Deadly Election

by Lindsey Davis

  This was good news. If the corpse was identifiable, the incident was worth looking into. I stood some chance of solving the mystery – and if I did, a grateful associate of the dead man might even pay for news of his fate.

  Don’t start going all self-righteous. I have to think about fees. Being an informer is not an act of public benevolence. Nobody does it to win approval from their gods. It’s a job. It’s supposed to pay your rent. It puts bread on the table. If you are good enough, it even buys all the wine you have to drink to make you forget what a horrible job informing is.

  The sight of that body in the chest was a disturbing memory.

  4

  The Callisti hired storage space in an old granary a couple of streets off the Via Tusculana; it runs on the east side of the northern peak of the Caelian, not quite as far along as the Querculana Gate with its lovely little grove of oak trees. People choose such storage places because granaries are specially built to be secure, dry and comparatively fireproof. They have thick walls and strong floors raised on brick columns for aeration, with a certain amount of fortification against vermin – although any smart rat knows granaries are food containers. It was lucky the box containing the corpse had been so strong, despite the fire damage, or he would have been nibbled.

  The biggest granaries and stores are situated along the river, but Rome is packed with warehouses. This was freedman-owned and not enormous, just one courtyard, with only a single entrance beneath a modest brick pediment. Rooms led off the courtyard on three levels, with ramps instead of stairs to the upper floors to assist loading. There was a small lodge near the entrance, then rows of other rooms that I could see were all barred with wooden beams, secured with heavy padlocks after they were slotted in. You could not squeeze a cart through the entrance (a security measure) so there were loaders to hand-manoeuvre goods. They looked foreign. Slaves, I presumed.

  Callistus had given me a letter of introduction. This caused more suspicion among the granary guards than if I had simply turned up and asked questions. For one thing, they were unable to read. I had to untie the tablet strings and recite the contents. If the letter had really been a recipe for turnip soup they would have been none the wiser.

  They were a pair of Syrians who had only broken Latin, perhaps because few people ever spoke to them. I mimed an attempt at translation, before we all gave up and they waved me in. Being on guard was so boring they fetched keys and were soon happily taking me round and showing me what valuables everybody had in store. That was interesting. Bullion boxes. Jewellery caskets. Lifetime records. Mildly hideous paintings.

  Why would anybody want four identical statues of Venus with the Big Behind? Try not to be lewd when answering. Send suggestions to the procurator for art tax fraud at the Imperial Treasury. Don’t hold your breath for a reward.

  While the guards were being so helpful, a clerk bustled up, returning from a late breakfast or early lunch. I could smell wine on his breath from four strides away. Someone must have let him know I was there, so he came tumbling back from his all-day bar vigil. He looked nervous. Was that because he knew there had been foul play?

  The clerk was a tufty, paunchy, bleary-eyed disaster. He shooed away the guards and himself showed me to the ground-floor room where the Callisti kept their unwanted stuff. It was almost empty after their recent clear-out, though various dud bits still remained, no doubt rejected by Gornia as unworthy of sale. Short oars, mostly. Nothing that appealed to us: we specialise in reproduction marble wares with not too many pieces missing, or furniture we can describe as high-end, even if that’s pushing it. We don’t handle stupendously barnacled planks.

  Gornia must have accepted the fire-damaged chest because it had once been really good quality. People who attend auctions will buy anything if it is correctly talked up. There had been a period when we needed to conceal from buyers the fact that something had emerged from the volcano eruption, but its sad associations had not been a deterrent for long. ‘Vesuvian’ was now attractive, because people thought it meant ‘owner lost; item going cheap’.

  A large rectangular patch in the dust on the floor, with various scuff marks, showed where the great chest had stood and how it had been dragged out. There were footprints in the dust, none meaningful now. Our auction staff would have trampled about, unaware they were compromising evidence. If the dead man had been seized and tied up here, there was no way now to tell. Nor could I deduce how many assailants had been with him.

  The door to the room was protected with a hefty padlock, for which the clerk had produced a key when he let me in.

