Deadly Election (9 page)

We decided against the stuffed vine leaves on offer. Quality depends on what they have been stuffed with. While Faustus unwound himself from his toga, I selected flatbread and chickpea paste. He ordered mulsum, the invigorating drink that is given to soldiers – and to invalids, though I accepted his choice. It was too hot to drink wine at midday, unless you were at home and could fall into bed afterwards for sticky lovemaking.

I did mutter a muted apology for my upset earlier, admitting I was not myself. That led Faustus to quiz me about my health. I described my stay at the coast, talking nonsense about life at our seaside villa. We were a still-young family. My brother, whom Faustus had met, was only eleven and although my two sisters were in their middle teens they often behaved like silly schoolgirls.

‘I hope everyone spoiled you.’

‘Depend on it.’

‘It was hard to let you go,’ Faustus said, chewing and playing nonchalant.

It had been hard to leave.

Time for work. I described all I had learned in the course of that morning about the rival candidates. My companion winced at some of the details, yet seemed prepared to use the information. He was the speech-writer. From what I had seen of Sextus Vibius, that did not surprise me.

‘You write it out and he reads the scroll?’

‘No, I make him learn it.’

‘Are you going to share these stories with Salvius Gratus?’

‘Not the obscene dwarfs.’ He showed amusement, teasing me. He must know I was jealous of Laia. ‘Don’t you think his upright sister would be shocked?’

‘Well, you know her better than I do!’ I sniped, gently by my standards. ‘It isn’t for lofty Laia to poke her nose in. We have to discredit the opposition where we can.’

‘That’s what I say,’ agreed Faustus, placidly, giving me grapes. ‘The dwarfs are in.’

This was him. He would not give way to Laia, though at the same time he never criticised her. He showed pain whenever he referred to their divorce, but I had to look closely to see it. He took the blame, so he always spoke of Laia with scrupulous good manners and there was no point in trying to make him exhibit rancour. Anyway, the marriage had been over for ten years.

Besides, I bet he had never taken Laia Gratiana to a friendly lunch like this. I had seen how she loathed watching us go off together today.

He went to the counter to fetch more mulsum, coming back with a new nibbles saucer. ‘They have cheese!’

We both loved cheese. Manlius Faustus measured by eye then divided the piece into two, being carefully fair. We shared a smile at the way he did it, before enjoying the treat in silence.

After lunch Faustus went to the Vibius house to work on the campaign. He had drawn up a list of senators, marking any who might be favourable to our candidate, which were cemented to rivals, which remained unknowns. He was making little headway with them. He wasted effort scurrying around and was depressed because even if he managed to approach them nothing they said could be trusted. They might assure him they would vote for Vibius – but many simply lied to escape being canvassed.

‘The really devious ones keep me talking for ages, even though they have no intention of supporting us, just to prevent me going off and seeing someone else.’

‘Well, the task is not impossible. You got in last year.’ I had better taste than to say Faustus was not well known generally and I could not see why the Senate had chosen him.

Manlius Faustus had somehow managed to obtain votes – even though he was a single man with no children, which put him at a disadvantage because husbands and fathers took precedence. He must have organised sufficient support in the Senate, not to mention avoiding Domitian’s veto.

He did a sound job now. He had been a perfect choice. Maybe senators had good judgement after all. No, all right. His Uncle Tullius had simply bought them.

Faustus threw back his head, as if enjoying the sunshine that filtered through the canopy of vines on a trellis above us. ‘Yes, I got in, thanks to my uncle. Fortunately he is helping again. He is very close to Salvius Gratus, always has been.’

‘What’s behind that?’ From all I had heard, Tullius verged on crude; he seemed a poor fit with the staunchly respectable Grati.

Faustus grimaced, then explained, ‘Uncle Tullius, as you know, owns a great many warehouses. A number of his best are in a certain street, where one building plonk in the middle has always been owned not by us but by the Gratus family.’

I saw where this was heading.

‘The warehouse in question,’ Faustus rasped, with a new edge in his voice, ‘formed part of the dowry when Tullius married me to Laia Gratiana.’

‘Neat,’ I said. I kept it neutral.

