Deadly Election

12

Auctions begin at dawn, indeed often earlier. It was barely light when movement started. By hoary tradition professional dealers come along for first pickings, pawing your stock, tossing items around as they scavenge like particularly arrogant crows. These men, and occasional women, regard it as their right to make pre-auction bids, which are always preposterous. If rebuffed, they are annoyed, even though everyone knows they are trying it on. Many are shifty-looking; some bring unpleasant half-starved dogs. Father calls them the warts.

Today’s warts were on good form. They sauntered up, glum-faced, with no greetings for our staff, let alone me, although some exchanged curt nods with one another. As soon as they arrived, in dribs and drabs because they were solitary beings, they started inspecting the lots as if we were invisible − yet they scoffed, loud, derogatory comments for us to overhear.

‘Settle down!’ Gornia soothed them. He had seen it all before. He kicked one of the whippety dogs away from sniffing the big half-burned strongbox. ‘If your hound pees on anything, we’ll want compensation … You know it’s always hard going in July. We are lucky to have put together a sale. Falco wasn’t at all keen …’

Falco didn’t care that much. Falco regarded the auction house as a colourful, temporary hobby. He hankered to be back informing, but had to lie low and look as if he had retired because Domitian was known to be rancorous towards him. There was a reason. Father never said what.

With Domitian, nobody asked questions, in case merely mentioning his name should put the thought of you into his head. He brooded on slights long past as darkly as on offences now. Everyone scurried about with their heads down. The people of Rome were terrified of him, and the monster enjoyed that.

A snotty woman dressed in odd raggedy skirts and scarves pointed out that Falco had not even put in an appearance. ‘Exactly,’ smirked Gornia. ‘Gone fishing. Like I said, it’s July!’

The warts moved off, still without proper conversation. They dispersed to harry some other auctioneer if they could find one, despising his goods as much as they apparently despised ours. Once our bidding started, some would slide back. They had decided what pieces they wanted; indeed, if the items were small, the warts had surreptitiously hidden them under larger things, away from other eyes. At the auction, warts usually made fierce bids. That was why we let them poke through the lots. They looked like paupers, but they were out to buy and had plenty of cash hidden about their skinny persons.

So far it was chilly in the dark colonnades inside Pompey’s Porticus. The dawn atmosphere felt ominous, as if anyone who was lurking out in the central grove of plane trees must be up to no good. We went about our business, hoping they would stick to theirs. We usually employed big fellows to act as security, but they would arrive later, just before the auction started.

I huddled in a cloak while I kept an eye on proceedings. I was being the auctioneer’s daughter today. I would sit on the sidelines, on a stool or a chair. Regulars knew who I was. The decent professional dealers would give me a nod, possibly even come over to send their regards to Father. I would be called upon to adjudicate any problems, though Gornia could have done it, if none of the family were present.

In a plebeian family business, women have a valued place. They share the work. My Aunt Maia had kept the auction accounts for years. I wondered if I would see her today, though mostly now she worked at home where she could combine the figure-work with looking after her husband in his retirement. Somebody would take a big basket of receipts to her when it was all over, then Maia would squeeze in alongside Petro and his wine flagon on the sun terrace, where she would deal with record-keeping, send out bills and pay off the sales tax.

All over the Empire this was how it worked, even though in theory women were cyphers. I myself was fairly well informed about the art and antiques we sold. Fakes too. I had been tutored to recognise counterfeiting, ‘marriages’ and overdone distressing. I also knew how to let someone down gently when they brought along a ghastly heirloom, hoping their cracked item would be worth a fortune. I would even be careful what I said because, perversely, if a worthless dud went into a sale, some idiot might pop up and pay a lot of money for it.

I liked being allowed to take part. I would have enjoyed having my own family business, but that presupposed a husband to run it with me. I had stopped expecting either. Being an informer, a loner’s profession, would suffice. I did not fret about my life. I saw enough unhappy frustration among my clients.

In the dull patch before things started, I inspected today’s lots.

The Callisti must have had that granary storeroom crammed to its ceiling. Much of their list was furniture, one or two pieces with Vesuvian damage but otherwise simply goods they had grown tired of. Their taste was heavy – too much gilding and too many animal paws for me. They were parting with a whole chest of lewd lamps; someone had made a collection of flying-phallus chandeliers that a wife must be making him throw out. A matched pair of decent alabaster side-tables had been ruined by a neglected water spill on one (Gornia put up a notice that optimistically called it ‘restorable’). A generation ago some hapless ancestor had blessed them with misjudged art. I had seen reproductions of Greek sculpture that were almost better than the originals, fine work from Campania, but still the world contains far too many inferior gods and athletes in marble that is less than pure and Parian, or sometimes only painted plaster.