  ‘Where do you keep the padlock keys?’

  In his little office by the gate, all hung on hooks, all labelled. I asked what happened if anybody called unexpectedly, wanting access to their store, while he was off the premises, as he clearly often was. The lying lump swore the guards turned people away, but I already knew better from their guided tour for me. All you needed was an air of authority. I bet those guards would even let anyone charming take a key for themselves. The lodge with all the keys was not locked.

  We walked back to the gate, where the guards were pretending to look busy. I quizzed them about any visitors a week ago, but as far as I could tell through the language barrier they remembered no one. It seemed pointless to ask the tipsy clerk, but I dutifully raised one eyebrow and inevitably he shook his head. I asked if records were kept of when storerooms were opened and by whom. Of course not.

  Irritated, I told the clerk he had to go to the undertaker’s and see the body, in case he recognised the man. He tried to wriggle out of it, but I said if he refused to cooperate I would report him for negligence. Even a habitual drunk could see that having a corpse dropped there without his knowledge counted against him.

  ‘Go today,’ I said, adding cruelly, ‘He’s in a horrible condition, so we can’t delay the funeral. Have a good look at him, before he gets any more putrid.’

  It struck me that, since this granary was so cool and airy, I might have underestimated how long Strongbox Man had been dead. The Callistus storeroom was not so chilly as a cave or cellar, but inside three-foot walls its temperature felt even and low. I had arrived at the building flapping the top edge of my tunic to fan myself, but cooled off comfortably while there. This atmosphere might have kept the body fresh. Not long enough for me to be very far out, though; not in Rome in July. Call the corpse ten days old, rather than a week.

  I was about to leave, feeling despondent and tired.

  In the shadow of the entrance gate other visitors were loading scroll boxes onto a handcart wielded by a grumbling slave. I recognised the cart first, next the slave, then his master. The master wore formal dress, a rich white tunic with wide purple stripes on the hems. It makes magistrates stand out anywhere, which presumably is the intention.

  His name was Manlius Faustus. He was the noble friend who had saved my life when I was ill. I was surprised to find him here; he looked perplexed to see me.

  ‘Oh, no!’ grumbled the slave, whose name was Dromo. ‘Now I’ll have two of them bossing me!’

  ‘Shut up, Dromo.’

  I said that. Faustus, always a silent type, was too preoccupied. He was inspecting me tetchily − a man who had put himself out for a woman whose foolish behaviour was now jeopardising his good work. I began to feel hot and queasy, enduring the scrutiny.

  5

  ‘You look ready to pass out!’ Faustus dropped the merciless Medusa stare. He ran his fingers through a head of dark hair in an exasperated gesture. He had seen me at my lowest ebb, and I now felt shy with him. ‘What happened to convalescing? Please don’t tell me you are working, Albia.’

  Even though we were in the dank shade of a large gatehouse, sunlight came whacking in off the street outside with its full midday glare. He must have seen I was finding it too much.

  ‘Just an errand for our family business,’ I hedged. ‘My father is still at the coast—’

  ‘What can be so important? Look at the state
of you. You need to sit down and rest.’ He was visibly agitated. ‘I can’t stop now. I dare not leave Dromo on his own – he’ll be mugged in minutes … I’ll have to take you with us.’ Seeing I meant to object, he interrupted. ‘We’re only going three streets – is that your donkey?’

  ‘How can you tell?’ I murmured.

  ‘By how hopeless it is.’

  Gornia’s donkey stood with its head down, apparently too careworn to bray. He was of mixed colouring, with uneven brown patterns, and known to our staff as Patchy. ‘Kind-hearted Tiberius, the mangeball is acting. I know how much he costs in hay.’ I stroked the beast’s long ears; it leaned on me confidingly. I staggered, as it nearly pushed me over.

  Faustus shouldered Patchy off me. He was a naturally sturdy plebeian; he probably exercised, though never seemed unbearably athletic. I would call him strong but sensitive – except ‘sensitive’ fails to fit the whiplash rebukes he often launched at me.

