‘That will be a new concept for the Second Cohort!’ I scoffed.
In his clean upper-class accent, Camillus Justinus tutted mild reproof at me, then greased up Titianus who turned out to be a sucker for charm, and soon had us in an office further down the barracks portico where a different vigiles layabout, with a hunted expression and his boots held together with string, told us it was too dangerous for us to know his name.
His name was Juventus. He had scratched it on his metal mess tin. Without actually winking, my uncle subtly let me know he could see it too.
The anonymous one sucked his teeth and confirmed that the Rabirii were the chief local professionals. If anything major happened, they would be behind it; no other gang would dare to invade their territory.
‘They are a family firm, long line of descent from other career criminals — bloody born to it. Embedded in the Esquiline. They rule by fear. It’s nothing to them to batter someone senseless. A lad of ours had his eye put out when he arrested one of their runners for nicking purses — he didn’t know it was a Rabirius associate. Old man Rabirius said he ought to make it his business to know, though in fairness the old bugger did give us a big donation afterwards for the widows and orphans fund.’
‘I expect your lad was happy with that,’ said Justinus, the sly beast. The half-blinded vigilis would have received no compensation, in fact. Widows and orphans were scarcely looked after either, well, not unless the widow was pretty. ‘So would this gang carry out violent house-breaking?’
‘Meat and drink to them. They always know who owns antiques or gilt goblets, who bought a new Greek statue last week, who gave an emerald necklace to his mistress who is careless about locking doors.’
‘Ever killed a householder before?’
‘Certainly not, legate. Why would they need to? Anyone who has heard about the jeweller being poked up the arse with a red hot fire-iron because he tried to stop them grabbing his oriental pearls, just quivers in a corner and lets them walk away with whatever they want. People who think they are about to be a target make sure they go out to dinner and stay away until dawn.’
‘Wouldn’t they go out to dinner and put their valuables in a safe place?’ asked my uncle.
‘No, if you’re targeted it’s better to give in and hand them over. I heard about one man who actually packed up his stuff all ready for them, with helpful labels, and left them a donkey to carry it. Including a driver!’
Justinus whistled quietly. ‘And what strategy are you using to tackle this gang?’
‘Strategy?’ asked Juventus.
‘Operation Bandit King. What’s your action plan?’
The so-called special liaison officer still looked blank.
I thought about my other uncle, Lucius Petronius of the Fourth Cohort, who spent decades trying to bring the hated Balbinus-Florius gang to justice; he had to give up on them, exhausted, when he retired. But he knew what an action plan was. He nagged tribune after tribune to commit funds for such initiatives. A Rome-wide crime-busting scheme, Operation Bandit King had been first set up by Uncle Petro.
Fortunately for Juventus, Camillus Justinus could hide his disapproval of incompetence. I myself pretended to believe Juventus must be diligently monitoring the Rabirius gang so I asked if he could advise us how to make contact.
He was not prepared to come along and introduce us, but in line with vigiles practice, he released one minimum fact: he gave us the name of a bar.
19
‘Hmm!’ Quintus sized up the place we had been sent to. ‘Pretty moulded acanthus on their lintel, but let’s not be fooled by leaves. This is the kind of thermopolium your colourful father would nickname the Itchy Bum.’
‘He’s never so rude.’
‘Think so? You surprise me!’
We had come straight here from the station house. Otherwise we would have been expected. Inevitably, Titianus, Juventus or some other member of the Second Cohort would have tipped off the gang as a favour. We wanted to do this on our own terms — so we had to get here first.
Justinus might be my mother’s favourite brother, but Helena Justina would thwack him with excoriating rhetoric if she knew he had let me come on this mission. Neither he nor I mentioned that, but it made us both nervous.
The Galatea (its proper name) stood in a quiet side street. You probably think thieves lurk down a dangerous alley, something with a sinister atmosphere; in fact they are just like the rest of us and prefer to drink at a respectable bar with nice tubs of laurels that actually get watered. Calling it the Galatea didn’t mean the owners were interested in myths about statues coming to life, it was an excuse for a sign showing a nude woman.
She was rather pale and skinny, but the painter had given meticulous attention to her bosom. Sign artists are so predictable.
What did single out the Galatea as a rats’ nest was that it was large enough to contain an interior courtyard where illegal transactions could take place out of sight of the public and the authorities. Justinus and I sauntered up to one of the counters like innocent tourists just off the boat from Tarentum. This was clearly not the case, since he still had his toga. It was scrunched up and carried over one arm, but anyone could see what it was and with his tunic broadly banded in purple even the dumbest waiter had to twig he was a senator.
Leaving the two bodyguards streetside at the counter, Quintus and I went in and pretended to study the wall sign with a list of drinks. With expressions of delight we ‘discovered’ the inner garden. We sat down there at a wooden table and spent time trying to decide whether to have fried anchovies or stick with olives. We didn’t make a lot of noise, nothing too obvious.
No doubt some bars that act as gangs’ headquarters show unfriendliness to casuals but at the Galatea they were more relaxed. The waiter ambled up and took our order without blinking. He even recommended the anchovies, though he did not push it. A man at the other table gave us a friendly nod in greeting. The waiter took his time coming back — but only as much time as hopeless waiters anywhere. He was gossiping with a local at a counter, not sending a message to tell some clan chief in the crime community that we were here.
So far, if we hadn’t been told this was a dangerous place, we would not have realised.
‘Must be his first day,’ said Justinus to the other man, winking after the waiter. The otherwise pleasant customer had enormous biceps and a broken nose. But if he was a villain, he was one who had work to go back to. He mopped his chin daintily with a napkin, called for the reckoning, left coppers for the waiter, nodded a goodbye like a man whose mother had taught him manners, and left.
Apart from us, there was now no one else here. Our order came. True to family policy on refreshments, we decided we might as well eat up, not just leave empty-handed.
As soon as we relaxed with our bowls and beakers, a man who looked like an imperial invoice clerk turned up. Half bald, clean tunic, just short of swaggering. The kind who serves forty years in the same position, always at the beck and call of superiors, but knowing his eventual leaving-present will buy him a villa. One with solid silver plumbing fitments.
He came straight to the other table in the garden, clearly familiar with his surroundings. Within seconds the waiter had moved in, swept the board clean of crumbs, placed a bread basket with new rolls and set a beaker ready for the small flask of house wine and the water jug he swiftly brought without the customer needing to specify what he wanted.
Justinus kicked my ankle under the table.
The new man had made sure he was sitting so he could see who else entered. He even moved the heavy bench. Who moves a tavern bench?
Although he ignored our offered smiles, he then gave us a hard once-over. While the waiter brought appetiser bowls (several more than we had received), the man muttered to him and the waiter glanced over at us. He said something, perhaps defensively.