Deadly Election Page 6

  Perhaps I should have clarified earlier that Notho and Son were not my bankers. They believed they were. Even my darling papa presumed it, although my mother was more astute. So the Nothos continued to suppose that if I ever had money to save I would tuck the coins into my father’s strongbox, as an unmarried or widowed daughter ought to do − while (surprise!) no funds of that sort ever materialised.

  My work rarely produced large sums. Such as it was, I needed my income right away for essentials, like laundry bills and food. Not to mention new earrings to cheer myself up. I had a secret place in Fountain Court where I stashed any spare cash – which was what most ordinary people in Rome did. It was the easiest way to please your neighbours in the burglary profession.

  But years ago, when Lentullus and I first took up together, we had been given money by both Father and Quintus Camillus, for whom Lentullus worked. Once the family stopped viewing us as a ludicrously incongruous couple, they surprised us with a dowry. It was more cash than either of us had ever conceived of owning, and we regarded it as magic gold. We felt it wasn’t really ours. We lived rent-free at Fountain Court and our outgoings were so modest that when my husband died only two years later, with us both still young, we had never touched the dowry money. Nobody wanted it back. I asked Uncle Quintus, who said that it remained mine. He was a lawyer, so he should know. I left it where I had put it.

  That was, in a bank owned by a quiet Greek widow who had inherited this business from her own husband, a man who had died of apparently natural causes on a trip he made to Sardinia for reasons that were never explained. His will had left everything to Arsinoë, with instructions that she should marry one of their freedmen. That was traditional. Greek bankers did not want their widows to be left undefended. And I am assured there are Greek widows who do see being alone with large sums of money as a curse.

  Amazingly, tragedy struck twice. As if poor Claudia Arsinoë had not enough to contend with, only four days after she heard her husband was dead the freedman she was promised to went out to buy a mullet for a nice Greek dinner and mysteriously disappeared. Ever since, Arsinoë had borne her sadness bravely; she ran everything herself and, like Penelope, fended off other suitors with pleas that she could not commit herself to them, sweet as they were, in case her missing fiancé one day reappeared.

  She was cheerful despite being left in the lurch and I found her an excellent businesswoman. My dowry had trebled in the past ten years, thanks to her investment skills. I left it with her, accumulating. On the rare occasions when I had a love-life, I always forgot to mention that I possessed this money.

  My love-life since Lentullus had died on me had been pitiful. I could not boast about it. Men who were attracted to the idea of a rich auctioneer’s daughter soon fled once they met Falco. Even I could see this saved a lot of heartache. Father always kindly explained the situation to me. He was a thoughtful man and good with words. Words like ‘A complete wastrel arse. Just dump the bugger, Albia.’ In most cases dumping was either pre-empted by the wastrel having fled of his own accord after a chat with Falco, or I had seen through him anyway and already told him to get lost.

  I intended to visit Claudia Arsinoë to pick her brains, which I knew were of fine quality. But first I went through the normal process. I tried the men with whom the candidates banked. It had to be done, though the results felt like waking in the middle of the night with unbearable heartburn.

  Trebonius Fulvo and Arulenus Crescens both used the same firm. It was one of those money tables in the Clivus Argentarius where the proprietor never puts in an appearance; the slippery owner is always off somewhere, having mint tea and sticky Greek sweetmeats with equally sticky cronies, leaving peculiar underlings to run his bank. For him, that is the point of prosperity: he no longer has to engage in the dirty trade that established him.

  The business was traditionally Athenian. The workers were completely unhelpful to a Roman woman. The banker had them trained to deflect questions. I dare say plenty of gossip was exchanged elsewhere over the pastries, because bankers need to do that, but not here. And even if I tracked him down, the best I could hope for was a ferocious Athenian grope, getting honey and crumbs on my dress. I skipped that.

  What the flash banking table did tell me of its own accord was that the hard men, Trebonius and Arulenus, must be rich. Only people with serious assets can interest that kind of bank, or afford its rates.

  They imported wine and oil. Nothokleptes had told me. Say no more.

