Deadly Election (14 page)

‘Does Domitian blame Abascantus for that?’ I asked; it would explain the freedman’s sudden exile.

Claudius Laeta gave me a long, purse-lipped gaze. However much he despised Abascantus, as two bureaucrats they were bonded. He would not snitch.

Faustus then supplied the names of the other candidates, seeking Laeta’s views.

‘Whoever devised such a dreadful list?’ Laeta snapped crossly. ‘Someone should receive a reprimand! It’s the Caelian Hill mob, all clubbing together – when they are not feuding. There ought to be men from other districts and backgrounds. Variety. Choice. This selection has had no beneficial management. A list should be elegant, pleasingly simple so voters can navigate with confidence.’

I was intrigued that Laeta saw an election list as something to be supervised by officials. I had foolishly supposed that candidates personally decided to stand, then had to make their own way. ‘No, Flavia Albia, there are rules, of course there are. This is a stupid pickle. We may live in a city where family counts, but you don’t want all your magistrates sharing a bed. Especially if, every time one turns over on the pillow, the one behind stabs him in the back.’

Faustus sounded anxious: ‘I suppose you mean that my candidate is paired up with my ex-wife’s brother …’

The oomph went out of the freedman. ‘Did I say so? No. Thank you for telling me. I did not know that. Manlius Faustus … who are you? I know nothing about you. Where have you arrived from?’

‘Falco’s daughter, has your father completed a background check on this “good friend” of yours?’ he demanded of me abruptly. He had remembered my words of introduction. He remembered Father’s methods too.

‘Ah, Falco is always suspicious of his daughters’ friends.’ I chuckled.

‘Well, thank the gods someone still has standards! The election is murkier. I shall have to think about the implications. It is all too much for me today.’

‘Sir?’

We had lost him. In a moment Laeta faded before our eyes; he seemed to become confused and drowsy, an old man in his dotage, losing all vestiges of his past powers. We felt like intruders, harrying the man in his declining years.

I lifted the beaker from his hand. As we tiptoed from the room, Tiberius Claudius Laeta, one time behind-the-scenes steersman of government, seemed sunk in his chair, dozing, a lumpen shadow.

I did not entirely believe it. From what I knew of his history, nodding off may have been an act. I thought there was life – and mischief – in Claudius Laeta yet.

I apologised to Faustus that the interview had gone rockily. He thought about that, as we walked back to the city between the roadside tombs that grace the Via Appia. He surprised me by saying that in his opinion we would hear from Laeta. The old freedman would not forget our visit. After we had gone, Laeta would deploy whatever contacts he undoubtedly still possessed. Then, sooner or later, he would send us information.

We walked some distance further. Suddenly Faustus demanded, not breaking his stride, ‘Well, has he?’

‘Has who done what?’

‘Has Didius Falco carried out a check on me?’

I kept it light. ‘Of course. He made up an excuse about the auction house and came back to Rome for three days on purpose.’

Faustus said nothing. That was Faustus.

‘Tiberius, I strictly instructed him not to.’

For a while Faustus remained quiet. I dared not look at him. His voice was taut: ‘He loves you. He wants to protect you.’

‘Rubbish. I told him you are not interested in being more than a friend.’

I did turn and look at him then, only to find Manlius Faustus laughing. ‘Oh, oh, I shall never be allowed to forget that!’ He meant, as I had meant, the time I wanted to go to bed with him but he turned down the offer. ‘I must have been crazy!’

I stared straight ahead and kept walking.

After a moment more, Faustus murmured, ‘I like it.’

‘What?’

‘Having an embarrassing story that I shall be teased about for years to come.’

‘Years?’

‘Better get used to it.’

Again, I kept walking and made no answer.

Some time later, inevitably, the aedile wanted to know what my father had found out about him. I claimed that Falco had refused to tell me.

B
ack at the Capena Gate, Faustus turned left towards the Arch of Dolabella and Silanus, intending to visit Sextus Vibius.

Laeta had said, ‘the Caelian Hill mob’. What did he mean? I asked Faustus but he either did not know or chose not to tell me.