  He smacked the donkey on the rump, probably because he was too buttoned-up to do it to me. He was anxious. He cared, really. Too much for his own good, other people might say.

  While Faustus and I had our tussle of wills, the boy with Gornia’s sad animal put out his tongue at Dromo, who gurned back so hideously I was afraid his eyes would pop out. After these formalities the lads seemed to tolerate one another. Faustus also settled down. He turned back to the granary clerk. ‘I hope we can count on you to support Vibius Marinus for aedile. He is holding a little reception for loyal supporters, so do come. Bring your friends – well, bring a few.’ Faustus grinned affably so the dipsomaniac grinned back, won over by the offer of a free drink.

  I was glimpsing how Manlius Faustus and his uncle had behaved with the public when he stood for office himself this time last year. It was a new side of him. I was not sure I liked it.

  ‘Remember – give your voice to Vibius!’

  Before I could dodge, Faustus put his warm hands on my waist and lifted me onto the donkey. Allowing people to save your life makes them very free with you.

  He had put me up side-saddle. Of course there was no saddle, only a threadbare cloth. Faustus had a glint in his eye as he realised I was considering whether to ride astride. Normally I do, but getting into position reveals bare legs. Manlius Faustus would really enjoy disapproving of that.

  Since it made talking easier, I stayed put. Patchy moved off and we ambled along, trailed by the donkey boy and Dromo.

  ‘Is that granary one of your uncle’s buildings?’ I asked. Faustus’s Uncle Tullius owned commercial warehouses.

  ‘No, but he keeps his old accounts there, rather than waste our own space. My uncle likes high-grade retail tenants who will pay heftily for decent security. That place is cheaper − but just a dump. I’m picking up documents for Sextus Vibius.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Mortgages and leases his father wants to call in for cash to lavish on potential voters. A lot of influential senators are about to be spoiled – let us hope they are grateful.’

  ‘And who is Vibius?’

  ‘My old school friend,’ he explained. ‘I persuaded him to stand as an aedile. I am his campaign adviser.’

  ‘Hard work?’

  ‘Harder for me than him, it seems. I feel like a biffed fly, madly zizzing on the floor …’ Actually, Faustus seemed cheerful enough. We had worked together on a couple of inquiries. He had energy and tenacity; I enjoyed sharing a case with him.

  I had only known this man for three months, but when he seized my donkey’s rein from the boy and led it himself, I knew he was after something; he probably wanted to work with me again.

  He took me to an apartment on the Clivus Scauri, close to that gate in the Servian Walls where the Arch of the consuls Dolabella and Silanus stands. His friend lived in modest, though elegant, rooms on an upper floor with a wife I did not meet. His elderly parents had the ground floor, the original family home, from which the campaign for Vibius was being run. Apart from the extra space available, working downstairs was more convenient. There was constant coming and going. The house was very well placed for business in the Forum; depending on which way you turned, you could walk down easily through either of the valleys around the Caelian. It was obvious why aristocrats, and now other people with money, should want to live thereabouts.

  The Vibii had money, judging by their furniture – for instance, a large round table with exquisite figured veneering, a table whose cost would have paid lifetime bills for poorer families. Trained by my father, I reckoned that on the right day it would make a good price at auction.

  Faustus introduced his friend: Sextus Vibius Marinus. He was around the same age, thinner, with floppy hair. He had a jumpy manner, where Faustus was watchful and still.

  It is odd how you can balk at your friends’ friends. Faustus assumed I would love Vibius as he did, and be equally thrilled by their campaign. To me, Vibius seemed much less mature. I felt lukewarm about him and, had I been entitled to vote, I would have picked another candidate.

  Vibius wandered off to take the mortgage scrolls to his father’s study. Faustus, well at home there, ministered to me. He indicated a daybed (bronze frame and head pad, lavish cushions) and arranged refreshments. Resting with a long cold drink of water helped me recover quickly. Reassured, Faustus apologised for being churlish with me earlier.

