“And how do they decide where they want to cruise?” I asked.
“They may have any of a number of reasons. Dreams and omens play a part, or they may consult one of the sibyls. Or they may have harder information, bought from the factors of shipping merchants. It is best not to speak too far in advance of the sailing season where one’s servants may overhear.”
It is a well-known fact that Romans hate the sea. Usually when we need a fleet, we levy one from the Greek allies, put a Roman officer in command and call it a Roman fleet. It is odd that a peninsular people should be so hydrophobic, but there it is. We are also dunces when it comes to commerce, which we perceive as Graeco-Oriental, and faintly disreputable. Respectable wealth comes only from land, agriculture and warfare. The city subsisted on plunder taken in war and tribute levied on the defeated. Our idea of a great financier was the likes of Crassus, who grew rich through extortion. I made a mental note to learn more about these things, even if they were rather un-Roman.
“A few years ago,” I said, “you may recall that General Sertorius, who was still in rebellion against Rome, entered into certain treasonous relations with King Mithridates of Pontus. He supplied that monarch with ships and some officers. Did these Western pirates act as intermediaries in this process?”
Zabbai’s eyes went wide at the obviousness of the answer, but he replied politely. “And how could it be otherwise? To those who have their business on the sea, it was common knowledge that Mithridates sent his request through the pirate chief Djed, and that the accomplice of Sertorius was the equally illustrious sea-brigand Perseus. Djed is an Egyptian and Perseus, I believe, hails from Samothrace. These pirates are a cosmopolitan lot, and men of every maritime nation are to be found among their crews.”
“I am curious,” I said. “Just how does one go about contacting these pirates? They seem to have no permanent abode; they do not maintain embassies in the various nations of the world. If one has business with them, as did Sertorius and, later, Spartacus, how would one let it be known to them?”
“As I have intimated,” Zabbai said, “they are businessmen. They deal in large quantities of goods, most prominently the great lots of slaves they must sell every year. In order to facilitate the sale and transfer of these goods, they maintain business agents in all the major port cities.”
I was stunned. “You mean there is a pirate agent operating in Ostia?”
“Oh, but of a certainty. Also in Rome.”
“In Rome?”
“Rome is, after all, where many of the wealthiest buyers are to be found,” he pointed out reasonably.
“Could you tell me the name of the current agent here in Rome?”
“I wish that I could. Unfortunately, the last agent died and a new one has not yet arrived.”
“And who was the deceased agent?” I asked.
“An importer of wine and olive oil named Paramedes of Antioch.”
Zabbai must have assumed that I was rather befuddled as I took my leave of him shortly thereafter. However, he was unfailingly polite and insisted that I accept a guest-gift. It was a scarf of saffron-colored silk, nearly two feet square, strong as armor and light as a breath. Since the silk seemed to be unadulterated, it was a gift rich enough to be construed as a bribe, but Zabbai had no cause to bribe me. I decided that he was foresightedly building up goodwill with one who might have a political future. His help and the gift had certainly made me well-disposed toward him, so he must have known what he was doing.
Now I had another link. The late Paramedes had been an agent for the Mediterranean pirates. What else was there that I did not know about this humble Asian-Greek importer? Certainly the hospitable Sergius Paulus had not mentioned any such embarrassing connection. Yet he had been Para-medes’s sponsor, so he must have been dipping his spoon into so rich a bowl.
I began to feel profoundly melancholy. The way the Senate had put obstacles in the way of my investigation indicated a foul stew of corruption at the very highest levels. I should not have been surprised. Indeed, I was not surprised. Intrigue, infighting and bribery had been the rule rather than the exception for the past two generations, and the Senate remained a sink of crime and self-seeking despite the periodic attempts by Censors to weed out the worst elements. But Censors are only appointed every fifth year, and they have only a year of power before they must step down. The evil proliferated at a far greater rate than such methods could deal with.
I walked down to the docks and sat on a great wooden bollard, staring out into the swirling, muddy water as if seeking omens there. As painful as the thought was, I had to admit to myself that the Senate was obsolete.