Deadly Election

5

‘You look ready to pass out!’ Faustus dropped the merciless Medusa stare. He ran his fingers through a head of dark hair in an exasperated gesture. He had seen me at my lowest ebb, and I now felt shy with him. ‘What happened to convalescing? Please don’t tell me you are working, Albia.’

Even though we were in the dank shade of a large gatehouse, sunlight came whacking in off the street outside with its full midday glare. He must have seen I was finding it too much.

‘Just an errand for our family business,’ I hedged. ‘My father is still at the coast-’

‘What can be so important? Look at the state of you. You need to sit down and rest.’ He was visibly agitated. ‘I can’t stop now. I dare not leave Dromo on his own – he’ll be mugged in minutes … I’ll have to take you with us.’ Seeing I meant to object, he interrupted. ‘We’re only going three streets – is that your donkey?’

‘How can you tell?’ I murmured.

‘By how hopeless it is.’

Gornia’s donkey stood with its head down, apparently too careworn to bray. He was of mixed colouring, with uneven brown patterns, and known to our staff as Patchy. ‘Kind-hearted Tiberius, the mangeball is acting. I know how much he costs in hay.’ I stroked the beast’s long ears; it leaned on me confidingly. I staggered, as it nearly pushed me over.

Faustus shouldered Patchy off me. He was a naturally sturdy plebeian; he probably exercised, though never seemed unbearably athletic. I would call him strong but sensitive – except ‘sensitive’ fails to fit the whiplash rebukes he often launched at me.

He smacked the donkey on the rump, probably because he was too buttoned-up to do it to me. He was anxious. He cared, really. Too much for his own good, other people might say.

While Faustus and I had our tussle of wills, the boy with Gornia’s sad animal put out his tongue at Dromo, who gurned back so hideously I was afraid his eyes would pop out. After these formalities the lads seemed to tolerate one another. Faustus also settled down. He turned back to the granary clerk. ‘I hope we can count on you to support Vibius Marinus for aedile. He is holding a little reception for loyal supporters, so do come. Bring your friends – well, bring a few.’ Faustus grinned affably so the dipsomaniac grinned back, won over by the offer of a free drink.

I was glimpsing how Manlius Faustus and his uncle had behaved with the public when he stood for office himself this time last year. It was a new side of him. I was not sure I liked it.

‘Remember – give your voice to Vibius!’

Before I could dodge, Faustus put his warm hands on my waist and lifted me onto the donkey. Allowing people to save your life makes them very free with you.

He had put me up side-saddle. Of course there was no saddle, only a threadbare cloth. Faustus had a glint in his eye as he realised I was considering whether to ride astride. Normally I do, but getting into position reveals bare legs. Manlius Faustus would really enjoy disapproving of that.

Since it made talking easier, I stayed put. Patchy moved off and we ambled along, trailed by the donkey boy and Dromo.

‘Is that granary one of your uncle’s buildings?’ I asked. Faustus’s Uncle Tullius owned commercial warehouses.

‘No, but he keeps his old accounts there, rather than waste our own space. My uncle likes high-grade retail tenants who will pay heftily for decent security. That place is cheaper − but just a dump. I’m picking up documents for Sextus Vibius.’

‘What are they?’

‘Mortgages and leases his father wants to call in for cash to lavish on potential voters. A lot of influential senators are about to be spoiled – let us hope they are grateful.’

‘And who is Vibius?’

‘My old school friend,’ he explained. ‘I persuaded him to stand as an aedile. I am his campaign adviser.’

‘Hard work?’

‘Harder for me than him, it seems. I feel like a biffed fly, madly zizzing on the floor …’ Actually, Faustus seemed cheerful enough. We had worked together on a couple of inquiries. He had energy and tenacity; I enjoyed sharing a case with him.

I had only known this man for three months, but when he seized my donkey’s rein from the boy and led it himself, I knew he was after something; he probably wanted to work with me again.

He took me to an apartment on the Clivus Scauri, close to that gate in the Servian Walls where the Arch of the consuls Dolabella and Silanus stands. His friend lived in modest, though elegant, rooms on an upper floor with a wife I did not meet. His elderly parents had the ground floor, the original family home, from which the campaign for Vibius was being run. Apart from the extra space available, working downstairs was more convenient. There was constant coming and going. The house was very well placed for business in the Forum; depending on which way you turned, you could walk down easily through either of the valleys around the Caelian. It was obvious why aristocrats, and now other people with money, should want to live thereabouts.