‘Neat, though not for long. I had to hand it back when she divorced me.’

So: neat until everything had turned nasty … and that was his fault. ‘Tullius can never have forgiven you?’

‘For him, poor man, that was the worst aspect. He could live with the shame of me cheating on my wife, the inconvenience I caused him – even the expense. But he could not bear to lose that warehouse, not once he had triumphantly acquired it. I suspect he had hopes the whole road would be renamed after him, the Vicus Tullii … He still yearns to retrieve the situation. His cosying up to the Grati never stopped, first the parents and then Laia’s brother, even though it’s impossible to take me when he visits them and he cannot lure them to our house.’

‘What have they to fear? − You would go out!’ I sniggered.

Faustus growled, ‘I’d stay out all night if I had to – I’d sleep under a bridge … I don’t get involved, but Uncle Tullius still swarms around the Grati socially. Biding his time. Looking for an opening. Elections, for manipulators like my uncle – who, believe me, is impressive when he goes into action – are always a chance to reposition.’

‘With favours and promises.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You say you keep out of it, but you are working with Salvius Gratus now.’

‘Not to do so would be unfair to Sextus.’

‘What about being fair to you?’

‘Ah, you are very sweet to say that.’

No, I was very annoyed with his uncle, his friend and the damned Grati for putting Faustus in this position. ‘Nobody calls me sweet and gets away with it.’

‘We’ll see!’ chuckled Manlius Faustus, as if he thought he could get away with anything. From anyone else it would have been flirting.

I said I was sorry not to help with his campaign work that afternoon. I needed to rest. And the next day I would be caught up in my own family’s business: tomorrow was the Callistus auction. I wanted to be there. I assured Faustus I would be required to do nothing that would tax me; I would only be an observer. ‘Oh, really!’

I strolled with him as far as the Vibius house, after which I would make my own way home. We parted with a light kiss on the cheek – good manners between acquaintances.

I found the energy to walk all the way to my apartment. It was not a long distance: along the Clivus Scauri and around the far end of the Circus Maximus, on the flat at first, though followed by a slow climb up the Aventine. That was steep, especially with food inside you, but I knew how to pace myself. I was in a good mood. The streets of the thirteenth district were quiet while everyone was lunching, at home or out in company. Businesses were shuttered now until early evening. Even the most excitable dogs were resting in the shade. Children had been called in. Beggars were taking a snooze and hustlers could not be bothered.

So I went home, and was happy to be there, even though I was alone and there was no chance at all of an afternoon’s sticky lovemaking.

A
uctions begin at dawn, indeed often earlier. It was barely light when movement started. By hoary tradition professional dealers come along for first pickings, pawing your stock, tossing items around as they scavenge like particularly arrogant crows. These men, and occasional women, regard it as their right to make pre-auction bids, which are always preposterous. If rebuffed, they are annoyed, even though everyone knows they are trying it on. Many are shifty-looking; some bring unpleasant half-starved dogs. Father calls them the warts.

Today’s warts were on good form. They sauntered up, glum-faced, with no greetings for our staff, let alone me, although some exchanged curt nods with one another. As soon as they arrived, in dribs and drabs because they were solitary beings, they started inspecting the lots as if we were invisible − yet they scoffed, loud, derogatory comments for us to overhear.

‘Settle down!’ Gornia soothed them. He had seen it all before. He kicked one of the whippety dogs away from sniffing the big half-burned strongbox. ‘If your hound pees on anything, we’ll want compensation … You know it’s always hard going in July. We are lucky to have put together a sale. Falco wasn’t at all keen …’

Falco didn’t care that much. Falco regarded the auction house as a colourful, temporary hobby. He hankered to be back informing, but had to lie low and look as if he had retired because Domitian was known to be rancorous towards him. There was a reason. Father never said what.

With Domitian, nobody asked questions, in case merely mentioning his name should put the thought of you into his head. He brooded on slights long past as darkly as on offences now. Everyone scurried about with their heads down. The people of Rome were terrified of him, and the monster enjoyed that.

A snotty woman dressed in odd raggedy skirts and scarves pointed out that Falco had not even put in an appearance. ‘Exactly,’ smirked Gornia. ‘Gone fishing. Like I said, it’s July!’

