Deadly Election

31

A bad situation ripened to glorious.

Deep-throated barks from a huge dog announced that Trebonius Fulvo, fired up by the taunts Vibius had thrown at him earlier, had sent for his hunting mastiff. The new Incitatus had never had such a tremendous day out. He broke away from his handler, simply by pulling his head out of his horrible spiked collar. Ecstatic, Inky bounded about; he urinated on the unsold lots, tore to shreds anything he could get into his slobbering mouth, then made a run at his master and lovingly jumped up at him.

The dog stood four feet tall with his four paws on the floor. This was an expensive, heavy beast that had apparently been bred for bringing down wild bulls, far too strong for Trebonius. Trying to avoid his pet’s frantic licks, the candidate fell over in his chalk-white toga. Since he was turning away from the dog’s tongue at the time, he landed face down or, as Inky saw with much delight, bottom up. The dog fell in lust with him. Insults would be easy now: never mind his respectable wife cooing gooily at him in public, Trebonius was a man whose dog had copulated with him, in full view of the baying public.

The thrilled crowd thought this was better than buying old platters and squashed couches. Dealers pushed in for a better view, forcing their way past the two massive metal wine kraters (faux-silver, faux-Celtic chasing, faux pas decidedly); both grandiose vessels toppled on their cranky stands and started rolling to and fro. Anyone caught behind the knees was felled, usually dragging someone else down with them.

The Callistus brothers were now engaged in violent fisticuffs. Invading Gornia’s carefully created room set, they floundered about throwing punches. Primus broke a side-table. Secundus shattered lamps. Their cousin tried to intervene until they both turned on him. One of them yelled, ‘Get this fool!’ Heavies with cudgels rushed at the cousin, who soon had an ear torn half off and was reeling. Every time someone tumbled out of the mêlée, our laughing auction guards picked him up and threw him straight back in.

The three wives stood on the sidelines, squealing; it was impossible to tell if they wanted the fight to end or were calling for more blood.

Beside a colonnade, the struggle against the mastiff continued, Trebonius gasping helplessly while crude people cheered. Arulenus Crescens might look effeminate but he was a loyal co-candidate and carried a lot of weight, literally. He grabbed Dillius to help. Dillius looked squinty and sozzled, but they managed to rescue Trebonius.

Incitatus ran away. We saw him bounding towards the art gallery where, being a true dog, he was soon pulling down curtains. Yes, I do mean the fabled gold brocade hangings about which you may have read in reverent guidebooks. Soon the cries of horrified art-lovers were heart-rending.

Back at the auction, Vibius and Ennius showed their potential as men of law and order by taking on the fighting Callisti. Unexpectedly, the two candidates grappled the brothers until others came to help.

A wife plonked herself by each Callistus and loudly complained of being shown up. Their cousin was in deep trouble after his thrashing by the guards. Bent double, he started woozily vomiting into one of the wine kraters; I suspected he was concussed. His angry wife Julia Laurentina told him he was disgusting, though concerned dealers attended him. He was now floundering on top of the big wine vessel as if he had no idea where he was.

While Ennius still grappled Secundus, Julia Verecunda had to decide whether to approve of her son’s initiative or reprimand him for joining a brawl. ‘Keep out of it and let them kill one another!’ He feigned not to hear her. Brave fellow.

Sextus loosened his hold on Primus because the older brother suddenly broke down. Sextus had to support his burly frame while Primus shuddered his heart out in what we all could see was unbearable grief.

For whom?

The three wives bunched together anxiously. I strode up to them. ‘What on earth is going on?’ None answered.

More people were arriving. One was Manlius Faustus, bringing Patchy back for me. Dromo and the boy were both riding the donkey, kicking at his flanks with their clumsy feet. Patchy crashed into Ursa, trying to shunt the lads off his back. The stuffed bear teetered and wobbled, then crashed to the floor. Her head fell off. Our porters cried out, grief-stricken. We had had Ursa a long time.

On his way here, Faustus had been accosted by a member of the public. This striking dignitary carried a jug in her left hand and a rattle in her right – not what most women would choose as accessories. Her veiled ringlets were crowned with a small mock-gold palmette, and over her long, heavily pleated tunic she had a many-folded shawl with a fringed edge, tied in a large knot of mystical design in the centre of her bust. (I agree: one fancy item too many. My sisters would have redesigned her outfit from scratch, with cries of horror.)

