Deadly Election

21

Callistus Primus was not at home. I wondered if he was out with Niger, although if the agent was annoyed with him, that seemed unlikely. It was tempting to suppose that, like Niger, Callistus wanted to hide from me, but we informers have to beware of assuming other people’s lives revolve around us. Callistus was entitled to go out on business. He had probably forgotten I existed.

His brother and cousin were out too. Neither had been home the last time I had called, so this was routine for them. I had not met the father and saw no point in asking after him. He wasn’t in. I worked that out for myself.

I told the door porter I would wait like a morning client on their stone bench until somebody or other came home. As I was now a returning visitor, he brought me a cup of water. Things were looking up.

I had no real intention of hanging around for long, but was keen to sit down. I had walked a lot today: down to the Capena Gate, out on the Via Appia, back into Rome, across the Forum, on to the Porticus of Pompey, and now back again, first to the Oppian and then around the Caelian to here. The ‘bench’ was a simple ledge, but had a fine view across the main road from the Forum towards the big shrine of Fortuna Respiciens that sits at the base of the Palatine. Gazing at the temple saved me having to look higher up at Domitian’s flash new palace, with its élite stadium and private gardens occupying the crag.

I had a wary respect for the goddess of fortune, patron of good luck or bad, bringer of benefits by chance. ‘Respiciens’ meant looking over her shoulder, wise woman. In the past she had laid much misery upon me, yet from time to time she sent unexpected joys. Like all those heavy, big-hipped Roman deities, Fortuna had her quirks. That suited me. I possess a few myself, I am proud to say.

While I sat resting, I noticed again the large advertising space on a wall of the Callistus house. There had been slogans before, but it was blank now. I was sure the previous notice had been political, so it seemed premature to remove it. Was an election candidate slyly obliterating rivals’ claims? (That gave me ideas.) Most likely, someone had crept up and painted in a notice without paying the hire fee. The wall’s owner had scrubbed off the offending advert, while the culprit moved on to some other empty space.

Still pondering, I thought about how Claudius Laeta had said this year’s candidates were too close-knit. I ought to look into that, because to me few links were obvious. Faustus had failed to see what Laeta meant, too, or so he maintained, though I sometimes had a vague feeling Faustus and his man Vibius were keeping things from me.

It would not be the first time a client had held back vital information. Then when you finally discover the truth and point out how vital it is, they go fluttery, or they even turn on you: they protest that they thought it was not relevant; they did not want to hurt their mother; they wanted to shield you from unpleasant information; the truth was embarrassing; they simply forgot …

The first thing to know about clients is that they never help themselves.

Sometimes it pays to wait for things to happen. As I mused, the Callistus door porter popped out from the house, exclaimed at me being there still (though he had clearly come on purpose), picked up my empty cup and offered that if I was really desperate Julia could see me.

He had an odd expression; I noticed and was forewarned. When he led me indoors, a couple of other slaves were standing about in the atrium, as if watching to see what would happen. They reminded me of the auction staff just before they opened the strongbox for me, with the body still reeking inside it.

Remembering that Niger’s wife had spoken of a ‘Julia Terentia’, who had given her the Saturnalia glassware set and who lived on the Caelian, I wondered if by coincidence it would be her. Not so. This was Julia Laurentina, a Callistus wife, married to the cousin of Primus and Secundus. According to the porter, she was at home, sleeping off her lunch.

I swiftly said I would wait until she woke of her own accord. The last thing I wanted was an irritated interviewee. But the porter had already arranged for her to be woken.

As soon as I saw her, I knew it made no difference. Julia Laurentina was always annoyed, that was the reason her servants had been glancing at one another and, without doubt, were listening behind the door, to see just how rude their explosive mistress would be to me.

I jumped in quickly: ‘I am so sorry. I was too late to stop your people disturbing you.’ The sneaky bunch deserved to have the blame.

‘I don’t suppose you tried too hard!’

Oh dear.

I sat down, unasked, and composed myself with folded hands. If she raged, I would let it wash over me.

She was about thirty years old, sluggish as she rose from a rumpled couch. ‘Sleeping off her lunch’ could have meant she hit the wine flagon, though I detected no sign of that. She wore white, with gold embroidery. When she shook her head to clear her drowsiness, the earrings that tinkled against her long neck were highly fanciable droplets, each sporting a couple of large oyster pearls and what looked like a heavy garnet. I guessed she was given a lot of presents, in the hope of keeping her happy. It failed.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’

I stuck with being Falco’s daughter, on business from the auction house, and said there seemed to be a mix-up over paying for their bid.

