Deadly Election Read online

‘I tackled him.’ He spoke quickly in a low voice. ‘He admits Julia Optata is not at home. He says it is a normal visit away, with his complete agreement.’

  Really? She had tripped off somewhere, at this crucial moment, taking all she owned? I remained convinced something was wrong. I would not push it. Intervention can go sour on you.

  ‘There is comforting news, Tiberius. I found out she is not at her mother’s, the obvious place if she ended her marriage.’ I sensed coolness in his behaviour so wanted to reconcile with him. ‘Forget I asked about her. I apologise. Apologise for me to Sextus. I shall meddle no more. But you do need to prepare a satisfactory public statement.’

  ‘They will get hold of it, won’t they?’ Faustus was gloomy, I hoped he remembered people were already prodding at Sextus when I began exploring. I felt guilty all the same.

  ‘You’re not angry with me?’

  ‘No, Albia.’ He softened. ‘Never.’

  Faustus drew me in among the throng of people who wanted to hear Sextus. We were at the far northern end of the Forum, outside the Curia. The Rostra ran across almost the whole Forum’s width. Behind it was the Umbilicus of Rome, a marble structure that represented the city’s navel. In front stood the Golden Milestone, where all roads to Rome met. This was a sacred spot.

  The tall base of the Rostra was adorned with ships’ prows, memorials to sea-battles; some of the beaks were real prows taken from defeated vessels, though more had been created specially. The back and sides of the large platform had ornate balustrades but the front was open. Speakers stood up there, looking down the length of the Forum, crowded with monuments and statues, towards the Temple of the Divine Julius, whose eulogy had occurred right there.

  Many famous and infamous speeches had been uttered from the Rostra, much brilliant oratory – and, inevitably, much tame tosh. Overcome by the occasion, as soon as their feet touched that legendary podium, all too many speakers succumbed to cliché and verbosity. They all thought they were Mark Antony. None came near him. That never stopped them. Very few let themselves be deterred by the rude Roman crowds heckling.

  I saw Sextus eagerly clamber up to the great platform. When he took up a position, he looked dwarfed by the various columns that supported commemorative statues. Fellows in wreaths, with swagger sticks or scrolls, ill-advised Roman noses and very ugly sandalled feet, posed nobly all around him. There were too many, so from time to time the Senate had to insist on a cull.

  It was the first time I had seen Vibius Marinus in action. He was not at all bad. We had given him a strong speech, which he must have read and absorbed, stewing over it all last night. He spoke without notes. That was correct procedure, in both law and politics. As far as I could tell, he had not made scribbles in the folds of his toga. If he had, they were only for reassurance and he never seemed to look down at the secret reminders.

  He had the right style: he looked at his audience and spoke in an almost conversational manner. He came across as trustworthy and likeable. I felt glad to find that Sextus might be slapdash on occasions, but he had substance.

  Faustus had made sure the crowd contained all their supporters, prominently at the front. The other candidates collected, most giving themselves a good view from the steep steps of the Temple of Saturn. Ennius had a much worse position at the Temple of Concord, as if the others had refused him space. Word had been spread about our man’s intentions; none could afford to miss this, in case they needed to shout rebuttals. They brought their own supporters, who began catcalling early. Only a few people were unbiased members of the public. For all I knew, even some of those had been given incentives to come.

  I spotted Gratus and his sister. For some reason, they were by themselves on the steps of the Temple of Vespasian, which had been squeezed in under the Capitol between the Temple of Concord and the Porticus of the Consenting Gods. It stood almost round a corner and gave hardly any view of the Rostra. Hiding there was a poor way to signal that they were in coalition with this speaker.

  At first everything went well. The stories I had collected caused happily raucous shouts, while the jokes Faustus had written made all the crowd laugh, even those who were supposed to be supporting the insulted rivals. Sextus felt the buzz; he became positively thrilling. Everyone was with him, enjoying the speech, and he clearly enjoyed giving it.

  Faustus and I listened, occasionally glancing at one another with smiles when our man reached one of our best lines.

  ‘Why does he need a fierce hunting dog in Rome? He surely cannot intend to attack venerable priestesses. Is it for catching mice? I ask you seriously, my friends, what pathetic kind of man needs to rely on a dog to give him a public presence? If this creature means so much, why don’t we elect the dog instead of his master, a new Incitatus?’ Incitatus was that racehorse a mad emperor had once had elected as consul.

  The crowd were laughing; some made barking sounds. Sniping at Trebonius Fulvo was easy: unseemly weight-training, the hard attitude, a dangerous dog that didn’t respect religion, the fancy rings … Trebonius Fulvo listened with a faint smile, biding his time. As soon as Sextus paused for breath, he used his powerful barrel-chested voice: ‘I cannot be all bad – at least I have a loyal wife! Day after day she proudly comes to support my efforts. In offering myself for public service, I for one am sustained by a strong domestic partnership.’

