextus is no sailor. The two of them used to work the Porpoise together, but he throws up in a flat calm. Now he takes what jobs he can at the docks. I’m sorry about that, sir. We don’t have trouble like that in here, usually.’

‘Forget it, pal,’ I said. ‘Not your fault.’ I picked up the jug and my own wine-cup and carried them to the table I’d originally been heading for. Agron followed with the rest of the stuff.

‘OK, Marcus,’ he said when we’d got settled. ‘So what is going on?’

‘Just a case,’ I said. ‘It’s complicated.’ Jupiter! If there was no accident with the amphoras – and the quay-master had been pretty certain that there hadn’t been – then how did the Porpoise fit into this? Not to mention why and how I’d been so conveniently and rapidly targeted. Because that was what had just happened. It couldn’t be a coincidence; no way could it be a coincidence. ‘And it’s getting more complicated by the minute. Don’t ask. Just don’t.’

‘Fine.’ Agron filled his cup and took a bit of the cheese. ‘Even so, if you need any help-’

‘Actually, pal, there is something you can do, if you will.’ I took a swallow of wine. ‘I need to talk to a guy named Siddius. Gaius Siddius. Up to nine days ago, he worked as a dockside crane-man, but he was sacked for being drunk and the quay-master didn’t have an address. You think you can trace him for me?’

Agron shrugged. ‘I can try, sure. That’s all you have to go on?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Then it won’t be easy. But I can put the word out. If he lives locally – which he probably does if he’s a dockhand – one of my dockyard mates might know him. There again, if he’s a crane-man, not just your usual unskilled labourer, and he’s taken another job, the possibilities are limited.’

‘He’s not particularly skilled. Not from what the quay-master told me.’

‘In that case, he could be anywhere.’ He took another slice of cheese. ‘Never mind, leave it with me and I’ll do my best. It’ll take time, sure, but if I can find him I’ll get in touch.’

‘Great. Now just forget it for now, OK, pal? The case can wait, and I reckon my brain deserves a break.’ I refilled the wine-cups. ‘How are Cass and the kids?’

We batted it around for a bit, until the wine and nibbles gave out; like I say, I don’t see much of Agron usually, except when Cass bullies him into a shopping trip to the big city and we put them up. Finally …

‘You want the other half?’ I said, holding up the empty jug.

He shook his head. ‘Some of us have work to do. You staying over?’

I grinned: like I say, although Agron and Cass had a pretty big flat, as those things go, and I’d be made very welcome, overnighting with five young and very voluble kids in close proximity isn’t my idea of fun.

‘No, that’s OK, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll be getting back.’

‘Fair enough.’ He stood up. ‘We’ll call it a day, then. You left your horse in the stables next to my yard, right?’

‘Yeah. But I’ve got another bit of business to see to first. You go ahead.’

‘Regards to Perilla and the youngsters. And I won’t forget about this Gaius Siddius.’

‘Sure. Thanks, Agron.’

He left.

OK; so back to the harbour office. If that run-in with Sextus Nigrinus had been no accident – which it hadn’t – then his brother and the Porpoise figured somewhere along the line. Whereabouts and how, let alone why, I’d no idea, but six got you ten there was some connection. Certainly I couldn’t leave Ostia without following the thing up as far as I could.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The freedman clerk I’d talked to earlier smiled at me. ‘Did you find Arrius?’

‘Yeah, no problem, pal,’ I said.

‘And he confirmed what I told you about no accident being reported?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So. How can I help you this time?’

‘That other ship you mentioned berthed at Quay Twenty-five. The Porpoise.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The captain’s name is Titus Nigrinus, right?’

‘Just a moment and I’ll fetch the appropriate record. Ten days ago, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ I waited until he came back with the flimsy. ‘Whose was the cargo?’

‘Captain Titus Nigrinus, yes.’ He ran his finger down the page. ‘A single-owner shipment. Eight hundred amphoras, which would be the ship’s full capacity. Five hundred of oil, three of wine. Belonging to a Marcus Correllius.’

‘What?’ I stared at him.

Shit!