Deadly Election

4

The Callisti hired storage space in an old granary a couple of streets off the Via Tusculana; it runs on the east side of the northern peak of the Caelian, not quite as far along as the Querculana Gate with its lovely little grove of oak trees. People choose such storage places because granaries are specially built to be secure, dry and comparatively fireproof. They have thick walls and strong floors raised on brick columns for aeration, with a certain amount of fortification against vermin – although any smart rat knows granaries are food containers. It was lucky the box containing the corpse had been so strong, despite the fire damage, or he would have been nibbled.

The biggest granaries and stores are situated along the river, but Rome is packed with warehouses. This was freedman-owned and not enormous, just one courtyard, with only a single entrance beneath a modest brick pediment. Rooms led off the courtyard on three levels, with ramps instead of stairs to the upper floors to assist loading. There was a small lodge near the entrance, then rows of other rooms that I could see were all barred with wooden beams, secured with heavy padlocks after they were slotted in. You could not squeeze a cart through the entrance (a security measure) so there were loaders to hand-manoeuvre goods. They looked foreign. Slaves, I presumed.

Callistus had given me a letter of introduction. This caused more suspicion among the granary guards than if I had simply turned up and asked questions. For one thing, they were unable to read. I had to untie the tablet strings and recite the contents. If the letter had really been a recipe for turnip soup they would have been none the wiser.

They were a pair of Syrians who had only broken Latin, perhaps because few people ever spoke to them. I mimed an attempt at translation, before we all gave up and they waved me in. Being on guard was so boring they fetched keys and were soon happily taking me round and showing me what valuables everybody had in store. That was interesting. Bullion boxes. Jewellery caskets. Lifetime records. Mildly hideous paintings.

Why would anybody want four identical statues of Venus with the Big Behind? Try not to be lewd when answering. Send suggestions to the procurator for art tax fraud at the Imperial Treasury. Don’t hold your breath for a reward.

While the guards were being so helpful, a clerk bustled up, returning from a late breakfast or early lunch. I could smell wine on his breath from four strides away. Someone must have let him know I was there, so he came tumbling back from his all-day bar vigil. He looked nervous. Was that because he knew there had been foul play?

The clerk was a tufty, paunchy, bleary-eyed disaster. He shooed away the guards and himself showed me to the ground-floor room where the Callisti kept their unwanted stuff. It was almost empty after their recent clear-out, though various dud bits still remained, no doubt rejected by Gornia as unworthy of sale. Short oars, mostly. Nothing that appealed to us: we specialise in reproduction marble wares with not too many pieces missing, or furniture we can describe as high-end, even if that’s pushing it. We don’t handle stupendously barnacled planks.

Gornia must have accepted the fire-damaged chest because it had once been really good quality. People who attend auctions will buy anything if it is correctly talked up. There had been a period when we needed to conceal from buyers the fact that something had emerged from the volcano eruption, but its sad associations had not been a deterrent for long. ‘Vesuvian’ was now attractive, because people thought it meant ‘owner lost; item going cheap’.

A large rectangular patch in the dust on the floor, with various scuff marks, showed where the great chest had stood and how it had been dragged out. There were footprints in the dust, none meaningful now. Our auction staff would have trampled about, unaware they were compromising evidence. If the dead man had been seized and tied up here, there was no way now to tell. Nor could I deduce how many assailants had been with him.

The door to the room was protected with a hefty padlock, for which the clerk had produced a key when he let me in.

‘Where do you keep the padlock keys?’

In his little office by the gate, all hung on hooks, all labelled. I asked what happened if anybody called unexpectedly, wanting access to their store, while he was off the premises, as he clearly often was. The lying lump swore the guards turned people away, but I already knew better from their guided tour for me. All you needed was an air of authority. I bet those guards would even let anyone charming take a key for themselves. The lodge with all the keys was not locked.

We walked back to the gate, where the guards were pretending to look busy. I quizzed them about any visitors a week ago, but as far as I could tell through the language barrier they remembered no one. It seemed pointless to ask the tipsy clerk, but I dutifully raised one eyebrow and inevitably he shook his head. I asked if records were kept of when storerooms were opened and by whom. Of course not.

Irritated, I told the clerk he had to go to the undertaker’s and see the body, in case he recognised the man. He tried to wriggle out of it, but I said if he refused to cooperate I would report him for negligence. Even a habitual drunk could see that having a corpse dropped there without his knowledge counted against him.

‘Go today,’ I said, adding cruelly, ‘He’s in a horrible condition, so we can’t delay the funeral. Have a good look at him, before he gets any more putrid.’

It struck me that, since this granary was so cool and airy, I might have underestimated how long Strongbox Man had been dead. The Callistus storeroom was not so chilly as a cave or cellar, but inside three-foot walls its temperature felt even and low. I had arrived at the building flapping the top edge of my tunic to fan myself, but cooled off comfortably while there. This atmosphere might have kept the body fresh. Not long enough for me to be very far out, though; not in Rome in July. Call the corpse ten days old, rather than a week.

I was about to leave, feeling despondent and tired.

In the shadow of the entrance gate other visitors were loading scroll boxes onto a handcart wielded by a grumbling slave. I recognised the cart first, next the slave, then his master. The master wore formal dress, a rich white tunic with wide purple stripes on the hems. It makes magistrates stand out anywhere, which presumably is the intention.

His name was Manlius Faustus. He was the noble friend who had saved my life when I was ill. I was surprised to find him here; he looked perplexed to see me.

‘Oh, no!’ grumbled the slave, whose name was Dromo. ‘Now I’ll have two of them bossing me!’

‘Shut up, Dromo.’

I said that. Faustus, always a silent type, was too preoccupied. He was inspecting me tetchily − a man who had put himself out for a woman whose foolish behaviour was now jeopardising his good work. I began to feel hot and queasy, enduring the scrutiny.