Deadly Election

43

It is an inescapable truth that when two strangers, who are courteous but slightly official in manner, ask, ‘Excuse me, do you live around here?’ all the locals will say no.

This held us up. We wasted the rest of the morning trying to get somebody to talk to us. Anybody. Only when we found a roadside snack stall did things improve. The stallholder accepted we were only travellers, rather glum people, but prepared to eat savoury meatballs for lunch and drop sauce down our tunics quite normally. He could hardly deny that he lived nearby. The meatballs were warm; he had fetched them from his hovel, which we could see from the stall.

He knew who the night birds were, hooting rowdies who came and lit campfires. They collected on long summer nights to drink, sing, play crude musical instruments, knife one another in quarrels over women, and exchange stolen goods they had pilfered from passing wagons or from local farms. The snack-seller thought they must have found the Callistus litter and pulled it off the road for sport; he doubted they would have been involved in whatever ambush happened. Faustus agreed because he reckoned if robberies took place at the bridge on a regular basis the authorities would have set up preventive measures. If nothing else, they would have installed a bridge-keeper.

I said, yes, that would be a good way to ensure the authorities knew that when carriages were held up, the bridge-keeper did it.

Although to me the countryside is bare, plenty of people could be found. Once we squeezed evidence out of one lot, others spoke to us. We followed a trail through farmhands and road-menders to a small villa rustica close to the River Anio, where the field labourers admitted they had seen what happened. Their story was corroborated by the semi-professional beggars who sat by the bridge. Locals had leaned on hoes or lain under pine trees and watched it all. None, of course, had rescued the victim or bothered to report the incident afterwards. It was nothing to do with them. The people involved were city folk.

A group of ‘foreigners’ – that is, from Rome, which was at the most five miles away – had arrived early one morning, driving away the beggars and positioning themselves at the bridge. There were either five or six, or ten or fifteen, depending who was telling us. Before the beggars had had time to gather reinforcements to regain their squatters’ rights, along came the Callistus litter with its bearers and attendants. Out jumped the men lying in wait. The attackers were shouting oaths and threats, wielding sticks and possibly daggers. The slaves made a stand initially, but their master put his head out of the litter and gave orders to save themselves; they all ran away across the fields and had not been seen since.

On his own then, the old man was dragged out into the road.

‘Did they harm him?’ asked Faustus. ‘Did they knock him about?’

The witnesses said no; the attackers only surrounded him and yelled at him. He bravely stood there, giving them shirty answers. He was certainly alive, when the witnesses last saw him, because he was tied up and marched away by his assailants, back towards Rome.

I asked, ‘How exactly was he tied up?’ Ropes round his arms.

Faustus asked if the witnesses could describe him. This elicited a picture of a mature or elderly man, sturdy-looking, fit enough to walk and to seem capable of making it to Rome.

‘What was he wearing?’ A blue tunic (they settled on this after a dispute about other colours) and good boots (no contention about that). Faustus looked at me; I nodded. This all matched Strongbox Man.

‘What happened to his luggage?’ Nobody knew. The country people swore devoutly that the men from Rome must have taken everything. Faustus and I wondered. But we were never going to identify who had plundered the litter. Primus had told me his father travelled light, taking nothing of real value. We did not pursue the subject.

The litter was originally left standing by the road, though it had vanished by the next day. We showed the pieces we had recovered, with mixed reactions. Nobody wanted to commit themselves to saying these parts came from the same vehicle, lest they be accused of knowing too much.

Taking away the victim seemed strange. We rounded up helpers and conducted a search of the immediate area, looking either for a body or for indications of a grave being dug recently. We found neither. It seemed definite that Callistus Valens had been forcibly returned to Rome. Either he was murdered there, or he died of stress during or after his ordeal: the shock of the ambush, the tiring, unexpected walk in extremely hot weather. Then his attackers had disposed of his body in his family’s chest in store.

They had known about the chest, so they had known who he was. The attack and abduction had been planned.

Faustus bought rope from a man who had a table beside the road, where he sold nails and small hand tools for emergency repairs to carts. In weight and colour, the rope looked very like that I had seen binding Strongbox Man. The seller denied providing any for the assailants and maintained that he was asleep when the attack happened. Faustus only nodded grimly, then set about tying the litter parts we had salvaged to the roof of our own carpentum, aided by his driver.

We thanked everyone. Now old friends, they cheered us off.

‘Were you prepared for this?’ I asked Faustus, as we finally resumed our drive. ‘Tiberius, were you looking out for signs of the attack?’

