Deadly Election

34

Manlius Faustus took charge. You might think the candidates would want to stay and watch him, but when did men standing for office learn about their coming job? They were the quickest to leave. Other members of the public also vanished, not wanting to be involved in trouble. Faustus was stuck on his own.

The vigiles decided not to scarper while a magistrate was watching. Faustus instructed them to inspect the body for evidence of foul play. They peered at Niger, tweaked up sleeves and tunic hems, then announced that the dead man showed classic signs of having been beaten, shortly before death. This corpse was less than a day old. Faustus pronounced it murder.

The Callistus brothers forged a path through curious onlookers to inspect the remains of their former agent. Faustus asked them to identify him formally. Niger’s wife came round from her faint; she indignantly claimed that task as hers, encouraged by the greaseball who was acting as her agent. So Faustus let them all do it, while he made notes.

He asked the Callistus brothers why they had ended up on bad terms with Niger; neither would answer. He told them to go home and await a visit, advising them to come up with a satisfactory story before they found themselves suspects.

Niger’s wife’s agent planted himself alongside her. He must be thinking of that well-mopped first-storey apartment, not to mention the savings that Niger, like any careful freelance, would have stored up. Soon this man would be ‘helping’ his client deal with the funeral, after which he would probably console the dazed widow right into a new marriage …

I suggested we send for Fundanus. I assured the wife he would be reverent. With a deserving widow he might be. That way, too, he would pass on to me any useful information. I wanted to know what links there were between the two strongbox incarcerations. There was no way now I would abandon my enquiries into the first death.

Faustus tried to interrogate the weeping wife. He asked if Niger had had enemies, but she only wanted to protest that he was loved by everyone, especially all his wonderful, generous clients. She did say that the Callistus brothers had employed him quite recently, not simply to bid at the auction but, before that, for some errand to the countryside. Whatever rural task he had carried out had made his clients unhappy, she did not know why.

She sobbed that last night Niger had never come home. It was unusual behaviour, so the troubled wife was not entirely surprised to find he was dead.

I slipped off for a muttered consultation with Gornia. ‘You know what I’m going to ask you. If we had that strongbox locked up and under guard all night, Gornia, how the hell did some villain open the lid and drop Niger into it?’

As I feared: last night our staff had sneaked off to have dinner. They had asked the Porticus nightwatchmen to keep an eye on things ‘just for an hour’. I knew what that meant. ‘So the porticus guards agreed, but mooched off and left our stuff unattended?’

They must have, Gornia conceded.

‘For hours?’

Gornia looked despondent.

‘Was anything taken?’

‘No of course not, Albia. The porticus is locked up after sundown.’

‘People can get in. It’s a notorious place for assignations.’

‘Lovers are too busy to steal things.’

‘Though, oddly enough, not too busy to leave dead bodies behind!’

‘Oh, go on, Flavia Albia. Don’t beat me up about it – I’m an old man.’

We inspected the strongbox lock and found jemmy marks, shiny new skids across the old metalwork. Someone had forced the lock. They dumped Niger inside and dropped the lid again.

Faustus had noticed us talking and come over. I suggested, ‘Whoever did this, Aedile, must have realised the chest was to be auctioned again. The body would be found. Are Niger’s killers sending a message to the Callisti?’

Being Faustus, he thought about that in silence.

‘What message?’ asked Gornia. When nobody answered, he changed the subject tetchily. ‘So what am I supposed to do about this bloody chest?’

Faustus stepped over Niger’s body and peered inside it. This time he was definite. ‘There are no clues. Nothing inside. Time to put an end to this fiasco. I order you to burn it. If the Callisti complain, tell them to see me. Destroy it as soon as possible, please.’

Gornia overcame conflicting emotions regarding the fee we would have gained from selling the strongbox and his loathing of it; he agreed. From the sly wink he gave me while pulling at the broken lock, I knew he would first remove all the ironwork; there was money in that.

Fundanus arrived, sooner than expected. He had a nose for untimely death. Negotiations were swiftly concluded with the widow, via her agent, then the corpse was taken up and carried off. Niger’s wife went home, escorted by her increasingly persistent agent.

