Deadly Election Page 18

  ‘Consul.’

  ‘No wonder he gets above himself!’

  At that point everyone was settled and friendly. It was not to last.

  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.

  33

  First a man’s bare arm flopped out. The rest of him jerkily followed, eerily affected by rigor. He lurched out, landing face down.

  The vigiles shoved everyone back. He had to be dead. We could see that. One of the vigiles touched his neck to make sure, a routine gesture. ‘He’s cold.’

  They rolled him face up. People craned to look. I pushed in myself, in case I recognised this one. I did. He was thin and lanky, wearing a beige tunic, with heavy acne scars. It was the missing agent, Niger.

  His wife gasped, then fainted clean away.

  34

  Manlius Faustus took charge. You might think the candidates would want to stay and watch him, but when did men standing for office learn about their coming job? They were the quickest to leave. Other members of the public also vanished, not wanting to be involved in trouble. Faustus was stuck on his own.

  The vigiles decided not to scarper while a magistrate was watching. Faustus instructed them to inspect the body for evidence of foul play. They peered at Niger, tweaked up sleeves and tunic hems, then announced that the dead man showed classic signs of having been beaten, shortly before death. This corpse was less than a day old. Faustus pronounced it murder.

  The Callistus brothers forged a path through curious onlookers to inspect the remains of their former agent. Faustus asked them to identify him formally. Niger’s wife came round from her faint; she indignantly claimed that task as hers, encouraged by the greaseball who was acting as her agent. So Faustus let them all do it, while he made notes.

  He asked the Callistus brothers why they had ended up on bad terms with Niger; neither would answer. He told them to go home and await a visit, advising them to come up with a satisfactory story before they found themselves suspects.

  Niger’s wife’s agent planted himself alongside her. He must be thinking of that well-mopped first-storey apartment, not to mention the savings that Niger, like any careful freelance, would have stored up. Soon this man would be ‘helping’ his client deal with the funeral, after which he would probably console the dazed widow right into a new marriage …

  I suggested we send for Fundanus. I assured the wife he would be reverent. With a deserving widow he might be. That way, too, he would pass on to me any useful information. I wanted to know what links there were between the two strongbox incarcerations. There was no way now I would abandon my enquiries into the first death.

  Faustus tried to interrogate the weeping wife. He asked if Niger had had enemies, but she only wanted to protest that he was loved by everyone, especially all his wonderful, generous clients. She did say that the Callistus brothers had employed him quite recently, not simply to bid at the auction but, before that, for some errand to the countryside. Whatever rural task he had carried out had made his clients unhappy, she did not know why.

  She sobbed that last night Niger had never come home. It was unusual behaviour, so the troubled wife was not entirely surprised to find he was dead.

  I slipped off for a muttered consultation with Gornia. ‘You know what I’m going to ask you. If we had that strongbox locked up and under guard all night, Gornia, how the hell did some villain open the lid and drop Niger into it?’

  As I feared: last night our staff had sneaked off to have dinner. They had asked the Porticus nightwatchmen to keep an eye on things ‘just for an hour’. I knew what that meant. ‘So the porticus guards agreed, but mooched off and left our stuff unattended?’

  They must have, Gornia conceded.

  ‘For hours?’


  Gornia looked despondent.

  ‘Was anything taken?’

  ‘No of course not, Albia. The porticus is locked up after sundown.’

  ‘People can get in. It’s a notorious place for assignations.’

  ‘Lovers are too busy to steal things.’

  ‘Though, oddly enough, not too busy to leave dead bodies behind!’

  ‘Oh, go on, Flavia Albia. Don’t beat me up about it – I’m an old man.’

  We inspected the strongbox lock and found jemmy marks, shiny new skids across the old metalwork. Someone had forced the lock. They dumped Niger inside and dropped the lid again.

  Faustus had noticed us talking and come over. I suggested, ‘Whoever did this, Aedile, must have realised the chest was to be auctioned again. The body would be found. Are Niger’s killers sending a message to the Callisti?’

  Being Faustus, he thought about that in silence.

  ‘What message?’ asked Gornia. When nobody answered, he changed the subject tetchily. ‘So what am I supposed to do about this bloody chest?’

