Deadly Election

30

It seemed likely that my work for the Vibius campaign was done. If Faustus needed further help I would give it, but only if he asked. I was curious about the pickle his friend must be in domestically, but now I would retire gracefully.

Faustus and I made no arrangements to meet, though we parted on good terms. He followed Vibius down the Sacred Way. I veered towards the Basilica Aemilia. I made it look casual, as if I had business of my own there. In fact, this was one of those troughs in a case that generally make me want to terminate, and even if I ran into Nothokleptes with something to tell me, I felt I would no longer wish to hear it.

Well, maybe if it was disreputable.

Curses! I had forgotten to ask what Faustus had done with my donkey. Trust a magistrate to pinch your only means of transport, then the swine forgets he borrowed it and you never see it again.

Soon I had other things to think about. As I neared the elegant row of shops at the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius, I was hailed by Cyrus, the auction-house messenger. He said he was taking money to be banked after the Callistus auction; my Aunt Maia had released their earnings to clients, less our fees. We had done well. My father would be pleased. As we always said in the family, it would buy him a new sail for his ridiculously elaborate fishing boat.

Nothokleptes took his time counting the bags of cash. He salted it away, pretending it was going into some high-income fund (in other words, his usual high-fee, low-interest, pension-for-him system). Comforted by the thought of his future profits, he leaned back and asked me, ‘Have you found out what’s going on with the Callisti?’

‘Not entirely. Difficult cashflow, apparently. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason.’

‘Liar! Tell me your interest. Have they run out of money?’

‘There is plenty, thank you, beloved Isis!’

‘And more, with their gains from the auction.’

‘Are you sending the funds to them at their house or direct to their banker?’ Notho asked, looking eager to know.

‘No idea. Maia Favonia will fix it all up. Why? Do they owe their own banker money?’

‘Oh, he has the family savings in his care. He won’t lose out.’

‘Surprise! So what’s going on?’

‘Can’t say. Client confidentiality.’

I scoffed. ‘Stick that on a satyr’s testicles with rosemary oil, and grill them lightly.’

‘Flavia Albia, your poor mother would shudder to hear you.’

‘She would cheer me on. Give, Notho!’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’

‘Do I have to drizzle rosemary oil on you and cook you too?’

Notho winced. ‘It’s only that old man Callistus operates in an old-fashioned way. He has never made his sons independent. He is not mean. They can have whatever cash they like, but his banker is only authorised to shell out on a signed requisition from the old man. Even if Callistus Valens goes to the country, which he generally does around now to avoid the heat, he packs off a messenger back to Rome every week to say how much can be released.’

‘So?’

‘No word from him. Primus went to ask for some readies, but had to be turned away.’

‘A family fall-out?’ I was intrigued.

‘Not apparently. Primus wasn’t expecting a rebuff. He stalked off looking like thunder, but he hasn’t been emancipated so there was nothing he could do. The sons talk big, but their banker respects the old man.’

‘And that is all you know?’

‘Yes. There must have been some slip-up.’

‘Promise there’s nothing more?’

‘Bankers never make promises. We know too much about life’s uncertainties.’

Almost as wise as informers.

‘This sounds dodgy,’ I told Cyrus, as we left. ‘I’m starting to wonder if the Callistus sons organised our auction to get round their old man and acquire some direct income. Have they quarrelled with him? Could they have emptied the old store without him knowing? They sound really desperate for the auction money. Must be glad it’s over.’

‘It’s not.’ Cyrus said. ‘Gornia put a few things together to stretch it out for one more day. Most could have waited for the next big sale, but he wants to finish with that strongbox.’

‘He’s selling it again? What happened about the under-bidder?’

‘You know what people are like. When Gornia went and offered it, the fool lost confidence and convinced himself he no longer wanted it.’

I growled, ‘Of course the idiot will turn up and bid again, as soon as he sees other people showing an interest. Serve him right if he ends up paying more for it.’

‘Gornia has taken a real dislike to that chest. He can’t wait to see it go.’ Cyrus paused. ‘You might drop in today – your pa would want someone on the scene. Gornia doesn’t like the atmosphere. He went so far as to tell Lappius to bring extra men for security.’

‘He’s getting past it. The corpse in the box made him jumpy.’

‘So we have to jolly him along,’ said Cyrus.

Well, that was something to do. I bought hot flatbreads from a stall for Cyrus and me; then we turned back towards the Capitol, hiked around towards the Field of Mars and entered the Porticus of Pompey.

When we arrived there was only a modest crowd. Gornia was on the tribunal, selling a veneered cupboard; anyone who liked the finish would probably not see that a door was tied on with twine and a knob had gone missing.

