Deadly Election

15

The sun was high overhead. In the post-noon bake, I began to flag. The marble-clad porticus buildings sweated heat from every stone, until my heart was pattering uneasily.

Gornia noticed me looking flushed. His ninety-year-old frame was exhausted too. We conferred, carrying out an inventory by eye: there was enough stock to continue the sale tomorrow when staff and buyers would be fresh, rather than struggling on when everyone was past caring. So we finished for today.

I made Gornia ride Patchy back to the Saepta. Our people stayed in the porticus to guard the lots overnight. I left and walked wearily towards the Aventine. After passing the civilised Porticus of Octavia, the closed Theatre of Marcellus, the teeming vegetable and meat markets, I came level with the Circus Maximus and faced a choice. Maturity struck me. Instead of forcing myself to make a suicidal climb up the steep hill, I went gently along the Embankment to my parents’ house and rested there.

A slave let me in, then left me to myself; they all knew me as the peculiar one, often reclusive. With my family still away, the empty house felt melancholy but I made good use of the coolness and peace. Reflecting on the auction, I wondered again about the interested parties, those I had spotted and others who might have escaped my attention. I mulled over the two idlers who had parked their stupid bodies by the armoured chest while I was selling it: were they not so stupid as they looked? I considered other faces. I even paid attention mentally to the man in the puce tunic, the strange loafer who had bought the thorn-in-foot statue.

Getting nowhere with that, I chewed over Manlius Faustus bidding for the bench. I failed to solve that puzzle either – or not in a way where it felt safe to venture.

Early in the pleasant summer evening, I went home. No one I knew was at Fountain Court. I tidied my apartment and carried out chores. I collected old food scraps to feed to a fox who visited a local enclosure, gathered laundry, went down the alley to leave it, carried on to Prisca’s Baths and asked Prisca’s trainer to give me a few exercises, steamed myself, bought fresh provisions, then swore at Rodan on my way back in, just so he knew life with me at home was back to normal.

‘Something came for you,’ he grouched. My new bench. Anyone would think there had been no delivery man or any competent person to supervise. Of course there was: he was still here, out on the bench, working on a scroll. I could tell Rodan had never lifted a finger when the stoneware was lugged into the courtyard. He was moaning because he hated change. ‘We never had to have a seat before! We’ll get people sitting on it.’

‘Juno, that would be terrible! It’s only for me. I don’t want anybody else parking their dirty bums on it.’

‘Tell him, then!’

‘We’ll allow him. It’s his bench.’

The slave, Dromo, had been taking his ease alongside Faustus, but he was turfed off when I walked out into the courtyard. They had positioned the bench where the old teasel-carding racks had once stood when this was Lenia’s laundry, famous for its owner’s drinking habits and for losing people’s best belongings; the two were directly connected. Now nothing occupied the deserted yard except my cheeky-looking dolphins, the generous man who had bought them and his awful slave. ‘Where am I supposed to go now?’

‘Quit moaning, Dromo. Sit over there quietly, in the porch.’

‘Oh, no! Master, don’t do that to me, not with smelly Rodan!’ Dromo knew he had to go, but made his way as slowly as possible, dragging his feet in their scruffy sandals and glaring back balefully. He shouted out, ‘At least from here I don’t have to look at you two mooning over each other.’

‘Get lost or I’ll beat you.’ Dromo knew there was little chance of that. His master made the mistake of adding, ‘Albia and I do not moon!’

‘You would, if I wasn’t looking out all the time to catch you at it.’

Manlius Faustus gripped his belt with both hands, gave up on his slave and spoke through gritted teeth to me: ‘Sorry!’

‘No need.’

‘I could sell him.’

‘You never will.’

‘Perhaps not. He is mine. He is rude, he is defiant, yet he is my familia.’

‘Counts as a relative. Bound to be maddening … Be calm, Tiberius.’

He made a gesture of acquiescence. He had high standards, yet tolerance of those who had a reason to be truculent. He believed that finding yourself a slave was an unfair accident of Fate.

He was tolerant of me too. I could get away with anything. I knew that.

‘Now they’re saying, “What shall we do about Dromo?” I bet,’ scoffed the boy, so we were bound to overhear. Faustus ignored it. However, I heard pent-up growling from him.

The aedile rolled up the scroll of senators’ names he had brought, too jaded to continue making notes. Instead, we discussed the auction and my failure to gather any useful clues.

‘Now, Tiberius, I saw you speaking to the Callistus brothers and their cousin.’

‘Good manners. We just said hello.’

I mentioned how Callistus Primus had inexplicably ordered the repurchase of the armoured chest. ‘The family is presenting this as an act of respect, in order to stop anyone else taking an impious interest in the victim. I don’t believe their explanation.’

Faustus looked sympathetic but proffered no ideas.

‘I think they know who the dead man was, but I’ll never get them to say.’ I changed the subject. ‘The strongbox is my problem … Laia Gratiana was jibing at your friend today and actually has a point. Sextus is married. Why do we never see his wife?’

Faustus shrugged. ‘I suppose for the reason he said. She dislikes large groups of people. You cannot make a shy person enjoy public campaigning.’

‘Do you know her? “Darling Julia”?’ I quoted Laia Gratiana, though was less sarcastic in tone. Anyone Laia was catty about was a friend of mine.

