David Wishart - Food for the Fishes

Baiae may be the jewel of the Campanian coast and the playground of the beautiful rich, but like any other place its got its good points too. You have to look hard to find them, mind, and Zethuss wineshop had taken me three days. Zethuss was just a glorified shack, tucked away just above the beach on the Misenum side of town, right on the edge and well off the main drag, but the wine was good and although some of the clientele could seriously get up your nose at times they were okay company on the whole: all locals, and definitely not members of the gilded-eyelashes-and-pet-peacock-on-a-lead set who come down from Rome for the summer. Which suited me just fine. Three daysworth of town-centre wineshops patronised by bleating chinless wonders in holiday mood had had me practically climbing walls. Mind you, since the alternative was spending quality time in the company of Mother and Priscus I couldnt be too fussy.

Currently, the said punters were whiling away the evening by indulging in the quaint old wineshop custom of winding up the drunk.

Me, I wasnt getting involved. No way. Drunk-baiting in generals a purely local sport, restricted to regulars, and any outsider stupid enough to shove his nose in is likely to get it punched; also, although Baiae may be the playground of bright young things with full purses and fluff where their brains should be, outside the luxury coastal villas belt a Roman purple-stripers there on sufferance. If he wants to stay welcome he learns fast to sit and drink his wine without giving no offence to no one. Besides, baiting drunks just isnt my bag.

This one was a beaut, mind; the drunks drunk, a real dedicatee: small, seedy, puffy-faced and with a nose on him you couldve used to guide ships through fog. Hed been propping up the bar for two solid hours to my certain knowledge, getting silently smashed on Zethuss cheapest house wine which hed been pouring down his throat like his legs were hollow. By this time it was the bar that was doing the propping, hed gone through the muttering-to-himself stage and out the other end, and the punters were feeding him free cups just to see how long itd be before he ended up a sodden lump on the sawdust. Call it a spirit of scientific enquiry if you like, or just morbid fascination. Me, Id say it was pure simple bloody-mindedness, which was par for the course: wineshop punters, especially places like Zethuss, have a pretty basic sense of humour, and they tend to make their own amusements.

The guy lifted his cup for the umpteenth time, found his mouth at the third try, took another swallow and glared at them. Fifteen years, he said. Fifteen years I been in that place, right? Am I right?

The punter next to him at the bar the elected straight-man was nodding like a sympathetic owl while his mates behind chuckled into their drinks. Yeah. Yeah, right, he said. Its a crying shame, no mistake.

Old Juventius, hed neverve done it, never. Juventius was a proper gentleman. Not like that bastard. We had a deal, the old man and me. He belched. Trebbio, boy, he says, Im not greedy. You drop me a lobster or two when you can spare them and well call the rent quits. Bastard!

He is that. The punter took a pull at his own wine, reached for the jug and topped up the drunks. No question.

Him and his fancy fish farm, raking it in hand-over-fist. Fifteen years. Fifteen bloody years. He belched again and wiped a trickle of wine off his chin. Hotel. Man like him, money to burn, what does he want to build a bloody hotel for anyway? Go on, you tell me. You tell me that, right? S not his business, hotels.

Some peoples never satisfied with what they got, sure enough.

Youre right there. Hes a bastard. A greedy bastard. He took another swig. Weve enough of the sods already.

Bastards? one of the other punters at the back asked innocently. The rest sniggered.

The drunk turned, one elbow on the bar for support, and fixed him with a poached-egg stare. Tourists. Tourists, boy, thats what I mean. Come down from Rome, swan about like they own the place

Yeah, thats cos they bleeding do, most of it, the punter said. His pals sniggered again, and he shot me a wink. Isnt that so, Corvinus?

But I wasnt going to be dragged in; no way was I going to be dragged in, not even by invitation. I sipped my wine: Zethuss does a fair Campanian that his partner gets from a friend in Neapolis. His male partner: both of them are Greek, like most of the natives around Baiae, and the Greeks tend to be pretty open-minded about that sort of thing.

Dont look at me, pal, I said easily. Im just staying with family, and they borrowed the villa, they dont own it.

The drunk took a firm grip of the bar and turned to give me a slow pop-eyed stare, taking in my mantle and purple stripe. Got nothing against Romans, me, he said finally. Notassuch. Notassuch. He picked up his cup and raised it to me. Wine slopped. Didnt mean to cause off offnss He drained the cup and belched. Offence.

None taken. I raised my own cup. Cheers, friend.

Only some of them. Like that bastard. Some people, though, theyd be better off dead, know what I mean?

Yeah, I said. Yeah, I know.

Just happens hes a Roman too, right? Pure coinc He hiccuped. Coincidence. Could be anyone, but hes a Roman. No offence, though. He blinked, staggered, grabbed the bar again and stood swaying. Fuck! Im plastered!

Zethus was washing cups. He glanced up. Maybe youd best be getting home, Trebbio, he said quietly.

Nah, theres still plenty of wine in the jug. The straight-man punter his name was Alcis slapped him on the shoulder and steadied him with his other hand. Come on, Trebbio, Im buying. Okay, lads?

The other punters grinned. One of them said: Sure.

No, Zethus is right. Ive had enough. The drunk straightened. Anyway, s a full moon tonight. Best be going. Got to check my lines. He rocked back and forward on his feet and made a lurch for the door. Night, all.

The door closed behind him. Yeah, well; maybe he was smarter than he seemed, even if he was pissed as a newt. Hed come out a winner, anyway, at least a jug of free booze ahead and still mobile. If you could call it mobile. Certainly the punters were looking disappointed as hell, like cats left watching an empty mousehole. Not that Id much sympathy there. I tapped my own empty half jug and Zethus came round the bar.

He be all right? I said quietly.

Oh, yeah. Hes only going half a mile or so along the beach. Zethus took the jug. Mind you, hes had a bigger skinful than usual. He turned round to the punters. That wasnt nice of you lads. Not nice at all.

Alcis gave him a cheerful finger and turned back to chat with his mates.

Who was this bastard he was on about? I said.

Thats Murena. Licinius Murena. He owns the big fish farm and villa just down the coast from here.

I chuckled. Murena, right? Good name for a fish farmer. A murenas a moray eel. Sure, its a regular surname in the pukkah branch of the Licinius family, too, so the coincidence isnt as remarkable as it looks, but then Cicero didnt raise chickpeas for a living, did he? Not that one of the Licinii would be exactly strapped for a copper piece or two.

His grandfather started it a century or so back. Its the oldest and biggest on the bay. Zethus nodded at the jug. Same again?

Uh-uh. Make it a cup. Ill have to be getting back soon. If I came rolling in at one in the morning tripping over the furniture thered be Looks from Mother at breakfast. Perilla wouldnt be too happy, either. Whats this business about a hotel?

Murenas bought the old Juventius estate between here and town. Thats where Trebbio has his cottage. Guys planning to build a hotel, a big one, for the top end of the market, and Trebbio got the boot this morning. He isnt too pleased about it.