Fundanus himself stuck around. Uncertain of Faustus, he took me aside. ‘Would it be of interest if I told you I have seen that cove before?’

‘It certainly would, Fundanus! When?’

‘It was the day we torched that other stiff we scooped out. The second fellow turned up and asked for a viewing. He was just in time. An hour later, I had the pyre burning up nicely. According to him, it could be somebody he knew.’

‘You showed him the corpse?’ That was Faustus, not easily deluded. An aedile had to stop illegal gambling; Faustus had learned to spot surreptitious goings-on.

‘I hope I did not do wrong, sir,’ whined Fundanus, humbly.

‘Get on with your story.’

‘Of course, sir.’ This was a new, creepy side of the bombastic undertaker. I preferred him when he was sounding off. ‘Well, he took a peek, though not for long because, as Flavia Albia can corroborate, number one was in a, let us say, significantly poor condition.’

‘Rotting?’

‘Somewhat liquid, sir. We did our best on him but …’ Fundanus shook his head mournfully. ‘It really was as well we were ready to pyre him up.’

‘Did Niger put a name to number one?’ I coaxed, controlling my impatience.

‘Sadly, no. He stated that he must have been mistaken, this was nobody he knew. Then he hopped out of it, covering his nose. From evidence subsequently discovered, he threw up in the street outside.’

‘I can manage without that detail,’ muttered Faustus, at his most dour.

The undertaker turned to me. ‘I would have told you about this person’s visit, Flavia Albia, but since he did not know the corpse, I supposed there was no interest in it.’

‘I had told you I needed to know if anyone showed interest.’

‘And here I am telling you, Flavia Albia.’

‘Well, thanks for that!’

‘It is possible,’ warned Faustus, ominously, ‘if Albia had known your story earlier, number two might be alive now.’

‘I don’t see how!’ sneered Fundanus, more aggressive and showing his true colours.

‘And we might have named number one,’ continued Faustus. He regularly dealt with shirty householders and intransigent brothel-keepers. Nobody put him off.

Fundanus made a fast exit.

The atmosphere in the porticus changed as evening fell. News of the second dead body soon brought ghouls to our corner, keen to gawp at the strongbox with its sinister history. Deadbeats who hoped to find unattended goods after the auction turned up. Our staff hurried to tidy things away, knowing looters would descend. Felix had arrived outside to cart away any remaining goods. Some of the staff were off loading unsold lots and our own equipment, therefore we were thin on the ground.

Hooligans found the remains of Ursa, with predictable results. Shameless thieves tried to seize the two vast wine kraters, heavy though they were. Most of the armed guards belonging to other people had left, so we were now down to our own security and a handful of vigiles. Some of those had already sloped off, claiming they needed to be on fire-watch. Fortunately enough remained to whistle for reinforcements.

There was a brief air of menace, a swirl of unpleasant behaviour, then out of nowhere more troops arrived. They looked like Urban Cohorts, riot police, who were always taken seriously. The Urbans were barracked with the Praetorian Guard, and popped out periodically to thump people. Compensation was not paid even if their victims died.

The Urbans started doing what they liked to do. The troublemakers dispersed rapidly. Any moment now, the Urbans were going to turn on us.

Their centurion eyed up the aedile, obviously expecting him to act like a magistrate who meant business. Manlius Faustus surveyed Gornia, who was desperately tired and looked as if he had lived on air in a cave for a hundred years. Faustus turned to me instead. ‘Flavia Albia, daughter of Falco, this auction has been a complete disgrace – and in the hallowed Porticus of Pompey. It is surely in breach of any licence you hold, which I shall need to inspect, incidentally. I will not tolerate such goings-on under my administration.’

Then he told two of the vigiles to put me on Patchy and take me to the Aventine, to the aediles’ office. I croaked in surprise.

‘Take her!’ commanded Faustus. Gornia squeaked to me that he would tell someone, so not to worry.

I, too, was tired. It dawned on me only slowly: Tiberius Manlius Faustus, my so-called friend, this jumped-up pontificating aedile who had no common sense or discretion, was treating me like anyone on one of the watch lists that he supervised officially.

I was under arrest.