Deadly Election

48

Manlius Faustus found the escort slaves.

He had asked five of the seven vigiles cohorts, no small undertaking, even though he had felt he could omit the Transtiberina and Aventine. I went with him to the office, to see whether his query had results.

Faustus was able to dismiss messengers from the Second, Third and Fourth Cohorts, none of whom had anything to report. The First’s officer who dealt with runaways had grudgingly come in person because he had had contact with the group we were looking for: his men had picked them up on the Via Flaminia. They must have run away across country from the Anio bridge, following that smaller river until it met the Tiber where the Via Cassia and other roads met with the busy Via Flaminia, the triumphal route down from the north that then entered Rome across the Field of Mars.

‘Their story made no sense,’ the vigilis told us defensively. ‘They came from the Mulvian Bridge, didn’t they? Sir, that location causes us a lot of trouble.’

‘The Mulvian Bridge is where members of the Catiline conspiracy were apprehended and arrested, allowing Cicero to have their incriminating letters read in the Senate.’

‘Sorry, sir, you’ve lost me.’

‘I apologise. I meant that for Flavia Albia. She has an interest in political history.’ The officer thought Faustus was ragging him to amuse me, so I copped a dirty look: an aedile’s girlfriend, not merely female and flirtatious but having a dangerous passion for revolutionary events. He wanted to put me in a cell and I would not have liked what happened there. ‘Do carry on, officer.’

‘There’s a big huddle of bars and brothels clustered at the bridgehead, frequented by disreputable elements. That Nero started it – he used to go out there for his private kicks. Folks still trip out from Rome every night to get lathered and fornicate, knowing they’re beyond our jurisdiction. It’s barely two miles out from the Flaminian Gate. They can get there and back on foot if they’re minded, though most take transport of some kind. They have their orgies and come rolling back in all states. My cohort has to pick up the damage. With respect, it’s not supposed to be our job to mop up vomit on the Via Flaminia every night – or even to pick up the rich drunks who are lying in the gutter, after their floozies totter off into the night disgusted with them. Sir!’

‘I am sorry you have to put up with it. Were these slaves in a bad state?’ enquired Faustus, mildly.

‘I believe the rascals looked as if something had gone on with them, sir.’

‘That’s because something bad did befall them, and in particular their master.’

‘Well, my lads wasn’t to know that.’

‘Did they ask?’

‘Yes, but it was slaves. Naturally we don’t believe any story slaves tell us. They claimed they was told to save themselves, then come home quick and tell someone − but they were bound to give us some excuse. And be fair, Aedile, nobody had reported anyone of importance going missing, had they?’

‘That is because they didn’t know he was missing – because his slaves had not been able to tell anyone! Now that people do know, it’s probably too late to be useful. So may I have the Callistus escorts given into my custody, please? Their master died; it looks like foul play. I need to question his people. Then they must go back to their kind owners.’

‘No can do, with respect, sir.’

Faustus looked alarmed. ‘Why not?’

‘Once I know runaways actually belong somewhere, in this case the Caelimontium, my orders are always to march them off to the relevant cohort to deal with, which is the Fifth Cohort, sir.’

‘So I suppose,’ sighed Faustus with a wry smile, ‘you got rid of them to the Fifth the minute you received my note indicating who these slaves were?’

‘Well, it couldn’t have been any quicker – we hadn’t got around to processing them before.’

Faustus ignored the lack of logic; he was grim. ‘I feel sorry for these slaves. They managed to reach the city and thought their troubles were over, but were picked up by a patrol, just for looking upset and lost. They were only acting as their master ordered. They were by no means runaways.’

‘Yes, sir. Now you have explained it, I believe that was the case.’

‘How long were they detained in your lock-up?’

The man looked shifty. He admitted the First Cohort had a backlog; he had had the slaves chained up as runaways for over a week. Purse-lipped, Faustus made notes on a waxed tablet in a way that made the officer even more anxious. ‘You realise that, strictly speaking, you deprived these slaves’ owners of their property, for which they are entitled to make a compensation claim?’

The man apologised for any inconvenience, which is what they always say. Faustus dismissed him.

The next man, from the Fifth Cohort, was in a flap.

‘I don’t know anything about these, sir, I’m afraid. They was just dumped on me this morning, right after we got your letter. I haven’t had them taken home. I thought I ought to recce with you first. I didn’t have time to interview them – I rushed right here.’

‘Relax. I don’t blame you. What’s their condition?’

‘None too good. But I’ve told the team to give them a wash and brush-up, so they don’t look and smell so horrible. It’s all nice people on the Caelian – they’re not going to be too happy, I can tell you. I’ve got the slaves sat down at the station house with bowls of broth right now and the boys are speaking to them kindly. We’ll try to perk them up a bit … I can have them delivered back home as soon as you give the say-so.’

‘Have they said anything about what happened?’

‘Only that there was an ambush and they fear the worst. The man in the litter shouted for them to run back to Rome and tell his family. Oh – and he gave them this, to show they hadn’t run off and abandoned him, but he himself had sent them to get help.’

Onto the aedile’s outstretched palm the officer placed a signet ring. It was heavy male jewellery, its gold now worn on the shank, with a stone of polished chalcedony bearing a carved ship to make a seal mark. The Callisti were river men and boat-builders.

I sighed. It seemed a long time since Fundanus had told me a ring was missing, presumably removed by a killer to prevent identification. This must be the very ring that had left a whitened mark on a finger of Strongbox Man, now known to be Callistus Valens. I could reunite it with his wedding ring, which I had at home, then give both to his sons. At least when they honoured the old bits of chicken bone and dogs’ teeth that Fundanus hastily put together for them as a fake relic, they could place something of the man himself in the green glass urn that represented their lost father.