Enemies at Home

33

Lunch is a wonderful mechanism. Some chunks of bread, a few scraps of ham, a bowl of cherries. Washed down with mediocre bar-room wine, this was enough to woo Titianus. It probably helped that he rarely shared investigations with anybody. He may have had a deputy he didn’t trust, or a low-level bunch of door-knockers who took orders from him if he could think of any orders to give, but normally he worked on his own. Now he believed I was his friend. If I suggested a jape, he had to fall in with it.

He was too nervous to approach the grandee, Rabirius, in person. Instead, I managed to persuade him to tackle young Roscius. Titianus would have to find out the nephew’s haunts, which he would do that afternoon. He went back to the barracks, planning to oil up Juventus, the gangster liaison officer. Titianus believed he could squeeze him without arousing suspicion. According to him, Juventus was not very bright.

I sympathised with him, for having to deal with idiots at work.

We agreed to meet up early next morning when Titianus said Roscius would be out and about and accessible, collecting cash for the old man. I spent the rest of the afternoon double-checking the neighbourhood for people who could have seen anything in connection with the steward’s death. No luck, needless to say. Although Polycarpus had made himself friendly with everyone, no one would cause inconvenience to themselves by coming forward as a witness.

I wrote a report for Faustus. I first outlined the reasons why the case had seemed to be dying on us. After that, much of my news concerned Polycarpus, but I did slide in a mention that Titianus had agreed to make further contact with the gang. I did not say I was going with him. I sent Dromo off, then spent a quiet evening by myself before an early night.

I should have realised Faustus would guess what I was up to. So next morning who should come breezing into the apartment but my client. He was dressed not in his aedile’s purple stripes, but the street clothes he wore for going undercover.

He did not trouble to chastise me. He acted as if his presence was a lucky coincidence. But he stuck there until Titianus turned up, then he came out with us. I acted as if I was perfectly happy to have Manlius Faustus do that. No choice really.

Titianus looked wary. Annoyed, I saw that he thought I had deliberately sent for Faustus who, in his eyes, was tainted by visiting the tribune. Even with the aedile disguised as an unshaven lout in a shabby brown tunic, Titianus was never going to like him. This busted up his and my relationship as cronies, jeopardising Titianus’ willingness to be frank. Well, thank you, aedile!

Faustus, who noticed a lot, gave no sign that he had noticed any of this, but I knew he would have done.

Titianus led us first back to the Galatea. The sour fixer Gallo was not there; maybe he only turned up for his free lunch. Instead, as we scrutinised the bar from across the street, Titianus said he could see Roscius. He was laughing and joking with two other men, gang members our guide recognised. We had agreed the ideal was to corner Roscius by himself, when he might be easier to work on. So we stayed put outside, watching.

When I say ‘we’ agreed a plan, Titianus and I did that while Faustus, in one of his introverted moods, merely listened and made no objection. I was trying to rebuild the investigator’s trust, so I was pally with him and ignored the aedile. If Faustus felt left out, it was his fault for interfering. I did not need a nursemaid if I was staking out a suspect with a vigiles expert. In my opinion, I did not need a minder ever.

Titianus pointed out Roscius. He was about twenty-five, short-legged but good looking in a way that would not last past thirty. He thought himself a wonderful beast, with a ripped-neck tunic worn one-armed, in order to show off his well-oiled pectorals. Inevitably, a medallion of dubious metal with twinkly red glass inserts nestled among his curly chest hair. This jewel probably cost a packet (assuming he’d bought it, not stolen it); the deal must have made some lying, cheating jeweller extremely happy.

After a time, Roscius left the Galatea with one of the men he had been talking to. The underling was a fish-faced bag-carrier. We split up to follow them, which is supposed to make you less noticeable. We all played the game of shifting positions, now me at the back, then Faustus, criss-crossing the street with Titianus. Tragic. It fools no one.

The gangsters behaved as all of them do. They sauntered about, making their presence known. Money was picked up at a couple of places for certain. Banter was exchanged. It all looked friendly. That is the evil side of such people. They come around smiling, but their position in the neighbourhood is entirely based on threat.

Roscius picked out an apple at a fruit stall. He paid nothing for it. The stallholder made no attempt to ask him. Roscius strolled on, munching, then threw most of the apple in the gutter. He was just enjoying his power.

I had his measure. That familiar mix of boorish self-belief and ingrained bad manners. From the way he walked — knees apart, arms loose like a bad wrestler — I could see why the vigiles thought he might be aiming high, or was ready to split off by himself if the gang chiefs let him. I bet when he sat in a bar he had a hand in his lap and constantly jiggled his privates, not knowing he was doing it.

I wondered how he got on with Gallo. Gallo looked as if he had been around a long time. His backing could make Roscius a leader, but if he despised the young upstart, Gallo could be the one to thwart him. The fixer’s choice might depend how much talent Roscius really had. To me, he did not look too clever. Not that stupidity holds back career criminals (as my father would say glumly), any more than it hampers promotion in the vigiles, election to the Senate, making a rich marriage, bringing too many children into the world, or being an amateur who buys an ‘ancient Greek’ statue and then sells it on for a fifty per cent profit, despite that new label from a workshop in Capua stuck on the base …

I wondered whether old Rabirius saw his nephew as an asset or a liability.

Then I wondered how healthy Rabirius was. What if he passed away? Could the Esquiline be facing an underworld power struggle? Would Gallo, the hard-man fixer, expect to inherit the business to which he had presumably contributed much? Would he be strong enough to dispose of any challenge from young Roscius, or would the old man nominate family to take over, and disappoint Gallo?

Titianus was gesticulating. Faustus and I caught up with him. ‘They’ve gone in the Dilly-Dally.’

It was the kind of bar that thinks it’s a brothel, or a brothel that pretends to be a bar. There was only a sketchy pavement presence. Moth-eaten curtaining hid the interior. They did not bother to have tie-backs. Whatever went on at the Dilly-Dally went on in hidden indoor places where the night sweeper always missed corners and the same dead mouse had been stiff on a shelf for three weeks.

We parked ourselves outside. After a long time the other man came out on his own, the fish-face. He waved an arm to Titianus mockingly. Faustus looked at us, then strode across to the bar on his own and went in. Moments later he reappeared, head shaking. Roscius was not there.