No, I mean he wears eye paint and silly slippers." In a lifetime of unexpected answers, that came as a genuine surprise. The Illyrian?" The waiter thought my remark hilarious. He's as fierce as a wet sponge. He's just a scrawny old queen." A couple of vigiles looked in at the door. I took that as my cue to leave. I had no wish to hang around while members of the Fourth Cohort jumped all over the place like fleas on a scruffy dog. But the night was young, and I needed to think. I started to walk. A short stroll took me away from the river and into the Forum on its western side. As an attempt to avoid the vigiles, that was a disaster. more of the Fourth were lined up in rows at the foot of the Capitol. I could see Rubella with them, so although they looked sick that they were missing the wine-shop inspection, they were on their best behaviour. In general, most never saw the cohort tribune. They stared at him curiously. Petronius was seconding Rubella, chewing his thumb and looking bored. I also recognised Fusculus, Petro's deputy in Rome. Fusculus, an increasingly rotund, happy fellow, appeared to be the duty officer in charge tonight. He had formed up a small group in a half-hearted honour guard. The vigiles do not wear uniforms or carry armour so they cannot parade with their gear highly polished, and insofar as they drill, it consists of life-saving tips and equipment practice. They are reluctant to march. A vigiles salute is likely to be derisive. Neat lines don't put out fires. If someone in the crowd here had screamed for help, the Fourth would have shown themselves to be good men. But ceremonial was not their strength. So a shambolic group, of all heights and body weights, were shifting about in their motley homespun tunics, while Fusculus gave benign instructions when he felt like it. Relaxed by nature, Fusculus enjoyed catching villains; that was so he could pick their brains for a treatise on the underworld. He was an expert on criminal cant; this hobby had taken him far beyond the norms of laundry-snitching and the confidence trickster's happy finesse of a plump mark, into farricking, boogle-squiddling and the long toddle [which he told me once was a shorter version of marathon-running, which in Aventine street slang means fleeing justice. However, Fusculus defiantly had no interest in tonight's long-winded civic bollocking, where his men had to stand arse-aching beside a diplomatic podium. Diplomacy? The Rome vigiles do not bother with such etiquette. A cluster of locals was clearly unimpressed with our lot. Penned behind a temporary barrier, these folk were cheering a home-grown team. a large, brutally well organised contingent from the builders' guild wheeled in and began putting on a welcome for the new vigiles. These men were good. They knew it too. Their crack troops were out today, demonstration-marching as if the Emperor was reviewing them. The display was skilled and meticulous. They could march and salute, and salute while marching. They stayed the correct distance from each other as if measured with a swagger stick. Their lines were straight. Their double and triple rows were square. Their right-angled turns were crunched to perfection. They swung and they spun and they halted on the spot as if parade drill was wondrous fun. [To anyone with a real military background, that was blasphemy] The toy soldiers all wore fake army uniforms in gaudy colours, with shorter tunics than normal. Startling epaulettes plumped up the already wide shoulders of their so-called officers. Each man carried a very clean rope and a shiny grappler. I found their gear a hoot, but the stamp of massed site-boots made the ground tremble. It was sinister, and I reckoned it was meant to be. I soon learned from bystanders that members of other guilds were always known as the plebs, but the builders called themselves the booted ranks." They had sixteen troops. Each troop consisted of twenty-two heavy men, headed up by a decurion. The decurions were all hoping to become a president. The guild always had not one, but three quinquennial presidents. They also owned a tame town councillor. Ostensibly appointed by the civic government because of the builders" extreme importance in Ostia', he was a conduit for obtaining contracts. In any other town this would be called graft. Ostia, I was proudly informed, was different. I did not ask how. No town can support a paramilitary group of over three hundred and fifty hard bastards without their influence in civic life becoming dangerous. Gaius Baebius and I had seen the boot-boys being obnoxious on fire duty and this closer look did not fill me with joy. They went in for sleeveless tunics that would show offbulging biceps. They had big, boozers" bodies. I knew what they would be like off duty too, big mouths and bloody politics. The Ostians seemed happy, but this carnival had given me a chill. I stood in the press outside the Curia. The quickest way home was to cross in front of the Capitol, where Rubella and Petro still stood glumly, beneath a canvas awning supported on posts; reluctant to be seen, I waited. Normally I would have hailed Petro. I was not in a mood to fraternise. As the display reached its noisy climax and ended, top men in the guild approached Rubella. He and Petronius obligingly shook hands; their polite response seemed genuine, though I guessed otherwise. To the fore was Privatus, with his dark strands of stuck-down hair shining on top of his bald head. He had grown the back hair too long, so he looked like a vagrant from behind, despite wearing his holiday tunic and toga, all of brilliant white. With him was a man someone told me was the tame councillor; apparently the guild were about to erect a statue in his honour and there was no secret that it was a thank-you for favours. One of Privatus" fellow presidents of the guild was an imperial freedman. Ostia seemed to attract ex-palace functionaries. They could never take a formal position in civic life, but through the guild, where they could rise to the highest title, they might become big names locally. The biggest guest tonight was the Pontifex of Vulcan, the top priest, who came attended by his own little set of functionaries and public slaves. I despised them all. That was not because of their origins. I hated them sliming a way into business deals through their trade camaraderie. The councillor who was now being gracious to Rubella would be praised on his statue plinth for his good works; the good works were nothing less than benefactions to the building contractors, in the form of fiddled contracts. I wondered if Diocles had discovered this. The entertainment was breaking up. Whoever planned it must have intended that members of the Fourth Cohort would at this point mingle with the boot-boys. They reckoned without the Fourth Cohort, who were melting away. The boot-boys took no notice; they had their own associates. The troops who had given the display were being greeted and flattered by others in their guild. As they swanked about, I recognised one of the marchers. he had heavy sideburns and matted curls, plus an unforgettable swagger and sneer. It was the leading deadbeat from the fake vigiles guardhouse, in the street where the scribe's aunt had died. Once I spotted him, I soon picked out the others. It would have been fatal to make myself known. There were too many guild members present, and this was their turf. As the Forum piazza began to empty, I made my way discreetly across to the Decumanus. Spotting a large foodshop, I stopped to order wine. At the sound of my voice, a man standing at the counter next to me turned around, exclaiming to the waiter, He'll buy me another too!" The shameless scrounger was my father, Didius Geminus. He was with a friend, a friend who had no objection to me buying him a drink as well. XXXVII My boy," said Pa, acknowledging our relationship. He managed just-not to sound disparaging. I made no comment. His companion tilted his winecup to me. No introduction was offered, though he looked vaguely familiar and viewed me with a whimsical air as if he were about to slap my back and remember some incident I would rather forget. I must have seen him around the Emporium. I assumed he was one of the group who had come from Rome today. as Justinus had warned me, Posidonius had recruited a few colleagues who had known him for years to help him find his daughter. My father had descended on Ostia among an informal posse of do-gooders. If these righteous old swine were all like Pa, for them it was just a good excuse for a seaside tavern crawl.
