Deadly Election Page 2

  Cyrus led me up to the office, where I flopped on a stone throne that the auction house had owned for so many years nobody could bear to sell it, not even if some idiot with a monarchy complex offered cash and his own transport. The throne was one of many items saved from the city fire by my cousin Gaius who, when the inferno started, had carried out stock methodically then returned to the Saepta to help save lives, losing his own when the vast cedarwood roof collapsed. I had been fond of Gaius. After he perished so heroically, I never really liked coming here.

  Today my unease was short-lived. As soon as I sat down, the head porter, Gornia, informed me that the corpse was in fact at Pompey’s Porticus. That was where the Callistus auction would be held. I had passed it on my way here.

  Another thing at which Romans excel is making you waste your time. It is not my style. I am crisp. I am organised. I save energy – dear gods, especially when I am still recovering from virulent dysentery. However, I know never to show impatience, because that only makes these maddening people worse.

  My chair had left, so I said they would have to find me another. The porticus was only a short walk round the corner, which was why the Didii favoured it for auctions, but I was feeling whacked. The staff knew I had been very ill; it had caused family turmoil. So Gornia, who these days himself had the papery aspect of an underworld ghost, said he would summon our driver, Felix, with his mule, Kicker; they would take me to Pompey’s monument in the delivery cart. I agreed. Felix had never warmed to me, but he was a good driver. Kicker was sweet.

  Most wheeled transport is banned in Rome during the day. Felix kept a plank and a pile of dirty buckets in the cart, to look like a builder; they have permits.

  Felix knew I wanted to hurry, so he meandered about like a tourist guide. Instead of a quick run round the corner, he went in a big loop round the Pantheon and Agrippa’s Baths. The usual crowds kept getting in his way, slowing us to a crawl. At last we arrived at the Theatre of Pompey, which was entirely the wrong end of that large and busy complex, then trundled slowly down one side of it until I was finally dropped by an entrance, pretty well where I had started from in the Saepta. Thank you, Felix!

  Pompey’s monument had also been rebuilt by Domitian after the fire. Every new ruler should reconstruct the city in his own taste, putting up his name on big inscriptions. If he wants to look extra benevolent, he can spend his private money on projects, or claim he does so. I imagine there are Treasury officials who know the true version.

  The Porticus had its gorgeous stone theatre at one end, beneath a high-rise Temple of Venus Victrix; behind the theatre lay an enormous arcaded garden where crowds strolled in the shade of plane trees and, famously, a very large public lavatory on the tainted spot where Julius Caesar was murdered while going to a Senate meeting. To the Roman mind (well, the pinched mind of the Emperor Augustus), the crime scene was too horrific ever to be used again as a curia. Brutus and Cassius were commemorated, so far as it was legal to remember them, in a really fine latrine.

  My father, a republican to his marrow, sometimes muttered that people ought to remember it was not just Brutus and Cassius but sixty other forgotten anti-dictators who had bravely stabbed Caesar. We had to hush him. Any spy might report him to Domitian for discussing daggers.

  Users of the lavatory could gaze out at the large garden square, which was surrounded by cool colonnades. On one side was a gallery of Greek statues, curtained off with famous gold brocade drapes. This was one of the few places where females could be out and about in public on their own. Men could therefore have a relaxing pee, then eye up women who were eyeing up nude Greek statues and getting ideas. No wonder Pompey’s Porticus was popular.

  Romans loved to come and walk in the arcades. As well as the art gallery, there were shops to browse. Open areas were used for public gatherings, including auctions. My grandfather had favoured the Porticus for sales; according to him, it had nothing to do with the fact that he was a legendary womaniser. Father, a happily married man, continued the practice because the Porticus was so convenient for the Saepta Julia. As far as I knew, we had never before had a corpse turn up while a catalogue was in preparation.

  I was glad to see the container was standing well out in the open air. It was a huge rectangular armoured chest, the kind rich people keep at home for their valuables. A show-off householder plonks his strongbox in the atrium, so as soon as they enter visitors will be wildly impressed.

