First, Gabinius and Spurius were deep in it together. No real surprises there. I had suspected Gabinius from the first.
Second, Spurius was definitely a Roman, if not from Rome itself. This may have been the meaning of his “that will never happen” remark. Citizens cannot be crucified. That most degrading of punishments is inflicted only on rebellious slaves and foreigners.
So much for the certainties. There were still many questions left to answer. What, precisely, was the relationship between the two men? I had assumed that Spurius was one of Gabinius’s officers or clients, but the pirate’s manner was not in the least subservient. He spoke as an equal. That, of course, could be bluff and bluster. I have known many soldiers, strong-arm men, and politicians who salved their pride and raised their own credit by putting on a fierce, I-bow-to-no-man front when dealing with their betters. Such men invariably find other, more subtle methods to cringe and toady. That was a definite possibility.
And just what was going on out there at Gabinius’s estate. Smuggling? If so, what? The ever-mysterious frankincense? It seemed bizarre, but so much about this business was baffling that I felt compelled to retain it as a possibility. Another thought struck me: suppose Spurius was stashing his loot on Gabinius’s estate. That might leave him free to continue his depredations in the area without having to repair to some distant island base. He would know it was safe, protected by his patron or partner, as the case might be. This was a definite possibility. I liked it.
The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. He might have come back to fetch it because he was feeling safe, having beached and humiliated me. Toy navy, indeed!
Gabinius, clearly, was building a stake to finance another grab at supreme power and providing himself with the nucleus of a naval force while he was about it. While Silvanus was alive, he could provide them all with the protection they needed as well. That thought drew me up short. That being the case, why was Silvanus dead? Well, doubtless all would be made clear in time. I just needed more facts.
It has always been my habit, when investigating, to gather all the facts I could, to have them at my disposal when time came for the trial. It was this little mania of mine that made me such a curiosity to my contemporaries, most of whom never let facts get in their way. In Rome the traditional way to sue a fellow citizen was to haul him before a praetor’s court and loudly accuse him of every criminal depravity you could think of, leaving him to prove himself innocent. This he usually did by bringing in as many high-placed friends as he could to swear what a fine, upright, honest fellow he was. The prosecutor would reply by bringing forth “witnesses” who would swear before all the gods that they had personally seen the accused performing every perversion from incest to bestiality. In the end, each would vie to outbribe the jury.
Even Cicero, who was more scrupulous than most, indulged in this sort of buffoonery. I have already mentioned his scurrilous characterization of Gabinius. At an earlier date, he had attacked a senator named Vatinius for wearing a black toga, calling it a degenerate insult to the revered Senate, where white togas are the rule except when in mourning. Later, when Cicero defended Vatinius in a lawsuit, he blandly proclaimed that the black toga was a pious austerity demanded by Vatinius’s Pythagorean beliefs.
It was all great fun and wonderful public entertainment, but I could never see that it led to anything resembling justice.
There was also the little problem that this was not Rome. Had it been, I could have at least made my accusations, backed and protected by my family’s many clients. Before his exile, I could even have called on Milo’s gang as bodyguards. Here, on Cyprus, I was not in a position of strength, despite my military status. I had sailors and marines of doubtful loyalty. Gabinius had his veterans, and he might have far more of them than I had seen thus far. And there were the pirates. I had a feeling that they were seldom very far from Cyprus. For all I knew they hid their ships in some nearby cove, and the taverns of the city might be full of them.
No, this was not yet the time to throw half-baked charges in Gabinius’s craggy face.
These ponderings lasted much of the morning. They also called for a bit more of that watered wine to help them along. Before I knew it, it was time for lunch. I repaired to a dockside place with a fine view of the harbor, where I laid in a substantial meal. Despite the crowding of the place brought about by the upcoming festival, I leaned back in my bench, resting my back against the whitewashed wall, intending only to meditate for a while, and soon was contentedly asleep. Well, it had been a long night.
I was awakened by a loud clamor. Somewhere, great trumpets were sounding. A great shouting came from the direction of the waterfront, and the tavern’s patrons had sprung to their feet. I shook my head, lurched to my own feet, and pushed my way to the front. All eyes were directed out to sea. Beyond the harbor mole the water seemed to be covered with sails. There were ships out there, many of them. And they were huge.