  Faustus stepped over Niger’s body and peered inside it. This time he was definite. ‘There are no clues. Nothing inside. Time to put an end to this fiasco. I order you to burn it. If the Callisti complain, tell them to see me. Destroy it as soon as possible, please.’

  Gornia overcame conflicting emotions regarding the fee we would have gained from selling the strongbox and his loathing of it; he agreed. From the sly wink he gave me while pulling at the broken lock, I knew he would first remove all the ironwork; there was money in that.

  Fundanus arrived, sooner than expected. He had a nose for untimely death. Negotiations were swiftly concluded with the widow, via her agent, then the corpse was taken up and carried off. Niger’s wife went home, escorted by her increasingly persistent agent.

  Fundanus himself stuck around. Uncertain of Faustus, he took me aside. ‘Would it be of interest if I told you I have seen that cove before?’

  ‘It certainly would, Fundanus! When?’

  ‘It was the day we torched that other stiff we scooped out. The second fellow turned up and asked for a viewing. He was just in time. An hour later, I had the pyre burning up nicely. According to him, it could be somebody he knew.’

  ‘You showed him the corpse?’ That was Faustus, not easily deluded. An aedile had to stop illegal gambling; Faustus had learned to spot surreptitious goings-on.

  ‘I hope I did not do wrong, sir,’ whined Fundanus, humbly.

  ‘Get on with your story.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ This was a new, creepy side of the bombastic undertaker. I preferred him when he was sounding off. ‘Well, he took a peek, though not for long because, as Flavia Albia can corroborate, number one was in a, let us say, significantly poor condition.’

  ‘Rotting?’

  ‘Somewhat liquid, sir. We did our best on him but …’ Fundanus shook his head mournfully. ‘It really was as well we were ready to pyre him up.’

  ‘Did Niger put a name to number one?’ I coaxed, controlling my impatience.

  ‘Sadly, no. He stated that he must have been mistaken, this was nobody he knew. Then he hopped out of it, covering his nose. From evidence subsequently discovered, he threw up in the street outside.’

  ‘I can manage without that detail,’ muttered Faustus, at his most dour.

  The undertaker turned to me. ‘I would have told you about this person’s visit, Flavia Albia, but since he did not know the corpse, I supposed there was no interest in it.’

  ‘I had told you I needed to know if anyone showed interest.’

  ‘And here I am telling you, Flavia Albia.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that!’

  ‘It is possible,’ warned Faustus, ominously, ‘if Albia had known your story earlier, number two might be alive now.’

  ‘I don’t see how!’ sneered Fundanus, more aggressive and showing his true colours.

  ‘And we might have named number one,’ continued Faustus. He regularly dealt with shirty householders and intransigent brothel-keepers. Nobody put him off.

  Fundanus made a fast exit.

  The atmosphere in the porticus changed as evening fell. News of the second dead body soon brought ghouls to our corner, keen to gawp at the strongbox with its sinister history. Deadbeats who hoped to find unattended goods after the auction turned up. Our staff hurried to tidy things away, knowing looters would descend. Felix had arrived outside to cart away any remaining goods. Some of the staff were off loading unsold lots and our own equipment, therefore we were thin on the ground.

  Hooligans found the remains of Ursa, with predictable results. Shameless thieves tried to seize the two vast wine kraters, heavy though they were. Most of the armed guards belonging to other people had left, so we were now down to our own security and a handful of vigiles. Some of those had already sloped off, claiming they needed to be on fire-watch. Fortunately enough remained to whistle for reinforcements.

  There was a brief air of menace, a swirl of unpleasant behaviour, then out of nowhere more troops arrived. They looked like Urban Cohorts, riot police, who were always taken seriously. The Urbans were barracked with the Praetorian Guard, and popped out periodically to thump people. Compensation was not paid even if their victims died.

  The Urbans started doing what they liked to do. The troublemakers dispersed rapidly. Any moment now, the Urbans were going to turn on us.

  Their centurion eyed up the aedile, obviously expecting him to act like a magistrate who meant business. Manlius Faustus surveyed Gornia, who was desperately tired and looked as if he had lived on air in a cave for a hundred years. Faustus turned to me instead. ‘Flavia Albia, daughter of Falco, this auction has been a complete disgrace – and in the hallowed Porticus of Pompey. It is surely in breach of any licence you hold, which I shall need to inspect, incidentally. I will not tolerate such goings-on under my administration.’