The worn pelt and sagging frame of Ursa guarded the unsold goods. Boy with a Thorn was acting as another sentinel. The strongbox stood waiting. Nobody was taking notice of it. Everything seemed unexceptional.

Gornia liked to go to trouble. Using items for sale, he had created a small room-set, arranging a couch, tables, cupboards, stools. Lamps, some not even remotely erotic, hung from candelabrum stands. He had even set out a board and glass counters. Naturally people wandered in; one member of the audience took his ease on the long chair. Every man who went that way tried making a move on the gaming board. They all tried ringing the tiny bells on a tintinnabulum assemblage. That was rude; they always are. Primitive people who think a nude phallus can ward off evil must know little about life.

Bidding opened on a bunch of weathered stone dinner couches that must have been stripped out when somebody remodelled their garden. The sloped three-person loungers were basic; they would be covered with cushions if anybody used them. But, excitingly, they came in a set with a large fountain niche, ornamented with shells and mosaic. It had a coy Birth of Venus (small breasts, big hips, half-heartedly veiling herself with a wisp of seaweed) flanked by a pair of extremely muscular sea-horses, who were having fun thrashing twinkly glass foam. A fine piece: I could see why it had been salvaged by the canny building team.

Five of them were here. Wide men in dusty one-armed tunics and heavy site boots, all looking and feeling out of place, but fixedly watching bids on their lot. They had a large squelchy wineskin of mulsum, that sustaining mix of honey and vinegar, with their own cups. Every time someone made a bid, the labourers winced, then gulped their drinks. It was pure amazement at the money they were about to make, a fortune to them.

These were men who worked long hours, very badly paid when compared with the wealthy house-owners and fashionable designers who commissioned them. Somehow, for once, they had managed a windfall. Gornia must have asked searching questions but we all knew there was prodigious waste when homes were renovated. Beautiful things were often thrown away and we liked to see good come out of a rubbish skip − especially since my father had once found a baby in one, now my sweet cousin Junillus. Salvage was in our blood.

When their lot sold, the workmen sloshed more mulsum into their cups, looking stunned.

I went up and explained what they needed to do now. They were happy to transport both couches and fountain to the new owner in their heavy-duty cart, and even offered him a cheap deal for installation. I said we would gladly receive more salvage from them, although they always had to demonstrate they had the right to it: our auction house would not become receivers of stolen goods.

At this point, the Callisti turned up: Secundus and the cousin, well attended by belligerent guards. Gornia glanced at me, though they parked themselves harmlessly at the back of the crowd.

Hardly had they started casting gloom with their heavy presence than the wife of Niger rushed into the auction circle, followed by a shabby man with sweat dripping off him, also going full pelt.

‘Stop the sale!’ She flung both arms wide as if shepherding some tricky goats. ‘That chest belongs to my husband. You are not authorised to sell it!’

Gornia defused the situation by announcing he would auction off some wine vessels, while I ascertained the problem.

All the crowd perked up. The builders chose to stay and watch. Nobody paid any attention to Gornia’s calls for bids on the wine kraters, which were, to tell the truth, disappointing. One had an enormous crack. People buy those things because they’re smitten by their sheer size. Nobody uses the huge party mixing vessels afterwards: even empty, nobody can lift them. Most return in due course to be sold again. We welcome them back like long-lost sons and talk them up on ‘rarity’.

Cornering Niger’s hysterical wife, I kept my voice low. Auctioneers run into situations like this, but we knew how to defend our rights. ‘It is true,’ I said, ‘your husband made a bid on this strongbox, but he never paid. The chest therefore reverts to the original owners, who have authorised us to put it up for sale a second time.’

‘Titus Niger owns it!’

‘Only if he bought it. Let me explain again.’ I toughened up, while still playing reasonable. Grandpa, a ruthless charmer, would have cheered. ‘If you are claiming you own this item, you must produce proof – our docket to say that Niger gave us the money.’

The wife was frantic. ‘They won’t pay his fee. He is going nuts about his lost time.’

‘Then I suppose he might legitimately hold on to any item in his possession as collateral, but not this. Because we received no payment, we are selling the box again.’

‘But-’

‘No! Since this chest belonged to the Callisti, Niger must take up any dispute with them.’ We were going round in circles. ‘Anyway,’ I demanded in mild annoyance, ‘where is the famous Niger? What does the defaulter have to say for himself?’

His wife looked shifty. Her agent fixed his eyes upon the ground and made no comment. ‘My husband is out of town right now.’

‘Where?’

I realised his wife had no idea. That seemed slightly odd.

The sweaty man took a hand. ‘I’m acting as arbiter. I subpoena the chest until its true ownership is decided.’