The warts moved off, still without proper conversation. They dispersed to harry some other auctioneer if they could find one, despising his goods as much as they apparently despised ours. Once our bidding started, some would slide back. They had decided what pieces they wanted; indeed, if the items were small, the warts had surreptitiously hidden them under larger things, away from other eyes. At the auction, warts usually made fierce bids. That was why we let them poke through the lots. They looked like paupers, but they were out to buy and had plenty of cash hidden about their skinny persons.

So far it was chilly in the dark colonnades inside Pompey’s Porticus. The dawn atmosphere felt ominous, as if anyone who was lurking out in the central grove of plane trees must be up to no good. We went about our business, hoping they would stick to theirs. We usually employed big fellows to act as security, but they would arrive later, just before the auction started.

I huddled in a cloak while I kept an eye on proceedings. I was being the auctioneer’s daughter today. I would sit on the sidelines, on a stool or a chair. Regulars knew who I was. The decent professional dealers would give me a nod, possibly even come over to send their regards to Father. I would be called upon to adjudicate any problems, though Gornia could have done it, if none of the family were present.

In a plebeian family business, women have a valued place. They share the work. My Aunt Maia had kept the auction accounts for years. I wondered if I would see her today, though mostly now she worked at home where she could combine the figure-work with looking after her husband in his retirement. Somebody would take a big basket of receipts to her when it was all over, then Maia would squeeze in alongside Petro and his wine flagon on the sun terrace, where she would deal with record-keeping, send out bills and pay off the sales tax.

All over the Empire this was how it worked, even though in theory women were cyphers. I myself was fairly well informed about the art and antiques we sold. Fakes too. I had been tutored to recognise counterfeiting, ‘marriages’ and overdone distressing. I also knew how to let someone down gently when they brought along a ghastly heirloom, hoping their cracked item would be worth a fortune. I would even be careful what I said because, perversely, if a worthless dud went into a sale, some idiot might pop up and pay a lot of money for it.

I liked being allowed to take part. I would have enjoyed having my own family business, but that presupposed a husband to run it with me. I had stopped expecting either. Being an informer, a loner’s profession, would suffice. I did not fret about my life. I saw enough unhappy frustration among my clients.

In the dull patch before things started, I inspected today’s lots.

The Callisti must have had that granary storeroom crammed to its ceiling. Much of their list was furniture, one or two pieces with Vesuvian damage but otherwise simply goods they had grown tired of. Their taste was heavy – too much gilding and too many animal paws for me. They were parting with a whole chest of lewd lamps; someone had made a collection of flying-phallus chandeliers that a wife must be making him throw out. A matched pair of decent alabaster side-tables had been ruined by a neglected water spill on one (Gornia put up a notice that optimistically called it ‘restorable’). A generation ago some hapless ancestor had blessed them with misjudged art. I had seen reproductions of Greek sculpture that were almost better than the originals, fine work from Campania, but still the world contains far too many inferior gods and athletes in marble that is less than pure and Parian, or sometimes only painted plaster.

We called this the Callistus sale, but there were smaller lots from other people, right down to a single platter from a hard-up old lady. We accepted those because Father was so soft: whenever a sad-eyed grandma came bearing a pathetic treasure, he lied about the price it achieved, making up the difference from his own pocket. The grandma, hard as nails, would scuttle off to tell her cronies that the daft son of Didius Favonius was an easy mark.

As usual we had one or two pieces from our own family inheritance; it was years since my grandfather had died, but a lifetime of fervent collecting had been stashed in houses and warehouses. From time to time, Father discovered more, then faced the sorry decision whether to own up to his belated windfall and pay inheritance tax on it. Many a long hour in the evening was spent with furrowed brow as Didius Falco wrestled with his conscience – or so he said, as he called for another beaker of Falernian (from Grandpa’s cellar) to help him deliberate. He seeded an auction with choice pieces whenever he needed cash to fund a project. He grumbled and called it ‘dowry money’, though in fact these sales more often paid for funerals, education or travel. That was how he had helped to back my uncles, the Camilli, when they were entering the Senate.