  Dillius Surus, the candidate with the drinking habit, banked with a fellow from Antioch, who also wasn’t there. Maybe they drank together. Maybe the Syrian was sleeping it off.

  The rich wife of this Dillius, his real financial backer, invested her large fortune with a scruffy-looking Gaul called Balonius, who favoured tunics with huge sleeveless armholes. These gaping spaces demonstrated that Notho had not lied. The broker had extremely hairy armpits, where his hirsute arms met hideous knobbly shoulders. He smelt as foul as he looked. He had extremely ugly feet too, clothed in the shabbiest sandals I had ever seen on a professional man. One had a broken strap so it hung off his instep.

  He lolled in the shade of a statue of Scipio Africanus, that heavily togate hero with his firm mouth and a big nose. Men with expensive belts and women in tightly sealed carrying chairs visited Balonius to massage their healthy portfolios. A child would be sent to fetch them refreshments. I received a dish of olives and a fruit cordial, even though I admitted I was there on spec.

  It slipped by me at the time, as it was meant to, but I realised afterwards that Balonius never said a word about his client, the wealthy wife of Dillius. He might look disgraceful, but he was efficient. On Dillius Surus himself, Balonius was more forthcoming. First he told me Forum gossip was wrong: it wasn’t Dillius who was suing a dying grandfather. Balonius first thought that was Arulenus Crescens, the one who had recently abandoned a mistress and who had previously left his first wife when she was pregnant, but on reflection he decided the family litigant was Salvius Gratus, Laia’s brother.

  Balonius then happily gossiped that Dillius was impotent, had tapeworms, had been sued by a man to whom he owed thirty thousand sesterces (for an apple orchard where the trees had been felled by a jealous neighbour) and apparently it was also Dillius who owned the uncontrollable dog that had bitten the Temple of Isis priestess.

  ‘Oh, this fine specimen will get elected!’ I murmured.

  ‘He will. Done deal. His wife gave Domitian a troupe of performing dwarfs whose act is deemed the most indecent ever seen outside an Alexandrian brothel.’

  ‘That will be very useful information for my clients.’

  Or not. There was no way the pious Manlius Faustus would encourage his friend Vibius to compete in gift-giving lewd performers. Faustus had the tenacity to find out where you could buy rude little men, and the guile to get them for a good price, but he would disapprove too much to do it.

  ‘Now, what can you tell me about Trebonius or Arulenus?’

  ‘Nix. More than my life’s worth.’

  ‘Do they frighten you?’

  ‘Don’t they frighten you?’

  ‘I hope I am beneath their notice.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure. If you are asking questions, they will soon know.’

  I gulped. To some extent it was for show. Not entirely. ‘Well, never mind them. What about Vibius Marinus and Salvius Gratus?’

  ‘I thought you were working for them?’

  ‘Indeed I am – which is why I need to know exactly what libellous gossip is attaching to their glorious names.’

  ‘You are a sly one!’ Balonius scrutinised me with new respect. ‘Marinus seems to keep his head down. Seems to be relying on the “good family man” posture. Fathering babies is a talent, so who needs moral stamina? Gratus is so invisible I’ve never even heard of him.’

  ‘He won’t like that! He bounces around like someone who wants to be famous.’ And his sister thought herself wonderful too.

/>   ‘So what does your man Vibius want to be known for?’ asked the smelly broker, looking at me sideways.

  I gave him a mysterious smile and said that remained to be seen.

  Which was the truth. He was the friend of my most admirable friend, yet I had no idea.

  10

  I was tired, though not as tired as I had feared I might be. I spent a little longer in the Forum watching the candidates as they went about, giving fine performances of men who could be trusted with public funds, religious duties or other people’s desperate hopes for the future: smiling, shaking hands, asking after the families of complete strangers, endlessly promising favours they would make no attempt to remember.

