Deadly Election (21 page)

‘I’m sorry I told Laia.’

‘You can’t be blamed. She was already dropping hints.’

‘So much for loyalty!’

Faustus merely looked rueful. Knowing him, he blamed himself and his old enmity with Laia.

Sextus was drawing to a close. A roar of approval filled the north end of the Forum.

I asked quietly, ‘How do you feel the speech has gone?’

Faustus smiled. I was relieved to see it. ‘It went well!’ he said. He tipped his head on one side, viewing me with a big, beaming grin, full of his usual warmth. ‘Thank you for your help.’

Sextus jumped down from the Rostra, fired up with his success. He moved through the crowds, shaking many hands as he walked, until he reached us. People clapped him on the back so clouds of white dust arose from his toga. Even he started coughing.

At that point people almost barged into us. It was the Ennius Verecundus group. To my amazement his mother plonked herself right in front of us.

‘That was a pretty piece of rubbish, Sextus Vibius!’

Close to, her skin was leathery, her black eyes glistening. Her high-rolled Livia topknot almost looked varnished. Standing straight as a battering ram and unmoved, she examined us, while Sextus very quietly leaned in and kissed her wrinkled cheek in greeting. I wondered how well he had known her before he was married, if at all, and how closely they had been connected since. Whatever their relationship, or his with Julia, he was maintaining correct respect for his mother-in-law in public. She looked annoyed but took it as her right.

The man was doubly gracious because Julia Verecunda visibly had no time for him. She jabbed an index finger so hard into his breastbone he would certainly be bruised. She seemed to be trying to bore a deep hole, but he only stepped back a little.

‘Son-in-law! Tell that daughter of mine I expect to see her immediately.’

‘I shall write and say that is what you wish,’ agreed Sextus, mild and polite.

‘Bring her back!’ Julia Verecunda had a voice like charcoal rasping on the hot bars of a griddle. ‘I want to hear her explanation of your falsehood.
Visiting a nervous sister?
You talk nonsense, Vibius Marinus. Somebody should tell those fools who applauded your rhetoric. Not one of my daughters is pregnant. Believe me, I would be the first to know!’

I
t seemed likely that my work for the Vibius campaign was done. If Faustus needed further help I would give it, but only if he asked. I was curious about the pickle his friend must be in domestically, but now I would retire gracefully.

Faustus and I made no arrangements to meet, though we parted on good terms. He followed Vibius down the Sacred Way. I veered towards the Basilica Aemilia. I made it look casual, as if I had business of my own there. In fact, this was one of those troughs in a case that generally make me want to terminate, and even if I ran into Nothokleptes with something to tell me, I felt I would no longer wish to hear it.

Well, maybe if it was disreputable.

Curses! I had forgotten to ask what Faustus had done with my donkey. Trust a magistrate to pinch your only means of transport, then the swine forgets he borrowed it and you never see it again.

Soon I had other things to think about. As I neared the elegant row of shops at the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius, I was hailed by Cyrus, the auction-house messenger. He said he was taking money to be banked after the Callistus auction; my Aunt Maia had released their earnings to clients, less our fees. We had done well. My father would be pleased. As we always said in the family, it would buy him a new sail for his ridiculously elaborate fishing boat.

Nothokleptes took his time counting the bags of cash. He salted it away, pretending it was going into some high-income fund (in other words, his usual high-fee, low-interest, pension-for-him system). Comforted by the thought of his future profits, he leaned back and asked me, ‘Have you found out what’s going on with the Callisti?’

‘Not entirely. Difficult cashflow, apparently. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason.’

‘Liar! Tell me your interest. Have they run out of money?’

‘There is plenty, thank you, beloved Isis!’

‘And more, with their gains from the auction.’

‘Are you sending the funds to them at their house or direct to their banker?’ Notho asked, looking eager to know.

‘No idea. Maia Favonia will fix it all up. Why? Do they owe their own banker money?’

‘Oh, he has the family savings in his care. He won’t lose out.’

‘Surprise! So what’s going on?’

‘Can’t say. Client confidentiality.’

I scoffed. ‘Stick that on a satyr’s testicles with rosemary oil, and grill them lightly.’

