Deadly Election

47

Double olives were waiting for me at the Stargazer.

As Apollonius, today’s waiter, jerked a thumb at the place already set for me, the man opposite kicked a stool further out so I could sit down more easily. His grey eyes were calmly welcoming. He had already watched me coming down the street. For once, I enjoyed being stared at.

I wore a blue gown I liked, intending to feel comfortable, and minimal ornament. When meeting a new lover you do not want to appear expensive. They get frightened off so easily.

Despite the very early hour, Tiberius looked newly shaved. He had chosen the neat approach. His tunic was centrally belted. His hair was unnaturally combed down. He was equipped today; I had passed his slave, sitting on the kerb outside, doggedly munching.

‘Why didn’t we take Dromo to Fidenae?’

‘He was sound asleep when I set off. I hadn’t the heart to wake him.’

‘You sweetie!’

Apollonius dropped my bread roll. He picked it up and brushed it off before he served it decorously in a napkin. Tiberius reached and swapped rolls with me. He blew on the one that had been dropped, shifting dust and most of the cat-hairs it had picked up from the napkin.

I smiled. He smiled back at me. We both kept smiling as we ate.

After we paid Apollonius, Tiberius stopped in the street outside and kissed me, making it lingering.

We walked together to the Caelian, seeing Rome in the early morning, new-washed and full of marvels, like a foreign city when you are fresh off an ocean-going ship. In that first rapture, when you may notice the dead rat in the gutter but do not remark upon it to your bright-eyed companions.

We made our way to the Clivus Scauri where we reclaimed our evidence. The children were going off to school with their pedagogue. Julia Optata was questioning them about it, showing more animation than she had let us see at Fidenae or on the journey. Sextus appeared. ‘You know I said I didn’t want that school!’ Even in front of Tiberius and me, the catch in her voice was embarrassing. She tripped off towards the stairs up to their apartment. Sextus gave us a silent shrug, then went after her.

We knew they were about to have a fight. Clearly they had argued about education before. I felt a chill, wondering how far this would go. I could see Tiberius also now felt doubtful about us bringing Julia home. If we were wrong, and Sextus was prone to violence, anything that happened to Julia Optata was our responsibility. Still, he had looked resigned, rather than angry.

We left with the Callistus evidence, perhaps faster than we originally meant to. We ourselves were too newly happy to want to witness other people squabbling.

We walked in silence, back down the street and round the corner to the Callistus house. Dromo dragged along behind us; he was laden with the litter parts and moaning.

I was amazed to see, sitting on the stone bench outside and waiting for admittance, Fundanus, the funeral director.

‘Fundanus! I don’t reckon to find you at a house where you have already conducted the funeral.’

As soon as we pulled up outside the door, Dromo let the litter pieces drop with a clatter. Indicating the pile, Faustus asked Fundanus, ‘Does word fly so fast? You know Callistus Valens is the corpse? Even though we have not yet formally checked our evidence with his poor survivors?’

‘I don’t care what horrible clues you’ve dug up,’ retorted Fundanus. ‘I brought my own. Mind you step back and let me go in first, just in case they show any gratitude. I devoted a lot of time to this, and I don’t want you stealing my thunder.’

‘All yours.’

‘What have you found, Fundanus?’ I demanded. ‘What’s so special?’

Fundanus could not resist gloating. ‘Only the boots! I bet you never noticed the boots, Flavia Albia? It takes someone clever to realise their significance.’ We could see a pair of boot soles poking out of a cloth parcel he was clutching.

I disabused him coolly. ‘I spotted the boots. I suppose you are going to tell us these boots were custom-made. The deceased had a walking impediment. His footwear was built up specially, to counteract a rollover?’

‘Pronate!’ cried Fundanus, a man who used technical terms like weapons.

‘I expect you are very familiar with feet – you’ve bent enough of them, you cheapskate, squashing them onto short biers. Of course I noticed his boots, Fundanus. Your pyre slave had pinched them and I could see he found it almost impossible to walk in them. I imagine his hobbling eventually alerted even you.’

‘I’ve dragged these boots around half the shoemakers in Rome, trying to find who made them and who for!’