  As they criss-crossed between the temples, arches and statues, the men nodded to one another if their paths met, while their womenfolk looked daggers. Prostitutes catcalled. Slaves cursed. Busy freedmen on urgent errands weaved in and out among them adroitly, dodging the more obvious pickpockets and the snack-sellers who carried enormous trays, often above their heads and at a dangerous angle. It was midday, with the sun relentless. Everywhere that didn’t smell of frying oil stank of bloody meat or fish. There was so much uproar coming from stallholders in the colonnades, even the harsh bray of a distressed donkey was lost.

  This was Rome, a huge, casual madhouse that made Londinium look staid. I had never quite grown used to it.

  Everyone paused, trying not to show annoyance, as a short procession of Vestal Virgins moved sedately from the sacred spring outside the Capena Gate to their own Forum temple, snooty dames bearing half-full water jugs on their shoulders and expecting the pungent populace to move aside for them. They made no eye contact with anyone, but I had two teenaged sisters so I knew for sure when women were secretly scanning the streets, hoping to view muscular workmen with extremely short tunics and visible buttocks.

  I was thinking this and smiling to myself when someone put a hand on my shoulder. Before I had time to sink angry teeth into the hand, Manlius Faustus pulled me round so I could see that it was him. That hand, which he hastily removed, was scarred on both sides where I had once speared him to a table with a metal kebab skewer. His fault: he insulted me unpardonably. I come from Britain where the wild tribes are proud of their hot tempers.

  Faustus looked at me as if he knew what I was thinking about those buttock-loving Virgins.

  ‘Tiberius! I have been about your business.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘Brilliant. Lunch?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  We started to walk. Then my good spirits died on me. Faustus had been with Vibius and other people when he had seen me and come over. Now he was heading back to them. Vibius was talking to his colleague, Salvius Gratus, whose horrible sister accompanied him as stubbornly as a bailiff. I was starting to feel sorry for her brother.

  Laia Gratiana glared. She did not want me besmirching his campaign. I restrained my aggravation. While I would have liked to apply strong kitchen implements to delicate parts of her, the gadget had not yet been invented that would grate up that woman finely enough for me.

  For a grim moment I thought Manlius Faustus intended we would all go to lunch as one large party. I was bound to get stuck next to Laia, who would blank me, and I knew the men would drink all the wine they ordered, ignoring us women.

  Vibius appeared to think a big sociable lunch was on: he invited everyone home to his parents’ house; those parents were quiet elderly people who had come to support him and were now waiting nearby in a litter. Happily Faustus excused us. ‘You go ahead. Albia and I need a strategy meeting. I’ll come along to the house later.’

  The Grati were promised elsewhere. As they left, I heard Laia ask, ‘When shall we be seeing your wife, Sextus Vibius?’

  ‘Ah, please excuse her. The poor girl really cannot abide crowds.’

  I wondered if, like me, she could not abide Laia Gratiana.

  ‘Darling Julia!’ Laia cooed, so I wanted to vomit – and I did not even know Vibius’ wife.

  Faustus wheeled me away in his brisk manner. The others were all walking one way around the Flavian Amphitheatre, past the Sweating Fountain, but he headed around the ellipse in the other direction. Once we shed them, he let out an oddly triumphant whistle between his teeth. (He had teeth a dentist would curse, none in need of extraction.) ‘Smart getaway!’

  He grinned. I hid my surprise. Still, if Manlius Faustus thought I had news, he would want to assess it with me in private. Vibius was impetuous; Faustus liked to prepare a plan thoroughly before talking to him about it.

  We were at the south end of the Forum. On the far side of the amphitheatre, Faustus muttered with mild annoyance. He had spotted a senator he needed to beard while he had an opportunity: the man was, for once, unencumbered by mistresses or hustlers trying to sell him things. With a quick apology Faustus left me for a moment while he darted over to canvass the senator’s vote.

  I watched him go, a relaxed figure in the formal dress he was obliged to wear for business. Many men found it hard to endure a toga, but Faustus shouldered the heavy folds easily. He refused to let it interfere with whatever he wanted to do. He looked the perfect campaign manager, efficient and intent.

