‘Of course you are,’ Cato replied quickly. ‘Come on, Macro, let’s be off.’
Swinging his kitbag up on to the fork at the end of the marching yoke, Cato carefully picked his way along the gangplank extending over the next boat and then up on to the wharf, feeling greatly relieved to have solid ground beneath his boots, even if it was covered with filth. Macro joined him and both men looked around for a moment to get their bearings.
‘Where did you say we were to meet that contact of Narcissus?’ asked Macro.
‘An inn called the Vineyard of Dionysus, on the north side of the Boarium. From what Narcissus said, it should be over that way.’ Cato indicated the civic buildings rising up beyond the end of the warehouse complex and they set off along the wharf. After the relative quiet of the streets of Ostia, the empire’s capital was a seething turmoil of noise and sights and the sweaty stench of people mingled with acrid woodsmoke. Gangs of slaves, some chained together, struggled under the burden of bales of exotic materials, jars of wine and oil and smaller sealed pots packed in straw-filled cases that contained perfumes and scents from the east. Others carried ivory tusks, or lengths of rare hardwoods. Around them skirted the captains of the barges, merchants and petty traders and the air was filled with voices, in a smattering of tongues: Latin, Greek, Celtic dialects, Hebrew and others that Cato had never heard before. The dusk was thickening in the dark winter air. Amid the gloom, fires flickered in braziers and cast pools of lurid red light across the paved wharf strewn with mud and rubbish. A few dogs and feral cats darted through the crowds, sniffing for food. Beggars squatted in archways and in front of locked doors, rattling wooden or brass bowls as they cried out for spare coins.
Cato edged through the press and Macro followed closely, careful to keep a firm grip on his yoke. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that his kitbag was safe from petty thieves. He had heard stories of sharp knives being used to cut open the goatskin containers, so that a swift hand might pluck something out without the victim knowing until it was too late.
‘Shit, it’s like being stuck in the middle of a battle.’
‘Without the danger,’ Cato replied tersely then added, ‘or the blood, the bodies, the screams and the great big icy hand of terror clamped round the back of your neck. But otherwise, yes.’
‘Funny.’
The crowd thinned out a little as they neared the arched entrance to the Boarium market. Like the warehouses, it was built on a grand scale with a columned entrance, above which loomed a pediment topped with statues of statesmen from the republican era, their original paint now obscured by a patina of grime and bird shit. The tang of blood and meat from the butchers’ stalls filled the air. On the other side of the entrance a wide vista opened out, large enough to camp a legion in, Cato estimated. The temporary stalls were already being dismantled and packed, with the traders’ goods, on to small handcarts to be taken to the secure stores at the side of the Boarium. Elsewhere the permanent stalls were being closed up for the night. Around the edge of the Boarium was a two-storey colonnade. The ground level was used for shops and inns, while above were the offices of those officials who collected duties and the rents of the traders. Many of the city’s bankers rented premises on the second level as well, aloof from the bustle below as they counted their profits.
The Vineyard of Dionysus was easy enough to find. A large painted placard had been fixed over the entrance to the premises. A crudely painted man with a big grin was holding a brimming drinking horn against a backdrop of heavily laden grape vines, amid which, in a fascinating variety of positions, amorous couples were going at it hammer and tongs. Macro paused outside with a quizzical expression.
‘That one there, that’s just not possible.’
‘It is after you’ve had your fill of our wines!’ announced a cheery voice. A thickset man with heavily oiled hair detached himself from the pillars either side of the entrance and beckoned them inside. ‘The wares of the Vineyard of Dionysus are famous across Rome. Welcome, friends! Please step inside. There’s a table for all, a warm fire, good food, fine wines and the best of company,’ he winked, ‘for a modest price, sirs.’
‘We need food and drink,’ Cato replied. ‘That’s all.’
‘For now,’ Macro added, still scanning the illustrations above the door. ‘We’ll see how we go, eh?’
The tout waved his customers inside before they could move on and then followed them. The interior was larger than Cato had expected, stretching back some sixty feet. A counter was set halfway down the side of one wall, flanked by alcoves, two of which had their curtains drawn. A thin, heavily made-up woman with wiry red hair sat in another alcove with a bored expression, her head propped on her hand as she stared blankly across the room. The place was filled with the first of the evening trade – men from the Boarium who had packed up their stalls or finished their business for the day. Most were having a quick drink before returning home for the night. There were a few old soaks among them, bleary eyed and with stark veins on their noses and cheeks, who were only just starting a long evening drinking themselves into oblivion.
The tout who had picked them off the street called out to the innkeeper who nodded and chalked up two strokes on the wall above the wine jars to add to the tally of those that the tout had already brought in.
‘Here’s your table.’ The tout gestured to a plain bench with four stools a short distance inside the door. Cato and Macro nodded their thanks and squeezed past the other customers and set their yokes down against the wall before sitting.
Macro glanced round and sniffed. ‘Narcissus chose well.’
‘Yes. The kind of place where men can get lost in the crowd. Nice and discreet.’
‘I was thinking it was well chosen because it was my kind of place. Cheap, cheerful and waiting for a punch-up to start any moment.’
‘There is that,’ Cato replied offhandedly. He scanned the room for any sign of their contact. Only a handful of customers seemed to be drinking on their own but none seemed to return his gaze in any meaningful way. A moment later the innkeeper threaded his way over to them.
‘What would you like, gents?’
‘What have you got?’ asked Macro.
‘It’s on the wall.’ The man pointed to a long list of regional wines that had been chalked up on a board behind the counter.
‘Mmmm!’ Macro smiled as he ran his eye down the wines. ‘How’s the Etruscan?’
‘Off.’
‘Oh, all right. The Calabrian?’
‘Off.’
‘Falernian?’
The innkeeper shook his head.
‘Well, what have you got?’
‘Today it’s the Ligurian or the Belgic. That’s it.’
‘Belgic?’ Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought they made beer?’
‘They do.’ The innkeeper scratched his nose. ‘They should stick to beer in my opinion.’
‘I see.’ Cato shrugged. ‘The Ligurian then. One small jar and three cups.’
‘Yes, sir. Good choice.’ The innkeeper bowed his head and turned back to the counter.
‘Is he trying to be funny?’ Macro scowled. ‘Anyway, Ligurian? Never heard of it.’
‘Then tonight should be something of an education for us.’
The innkeeper returned with the wine and the cups and set them down on the table. ‘Five sestertii.’
‘Five?’ Macro shook his head. ‘That’s robbery.’
‘That’s the price, mate.’
‘Very well,’ Cato cut in, fishing the coins out of the small sum that Narcissus had advanced them. ‘There.’
The innkeeper swept the coins off the top of the table and nodded his thanks.
Cato picked up the jar and sniffed the contents. His nose wrinkled at the sharp acidic odour. Then he poured them each a cup of the dark, almost black, wine. Macro raised his in a mock toast and took a mouthful. At once he made a face.
‘By the gods, I hope there’s better inns close to the Praetorian camp.’