  Members of our staff were loafing in the shade among some topiary, several of them eating filled bread rolls. It takes a lot to put them off, but I noticed they were all well back from the chest. They had draped it with heavy cloth, which looked suspiciously like the famous gold curtains from the art gallery. This was to mitigate the heat of the sun on the decaying contents, but the minute I arrived they whipped off the cover to display the box.

  It was a seriously banded and studded affair, on four stocky legs. The locks looked fierce. I wondered why anyone would sell this, unless they were bankrupt, which was not what I had heard about the Callisti: they were well-known businessmen. Then I noticed the wooden parts had signs of old fire-damage.

  The staff politely offered to show me the corpse. Even though I had made no complaints about them eating on Father’s time, I noticed they put their lunch away. I guessed what was going on here. Whatever waited inside the box was revolting; they had taken bets that I would throw up.

  Well, that warned me. I motioned to have the lid raised, bracing myself. I looked inside, saw all I needed, smelt the gruesome stench, then gestured frantically. The porter slammed the lid down. He sprang back, gagging. I had stifled a squeal but just about managed to maintain my dignity. A stiff bout of dysentery gives you good practice in self-control.

  The staff looked disappointed.

  ‘You must have jumped when you found that.’ Still wanting to vomit, I brazened it out. In my job either you are tough or you are lost.

  ‘Yes, he’s a bit ripe!’ The cheeky blighters were still hoping I would be sick or pass out.

  ‘About a week old,’ I speculated. ‘In Rome in July even an embalmed body would stink … How long have you had this dodgy sarcophagus?’

  ‘Came today.’

  ‘Didn’t you notice the niff? You should have sent it back.’

  ‘We’re used to pongs. And nothing oozed out at the bottom. It’s too solid.’

  ‘Some of the weight must be him inside. He’s not skinny.’

  I forced myself to think about him.

  The man folded up in the chest looked at least fifty. He had all his hair and was clean-shaven. The hair was almost grey, thick and curly; it looked matted, though that was probably a nasty result of putrescence. My rapid glance had taken in that he was of solid build, normal height, wearing boots and a blue tunic. I could see ropes tightly tied round his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Even though his facial features had started to decay, enough expression remained to make me suspect he might have been alive and struggling for air when someone closed down the lid on him. If so, he would eventually have suffocated.

  A foul thought.

  ‘What are the Callisti dreaming of? And don’t you ask people to check items they are putting in for sale?’

  ‘Never. Then anything we find is ours!’

  ‘Does my father approve?’

  ‘Falco’s instructions.’

  ‘Oh, really?

  I bet they had been up to this trick since my grandfather was the auctioneer. Geminus might have started the practice – though it could just as easily date back aeons to the estate sale after Romulus the Rome-founder killed his twin brother Remus. A few forgotten coins must have dropped out of moth-eaten old wolfskins on that occasion, only to be palmed by innocent-faced auction porters. Centuries of scavenging ‘lost’ valuables followed. It was a recognised perk. But in the trade we were not so keen on acquiring dead bodies. As I remarked to the staff, that lowered the pre-sale estimate.

  ‘Maybe not,’ a porter disagree
d cheerfully. ‘We can bump up the value by trading on notoriety.’

  ‘Oh, well done! … Now, look. I know this will be a nuisance, so don’t whine, but we have to find out who he is and who locked him in there.’

  Falco would have said the same. They knew he would. The staff glumly agreed that, even though he adopted me from the ends of the earth, I was my father’s daughter.

  Since foul play was so obvious, I had to investigate, rather than simply let our porters tip the corpse into the Tiber after dark, which they were longing to do. If he knew about this, Father would be in there, identifying the man and discovering who had dumped him. I wouldn’t tell him yet. I always enjoyed beating Falco at his own game.

  I authorised calling for an undertaker to collect the remains. We would pay for that, then add the fees when we billed the Callisti for our commission. Our fees were so high, they might not even notice anything extra. ‘Once he’s tipped out, wash the chest and keep it closed during the sale. Say you don’t have the key to hand, but any buyer will be given it on completion.’