The Vibii had money, judging by their furniture – for instance, a large round table with exquisite figured veneering, a table whose cost would have paid lifetime bills for poorer families. Trained by my father, I reckoned that on the right day it would make a good price at auction.

Faustus introduced his friend: Sextus Vibius Marinus. He was around the same age, thinner, with floppy hair. He had a jumpy manner, where Faustus was watchful and still.

It is odd how you can balk at your friends’ friends. Faustus assumed I would love Vibius as he did, and be equally thrilled by their campaign. To me, Vibius seemed much less mature. I felt lukewarm about him and, had I been entitled to vote, I would have picked another candidate.

Vibius wandered off to take the mortgage scrolls to his father’s study. Faustus, well at home there, ministered to me. He indicated a daybed (bronze frame and head pad, lavish cushions) and arranged refreshments. Resting with a long cold drink of water helped me recover quickly. Reassured, Faustus apologised for being churlish with me earlier.

In theory there was social distance between us: I was a private investigator and he was a magistrate, whose remit included monitoring dangerous people like me. Some aediles were a problem in my line of work. If he wanted to be awkward, Manlius Faustus could have hampered my activities. But once someone willingly holds a sick bowl for you and sponges up your mess, perhaps he is unlikely to fine you or limit your activities.

‘I overdid things today,’ I admitted meekly.

‘Promise to take care.’

I found it hard to choose the right words. ‘I wanted to tell you how grateful I am-’

Faustus brushed aside my stilted thanks. ‘Own up, you scamp. What were you doing at the granary?’

Reluctant to keep secrets from him, I explained about the body in the box and confessed my plan to investigate. Faustus pulled a face. ‘Trust you!’

His friend reappeared and listened, intrigued, as Faustus tried to dissuade me. ‘Just call in the vigiles, Albia.’

I claimed that my father would expect me to carry out enquiries. Faustus saw through that. ‘Nonsense. You nearly died. This is too soon!’

‘I promise I shall only make gentle enquiries. I haven’t explored enough yet. All I have had time to do is question a certain Callistus Primus, who owns the box but denies knowledge of the stiff inside.’

To my surprise, Faustus and Vibius exchanged a glance. Faustus only said to me, ‘We know Primus.’

I asked, ‘So?’ They both shrugged.

‘Through Julia, my wife,’ added Vibius cagily.

I left it. Faustus, for one, would have seen that I noticed the atmosphere.

‘You must be busy,’ Vibius suggested, trying to send me home.

Faustus overruled him. ‘I asked Flavia Albia here on purpose.’ He told me, ‘You could help us.’

I knew his commissions. ‘I need to solve the box-man problem.’

‘That’s heading nowhere … Listen, before you refuse.’

I owed him that. ‘What, then?’

‘You remember that tract I was reading – the advice to Cicero, supposedly written by his younger brother?’

I had a vision of lying ill in bed at my apartment, while Faustus sprawled in a wicker chair close by, choosing to entertain an invalid by reading aloud a published letter full of frank advice for political success. He made an unusual nurse. Very unusual. I blushed to remember.

Cicero’s brother had been sufficiently cynical to keep me from drowsing as I howled at his proposals for getting a ‘new man’ elected as consul in traditional Rome.

‘Oh, I remember, Faustus: keep your friends happy with promises in case you win, even though you may never be able to fulfil the promises, and probably don’t intend to. Ruthlessly call in old favours. Talk sweetly, even to people you despise. Make yourself visible in the Forum on a daily basis. And – my favourite – brutally blacken the names of any other candidates. Is that devious tract your campaign manual, Tiberius Manlius? And you such a person of principle!’

His friend Vibius guffawed quietly.

‘It worked for Cicero,’ Faustus reminded us. ‘I have lined up all Sextus’s family and friends, we visit the Forum at the same time each day so people now recognise us, we have lists of all the guilds and trade organisations to canvass, we are smooching special-interest groups, we give dinners and banquets, we attend public entertainments-’

‘Tut! I hope you are not neglecting your own valuable work as aedile!’ I was mimicking the tone in which he often criticised me. ‘Who is chasing down dangerous animals and rounding up gamblers?’ Faustus compressed his lips, his way to hide a smile if I ever wriggled under his defences. ‘Oh, I get it.’ Light dawned. ‘You want me to dig out sleaze?’