‘Flavia Albia, your poor mother would shudder to hear you.’

‘She would cheer me on. Give, Notho!’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’

‘Do I have to drizzle rosemary oil on you and cook you too?’

Notho winced. ‘It’s only that old man Callistus operates in an old-fashioned way. He has never made his sons independent. He is not mean. They can have whatever cash they like, but his banker is only authorised to shell out on a signed requisition from the old man. Even if Callistus Valens goes to the country, which he generally does around now to avoid the heat, he packs off a messenger back to Rome every week to say how much can be released.’

‘So?’

‘No word from him. Primus went to ask for some readies, but had to be turned away.’

‘A family fall-out?’ I was intrigued.

‘Not apparently. Primus wasn’t expecting a rebuff. He stalked off looking like thunder, but he hasn’t been emancipated so there was nothing he could do. The sons talk big, but their banker respects the old man.’

‘And that is all you know?’

‘Yes. There must have been some slip-up.’

‘Promise there’s nothing more?’

‘Bankers never make promises. We know too much about life’s uncertainties.’

Almost as wise as informers.

‘This sounds dodgy,’ I told Cyrus, as we left. ‘I’m starting to wonder if the Callistus sons organised our auction to get round their old man and acquire some direct income. Have they quarrelled with him? Could they have emptied the old store without him knowing? They sound really desperate for the auction money. Must be glad it’s over.’

‘It’s not.’ Cyrus said. ‘Gornia put a few things together to stretch it out for one more day. Most could have waited for the next big sale, but he wants to finish with that strongbox.’

‘He’s selling it again? What happened about the under-bidder?’

‘You know what people are like. When Gornia went and offered it, the fool lost confidence and convinced himself he no longer wanted it.’

I growled, ‘Of course the idiot will turn up and bid again, as soon as he sees other people showing an interest. Serve him right if he ends up paying more for it.’

‘Gornia has taken a real dislike to that chest. He can’t wait to see it go.’ Cyrus paused. ‘You might drop in today – your pa would want someone on the scene. Gornia doesn’t like the atmosphere. He went so far as to tell Lappius to bring extra men for security.’

‘He’s getting past it. The corpse in the box made him jumpy.’

‘So we have to jolly him along,’ said Cyrus.

Well, that was something to do. I bought hot flatbreads from a stall for Cyrus and me; then we turned back towards the Capitol, hiked around towards the Field of Mars and entered the Porticus of Pompey.

When we arrived there was only a modest crowd. Gornia was on the tribunal, selling a veneered cupboard; anyone who liked the finish would probably not see that a door was tied on with twine and a knob had gone missing.

The worn pelt and sagging frame of Ursa guarded the unsold goods.
Boy with a Thorn
was acting as another sentinel. The strongbox stood waiting. Nobody was taking notice of it. Everything seemed unexceptional.

Gornia liked to go to trouble. Using items for sale, he had created a small room-set, arranging a couch, tables, cupboards, stools. Lamps, some not even remotely erotic, hung from candelabrum stands. He had even set out a board and glass counters. Naturally people wandered in; one member of the audience took his ease on the long chair. Every man who went that way tried making a move on the gaming board. They all tried ringing the tiny bells on a tintinnabulum assemblage.
That
was rude; they always are. Primitive people who think a nude phallus can ward off evil must know little about life.

Bidding opened on a bunch of weathered stone dinner couches that must have been stripped out when somebody remodelled their garden. The sloped three-person loungers were basic; they would be covered with cushions if anybody used them. But, excitingly, they came in a set with a large fountain niche, ornamented with shells and mosaic. It had a coy Birth of Venus (small breasts, big hips, half-heartedly veiling herself with a wisp of seaweed) flanked by a pair of extremely muscular sea-horses, who were having fun thrashing twinkly glass foam. A fine piece: I could see why it had been salvaged by the canny building team.

Five of them were here. Wide men in dusty one-armed tunics and heavy site boots, all looking and feeling out of place, but fixedly watching bids on their lot. They had a large squelchy wineskin of mulsum, that sustaining mix of honey and vinegar, with their own cups. Every time someone made a bid, the labourers winced, then gulped their drinks. It was pure amazement at the money they were about to make, a fortune to them.