We called this the Callistus sale, but there were smaller lots from other people, right down to a single platter from a hard-up old lady. We accepted those because Father was so soft: whenever a sad-eyed grandma came bearing a pathetic treasure, he lied about the price it achieved, making up the difference from his own pocket. The grandma, hard as nails, would scuttle off to tell her cronies that the daft son of Didius Favonius was an easy mark.

As usual we had one or two pieces from our own family inheritance; it was years since my grandfather had died, but a lifetime of fervent collecting had been stashed in houses and warehouses. From time to time, Father discovered more, then faced the sorry decision whether to own up to his belated windfall and pay inheritance tax on it. Many a long hour in the evening was spent with furrowed brow as Didius Falco wrestled with his conscience – or so he said, as he called for another beaker of Falernian (from Grandpa’s cellar) to help him deliberate. He seeded an auction with choice pieces whenever he needed cash to fund a project. He grumbled and called it ‘dowry money’, though in fact these sales more often paid for funerals, education or travel. That was how he had helped to back my uncles, the Camilli, when they were entering the Senate.

Today Father was selling a fine large silver urn and its even finer little brother, plus a number of eastern carpets. Otherwise, not much attracted me, though I admired a weathered stone bench with dolphin ends that I chose as my perch for the day. Gornia said he could pull it out of the sale for me but I had nowhere to keep it.

Oh, look. Some wild hopeful was trying to offload a statue of A Boy Pulling a Thorn out of His Foot. Good luck with that, deluded person!

Our security arrived, silent musclemen from a local gymnasium, bearing breakfast rolls for all. The day brightened. The Porticus warmed up. Members of the public began strolling by, at first idlers who looked alarmed and moved on rapidly if we spoke to them, then people with a genuine interest, who were prepared to stay and make bids.

As soon as we had attracted a small crowd, Gornia began selling. The hour was still too early, but no use waiting around like shrimp-girls outside a gladiators’ barracks: we needed our event to sound lively, as if something unmissable was happening.

I installed myself on my bench with a pile of waxed tablets, the catalogue, which I marked up whenever an item sold. I was part of the scenery. Ideally, to look like the auctioneer’s daughter, I would have fixed up complicated hair and cosmetic work. Having had to leave my apartment in the dark, I had simply thrown on a fine tunic with rich hems, big earrings and lashings of necklaces – the kind of outfit that makes your mother shriek you look like a travelling trapeze artist. Otherwise, I had my usual work uniform: a plain plait and a clean face. Laced shoes, a stout satchel, a brightly woven belt. Helena would have groaned if she saw me going out of the house like that, but I felt the look was a good mix of the exotic and the businesslike … In my heart, I had remained fifteen.

Once we started, no one took any notice of me.

Quite a few punters slunk around as if they had sinister motives, but that’s the way of crowds. There were a few genuine sneak thieves, sly idlers with big patch pockets, all closely watched by members of our staff. The rest looked genuinely respectable, which could hardly have been true. This was Rome.

I was convinced that whoever was responsible for Strongbox Man would have heard his container was in this sale. Whether they knew we had opened it and found him was an interesting point. We had kept quiet. Would the Callisti have let any news out? Did the killer think the corpse was still curled up inside?

I had my eyes peeled for anyone suspicious. Unluckily for me, many people turn up to auctions out of curiosity. They convince themselves they won’t bid – before, inevitably, they lavish more than they can afford on a wild offer for something they don’t want. When their wife back at home says she hates it, they are stuck …

This vigil was useless. I failed to spot any likely suspects. I had to pass the time somehow. Musing, I developed a witty theory that auctions are like politics. In an auction, you let yourself be fooled by appearances, get carried away and commit yourself rashly; then, as soon as it’s over and you take your so-called sound investment home, a leg drops off. Just like electing some sham who turns out to have neither talent nor morals …

Not Sextus Vibius Marinus, friend of my own honest friend Faustus, clearly. I must try not to be satirical about the lovely Vibius. Otherwise I would let an incorrect opinion slip, causing his chief supporter to take offence. Naughty girl, Albia.

I was bored.

Towards the middle of the morning, everything warmed up. I had shed my cloak and the porters were starting to glisten as they hauled stuff about. The Porticus of Pompey was at its most elegant. Fountains splashed attractively. The golden curtains on the art gallery shone with determined refulgence. Bright, unremittent sunlight was now flooding into the gardens, where every arcade had a full complement of flâneurs and women who fancied a fling – or who wanted to fool themselves they were risking their reputations, although they would dart away in horror if any sinful adventurer sidled up to them. Even the slave-gardeners seemed happy to be trimming up the box hedges.