  The loyal wife was with him; he took her hand and clasped it in the traditional pose of marital commitment, while she simpered at him adoringly the way politicians’ loyal wives do when asked to perform in public. She looked older than Trebonius, a respectable woman of forty, forgetting her marital disappointments and horribly forgiving such a shameless fraud.

  ‘Gruesome!’ muttered Faustus. ‘She must have seen through him years ago.’

  ‘Sickening, yes – but it doesn’t mean that when they are home she never complains that his feet smell, or tells him not to belch in front of her mother because he only does it to annoy the old crone …’

  Trebonius went further onto the attack: ‘So where, Vibius Marinus, is your own wife today? As usual, I look around and do not see her! I begin to wonder if the lovely Julia Optata has cruelly abandoned you! Is your marriage over?’

  Sextus handled it. He gave Trebonius a pitying glance as if the man was recklessly misinformed: ‘Trebonius, how good of you to enquire. Friends, let me tell you, I am much blessed in Julia Optata, but sometimes one must make a sacrifice. My dear wife has volunteered to visit her sister, who is due to give birth for the first time and is terrified. I miss my darling, but I must bear her absence. This is an act of kindness on her part, and may help produce a safe birth. Julia Optata and I have children, so she can offer useful experience.’

  Trebonius came out of the exchange looking petty and inaccurate while Sextus boldly moved on to satirising Arulenus Crescens. The crowd knew that would be even more fun. They foretold ripe jokes about partying and eunuchs – always a favourite.

  As their enjoyment swelled again, I was thinking that Sextus could have told us about the nervous pregnant sister – if it was true. His slipperiness continued to niggle at me. Even Faustus murmured, ‘That was a surprise. When we spoke, Sextus only said Julia went on a visit.’

  I decided to let Faustus come to terms with these conflicting stories in his own way. My way would be to dig deeper.

  ‘Did Trebonius Fulvo know Julia is not at home?’

  ‘How could he?’ Faustus grumbled. ‘Trebonius cannot have gained access, then gone up and inspected the apartment as you did!’

  Then I remembered: I had told someone else yesterday. I looked across sideways to where Laia and her brother were standing. Laia noticed me turn in their direction. Was she feeling guilty? A mere shadow of communication passed between her and her brother. They were too far away for me to see if she said anything, though I thought not.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Have Laia Gratiana or her brother spoken to you today?’

  ‘No.’ Faustus gazed at me. ‘No. Gra
tus politely left us alone to do the speech. He knew we were keyed up about it.’

  ‘Do you think …?’

  I saw Faustus take a conscious decision not to become annoyed, even though he shared my suspicions. ‘I think nothing,’ he declared. ‘This is politics.’

  Laia must have told her brother that Julia had left. For Gratus to pass this ammunition to Trebonius was spiteful, but he probably thought he had to start defending his own position. We already knew he was an opportunist. Gratus might want to extricate himself from the now-awkward partnership with Sextus. Before he openly chose to split, he might stir things up, see what came out of asking hard questions, make sure of his ground.

  ‘I’m sorry I told Laia.’

  ‘You can’t be blamed. She was already dropping hints.’

  ‘So much for loyalty!’

  Faustus merely looked rueful. Knowing him, he blamed himself and his old enmity with Laia.

  Sextus was drawing to a close. A roar of approval filled the north end of the Forum.

  I asked quietly, ‘How do you feel the speech has gone?’

  Faustus smiled. I was relieved to see it. ‘It went well!’ he said. He tipped his head on one side, viewing me with a big, beaming grin, full of his usual warmth. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  Sextus jumped down from the Rostra, fired up with his success. He moved through the crowds, shaking many hands as he walked, until he reached us. People clapped him on the back so clouds of white dust arose from his toga. Even he started coughing.

  At that point people almost barged into us. It was the Ennius Verecundus group. To my amazement his mother plonked herself right in front of us.

  ‘That was a pretty piece of rubbish, Sextus Vibius!’

  Close to, her skin was leathery, her black eyes glistening. Her high-rolled Livia topknot almost looked varnished. Standing straight as a battering ram and unmoved, she examined us, while Sextus very quietly leaned in and kissed her wrinkled cheek in greeting. I wondered how well he had known her before he was married, if at all, and how closely they had been connected since. Whatever their relationship, or his with Julia, he was maintaining correct respect for his mother-in-law in public. She looked annoyed but took it as her right.

  The man was doubly gracious because Julia Verecunda visibly had no time for him. She jabbed an index finger so hard into his breastbone he would certainly be bruised. She seemed to be trying to bore a deep hole, but he only stepped back a little.

  ‘Son-in-law! Tell that daughter of mine I expect to see her immediately.’

  ‘I shall write and say that is what you wish,’ agreed Sextus, mild and polite.

  ‘Bring her back!’ Julia Verecunda had a voice like charcoal rasping on the hot bars of a griddle. ‘I want to hear her explanation of your falsehood. Visiting a nervous sister? You talk nonsense, Vibius Marinus. Somebody should tell those fools who applauded your rhetoric. Not one of my daughters is pregnant. Believe me, I would be the first to know!’

  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 fallout?’ 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 underbidder?’

  ‘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.