  Then he told two of the vigiles to put me on Patchy and take me to the Aventine, to the aediles’ office. I croaked in surprise.

  ‘Take her!’ commanded Faustus. Gornia squeaked to me that he would tell someone, so not to worry.

  I, too, was tired. It dawned on me only slowly: Tiberius Manlius Faustus, my so-called friend, this jumped-up pontificating aedile who had no common sense or discretion, was treating me like anyone on one of the watch lists that he supervised officially.

  I was under arrest.

  35

  Soon I was cursing Gornia. He thought he was doing right, but I could have survived without the help he chose to summon. I had been in the aediles’ building for about an hour. They were treating me politely. Everyone knew I knew Faustus. He had stayed behind to conclude business with the Urbans.

  I had calmed down and was ready to laugh with him about him smartly removing me from a tricky situation. I was sitting in the courtyard. It had greenery. Patchy had been gorging himself on topiary, so when I reckoned he was about to burst, I sent him back with his boy, saying Gornia could ride him home if he wanted. I knew that first, once Faustus and the soldiers left the porticus, Gornia and the lads would make a bonfire of the strongbox and cook themselves a grilled supper over it. I was sorry to miss that.

  Faustus took his time. While I was still waiting for him, I heard a horribly familiar voice in the entrance hallway: Petronius Longus, my father’s best friend, his army buddy and long-time collaborator, husband to Aunt Maia, a retired vigiles investigator, frankly a man with not enough to do these days. To Gornia, he would seem the obvious person to extricate someone from custody. Not to me.

  ‘Some bugger who doesn’t know how to wipe his arse is holding my niece here!’

  Good start, hoary uncle. The sensitive approach.

  They let him in. No wonder. He was tall, solid and sure of himself. His once-brown hair had dulled to grey but his step remained sprightly and he paid attention to barbering. His boots were still the kind the vigiles wear for kicking people. Retirement hadn’t mellowed him; it ju
st gave him more time to make a nuisance of himself where he thought nuisance was required. That was most occasions, in Petro’s opinion.

  He was my father’s age, just shy of fifty. Like Falco, he had always thought he knew it all, and nowadays he was even more certain the world was full of idiots and deviants.

  He did not bother to hug me but sprawled on a bench, making himself at home. ‘So you’re in trouble! What’s going on?’

  Unfortunately, I saw Faustus enter the courtyard quietly at that moment. He must have popped into his office and was now casually dressed. I made ‘be careful what you say’ gestures, which could have applied to either, then prepared to introduce them.

  They did not bother with me.

  ‘Lucius Petronius Longus, ex Fourth Cohort of Vigiles. You can call me “sir”.’

  ‘Manlius Faustus, plebeian aedile. You should call me “sir”, but I won’t insist.’

  ‘A smart talker! You’re the latest lover-boy?’ growled Petronius, incorrigibly.

  ‘Better ask Albia.’

  ‘Juno!’ Seething, I shot Faustus an apologetic look. ‘I apologise for my uncle.’

  ‘Wait until you meet mine.’ Faustus feigned amusement. From what I knew, his own uncle, Tullius, had a crude reputation.

  Mine carried on, impervious: ‘Your pa was checking up on some incomer, last time I saw him. Is this the dubious character?’

  ‘I heard I was given the once-over,’ Faustus intervened. ‘Any idea what Didius Falco found out?’

  Uncle Petro laughed, suggesting something terrible. He probably had no idea.

  ‘Leave the aedile alone. He saved my life,’ I protested.

  Petro gave Faustus a sharp look. ‘That true, son?’

  Faustus kept it light. ‘No need for a big proclamation. I found her dying on the floor so I picked her up, put her to bed and looked after her until her mother came.’ He failed to spell out that he had not summoned my mother until a week later.

  ‘That would be how Helena Justina came across you in her daughter’s bedroom.’

  ‘Oh, it didn’t go down well?’ Faustus twinkled like a lad about town.

  ‘We all heard about it! Still, she’s a big girl now.’