‘You could have just asked the people who believe the dead man is their relative. Take the easy route.’ I smirked. ‘As I shall.’

‘You told me nobody knew who he was!’

‘No one did – then. You have to keep up with the investigation, Fundanus. If I had known you cared, I would have sent over daily bulletins.’ Faustus, aided by Dromo, who liked banging knockers, had successfully roused a door porter. ‘Shall we go in?’

I had undoubtedly confirmed the undertaker’s view that women were uncontrollable harpies. I flexed my fingers at him, like soul-snatching claws, but he failed to get it. He must have noticed I was with Faustus, at whom he shot a corrosive look to indicate the aedile was not punishing me hard enough. In which ‘punish’ was a verb where the meaning was both corrective and sexual.

‘After you!’ offered the aedile, smiling politely. Fundanus was impossible to crush with good manners, though Manlius Faustus had a good try.

We were early enough to find Primus, Secundus and Firmus all at home. Two of the wives were hastily made presentable (one in two shades of turquoise, one in amber and saffron); after delaying us while they chose outfits, they wafted in to listen amidst a delicate tinkling of bracelets, though not Julia Laurentina, who had morning sickness.

As we expected by then, the family all straight away recognised the damaged parts of the litter when we led them to the sorry pile on the floor of their atrium. Dromo moved pieces around and turned them, as if demonstrating goods at an auction; he must have noticed how it was done at the Porticus of Pompey.

There were cries of alarm, then tears. Once the family had comforted each other, wept some more, then dried their eyes, we moved elsewhere to talk. It was a squash in their reception salon. The room was full of wide-shouldered heavy men. Manlius Faustus was no stripling but the three Callisti and Fundanus made him look svelte.

The boots were gently unwrapped. As expected, Callistus Primus confirmed that his father had his footwear made with special insoles. He identified the boots and held them on his lap like precious treasures, but surprisingly he did not break down. Knowing the truth, meagre and tragic though it was, gave him more comfort than knowing nothing.

Faustus quietly related all we had been told about the ambush. The sons and nephew were full of questions: who carried off their father? Where did they take him? What happened to cause his death? Was that intended all along? Why put his body in the strongbox?

They had still had no contact from the slaves who had been with him. Since Primus assured us they were loyal, Faustus now said he would make enquiries of the vigiles, in case the slaves had been picked up and held as runaways. The Callisti could not bear to wait, so Faustus wrote notes then and there, using his powers as a magistrate to elicit fast answers; they sent messengers to several cohort tribunes, who were asked to reply to the aediles’ office by midday.

While Faustus was briefing the messengers, I pointed out that the attack looked to be deliberately intended for Callistus Valens, so I asked again what enemies he could have had. Again, the family members swore he was a wonderful man, upon whom no one could have wished harm. If he had enemies they could not, or would not, name them.

I thought the brothers’ two young wives glanced at one another, but they stuck with what their menfolk said. This was when I regretted that Julia Laurentina, whom I had got to know a little, had been unable to join us that morning. I could have judged her better than the two who were strangers to me. They were pleasant women, but what I called display models.

Fundanus announced that he had carried out a cremation because it could not wait. However, he had collected the ashes and saved them in a nice urn, in case anyone was ever able to claim them. The Callisti were naturally eager to have the remains, which they would solemnly deposit at their family mausoleum.

I reckoned Fundanus would certainly produce ashes for them, in a container that he would swiftly acquire now, at a value such a family would find palatable. If I knew him, he was bound to know a marble firm who would give him a good discount, so in due course he would make a tidy profit from the grateful Callisti. Whether he had really bothered to keep the ashes of Callistus Valens, I personally doubted.

Why should Fundanus have all the profit? As we left, I nabbed him on the doorstep and whispered that Gornia would give him a good price on the green glass urn in which we kept old bits of sealing wax at the Saepta Julia; it was a decent round-bellied shape and had its lid – well, a lid that looked all right on it.

Grandpa would have been proud of me.

‘Valens’s ring finger was chucked in your discards bucket!’ I called after Fundanus, who raised a grimy hand in acknowledgement.