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.
34
Titianus may have felt surprised that Faustus made no attempt to blame him. The aedile barely reacted; he merely asked what next?
Titianus had details of one last location supplied by Juventus. He led us to a street on the Cispian ridge, one of those happy havens that are lined throughout with eating places. Mostly you find these on seaside quays, where the restaurant owners all keep little boats and go out fishing. You eat fish, unless you are crazy. That day’s catch will be varied and though never as fresh as they tell you, much fresher than any other item scrawled on the menu board. Never, ever opt for the beef hotpot in a harbourside fish restaurant.
Roscius might choose any bar for lunch; Juventus had said it varied. We sat down to wait midway, at a place that had outside tables. Manlius Faustus imposed his punishment on the vigilis for what happened earlier. Faustus elected that now he and I would be the close cronies, with Titianus being made to feel left out, so he told Titianus to go inside to order drinks — not giving him any money.
‘A working threesome!’ exclaimed my client when the tired-eyed vigilis wandered back. ‘This reminds me of happy times, with you, me and Morellus, Flavia Albia.’ Faustus leaned back in his seat, in a relaxed pose with his hands linked behind his head. It sounded sociable, but Titianus looked unhappy, realising that the balance in our trio had shifted.
Titianus had been too easily conned by Roscius, so I allied myself with Faustus. ‘Dear Tiberius, I have not seen Morellus recently. Is he working on a case — or working on a love affair?’
‘Dice,’ announced Faustus, impressively deadpan as he invented. ‘There’s a three-day league at a dive called the Sweaty Armpit — you would love it; I must take you there some time − Morellus is in knots because gambling for money is illegal; he thinks I’ll pop along and close the place, then he’ll be blamed by the whole district. Of course it’s never going to happen; they paid the usual sweetener as soon as I told them to.’
I could not help laughing. Faustus chuckled with me. Titianus knew Faustus and I were playing him up.
In fact Titus Morellus, Titianus’ counterpart in the Fourth Cohort, was stuck at home, recovering from a near-fatal attack by a serial killer. Morellus was a miserable character, but he had been brave. I knew Faustus visited the invalid from time to time, probably taking baskets of plums and toys for Morellus’ children. I could even envisage him slipping cash to Morellus’ wife Pullia; supporting someone who had suffered in a public role would be natural philanthropy for Manlius Faustus, a good citizen’s duty. Probably the kind of behaviour that had won him votes when he stood as aedile.
‘Where’s your waiter?’ Faustus asked. Titianus’ request for service had not worked. It was one of those bars. All frantic bustle, where strangers can never get a drink.
We were still waiting for any refreshment to appear when Titianus decided to give up. He claimed he had to be back at the station house; it was probably the end of his shift. He lingered, as if he thought Faustus and I should come too, but we stayed put on observation, waving airy goodbyes at him and insincerely promising to let him know what happened.