‘I hardly dared hope to find clues. But I thought it was worth keeping an eye open. Callistus must have used this road if he was travelling to Crustumerium. That’s beyond where we’re going. It’s a long drive in one day, but doable by a fit traveller. I know this road. The bridge over the Anio seemed a good place for an ambush.’

That was when the significance struck me. ‘We are going to where you were brought up, aren’t we?’ He nodded. ‘Shall I see your old home?’

‘No.’

A monosyllable hardly answered me. I would have pressed a suspect who answered like that, but did not nag Tiberius.

After a while he opened up of his own accord, as I expected. He told me the estate where he had spent his childhood had been sold by his uncle straight after his parents died. I already knew that his father and mother had passed away within a short time of one another, when Tiberius was sixteen. For a moment I thought Tullius had been insensitive, but Tiberius assured me selling the estate had been at his own request. ‘I could never go back. Uncle Tullius wanted to wait in case I changed my mind. I insisted.’

To me, it seemed strange to give up your childhood. But I had never really had such roots and happy memories.

‘You learn to live for today,’ commented Tiberius, when I said so, ‘if yesterday becomes too painful. At sixteen, it seemed the end of the world. I never expected a tomorrow.’ Well, that was something with which I could identify. More willing to talk now, he added, ‘This is partly why Marcella Vibia complains they saw so little of me. Apart from the fact we lived on the Aventine, when other people came to the country for the summer I would stay in Rome. Tullius has a villa by the sea at Neapolis. Occasionally I join him there.’

I took this opportunity to talk to him about personal things, as we rarely did. ‘So that estate beyond Fidenae was your inheritance, or part of it?’

Tiberius chortled. ‘Checking up whether I am solvent?’

I dug him in the ribs. ‘I already know. My father gave you one of his searches.’

He turned to me. ‘So give! What does he say?’

‘Now I will tell you – but only because you mentioned Marcella Vibia. She wants you to make something of yourself. If you do try to spread your wings, wing-spreading needs collateral.’

‘I’m not short of a bean.’

‘You could be. Falco’s verdict is that your uncle has fully absorbed your inheritance into his business. He spent it on adding to his suite of warehouses and he keeps complete control.’ Tiberius nodded thoughtfully. ‘That may seem normal in a family, but will he release anything to you? You may find him tricky to deal with, should you ever want funds. Luckily, my father said if he can see the history after a cursory enquiry, the truth should be demonstrable in court. To be safe, you ought to get your hands on the old records and have copies made.’

‘I don’t envisage my uncle and me going to court!’ exclaimed Tiberius.

‘No. Avoid going to court. Father says you just need to convince Tullius you could do it.’

‘Uncle Tullius has always been generous, especially when he supported me for aedile.’

‘Still, make him acknowledge that some money is yours.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, you asked me.’

‘I did.’ At first I could not tell if Tiberius was annoyed. Then he said, ‘I agree. It’s easy to assume that one day my uncle will pass on and I shall inherit everything, so I don’t need to bother now … But I am not a complete idiot, you know.’

‘I never said you were.’

‘No, but you think Tullius has grabbed everything and only grants me small change for sundries.’

‘You never have to borrow for a bar bill … But I have no idea how you arrange your day-to-day finances. Why would I?’

‘Do you care?’

‘I care if he is cheating you. As your good friend, naturally I care.’

‘It is not the same as the non-emancipated Callisti,’ Tiberius assured me. ‘I am not his son. Uncle Tullius never adopted me – which, to be honest, makes it easier. Strictly speaking, my head of household used to be a very remote male relative on my father’s side, though even he died recently. So I am fully independent.’

‘That’s good!’ I said, sounding cheerful.

‘It is!’ he agreed meaningfully.

‘So, if you go to your uncle’s banker, does the man hand over whatever you want?’

‘Actually, yes, he does.’

‘You never ask for much, though,’ I guessed.

Suddenly Tiberius grinned. ‘Don’t be so sure! I bought a house last month.’

While I got over my surprise, he explained that during my time convalescing at the coast, he had felt at a loose end. Looking around for something to do, he saw and bought an investment property, which he intended to renovate. His uncle was as startled as I, but made no objection. It was somewhere I knew: on the Aventine, a house with a builder’s yard alongside it, in Lesser Laurel Street. A client of mine, a woman who had died, once owned it. Faustus and I still knew her heir, a cheese-maker we both patronised.

‘A hobby for you?’ I suggested.

‘Tullius saw it as that.’

‘Stretching yourself?’ I asked carefully. ‘An addition to the family business?’

‘Funnily enough, I seem to have the property deeds in my own name.’ Tiberius kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘A little project to keep me out of trouble … Well, that is what my uncle thinks,’ he murmured.