Deadly Election

18

Back at the Capena Gate, Faustus turned left towards the Arch of Dolabella and Silanus, intending to visit Sextus Vibius.

Laeta had said, ‘the Caelian Hill mob’. What did he mean? I asked Faustus but he either did not know or chose not to tell me.

I continued straight ahead on my own towards the Flavian Amphitheatre. I passed along the Sacred Way to a place where my father kept an advertising space on permanent hire. Since the Callistus sale was virtually over, I scrubbed its details from the wall, found the chalk we left behind a loose brick, and neatly wrote up a description, all we had, of the strongbox corpse. I appealed for information about the man’s identity. I gave my contact details, and promises of gratitude, although I stopped short of offering a reward. I could not face all the chancers who would turn up at the merest sniff of money.

People would look. They might gossip initially. All too soon they would ignore the wall, taking no more notice of my appeal. Still, I might as well try.

Occasionally someone responds. I do it myself. I had met Manlius Faustus when I answered a notice he had put up, asking for witnesses to a street accident.

At a loose end, I decided to walk on to the Porticus of Pompey and check how the auction had finally ended.

Most lots had been sold. Everything had petered out. Yesterday’s items had been taken away, either collected by buyers at the time or dragged off before dawn by Felix in our own delivery cart. The professional dealers had gone on their way; only a thin crowd of casuals remained, no one taking too much interest in the last selection of distressed goods. Further down the porticus, a fool who didn’t care if he disturbed the peace stood on a barrel telling dirty jokes; most of the idlers had moved up there and were craning their necks. Anyone morally offended would complain to an aedile. By the time the aedile came to fine him for obscenity, the comedian would be long gone.

I thought about Vibius, also Gratus, Arulenus, Trebonius, Dillius and Verecundus, wondering how each of them would cope with a situation like this. Poorly, in my opinion. Mind you, that was traditional. Even the mighty Vespasian, a future emperor, had been hauled up for failure of duty when he was an aedile; the folds of his toga were loaded with mud from the streets he had failed to have properly cleaned.

It must be just before lunchtime. It was hotter even than yesterday.

Some of our workers were packing up; they were being discreet because the auction was still running, just about. I saw Gornia, looking more harassed than usual. He had only the last few items, which had been collected together around his tribunal.

I recognised a moth-eaten stuffed bear we had been trying to shift for months, which kept failing to attract any bids and we all knew why: interested parties had only to wander up for an inspection and her mouldy smell made them recoil. Until we found someone with a sinus infection, Ursa would remain ours. There were a bunch of ceramic comports with uneven stands, a huddle of barnacled fish-pickle amphorae, a dog kennel for a very small dog that didn’t mind being rained on, and an old friend.

The mediocre statue of The Boy Taking a Thorn out of His Left Foot had come back.