Maybe he wasn't. I assume he lost interest but didn't want to offend me by saying so. Just when I thought we were off to a good start, he stopped coming here. That would be…" Damagoras posed, thinking. I'm losing track of the date these days. I imagine it was about a month ago." It was now just over a month since Diocles had disappeared from his lodgings at Ostia.
How did you meet him?"
Someone must have told him I was looking for assistance. He approached me."
So what was the project?" Gaius asked, with his usual dogged persistence. Damagoras smiled and looked down at his hands in his lap, almost coyly. Oh… it's no secret really. I'm eighty-six, Falco. Would you believe that?"
You're a credit to whatever you drink," I hinted, gravel-voiced from sand in the air and tiredness. Still no offer of refreshment was forthcoming. So much for the hospitality of seafaring men. Damagoras was a talker who ignored interruptions. Anyone who says I was a pirate can expect a call from a libel lawyer. I've lived long enough in Italy to know how things are done! I told you, the old trade is dead nowadays. Absolutely. But I had a long life at sea. Plenty of adventures. Met some odd characters. I have opinions on all sorts of things. I had success, that's a story that's always worth telling. I have a large family; I would like to leave something of my knowledge to future generations."
So why Diocles?" I had a queasy feeling.
He is a clerk of some sort, isn't he? Well, he told me he wanted work. He was going to help me write my memoirs." I pointed out that, from what I knew of commercial publishing, the memoirs of a sailor who had not been a pirate might fail to attract a readership.
That is exactly what Diocles said," replied Damagoras, sadly.
Making yet another claim that he was an old man, Damagoras retired to rest. I imagined him having more drink, freshly warmed for him with fine spices, and snacks on a galley tray. It would not surprise me if his bed was warmed by a couple of lithe young women, scented with high quality Persian oils and skilled in the performance arts. Very basic pleasures awaited us. We were allowed to stay the night in a guestroom. It had two narrow beds, with a plain coverlet on each, and no exciting comforters. A dusty jug of water, which could have been there since last market day, was the only refreshment. We were no longer prisoners, but they stopped us wandering. We were led to our quarters by slaves; more slaves were hanging about in the corridor every time we tried putting our heads out. There was no chance to explore the villa. In the morning, a minimal breakfast was delivered by a silent wench. We had barely time to wash the crusts down with more brackish water, then we were led outside to find our donkeys waiting. An escort to the gate ensured that we left the property. We did not see Damagoras again.
We could sneak back later," claimed Gaius, emboldened by a night's sleep.
You'll go on your own, then."
Oh right," he capitulated wistfully. Best to be sensible."
Junia will wonder where you are, Gaius."
No, Marcus," my brother-in-law disagreed. Junia will be expecting trouble. She knows I am with you." It was still early when we entered Ostia by the Laurentine Gate. Late night revellers would only just have fallen asleep down in the dingy bars by the Marine Gate; holiday visitors must still be lying in. Traders and regular inhabitants were going about their business. The baths would not open until noon, but thin columns of smoke marked laundries and fullers as their furnaces were brought back to life, while the scent of fresh loaves and rolls wafted delectably from the bakeries. Mullet and sardines were being laid out in rows by fishmongers beneath heavy swordfish, hung head down from metal hooks; baskets of fruit and vegetables were arranged in neat patterns; commodity shops had their big front doors pulled half open while owners sluiced the outside pavement clean. As we rode through the narrow side streets, above our heads busy housewives already had their bedding hung over windowsills to air. I imagined how in the building contractor's house, Junia would be up and bossing the slaves about as she fretted over the missing Gaius Baebius. Hiding in bed, Maia would bury her head against Petro's back, pretending to ignore the bustle. At my apartment, Helena would be lying fully awake, trying not to worry about where I was. Anxious about our reception, both Gaius and I wanted to hurry, but we were delayed by a blocked street. There had been a fire. Early morning was so often the time for gawpers to view the remains of a blaze, a frequent result of lamp-oil accidents. A small crowd had gathered by a burnt-out house from which cindered furniture was still being dragged. The owner slumped on the remains of a ruined chest, with his head in his hands; his wife, deep in shock, simply stared at the blackened frontage of their home.