Gornia had moved on to selling decent lots. The donkey boy fanned him. I could have used him fanning me.

There was serious interest. Warts had returned and were intently bidding against one another. Even unlikely objects found new owners. A nice young couple had snapped up a good table that they dearly wanted, at a price that seemed to surprise them (auctioneers have hearts: we are more pleased than you think to see customers go away delighted). The table had no hidden defects either. Joyous.

I scrutinised a man in a poorly dyed puce tunic, hanging about near The Boy with the Thorn. He pretended to look at the statue, then kept sidling off elsewhere.

From where I was he seemed good-looking and sturdy, but too indecisive to be a murderer. Still, he could be a sidekick sent to observe. He didn’t look as if he cost much to employ. He would have cost me nothing at all because I would have sent him packing. As soon as he saw me watching him, he beetled away guiltily.

Callistus Primus arrived. He was accompanied by two other men whom he brought across and introduced, his brother and cousin. Secundus, the brother, looked just like him but several years younger. They moved to one side where they stood in silence, watching their items come up. A good price left them expressionless. The few things that failed to sell, or failed to sell for what they had hoped, left them visibly disgusted. I dislike such men, but among auction clients they are common. People expect too much. If they don’t achieve the price they want, they blame the auctioneer.

Gornia was actually on good form. He had learned his trade from my grandfather, though no one will ever surpass Geminus at coaxing bids from the shy public. Didius Geminus could sell shit to a dung farmer – and get him to come and collect it in his own cart.

Gornia put up The Boy with a Thorn in His Foot. Puce Tunic did not bid. He just lurked unhappily behind some topiary. The statue failed to reach its reserve and was not sold. Surprise!

At this point, Gornia winked at me and did a little jiggle, signalling that I should go over to where he was standing on a box, his tribunal, and temporarily take over. When he needed to use the Porticus lavatory, we all knew it had to be regarded as urgent. He was an old man.

I surrendered the catalogue to the boy who normally marked it up. As Gornia nipped off, looking anxious, he passed me the hammer; according to family tradition, this implement came from an arena in Africa where it had been used to test if gladiators were dead or shamming.

Some of the audience were surprised when I jumped on the box and composed myself, but it was not the first time I had been left in charge of a gavel. My father had started to bring me with him after Lentullus was killed, wanting to lure me out from brooding alone. Falco said I was bossy enough to control an auction. He trained me.

I quite enjoyed taking charge. I always felt nervous initially but if there was a murmur among those watching, by the time I took the first lot it was over. All you need is a quiet, efficient manner. Punters don’t care, not if they are fired up to buy.

‘Gornia’s gone for a comfort break. You just can’t get the staff, these days. Be calm, my friends, this isn’t a Greek auction, no fear of accidentally acquiring a new wife − I am Falco’s daughter. Good afternoon.’

Some actually answered obediently, ‘Good afternoon.’

‘First item is this robust garden-god statue, fully equipped in every sense.’ The evil porters had set me up with a stone Priapus. Luckily I do not embarrass easily. I talked it up. ‘A fine feature to impress friends at your peristyle supper parties. I had a close look and his dibber shows very little trace of wear!’ I had them. ‘A slight chip in the foreskin, best not to think how that happened. Let’s face it, there must be women here who have been saddened by worse sights … I’ll take a thousand.’

They bid. Not a thousand, but enough. A woman bought it. We had a laugh. She was fifty and took the banter in good part. Perhaps a widow. Free to have what she liked in her garden now, without her husband picking at her.

The audience were mine and the porters had had their moment, so I could continue in my own style, being serious and direct. The job is easy, in my opinion. You only have to make it clear whose bid you take. ‘I am with the red tunic. Any advance? Sir at the back, thank you. Are we all done?’

Drop your hammer decisively. Move on.

‘Next, please, porter. Now this is lovely. Who will start me at five hundred?’

I sold several routine lots, to let everyone feel comfortable with my presence and pace. The Callisti stopped looking nervous. The regulars had never been bothered anyway. It must be close to lunchtime. We had a large crowd and I even spotted a haze of ultra-white on the outskirts, as if we had been joined by election candidates. People were fanning themselves, some drinking water, a couple of lads trying to cool off in the fountains.

The Boy with a Thorn limped round again. He failed to sell a second time. ‘Oh dear. If nobody takes him home soon, this poor wounded lad will end up with gangrene!’ Enjoying myself, I was soaring like a seagull on a thermal. I called the no-sale. Almost without intending to, I heard myself say, ‘I’ll take the handsome strongbox next.’

Perhaps I should have waited. But, Hades, it had to go some time. It was just a half-burned chest.