‘The Cicero brothers discovered that one of their opponents had murdered someone.’

‘Lucky them!’

‘I don’t expect to unearth any serious crimes,’ Faustus assured me, ‘but I need you to advise where to look for scandal.’

Vibius, who was to benefit from this, muttered anxiously, ‘All respect to your clever associate, Tiberius, but could my reputation be damaged if I use an informer?’

I was used to rudeness. ‘Set your mind at rest, Sextus Vibius. The informers you have heard about are seedy men who collect information to prosecute victims. As a woman, court work is barred to me. I help private clients on personal business; many are women. I am, hopefully, invisible to the rest of the public.’

Faustus looked embarrassed. ‘Show Flavia Albia more respect, Sextus. Her father is an equestrian. He outranks us – and therefore so does she.’

I countered that gently: ‘Falco remains a plebeian at heart – and therefore so do I … Your opponents will be checking on you too,’ I pointed out to Vibius, wanting to demonstrate my skills. ‘Try to spot who their informers are. Ask me, in case I know anything against them. Then use my father’s trick – march straight up and greet them by name, cheerily suggesting they question you directly. Since openness is your policy, you will gladly supply the full facts.’

‘And shall I?’

‘Olympus, of course not! If you are to be a politician, your natural medium is lying. Surely your agent has explained that?’

Again, Faustus had to control a smile. ‘So, what should we be looking for, Albia? And what will the opposition try to uncover against Sextus?’

I had plenty of ideas. ‘A good informer will closely shadow a rival candidate, monitoring his life. The informer will be very persistent. Where does this man have lunch – does he go home, or slip down a quiet side-street to a pretty apartment that is occupied by a vivacious young woman, not his wife? When he attends a harp recital, does he take his honoured spouse − or does he spend time in close conversation with the wife of his best friend?’

Both men nodded gravely. Faustus had not always been pure and I wondered about Vibius. There would be no point in criticising his opponents if they discovered worse things done by him.

Personally, I would not think Vibius Marinus was worth a rash affair. Still, other women constantly surprise me with their crazy choice of lovers.

Faustus, on the other hand … But I had tried to get him into bed. No luck.

‘For really juicy titbits,’ I went on, ‘winkle out who the candidates bank with. Have a quiet word. Are they in debt?’ More nods. ‘When they parade their so-supportive family in the Forum, who is quietly missing? Have they behaved badly to a sibling, wife or child? Do they have a complicated history of divorce?’ I tried not to look at Faustus, who himself had that. ‘We must cosy up to their slaves and ask how popular they really are. And don’t be fooled by the business associates who are supporting them. Look for associates who have stopped doing business with them. Then we’ll find out why.’

Faustus exclaimed admiringly to Vibius, ‘I told you! Flavia Albia is superb. She has even more gristle than Quintus Cicero. You see why I want her with us.’

‘Oh, you just want to supervise my convalescence,’ I murmured.

He quickly gleamed at me, not denying it. ‘Sextus, listen to her and don’t let me see you slipping down any side-streets for libidinous lunches! You must have an immaculate reputation. Which, of course, you do,’ he assured his friend, sounding as if he fully believed it. A true politician.

I was privately glad of this chance to work with Faustus. I asked who the other candidates were, the men I had to lumber with grubby reputations. Faustus supplied names. I wrote them in my note tablet. Vibius mentioned someone else, Volusius Firmus. ‘No, he dropped out,’ Faustus said. ‘Don’t know why. Run out of money? Salvius Gratus is pooling resources and working with us,’ he told me.

‘A joint ticket?’

‘A coalition.’

‘Is that legal?’

‘No, but everyone does it.’

‘What is Gratus like?’ I asked.

‘Surprisingly amenable, given he is your ex-brother-in-law,’ chuckled Vibius to Faustus. That was unwelcome news.

I knew how Faustus had come to be divorced. I had had recent dealings with his ex-wife, Laia Gratiana. She was bound to be supporting her brother but her grudging presence as a campaign collaborator held little appeal for me.