  ‘We can keep it at the office as a precaution. “Just in case it goes astray during the viewing”.’

  ‘Convenient! Have we had a lot of keys disappear on us?’

  ‘Used to be regular. Now we never put them out.’

  ‘Good. Tell the undertaker I need to know anything he discovers on the body. Any clue to who this is. Arm-purse, amulet, wedding ring, signet. Take a note of funny warts or birthmarks … He’ll know the routine. People are always being found knocked down by carts or drowned in the Tiber.’

  ‘Do you want any items to be kept for you?’

  ‘I suppose I’d better.’

  ‘Brave girl!’

  Luckily I was no longer a girl, but a tough raisin who had seen life.

  3

  The delivery driver had taken his cart and bunked off. That was typical of Felix.

  Fortunately the head porter, Gornia, was now so old my father had supplied him with a donkey to travel to and from his home. Though frail, Gornia still insisted on starting work at dawn and not leaving until dark. I knew his rented room was so dismal he preferred being at work. During the day, the others often used the donkey; keeping it busy was their idea of animal welfare. So it was here at the Porticus and I could borrow it. A wizened boy led the creature about; he could come with me, wait outside and make sure nobody stole the beast or spoiled it by offering carrots while I was indoors at the Callistus house.

  Prosperous people, they lived on the Caelian Hill. Dominated by the massive Temple of Claudius on its northern side, this was an old aristocratic enclave near the Forum and Circus Maximus, where plebeians were now muscling in. Livening it up, according to the incomers, or, if you were old-style nobility, lowering the tone.

  The Callisti had taken over a whole block on the western slope, though they leased shops, laundries and bars on all four sides, leaving only their own entrance actually on a street. Outside the house I vaguely noticed a large advertisement space hired by some election candidate’s supporters, though I had not bothered to take in whose name was painted in. I thought the Senate voted in January, so was it old news? The Callisti might simply have hired out the wall, or they could have supported someone themselves. The Tiber oar-makers like Idiotus … One of them might even have been standing. Our auction might be necessary to pay for an expensive campaign. Only the rich can stand for office.

  This had once been a beautiful area, near the Vestal Virgins’ shrine at the spring of Egeria, the Camenae as it is called, and the Temple of Honour and Virtue, although these days the concepts of honour and virtue were much debased. A relay station for watering horses had been built at Egeria’s sacred spring, then the entire shrine and grove had been rented to Jewish entrepreneurs, ex-prisoners, to exploit for grass and wood. On the Caelian, property prices had slumped from exorbitant to almost reasonable.

  Even so, most people here had more than a few sesterces. The Callisti were prosperous because they were gritty men of commerce, the kind who would sell you your own cloak if you’d let a footman take it when you visited. As it was July I didn’t have a cloak, and I kept my stole loosely over my head to look modest.

  I don’t normally hide behind my father’s name when I am working, but in this case I said firmly that I was Didius Falco’s daughter, here on auction business. When the porter still looked reluctant, I added, ‘I prefer to see one of the family, but if that is inconvenient my complaint is very serious. I can go to the authorities instead.’

  It stopped being inconvenient.

  They had a row of stone benches outside their front door, where clients hoping for patronage could wait every morning for a handout, letting the world see how important the Callisti were. However, I did not have to sit out in the sun. Once I hinted I might report a misdemeanour, I was hustled indoors.

  I knew the occupants were a father, two sons and a nephew. They were the kind of family where you never heard about their womenfolk, though presumably they existed. The Callisti were a masculine, business-oriented bunch. Still, I guessed they had a venerated old mother who made nice soup with her own arthritic hands, and daughters who were married off at twelve to dim sons of colleagues.

