Deadly Election

32

The builders were leaving and offered to take Incitatus/Consul to Fountain Court for me. Gornia had slyly gathered a group of dealers around his little tribunal and once more asked for offers on the Callistus strongbox.

Manlius Faustus stood with his arms folded, now monitoring what went on. This was the first time I had realised that his allocated area, a quarter of the city, must include a slice of the Field of Mars.

Vibius had parked Callistus Primus on the couch in Gornia’s room set. Secundus comforted his brother while Vibius went to investigate their concussed cousin. He was in serious trouble; he tried to stand up but slid to the ground, where he began having fits. Vibius called out for a stretcher-bearer. The Porticus of Pompey had attendants; Faustus struck off urgently to find them.

As the injured man lay racked by seizures, his wife knelt down and tried to help Sextus Vibius hold him steady. Her mother, Verecunda, marched up and told her not to bother. ‘When are you intending to learn better?’ She really was a vicious hag, putting on airs with her Livia lookalike tunic and hair, though in fact she was no better than any pinched, selfish, loveless old woman. If she had had a hard life, it might have excused her, but I could tell she had not.

‘Oh, shut up, Mother!’ Julia Laurentina hauled herself upright and wildly struck out. She had no martial training and the swipe was off balance; it simply spun her on the spot, leaving Mama untouched.

Verecunda let out a disdainful snort. As she left the scene, she could not help taunting the Callistus brothers. ‘How clever was that? You spent all your precious money trying to get this lightweight elected. You couldn’t keep him in the running − and now you have both killed him!’

For a second I was baffled. Then it made sense. This previously unnamed Callistus cousin, Julia Laurentina’s husband, must be Volusius Firmus. The name on the advertising plaque outside the Callistus house was Firmus, the porter had told me. Nobody had said he was a relative; I expect they thought I knew.

So, it was the Callisti who had lavished cash on bribing Abascantus. We were probably auctioning old Callistus stored items because the family had bankrupted themselves on their pointless attempt − and now Primus and Secundus had risked fatal damage to their cousin.

The auction stalled during the medical emergency. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dromo, Faustus’s slave, poking through the wreckage of Ursa. He put the head on like a helmet. Dromo never had much tact or timing. Almost at once he pulled it off and hurled it as far as he could, shrieking ‘Urrgh! Maggots!’

This caused amusement to a bunch of red-tunic vigiles who had just arrived with Niger’s wife’s agent. Forgetting why they had been summoned, they started kicking the head around and laughing. People scrabbled out of reach in a hurry. Those close enough could see the maggots crawling.

The game stopped when Manlius Faustus returned with a doctor and stretcher-bearers. After a swift examination, they picked up the limp form of Volusius Firmus and set off with him fast. Julia Laurentina sensibly removed her high-heeled sandals to run along behind them, like a devoted wife, barefoot.

The candidates’ party also moved off, which unfortunately caught the attention of the Callistus brothers.

Callistus Primus finally stood up, wiping his eyes. The sight of Arulenus and Trebonius strangely enraged him. He ran at them, gesturing at the fatal strongbox. ‘You bastards! You unfeeling, heartless bastards! How dare you show your faces here?’

He was so angry I thought he would burst a blood vessel. Instead he shouted to his guards, ‘Get the lid up! Get it up, I say! Then help me put this murderous pair of villains inside and see how they like it!’

It was no use telling him the strongbox was locked and its key at the Saepta Julia. He ordered his men to open it by any means; they started violently rocking it from side to side on its short charred legs. Our porters tried protesting, but to no avail.

A leg gave way. The men only pushed harder. The strongbox toppled over on to its back. Either the lock broke or it had been unfastened; the lid crashed open, flat on the ground. Something fell out.

Everyone jumped back. Shocked silence fell.

‘Titan’s tripes!’ commented one of the vigiles. ‘We’ve got a dead body.’

Correction, trusty man of law: we had another one.