I wondered how much Vibius knew. Faustus had confided in me the story of his split from Laia: his fault, due to a fling with the wife of a patron. Ten years ago, he must have told his best friend something, though the scandal was hushed up. Had he been as frank with Sextus Vibius then as he had been more recently, after his wounds had healed, with me?

Faustus looked uneasy so I changed the subject. ‘I am puzzled, Tiberius. I thought elections were no longer held. Our emperor pores over the lists and controls new appointments himself. If Domitian has the final veto, what is the point of campaigning?’

Faustus groaned bitterly. I saw him check around with a glance, making sure there were no pottering slaves to overhear. ‘Good question. Domitian certainly chooses the consuls. But years ago electing other magistrates was passed to the Senate.’

‘Domitian loathes the Senate!’

‘But, remember, a tyrant hates to admit he is one,’ Faustus said quietly. ‘The worse he is, the more he claims – and even believes – that traditional religion and democracy matter to him deeply and determine all his actions.’

That was true. Some of Domitian’s worst cruelties had been carried out in the name of upholding some ancient practice or in supposed devotion to the gods. His favourite excuse for executing people was to claim they were ‘atheists’. (This could have been macabre humour on his part: the god that people didn’t believe in was Domitian.)

‘Candidates announce they are standing,’ Faustus continued, ‘then lobby important people, including senators.’

‘It is taken seriously? But canvassing who? Emperor or Senate?’

‘Hopefuls ascertain that the Emperor has no objection to them – and, if possible, even get him to call them “Caesar’s candidates”. That makes success certain because, obviously, Domitian’s choices are voted on first.’

‘Why are you campaigning now?’ I asked. ‘Don’t the Senate vote in January?’

Faustus scowled. ‘In the old days, elections for aedile took place in July. The job starts on the first of January, so a successful man had six months to prepare himself. Now people still campaign in July even though aediles designate are appointed for the following twelve months.’

‘Hades! You could have fallen under a cart by then!’

‘Or simply lost interest.’ He seemed depressed. ‘If we are especially unlucky, by January the Emperor will have returned from Pannonia and he will turn up to preside.’

‘Don’t worry. He hardly ever goes to the Senate. But I assume you can’t canvass Domitian directly. You work on his officials?’

Faustus groaned. ‘Endless imperial freedmen.’

‘So you ran your friend’s name past some stylus-pusher?’

‘We tried. They are all jumpy. Their chief, Abascantus, has been sent away under a cloud. Currently no one knows who is in charge.’

I nodded. ‘Domitian could have any of them removed tomorrow. The old “mismanagement of funds” charge, no chance to defend themselves, then swift execution … My father knows one who may help,’ I volunteered. ‘Claudius Laeta – he is elderly now, but bureaucrats never entirely retire.’

‘Would your father mediate for us?’

‘No need. We can take along some invalid porridge and I’ll introduce you to the tottery scroll-master myself.’

Faustus raised his eyebrows. Turning to Vibius, he said, ‘Flavia Albia always amazes me. The other thing I have not mentioned is that she has two uncles in the Senate.’

Vibius was certainly not grateful. ‘Just another five hundred and ninety-eight to win over,’ he grumbled self-defeatingly.

Faustus had met my uncles, Camillus Aelianus and Camillus Justinus, when they advised us on a case. I would make no attempt to coerce them. Let other women work behind the scenes for political favours; I had never seen that as my role. Faustus would have to persuade them himself. But I did suggest I would let him know next time I intended to visit so he could tag along.

Faustus eagerly suggested he bring Vibius, too. I agreed, though somewhat coolly.

The conversation ended. I took my leave, since I wanted to conduct research on all the candidates before anything else.

I had another motive. Manlius Faustus seemed to think he had diverted me, but I was still interested in the dead man found by the auction staff. I pretended I was going home to rest, though in fact I intended to visit the undertaker.

Faustus had sent away Gornia’s donkey earlier; he now produced a carrying chair, I think borrowed from his friend’s mother. ‘Take Flavia Albia wherever she wants to go,’ he ordered the bearers. Then to me he pleaded, ‘One diversion, Albiola! Promise me not to tire yourself – just one sly errand, then please go straight home.’

He knew me too well.