So where was Rubella while this pastoral scene unfolded?"
In our skiff. Jumping up and down and spitting fire. He kept yelling to be rowed nearer, but to be honest, none of the lads is very good at steering." Every time a vigiles detachment was assigned to Ostia, the troops had to learn to manage their boat. In Rome they did not need one; there were bridges.
And where is Rubella now?"
Ostia. Comforting the scribes and explaining to them, they are just victims of a trick." Petronius ran his hands through his hair, taking this in. Always concerned for the men's safety, he asked in a more temperate voice,
Anyone attempt to fight back? Any casualties?"
Parvus. He jumped into the water and swam over from the ferry he was on. He managed to get aboard the Lucullan. He's a mad devil – he whacked one of the gang with an oar, nearly split his head open As fire-fighters, the vigiles are an unarmed force. They can do a lot with fists and feet, or they improvise. But then someone poked Parvus in the guts and he fell off the ferry."
Is he all right?"
He went under. Rubella and some of the lads jumped in after him. We fished him out, but that held us up. By then, the gang were back on the tugboat, laughing at us all as they rowed off at a lick down stream. We tried to follow but the ferries got in our way."
On purpose?"
Well, there was chaos. The current was swirling boats everywhere. The thieves seemed to know what they were doing on the water, but there were some collisions. I thought we were going to sink. We found the tug soon afterwards. They beached it by the Isis sanctuary; there's no sign of them now, and of course nobody saw anything suspicious when they landed there, or so they all say." The man fell silent, looking guilty. After a moment, Petro clapped the vigilis on the shoulders, to show there were no hard feelings. Then he signalled to Fusculus [who had been listening in, though at a careful distance. They summoned the troops and set about a full internal search of the Damson Flower.
Take this joint apart!" ordered Petronius. Sometimes he showed greater respect for people and property. But he had to relieve his feelings somehow.
It was not the first time Petro and I had been in a brothel, always for professional purposes, of course. We had once risked our lives and our reputations in the biggest love nest Rome could offer, vainly searching for the gangster father-in-law of Petro's bugbear Florius. By comparison, the Damson Flower was tiny and its services basic, though like all port establishments it had its own salty colour. Small cells on two floors offered little more than hard, narrow beds. The deluxe ones each had a clothes hook outside in the corridor. The imperial suite boasted a cupboard containing a piss pot. Despite looking deserted from the quay, when we burst through the main door with belligerent vigiles greetings, the interior coughed up a slew of disreputable occupants. Sheepish sailors emerged from all quarters, many carrying kitbags and looking as if they were using the place simply as a cheap hotel. The girls came in many flavours, from sloe-eyed Easterners, through dusky dames from inner Africa with amazing busts and backsides, to a skinny Gaul with no bust at all who kicked Fusculus in the groin unexpectedly. They all had garlic breath and foul language. Several tried the old trick of shedding their clothes to disconcert us, where they were wearing clothes to start with. The madam called herself a Spanish dancer, but could never have been further than the Rome Gate at Ostia in her life. In doing this job for decades, she had probably acquired more technical knowledge of binnacles and foremasts than most ships" carpenters. The bouncer, at whom Ajax had barked so furiously the other day, was wearing a tunic that had played host to most of the moth population in Portus. It had more holes than cloth in between them; when he moved I expected clouds of little winged creatures to stream out as if we had disturbed a bats" cave.
Have you even been in a bats" cave, Falco?" demanded Petro scathingly. I was a spare-time poet; he had always disapproved of my fanciful tendencies.
Imagination is a rare talent."