This woman was instantly recognisable as a priestess of Isis. All she needed was a snake wrapped round her wrist, but she had left it at home that day, probably because her arm was bandaged from thumb base to elbow. I remembered that Trebonius’s dog had famously bitten her.

Isis was a respected foreign goddess in Rome, favoured by Vespasian and Titus, who had been in the east, and by Domitian, who had once taken refuge among the cult’s followers when his life was threatened. Domitian had rebuilt the Temple of Isis and Serapis in fabulous style and this priestess carried herself as if she personified the goddess: Isis, the universal mother, mistress of all the elements, primordial child of time, sovereign of all matters spiritual, queen of the dead, queen of the sea, queen also of the immortals, the triple goddess of the underworld, the heavenly one … Not a neighbour to offend. To fend off the wrath of Isis you might need more than a phallic wind chime.

As soon as the wounded priestess spotted Trebonius Fulvo among the huddled candidates, she let out an eye-watering shriek of accusation. Incitatus heard her, turned round, saw somebody he recognised and hurtled up to greet her. The frightened priestess tried to deter him by battering him on the snout with her rattling sistrum.

The dog bit her again.

Manlius Faustus sounded a stentorian order: ‘Someone catch that bloody hound for me!’ As an aedile, he was responsible for escaped wild animals in public places. Unfortunately, as an aedile his person was sacrosanct, so he never had guards to help.

The five builders saw that nobody else was brave enough to tackle Inky, so they would have to. The men picked up their mulsum beakers (all they had to hand) and advanced on him. ‘Here, boy!’

He nipped three of them, then shoved his great muzzle into a cup, lapping the honey and vinegar thirstily. I grew up with dogs. I grabbed a cord off the auctioned curtain swags, walked up quietly and, as he drank, fondled him between his ears. His fur looked smooth, but felt rough; he was not a dog anyone ever brushed. He growled as he considered whether being stroked offended his dignity, but he let me.

‘Who’s a good dog?’ He wagged his tail. The tail caught a pile of ceramic platters, which shattered. ‘Don’t seem threatening,’ I told the builders. We all smiled, staying very still and careful. I made a loop and tied it round Inky’s mighty neck.

‘Watch yourself, girl!’

‘She’s good with animals.’ That was the quiet voice of Faustus, at my back. ‘Albia, step away safely.’

‘He just feels too hot and he needs a drink, don’t you, precious?’ Inky stopped drinking long enough to drag his hot rasping tongue across my hand. I had him under control, though I was scared stiff.

The builders had found lengths of rope from somewhere, as builders do; they configured a harness and delicately fitted it round the mastiff. Inky grew calmer. He sat when I told him to. So far, so good.

Manlius Faustus hauled Trebonius Fulvo out of the crowd. Faustus formally asked the weeping priestess what compensation she wanted; with Egyptian alacrity, the handmaiden of Isis named a healthy price. Faustus called it fair (she was copiously bleeding) and doubled it because she had been bitten twice. The priestess serenely staunched the blood, using her shaggy shawl. Large numbers do not faze primordial daughters of time.

Faustus ordered Trebonius to pay up and avoid the need for a court case. ‘No choice, man! You compensate the holy woman, or you pay the same as a fine.’

Trebonius agreed to settle, but would not consent to take Incitatus home. I informed Faustus how the dog had jumped Trebonius when he fell over. Faustus kept his face straight, just.

‘Don’t blame your dog,’ I told Trebonius. ‘It’s not his fault. He needs a handler who likes and understands tough dogs. Just think about how your wife controls you.’ Standing within earshot, she blinked and did not smile. ‘You can manage him.’

‘Not in Rome,’ declared Faustus. ‘This is not a city dog. Trebonius Fulvo, you are forbidden to let him rampage any more in our streets and public places. I order you to keep him on your country estate.’

Trebonius was still refusing to have him back at all. His wife agreed, which was probably because the dog caused havoc in her no doubt comfortable house. The original handler had vanished. To solve the dilemma, I volunteered that Incitatus could come home with me, but only for one night. If Inky behaved, Trebonius would have to take him back. If not, the dog would be put down. Manlius Faustus announced that was a proper solution, suggesting Trebonius should pay me for his dog’s overnight boarding – and danger money.

‘What’s his proper name?’

‘Consul.’

‘No wonder he gets above himself!’

At that point everyone was settled and friendly. It was not to last.