‘Oh, my husband sides with his ridiculous cousins. Apparently, we’re now not having the thing back.’ It seemed Julia Laurentina despised her menfolk, even more than she looked down on me. This at least made her all too willing to complain about the men.

She stretched out a hand, surveying her manicure, which looked professional. She said there had been a row last night. It was a common occurrence in their house, she admitted. ‘Mind you, yesterday set a new standard.’

‘Why was that?’

Julia surveyed me down a long sharp nose and this time decided she would rebuff me. Was it caution or bloody-mindedness? ‘Mind your own business!’ she snapped.

This was my business. ‘The three men seemed to be of one accord at the auction. I assume they had prearranged for their agent to bid. At that point there must have been consensus; did something happen afterwards so they changed their minds?’

‘First they wanted it, now they can’t bear the sight of it. Who knows, with men?’

‘Julia Laurentina, I would normally agree with you – but this sudden alteration seems odd, even allowing for male perverseness.’

The woman gave me a nasty look. ‘I don’t think you should come into our house, calling my husband perverse!’

No, she was the perverse one, suddenly defending him. I kept my temper, in case I could still squeeze any information out of her. ‘Please believe I have no intention of causing offence. I am only trying to find out what happened and what your family members want us to do with the strongbox.’

‘That bloody strongbox!’

‘So?’

‘Do what you like with it.’

I could see Julia knew enough about the quarrel to be thoroughly exasperated by whatever had occurred last night. But I acted all innocence and explained, ‘You may not know, the strongbox has a history.’

‘I know you auction people say you found a body in it.’

Say? ‘We did, madam. I saw the poor man myself. That was a ghastly experience.’

She stared. She sat up straighter and blurted out, ‘What did he look like?’

The interview swung. It was as if she was keenly interrogating me. ‘In his fifties, well built, wearing a blue tunic.’

‘His fifties?’

‘I could hardly look at the body. I thought him a little younger; the funeral director said he had lived well and taken care of himself, so he put the man between fifty and sixty. I have used that firm before, so I trust the verdict.’

‘No clues as to who the victim was?’ Julia Laurentina sounded merely curious, yet I suspected there was more to it.

‘Any clues had been carefully removed – he had on an ordinary wedding ring that is impossible to trace, but there were clear signs that he once wore a signet ring that someone had taken off, no doubt his killers to prevent it being identified.’ I did not bother to ask why Julia was interested; she would never tell me. I was watching her instead. She was posing, acting casual, though I glimpsed some dark mood. Without undue emphasis, I asked, ‘Do you recognise the description? I don’t suppose anyone like that is missing from among the people you know?’

Julia stared again. ‘No,’ she said. Then she repeated, ‘No. No one.’

‘Are you sure?’ I had detected unease. She nodded so quickly, it seemed unwise to press her.

While she looked introspective for a moment, I zapped in a few extra questions quietly: ‘Do you know Niger, the agent?’

‘I have never seen or spoken to him, but he came on the recommendation of one of my sisters.’

‘She knows him?’

‘He acted for her husband and now her.’

‘Why did your menfolk want him to back down over the bid?’

‘My husband says we have no need of a beaten-up, burned-out old chest; that was the whole point of trying to get rid of it at auction. Against him, Primus lost his temper and said he wants no more to do with it but he isn’t going to let strangers get their hands on it. His brother Secundus thought Niger paid too much.’

‘Bidding was brisk.’ I thought it best not to say I had been the auctioneer. She would have recoiled, just like the wife of Niger. I didn’t suppose the wives of Primus and Secundus concerned themselves with the river-transport business that brought in the cash for their finery. Julia Laurentina’s husband owned a boat-building yard, but she had probably never been there. I was sure none of those women could recognise their boat captains, let alone understand a lading docket. That would not have done in my family. ‘Niger had been instructed to buy the chest. If he had stopped bidding too soon, he would have lost it,’ I said. ‘He paid enough, though not over the odds, in my opinion.’

Julia said nothing.