Hopeless. He was a cheapskate hireling who should have given the woman better advice right from the start and never have let her come near the auction. I reckoned he was someone Niger dealt with in his work: that was how the wife came to know him. But Niger himself was far out of his class.

‘I do not accept your subpoena,’ I stated firmly. ‘Niger reneged. We asked the original owners for instructions and here we are, reselling. Any questions, go over there and take up your beef with the Callisti.’ During this altercation Callistus Secundus and his cousin never moved, though they heard what was being said.

‘This is a legal situation.’ He was red-faced and pompous – but he had that nervous eye-twitch that revealed he felt deeply unsure of his position.

‘Wrong.’ I smiled coldly. ‘This is an auction and we are proceeding with it.’

‘I’m going to fetch the vigiles.’

‘You do that.’ I signalled to Gornia to shift the strongbox with all speed.

The so-called agent was so busy blustering he did not even notice my sign. ‘I am going straight away and nobody is to touch that chest until I come back!’

‘I hear you.’ I would ignore him.

Niger’s wife’s agent hurried off in a new haze of sweat to annoy the law-and-order boyos. They would probably refuse to come, or more likely they would come tomorrow, when it was all safely over and no need for them to do anything. The woman cast a scared glance in the direction of the two Callisti, but could not pluck up courage to speak to them. Instead, she darted forwards and flung herself bodily on top of the strongbox. Lying there full-length, she glued herself to the lid, like a broad-beamed limpet, whimpering against the charred woodwork.

‘Do not dribble on that valuable piece, madam!’ Gornia nodded to Lappius, our largest minder, a big, peaceful, pock-marked man, who swung in and picked her up off it. He carried the flailing woman right to the edge of the crowd. Her large, flat, sandalled feet kicked out in all directions but Lappius set her down (because security operatives are courteous men – at least, ours are), then stood with his huge arms locked round her. He told her to shut up. She squealed. He played deaf. She called for help, so everybody near her edged away. She simmered down, though only slightly.

Gornia called time on the wine kraters, which would go back to store unsold again, then he announced the strongbox. The five builders who had sold the fountain niche had just stood their beakers of mulsum on it, which they lifted off shamefacedly.

It was far too heavy to carry about on display, so a junior porter who fancied himself as a circus performer pranced around it a couple of times, making ‘Lo! This wondrous strongbox!’ gestures. He was a daft imp.

‘Thank you, Lucius,’ said Gornia, solemnly.

That was when Callistus Primus hove into sight, coming down the porticus with a clutch of new security: matched toughs with short legs and no necks. I watched our own guards confer. They normally spent a lot of time bored, but a rumpus looked promising. Secundus and the cousin muttered to their own heavies.

Gornia kept going: ‘This is a fine antique chest of exceptional size and armouring, and only ever in the possession of a single family …’

Primus closed on us. Scampering behind as best they could on high cork heels were the brothers’ two prettied-up wives, plus Julia Laurentina, wife of their cousin. They had brought maids to tend their curls, carry their kerchiefs and pretend to be providing chaperonage.

Now it was Callistus Primus who held an outstretched arm above the strongbox and declaimed, ‘Do not take offers on this box! I forbid the sale! This is an act of hideous impiety!’

That would have been fine. His family owned the box; we would not quibble.

Instead, Secundus ran forwards unexpectedly and barged Primus to one side so he fell into a pile of miscellaneous swags and moth-eaten curtains (some grey, some rainbow-striped, all horrible).

‘You don’t know!’ Secundus yelled at Primus, falling on top of him.

‘I bloody do!’

‘We were told it wasn’t him.’ The cousin dragged Secundus upright again.

Still cradled in old curtaining, Primus sounded full of misery. ‘You are a cloth-eared pair of innocents. You can’t bear the truth.’

‘Ignore this man!’ bellowed Secundus, to the world at large. ‘He’s crazy. Just get on and sell the chest!’

‘Sell it!’ screamed the cousin, joining in with a wild squeak like an agitated Syrian hamster. ‘Sell the damned thing now!’

‘Don’t sell it!’ shrieked the wife of Niger, suddenly breaking free from Lappius and hurtling into their midst.

‘What am I bid?’ enquired Gornia, hopefully, from his plinth. ‘Anybody start me?’

Only a lunatic would have placed a bid for an item in such an ownership dispute. The wiser dealers told him so laconically.

Even in ordinary circumstances this would have been an awkward moment to be joined by a substantial party of election candidates in their pristine whites. But, sure enough, into the Porticus of Pompey they all came strolling and smiling. These worthies were about to partake in circumstances that were in nobody’s definition ordinary.