These were men who worked long hours, very badly paid when compared with the wealthy house-owners and fashionable designers who commissioned them. Somehow, for once, they had managed a windfall. Gornia must have asked searching questions but we all knew there was prodigious waste when homes were renovated. Beautiful things were often thrown away and we liked to see good come out of a rubbish skip − especially since my father had once found a baby in one, now my sweet cousin Junillus. Salvage was in our blood.

When their lot sold, the workmen sloshed more mulsum into their cups, looking stunned.

I went up and explained what they needed to do now. They were happy to transport both couches and fountain to the new owner in their heavy-duty cart, and even offered him a cheap deal for installation. I said we would gladly receive more salvage from them, although they always had to demonstrate they had the right to it: our auction house would not become receivers of stolen goods.

At this point, the Callisti turned up: Secundus and the cousin, well attended by belligerent guards. Gornia glanced at me, though they parked themselves harmlessly at the back of the crowd.

Hardly had they started casting gloom with their heavy presence than the wife of Niger rushed into the auction circle, followed by a shabby man with sweat dripping off him, also going full pelt.

‘Stop the sale!’ She flung both arms wide as if shepherding some tricky goats. ‘That chest belongs to my husband. You are not authorised to sell it!’

Gornia defused the situation by announcing he would auction off some wine vessels, while I ascertained the problem.

All the crowd perked up. The builders chose to stay and watch. Nobody paid any attention to Gornia’s calls for bids on the wine kraters, which were, to tell the truth, disappointing. One had an enormous crack. People buy those things because they’re smitten by their sheer size. Nobody uses the huge party mixing vessels afterwards: even empty, nobody can lift them. Most return in due course to be sold again. We welcome them back like long-lost sons and talk them up on ‘rarity’.

Cornering Niger’s hysterical wife, I kept my voice low. Auctioneers run into situations like this, but we knew how to defend our rights. ‘It is true,’ I said, ‘your husband made a bid on this strongbox, but he never paid. The chest therefore reverts to the original owners, who have authorised us to put it up for sale a second time.’

‘Titus Niger owns it!’

‘Only if he bought it. Let me explain again.’ I toughened up, while still playing reasonable. Grandpa, a ruthless charmer, would have cheered. ‘If you are claiming you own this item, you must produce proof – our docket to say that Niger gave us the money.’

The wife was frantic. ‘They won’t pay his fee. He is going nuts about his lost time.’

‘Then I suppose he might legitimately hold on to any item in his possession as collateral, but not this. Because we received no payment, we are selling the box again.’

‘But—’

‘No! Since this chest belonged to the Callisti, Niger must take up any dispute with them.’ We were going round in circles. ‘Anyway,’ I demanded in mild annoyance, ‘where is the famous Niger? What does the defaulter have to say for himself?’

His wife looked shifty. Her agent fixed his eyes upon the ground and made no comment. ‘My husband is out of town right now.’

‘Where?’

I realised his wife had no idea. That seemed slightly odd.

The sweaty man took a hand. ‘I’m acting as arbiter. I subpoena the chest until its true ownership is decided.’

Hopeless. He was a cheapskate hireling who should have given the woman better advice right from the start and never have let her come near the auction. I reckoned he was someone Niger dealt with in his work: that was how the wife came to know him. But Niger himself was far out of his class.

‘I do not accept your subpoena,’ I stated firmly. ‘Niger reneged. We asked the original owners for instructions and here we are, reselling. Any questions, go over there and take up your beef with the Callisti.’ During this altercation Callistus Secundus and his cousin never moved, though they heard what was being said.

‘This is a legal situation.’ He was red-faced and pompous – but he had that nervous eye-twitch that revealed he felt deeply unsure of his position.

‘Wrong.’ I smiled coldly. ‘This is an auction and we are proceeding with it.’

‘I’m going to fetch the vigiles.’

‘You do that.’ I signalled to Gornia to shift the strongbox with all speed.

The so-called agent was so busy blustering he did not even notice my sign. ‘I am going straight away and nobody is to touch that chest until I come back!’

‘I hear you.’ I would ignore him.