I continued straight ahead on my own towards the Flavian Amphitheatre. I passed along the Sacred Way to a place where my father kept an advertising space on permanent hire. Since the Callistus sale was virtually over, I scrubbed its details from the wall, found the chalk we left behind a loose brick, and neatly wrote up a description, all we had, of the strongbox corpse. I appealed for information about the man’s identity. I gave my contact details, and promises of gratitude, although I stopped short of offering a reward. I could not face all the chancers who would turn up at the merest sniff of money.

People would look. They might gossip initially. All too soon they would ignore the wall, taking no more notice of my appeal. Still, I might as well try.

Occasionally someone responds. I do it myself. I had met Manlius Faustus when I answered a notice he had put up, asking for witnesses to a street accident.

At a loose end, I decided to walk on to the Porticus of Pompey and check how the auction had finally ended.

Most lots had been sold. Everything had petered out. Yesterday’s items had been taken away, either collected by buyers at the time or dragged off before dawn by Felix in our own delivery cart. The professional dealers had gone on their way; only a thin crowd of casuals remained, no one taking too much interest in the last selection of distressed goods. Further down the porticus, a fool who didn’t care if he disturbed the peace stood on a barrel telling dirty jokes; most of the idlers had moved up there and were craning their necks. Anyone morally offended would complain to an aedile. By the time the aedile came to fine him for obscenity, the comedian would be long gone.

I thought about Vibius, also Gratus, Arulenus, Trebonius, Dillius and Verecundus, wondering how each of them would cope with a situation like this. Poorly, in my opinion. Mind you, that was traditional. Even the mighty Vespasian, a future emperor, had been hauled up for failure of duty when he was an aedile; the folds of his toga were loaded with mud from the streets he had failed to have properly cleaned.

It must be just before lunchtime. It was hotter even than yesterday.

Some of our workers were packing up; they were being discreet because the auction was still running, just about. I saw Gornia, looking more harassed than usual. He had only the last few items, which had been collected together around his tribunal.

I recognised a moth-eaten stuffed bear we had been trying to shift for months, which kept failing to attract any bids and we all knew why: interested parties had only to wander up for an inspection and her mouldy smell made them recoil. Until we found someone with a sinus infection, Ursa would remain ours. There were a bunch of ceramic comports with uneven stands, a huddle of barnacled fish-pickle amphorae, a dog kennel for a very small dog that didn’t mind being rained on, and an old friend.

The mediocre statue of
The Boy Taking a Thorn out of His
Left Foot
had come back.

‘I
do not believe this!’

Taking a breather, Gornia mopped his brow. ‘I know. It did seem too good to be true.’

‘What happened?’

‘Defaulter.’

‘The bulgy man in the puce tunic? I don’t understand it. He’d been hanging about all day waiting for his chance to bid, hoping no one else would have a go.’

‘I wish they had. I wish we’d had a good underbidder that I could drag this bloody thing along to … In fact I’m ready to give it away.’ Gornia was bitter. ‘Buyers have to see the docket boy. Everyone knows the routine. He never even tried to complete. Must have waved his hand and made his bid, then scarpered. Strolled off straight out of the porticus. No money, no delivery instruction, and a no-show this morning. It happens,’ the unhappy old fellow told me, trying to defend the situation. ‘We were all so tired, nobody saw it. Your pa will understand.’

‘My pa will get on to him about it, surely – assuming we know who he is?’

‘Falco won’t bother. No point, not if he really made up his mind he didn’t want it. Once they’ve gone off the scene, we don’t usually chase them. He’ll never pay. We still have the goods. We’ll just sell the thing next time.’

‘And do we know?’ I insisted. ‘Do we know who Puce Tunic is?’

‘Absolutely no idea,’ said Gornia flatly. ‘Never seen the swine before.’

He gave
The
Boy with a Thorn
a kick, then went back up on his stand to try to sell Ursa, the seven-times-attempted mouldy bear.

However, half our staff had been listening in. They love to watch an upset. ‘Puce Tunic was talking to that other one,’ the money-clerk told me, taking a break from his lunch. ‘That skinny one. Him who bought the strongbox.’ Titus Niger.

Gornia brought down his gavel on a no-sale for the stuffed bear. He leaned down from his box. ‘And that’s another thing, Flavia Albia. We had a bad day yesterday – the skinny man still has not sent his banker’s draft. Looks like the old Callistus chest is staying with us, too. It’s lunchtime. We’re never going to see him bring a purse now.’