  I waited in the shade. For personal reasons I rarely came here, or rarely stopped to look around. The great, glorious drum of Vespasian’s triumphal arena rolled away on both sides, clad with Travertine marble from its specially opened quarry and decorated with statues that my father and grandfather had helped source. From street level nobody noticed that some were substandard: legs, spears, even heads had been missing, but the damage was expertly repaired for my naughty grandpa.

  I felt slightly daunted. Three monumental levels of the great arena towered above me, each ringed with one of the classical orders of columns, then above them soared the topmost level with its huge flashing bronze shields; even that was crowned with yet another feature, the awning that shaded spectators. It was the highest building in Rome. With the sun at full strength, I felt heat throbbing off the gleaming marble.

  Standing there below the grand entrance, I let myself gaze up at the big bronze four-horse chariot that dominates the imperial archway. This is what you are supposed to notice. I should never have looked: I was overwhelmed by a great gust of melancholy.

  Faustus returned. I brightened my expression. He paused. ‘Was I too long?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘You look subdued.’ He, too, glanced up, a little surprised. ‘Do you have an aversion to the Victory quadriga?’

  I don’t know why. He cannot have expected it, but I blurted out why I was sad. ‘This is the spot where my husband was killed.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Right here.’

  He was shocked. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. I would never have left you anywhere so painful … Quickly, let’s go somewhere else.’ When I stayed put, Faustus grew still. ‘I never liked to ask you what happened, but do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘That’s brave! Don’t worry, I won’t cry.’

  ‘Cry all you want. Share your trouble.’

  He had done quite enough for me, but maybe I was still so weak I needed his offer. That was unusual for me. My husband and I had kept our joys private; after he died I clutched my bereavement to myself in the same way. People had worried over me, but I never let any of them come close. All my life I had managed grief by myself.

  ‘Tell me,’ urged Faustus. ‘You and I can tell each other anything, you know that.’

  That was news to me. Still, for once breaking my silence seemed right.

  ‘Well Lentullus, my husband, had a badly damaged leg. He had been wounded, defending Uncle Quintus in a fight. He could walk and do most things, but he often struggled and his movement was hampered. If he attempted sudden turns, he would even fall down.’

  Faustus listened.

  ‘There was a freak accident. You are allowed to see this as a funny story,’ I assured him, smiling wanly. ‘
Lentullus would have found it hilarious. It was grim for me, being left behind so unexpectedly. But the accident could only have happened to him and I am easy with it nowadays …’

  I pointed. Faustus and I stared up again at the vivid sculpture placed above the main gate. The four enormous reproductions of galloping horses, heads up, straining, manes flying, as Victory urged them on. The fabulously decorated chariot with its rapt driver. Each horse with one proud hoof raised, to give an impression of furious galloping movement forward.

  ‘What happened, Albia?’

  ‘Farm Boy, as I called him, was watching the sculptor’s men erect the four horses. He would have been fascinated. Lentullus had a childlike personality. We used to say, if ever there was a hole in the road with a notice saying, “Danger, keep out”, he would go straight over to see what the danger was, and fall in …’

  His personality would never have altered, but I had changed in the intervening years. Although we were close to begin with, I would have grown out of him. It would have been a tragedy. He would never have understood why, and would have been heartbroken.

  ‘Go on,’ Faustus persuaded me gently, as I faltered.

  ‘Everybody laughed about him, but he loved me and I needed that.’ Faustus nodded. ‘To him, everything in the world seemed wondrous. He was always thrilled to watch things happening. He would have been completely absorbed here …’ I hesitated, then carried on unprompted. ‘The bronze horses’ legs had been cast as separate pieces, I presume because of their weight. They were being fixed to the bodies, which had already been winched up there. Something went wrong.’

  I saw Faustus breathe, anticipating.

  ‘A leg fell. Witnesses said my poor daft boy made no attempt to move – he just stood with his mouth open, watching, while the enormous piece came down. If I had been there, he would have squealed, “Coo, look at this, chick! They’ve dropped a bit.” Marvelling. Unaware of his danger. Unable to move, anyway. So the bronze smashed down right on him. He was killed outright.’