  I was kept waiting, inevitably. One of the younger Callisti was at home, but he was ‘in a meeting’– having his beard shaved, screwing a kitchen boy, prostrate with a hangover, or even studying a scroll of deep Greek thought, though I doubted the last. All sorts of unlikely people are self-educated, but probably not these. Their family money came from running a fleet of heavy barges on the Tiber; one branch built river-navigable craft. A hobby of racing chariots absorbed much of their cash, but there was plenty to spare; it was easy come, easy go, with them. I had been told all this by Gornia; our auction house did not accept a sale without financial checks. As an informer, my papa specialised in that kind of investigation for clients − and in checking up on his clients themselves, before he accepted them, unless they were attractive widows, in which case he was notoriously trusting. I learned informing from him, though I was more sceptical of widows, being one myself.

  I had been popped into a small waiting room with the doors closed, but once the porter left I sneaked back into the corridor and looked around. I listened, too. The house had a well-occupied ambience. Thick walls were absorbing noises from the busy streets outside. Any staff indoors were behaving discreetly. The entry mosaic had a clichéd beware-of-the-dog message but it was a standard floor package, just for show. Tesserae don’t bark.

  I went back and waited. Nobody brought me refreshments. I was trade. I wanted something from them; they had no need of me. I would have to ask for even a cup of water. They would let me have one, but asking would mark me as a chancer.

  When he was ready, Callistus Primus, one of the sons, appeared. He was in his late thirties, wide-built, confident. A well-swathed tunic and heavy gold rings. Nothing too bad. If he had married my best friend, I wouldn’t have stopped going to see her. But I might have visited when I thought he would be out.

  Polite enough, he summed me up in turn; I guessed he thought sending a woman along meant our auction house was cheapskate. I was dressed to look businesslike, but with a gold necklace to show I represented management.

  Once I’d told him about the corpse, Callistus sharpened up. He denied all knowledge; no surprise there. Although he raised eyebrows at my news, his immediate reaction was to remove himself and his family from being linked to the death in any way.

  Nevertheless he told me about the armoured chest. After the Mount Vesuvius eruption it had been dug up from their buried villa on the slopes. They safely rescued its contents − money and treasures – after which they put the damaged container in a warehouse in Rome. It had stood there untouched for the past ten years. Now they were disposing of unwanted items. An agent had visited the storeroom recently to make a sale inventory, although the man would have had no need to open the box because it was known to be empty. I was not invited to inte
rview this agent and I judged it premature to make a fuss.

  Callistus reiterated that he had no idea who the dead man could be, or who might have put him in the chest. We agreed it was someone who had known the chest existed, but that told us little because it could be a number of people. Callistus stressed the likely involvement of warehouse staff, rather than anyone connected with his family; I made no comment.

  Either way, the perpetrator must have thought the chest would continue to be stored there while the body rotted until identification became impossible. Callistus insisted the killer could not be close to his family; otherwise whoever it was would have heard the auction being discussed. In the way of families, they had had argy-bargy about the sale over breakfast every day.

  I asked if Callistus Primus would take a look at the corpse while we had it, but he refused.

  I didn’t blame him. I smiled and said so.

  Looking curious, he asked why I was bothering with this. I explained how my father and I took responsibility for the mysterious dead. Somebody had to. ‘You may like to think that if your wife poisons your mushrooms, someone will expose her crime before she grabs the inheritance.’ Callistus Primus’s expression changed. So he had a wife. I did not necessarily assume she wanted to kill him off. ‘The work suits us,’ I went on drily, still thinking about his faint facial twitch. ‘We meet a lively cross section of society and we solve puzzles. We hope to console people. Perhaps the strongbox man had a worried old mother or little children who are now crying for their missing breadwinner.’

  ‘You must be crazy,’ Callistus disagreed. ‘Why don’t you just shove the remains on a rubbish heap like anybody sensible?’

  I smiled again. ‘We may yet do so.’

  His question was a good one, of course: why hadn’t whoever hid away this corpse simply secreted him under a pile of dung on the streets or weighed him down with rocks in the river?

  An answer might be that the dead man was somebody who would be searched for, his disappearance perhaps reported to the authorities, notices asking for help put up in public places. If such a corpse happened to be found, it might be recognised. Perhaps that would make his killer or killers obvious. Maybe there had been bad blood with someone. A clear motive. So leaving him to rot in a box might have seemed safer.