I sighed. ‘I suppose you are going to tell me this is what comes of holding auctions in July.’ I spoke mildly. I had no wish to offend Gornia.

‘Bad payers don’t care. It’s bloody ridiculous,’ he snarled back. He seemed a sweet old fellow, but he had a furious side. ‘I’d like to know what’s going on – what games are these jokers playing?’

I thought it felt more complex than games. I was suspicious of two defaulting buyers talking to each other. Were they really unconnected, or was this a concerted scam? Anything involving the chest seemed significant, while the puce-attired man had looked dodgy from the off – and not just in his taste for tunic dye. If he and the Callistus negotiator knew one another, that certainly caught my attention.

‘I always thought
The Boy with the Thorn
was ours for keeps. The strongbox is really outrageous, though,’ Gornia raved. ‘I had good bids on that.’

Neither of the no-shows was our fault. You conduct your sale as best you can, then there has to be trust between auctioneer and bidder. Defaulters are a menace; if feasible, you ban them from attending again. Rome has a tradition of allowing goods to go home with people on credit, but shrewd auctioneers don’t allow it. Too many strangers. Too many peculiar buyers.

I still felt I was the family representative. I said I would go to see the Callisti and, if I could not discover what was going on, at least I would give our clients some colourful language.

‘Now you be careful!’ Gornia had heard me before when I sounded off. He sent a porter with me, Lappius. The large one. The Callisti were used to taking the lead in their business affairs. They were not used to anyone arguing. Especially anyone like me.

First, though, I went to see their skinny agent. He, unlike Puce Tunic, had foolishly left us an address.

N
iger lived off the Via Tusculana, a small side-street on the lower edge of Oppian Hill. He was not entirely daft: in case anybody angry called, he had gone out.

Luckily for me, he had one of those strange wives who like to be at home all day, mopping floors. I made sure not to step on the wet part.

Broad of beam and wide of features, this put-upon woman assured me she had no idea where her husband might be or when she could expect him home. Many marriages, I knew, are run on these pathetic lines. (Not mine!) It flagrantly flouts the definition that marriage is the agreement of two people to live together. ‘Together’ being the crucial word. If he goes out, either he takes you with him − if you definitely want to go − or he damn well tells you where he is off to so you can turn up there later and catch him with his arm round that dumpy barmaid nobody else would look at.

I commented politely that Niger’s woman kept the place nice for him, so she said it was expected, wasn’t it? In the Manlius Faustus style of discussion, I made no reply. If she had been brighter, she would have seen my silence as dissent.

I managed to extract from her that Niger had been highly upset last evening when the Callisti sent a curt order not to honour his bid. She said he was so angry, he raved around the house all night, shouting his objections to the way he had been treated − which at least meant his wife had discovered what was wrong. She explained the issue: Niger was worried that our auction house could count him as liable. If we came down on him for the money (and my presence now hinted that we might) it was too much for him to find. Even if he could pay up, he was landed with a rubbishy old chest.

If we let him off, defaulting on his bid was bad practice; Niger had an image to keep up. It was important because he was not salaried to the Callisti but worked as a freelance; he relied on having a good reputation and references to obtain other work. He needed to look like a man who knew what he was doing.

I expressed fellow feeling; it went over her head. Niger’s wife had no concept of a woman working, let alone working for herself. She thought I was just a messenger today. ‘Your husband had been hired by Callistus Primus on other occasions, I presume?’

‘Well, actually, I think recently was his first time with them. Niger was hoping it would lead to bigger things.’

‘He struck me as very experienced.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then he can live without the Callisti in his portfolio. People who let you down are a nightmare … Who does he work for otherwise?’

‘Oh, you would have to ask him that.’

‘I will if I can find him.’

‘He acts as an agent for some
very
nice people,’ the wife assured me, though I did not take this as reliable. Nice people are pretty hard to find. ‘Good payers, most of them, as well.’ Probably true. His income would impact on her household budget, so she would keep an eye on it. ‘They all think very highly of my husband as their agent. Julia Terentia gave us a beautiful set of glass beakers last Saturnalia.’ Presumably not much use if Niger was never at home to drink anything out of them.