‘Since there was other interest,’ I mentioned coolly, ‘we intend to approach the underbidder and see if he still wants it.’

‘Well.’

Well what? I raised my eyebrows. Mine were rather nicely shaped. The talented brow-girl at Prisca’s Baths could even do it painlessly. Well, not quite, but she was better than the usual damage-wreakers.

Julia had had her brows plucked into thin arches; I always find that artificial. It must have hurt, but she seemed a woman who would not acknowledge pain.

‘My husband is right for once. That strongbox has been used for something terrible, and we can do without it.’ She shrugged it off, her gesture too exaggerated. She was unused to acting. I suppose she normally flared up and said whatever she wanted, then people backed away. I was a different commodity: she could not handle me.

‘I just don’t understand the change of heart here,’ I persisted. ‘I was told the strongbox would be privately bought back, then burned to prevent ghoulish interest. An act of respect, Niger the agent called it. Piety towards the dead man … whoever he was.’

‘You seem to do far too much talking to other people’s agents!’

‘I belong to the auction house,’ I told Julia gently. ‘Talking to agents happens all the time. It is also good business practice for us to make enquiries when items seem odd, or people’s behaviour feels wrong.’

Julia got a grip. ‘Well, you must do your job,’ she answered me, equally quietly.

The uncharacteristic restraint was fascinating. I would have expected sarcasm. This woman can rarely in her life have chosen to show so much control. Julia Laurentina was secretly fascinated by the corpse. I was sure she had heard her menfolk discussing it. Might they know who the dead man was?

Julia, I felt, had not been told his identity, hence her questions about his appearance. But she was harbouring suspicions. With the Callistus brothers and her husband, did she hide her curiosity? Was she trying to find out for herself what had happened, perhaps before confronting them?

Whatever the truth, Julia Laurentina was visibly anxious. She hardly gave the impression of a woman who was perturbed by family troubles. Yet it seemed to me the identity of that dead man and what had happened to him mattered more to Julia Laurentina than she would admit.

She dismissed me. I was surprised she had found the patience to let me stay for so long. It only confirmed her private interest in the strongbox corpse.

As I left the room, a young girl entered. About thirteen, she was not introduced. After the doors closed behind me I heard a low murmur of female voices. The talk sounded subdued, as if the speakers were discussing me. In my business, that is something you expect. It seemed friendly enough in tone.

I asked the porter if that was Julia Laurentina’s daughter. He said no, she belonged to Callistus Primus, his only child with a first wife, long divorced; her name was Julia Valentina. She lived with her father. He wanted to bring her up himself.

That was unusual, but fathers had a legal claim to their children after marital separation so it happened. Some men were determined to exert their right of possession, even of a daughter, even if the child was very young. I sometimes had to help divorced mothers argue for custody.

I also asked the man about the advertising notice outside. He said the family owned the wall space; they had supported Volusius Firmus for aedile, the candidate who was forced to stand down. So removing the notice made sense.

When I stepped out from the house, I passed two other Callistus wives being delivered home in chairs. Dressed in the same highly embroidered style as Julia, they had clearly been shopping; it was obvious from the train of slaves carrying baskets and parcels. I gave them a formal nod, but did not interrupt their happy dash indoors, calling for cold drinks and their feather-fan girl to revive them.

‘A goodly haul!’ I nodded at the packages, smiling.

‘It will all have to go back!’ muttered the porter, darkly.

I dallied, pretending to adjust my sandal. ‘Primus and Secundus are mean with money?’

‘Not when they have it, but there’s none to spare at the moment. Everyone has been ordered to cut down.’ The two young wives had obviously failed to hear the message.

‘Has it happened before?’ I remembered Gornia saying the men gambled heavily on chariot races.

‘Time to time. They always get a windfall eventually, then it’s joy all round again.’

I said drily, ‘They ought to buy themselves a big strongbox where they can put away a nest egg for times of crisis.’

The porter missed the joke.

I wasted no pity on the Callisti. They must have picked the wrong team. They would have their auction proceeds coming in shortly to ease their money worries. If funds were tight, I imagined they would not admit openly that they were poor managers. They would want to keep quiet publicly and might even try to bluff a new agent. Embarrassment about their cashflow might explain why Niger’s bid for the old chest had been overturned.

It would have been sensible to warn him not to go so high. But when do most people act sensibly?