  In theory there was social distance between us: I was a private investigator and he was a magistrate, whose remit included monitoring dangerous people like me. Some aediles were a problem in my line of work. If he wanted to be awkward, Manlius Faustus could have hampered my activities. But once someone willingly holds a sick bowl for you and sponges up your mess, perhaps he is unlikely to fine you or limit your activities.

  ‘I overdid things today,’ I admitted meekly.

  ‘Promise to take care.’

  I found it hard to choose the right words. ‘I wanted to tell you how grateful I am—’

  Faustus brushed aside my stilted thanks. ‘Own up, you scamp. What were you doing at the granary?’

  Reluctant to keep secrets from him, I explained about the body in the box and confessed my plan to investigate. Faustus pulled a face. ‘Trust you!’

  His friend reappeared and listened, intrigued, as Faustus tried to dissuade me. ‘Just call in the vigiles, Albia.’

  I claimed that my father would expect me to carry out enquiries. Faustus saw through that. ‘Nonsense. You nearly died. This is too soon!’

  ‘I promise I shall only make gentle enquiries. I haven’t explored enough yet. All I have had time to do is question a certain Callistus Primus, who owns the box but denies knowledge of the stiff inside.’

  To my surprise, Faustus and Vibius exchanged a glance. Faustus only said to me, ‘We know Primus.’

  I asked, ‘So?’ They both shrugged.

  ‘Through Julia, my wife,’ added Vibius cagily.

  I left it. Faustus, for one, would have seen that I noticed the atmosphere.

  ‘You must be busy,’ Vibius suggested, trying to send me home.

  Faustus overruled him. ‘I asked Flavia Albia here on purpose.’ He told me, ‘You could help us.’

  I knew his commissions. ‘I need to solve the box-man problem.’

  ‘That’s heading nowhere … Listen, before you refuse.’

  I owed him that. ‘What, then?’

  ‘You remember that tract I was reading – the advice to Cicero, supposedly written by his younger brother?’

  I had a vision of lying ill in bed at my apartment, while Faustus sprawled in a wicker chair close by, choosing to entertain an invalid by reading aloud a published letter full of frank advice for political success. He made an unusual nurse. Very unusual. I blushed to remember.

  Cicero’s brother had been sufficiently cynical to keep me from drowsing as I howled at his proposals for getting a ‘new man’ elected as consul in traditional Rome.

  ‘Oh, I remember, Faustus: keep your friends happy with promises in case you wi
n, even though you may never be able to fulfil the promises, and probably don’t intend to. Ruthlessly call in old favours. Talk sweetly, even to people you despise. Make yourself visible in the Forum on a daily basis. And – my favourite – brutally blacken the names of any other candidates. Is that devious tract your campaign manual, Tiberius Manlius? And you such a person of principle!’

  His friend Vibius guffawed quietly.

  ‘It worked for Cicero,’ Faustus reminded us. ‘I have lined up all Sextus’s family and friends, we visit the Forum at the same time each day so people now recognise us, we have lists of all the guilds and trade organisations to canvass, we are smooching special-interest groups, we give dinners and banquets, we attend public entertainments—’

  ‘Tut! I hope you are not neglecting your own valuable work as aedile!’ I was mimicking the tone in which he often criticised me. ‘Who is chasing down dangerous animals and rounding up gamblers?’ Faustus compressed his lips, his way to hide a smile if I ever wriggled under his defences. ‘Oh, I get it.’ Light dawned. ‘You want me to dig out sleaze?’

  ‘The Cicero brothers discovered that one of their opponents had murdered someone.’

  ‘Lucky them!’

  ‘I don’t expect to unearth any serious crimes,’ Faustus assured me, ‘but I need you to advise where to look for scandal.’

  Vibius, who was to benefit from this, muttered anxiously, ‘All respect to your clever associate, Tiberius, but could my reputation be damaged if I use an informer?’

  I was used to rudeness. ‘Set your mind at rest, Sextus Vibius. The informers you have heard about are seedy men who collect information to prosecute victims. As a woman, court work is barred to me. I help private clients on personal business; many are women. I am, hopefully, invisible to the rest of the public.’