‘I have met her. Quiet girl. Never has much to say for herself, but she has always been devoted to Sextus – she is famous for it.’

‘In that case,’ I mused, ‘you might expect her to be brave and turn out to support him sometimes.’ Faustus made no comment. ‘Is it not part of your duties as his manager to try to persuade Julia to appear among his supporters?’

‘I can have a word. I don’t know her very well.’

‘Did you go their wedding? How long ago was it?’

‘Yes. About eight years.’

‘Do they have children?’

‘A boy and a girl, I think.’

‘Don’t you know? Old friend of their father, are you not their jovial Uncle Tiberius, always spoiling the darlings?’

‘No!’ Faustus moved suddenly, adjusting position on the bench as if I had made him uncomfortable with my questions.

‘Sorry.’

‘It is your work. You can’t help it … But, Albia, when you start prodding, I automatically fear you have a problem in mind.’

‘No.’

‘Well, good … Two rumbustious little tots, last time I saw them – which was not all that long ago,’ Faustus insisted defensively. ‘I do visit them. Sextus and Julia simply like being private.’ He paused, then suggested awkwardly, ‘Well, you know, sometimes a married couple don’t issue many invitations to a friend who is single.’

‘I see.’

‘Inevitably we have less in common.’

‘Right.’

‘Their social life tends to concentrate around similar young families.’

‘So true. And a bachelor will not seek out occasions where all the talk is of running a family home and educating children?’ I spoke gently, touched by his hint of loneliness.

‘I can endure family chatter.’

‘Yes, if you have to, but I said you don’t seek it.’

‘I don’t avoid it,’ he persisted. After a moment he suddenly added, ‘There must have been a third child. I once heard Julia in discussion about an older daughter. I never asked, in case it’s a tragedy. Anyway,’ Faustus concluded, ‘I am seeing enough of Sextus now. He turned to me for help with his campaign, after all. We work together on a daily basis.’

He unrolled the scroll again, an act of punctuation: a full stop firmly positioned in my nagging interrogation.

New paragraph. I can take a hint.

For some while we talked, as he ran a finger down the endless list of names. This was discussion as he and I practised the art: with serious purpose, balanced, highly productive of ideas. We contributed equally, both intent.

I fetched out the waxed tablet that I always carried, making notes for him. Since I had run out of leads on Strongbox Man, I offered to be available tomorrow to take Faustus first to see the Camilli, then to consult the retired Secretary of Petitions, Claudius Laeta, with whom Father used to work. ‘Or work against, I should say – the man was an intrepid manipulator. Always so subtle we could never deduce his real objectives.’

‘So it will be all straight answers!’

The aedile’s humour was interrupted by his slave, as Dromo shouted, ‘Master! I’m supposed to yell out when you have to go off to dinner!’

‘No, Dromo, you are supposed to approach discreetly and whisper in my ear … Sorry, Albia.’ Faustus smiled a rueful apology, although in truth I had no claim on his time. ‘He is right. I have to go. More necessary socialising. Dinner, probably lousy, with one of the possible senators …’

‘Time I let you leave.’ I made it sound as if I was happy to be rid of him. My true feelings were probably visible. ‘Is your Sextus going too?’

‘Yes, he will be on display. That is the purpose of it.’

‘Will his wife accompany him?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Salvius Gratus, your coalition colleague?’

Amusement crinkled around the aedile’s grey eyes. ‘Yes – and before you ask, Laia Gratiana will drag herself along as well, to demonstrate her support for her brother.’ I applied an uncaring expression. Faustus gazed at me. ‘Would you like to come as my guest, Albia?’

Gulp.

I said taking along their informer might not assist Sextus Vibius. Ours is a despised profession. I heard myself add that it would look as if Faustus had brought along his mistress, which was only useful if the mistress had a great deal of political influence and was publicly known to have slept with very famous men.

Faustus reckoned it depended on the senator: some, he claimed, would find me very interesting. I laughed drily. Then he sensibly accepted my refusal.

I walked with him to the gatehouse. He touched my hand lightly. I watched him march off down Fountain Court, Dromo lolloping in his wake, like a disabled rabbit. The way Dromo fell over his feet reminded me of the slave who worked for Fundanus, the pyre-builder, struggling in a dead man’s stolen boots.

I recrossed the empty courtyard and resumed my bench. Pleasant early-evening sunlight warmed the spot where the aedile had positioned it, bringing me a sense of well-being.

My new seat aroused lively interest among the other apartment-dwellers. They were fewer than they once had been: my father was intending to sell the decrepit Eagle Building for redevelopment. It was one of those drawn-out sales that take several years, with a sluggish buyer who keeps you guessing; everybody knew it was planned, but his tenants would scream with indignation when the buyer suddenly came good and Father had to evict them.

Most lacked balconies but managed to lean out of windows, calling, ‘Ooh, get you, Flavia Albia!’ By tradition, any people who lived here were appalling.

I already felt this bench was a crucial acquisition. One of those items that become central in your daily life, the one crazy possession you make sure to save if a fire breaks out … Silly: it was in a courtyard and made of stone. All I had to do was keep burglars away from it, especially strong ones.

I was an informer. I lived alone in squalor here. I had done so for years, never expecting change. Yet Manlius Faustus had planted the idea that I might begin to strive for a better life.

Still, he was a political campaigner. That is what they always say. All lies. It never happens.