Deadly Election

by Lindsey Davis

  I wanted Faustus to be happy. Which was exactly what Laia Gratiana had probably never cared about, and almost certainly the reason that, as her husband, he had been lured elsewhere.

  Titan’s turds, if I had seen him married to Laia, I would have lured him myself, as an act of religious duty.

  Each candidate was called a petitor, because he was petitioning voters, so his opponents were his competitors. Latin is a pleasingly constructed language. (I speak with British irony: imagine how it felt to come from stealing crusts on the unmade streets of Londinium to having the passive periphrastic, otherwise called the gerundive of obligation, explained to you, even by a patient woman. Helena was lucky I was bright.)

  I was lucky. I know the exact moment when a stolen crust becomes too mouldy to eat. If you are starving, that is much more useful than the four conjugations of verbs. Latin is the argot of despots, intended to confuse people. Domitianus adoranda est. The tyrant must be worshipped. Our master and god. Well, yours maybe. Some of us have taste.

  I digress. Is this a tiresome Roman habit, or delightful British naïveté? Either way, I have it.

  In the manner of my mother, I will now patiently explain elections, otherwise called an obligation of democracy. (Helena Justina explains things satirically.)

  In Rome, when such things as elections were allowed, competitors paraded before their fellow-citizens for several weeks beforehand. Wearing their whitened togas, they were attended by tribes of supporters, whom they were not allowed to hire in. Back then, candidates had to persuade the entire public to vote for them, which included going to towns and villages outside Rome. Now candidates only had to make themselves look popular enough to impress senators.

  Supporters would be of their own status, or higher if possible, although candidates were also followed around by poor citizens; this was supposedly because the poor had no other way to show their feelings. Those of the poor who bothered to turn up had two ways to make their support known: force of numbers and rioting. Everyone was having a rest from rioting today. It was too hot.

  I was listening intently for any insults thrown by members of the crowd, hoping to discover usable sleaze. People were too exhausted for that too.

  There would be scandals, and I would find them. I was a good informer. I stayed confident.

  The candidates’ campaign process was called ‘going about’. They had to be continually on show, endlessly pleading for support. This was tiring for them and a bore for everybody else.

  I watched the men taking their walks through the Forum. Each was accompanied by a helper, who told him the names of those they met. This was done openly, yet to be addressed familiarly was always taken as a compliment. The Roman public was pitifully easy to please. The candidate’s false intimacy was sealed with a handshake. I never managed to spot money being passed over. It was illegal. That never stopped it.

  Of course money was paid for support. To keep it secret and avoid legal penalties, agents were employed. They made their bargains in street-corner bars, then stakeholders kept the money until payment fell due. Laws against bribery were numerous – a testament to how prevalent it was.

  Candidates had to deposit a sum of money before they started, which they would forfeit if they were convicted of corruption. That was a joke, though even the mildest competitor would not shrink from taking his opponents to court. Sextus Vibius had been right to complain that some informers made an income from litigation. Going to court over something or other was a regular sideshow, almost a duty; Vibius would expect to prosecute rivals soon, if Faustus had proper control of their campaign. I might find evidence for them. It was usually a farce and came to nothing. All the judges had been candidates for office themselves, so tried not to let anyone be disgraced.

  If a candidate used violence, he could be exiled. That never happened. Black eyes and split lips were everywhere this morning, but those could be merely the after-effects of banquets.

  I did wonder whether the man found in the auction chest had been uncooperative over promising his support. Murdering him seemed extreme … Even so, feelings can run high. I wondered facetiously which candidate might stoop to murder.

  Trebonius and Arulenus, the smooth-talking bruisers, looked the most likely. Dillius Surus, white-faced with his hangover, seemed too washed-out, though he might possess friends who were fixers. The mother’s boy, Ennius Verecundus, I dismissed. He had the mark of a man who would fail to get elected through simple worthiness – despite which, I thought he would make the best aedile. Throughout his year in office his mother would make it her business to patrol the streets, reporting problems to her son. If he didn’t know what to do about antisocial behaviour, she would soon tell him.

  Salvius Gratus, Laia’s brother, seemed unlikely to load a man into someone else’s strongbox, or even to use an agent to do it by proxy. And Vibius Marinus had been turned out by Faustus looking utterly decent and trustworthy. Mind you, Vibius and Faustus had said they knew Callistus Primus, the owner of the chest … Still wondering how that was, and why they were reticent about it, I began the gentle process of making candidate-enquiries.

  I moved around, standing quietly on the edges of crowds, listening at first. When I had the feel of things, I murmured questions to fellow bystanders.

  ‘That one sounds all right. Nice speaking voice. I’ll tell my husband to vote for him. Is he rich?’

  ‘Must be.’

  ‘Promising! I wonder who he banks with?’

  Given how dearly people like to keep their business confidential, it was surprisingly easy to winkle out background. Helpful members of the public passed on dirty details. Soon I knew Trebonius Fulvo was involved in a lengthy wrangle about mortgages (a law case brought by his own elderly grandfather, who had a terminal disease, poor man, and feared he would not live to see justice), while his colleague Dillius Surus had been accused by a heartbroken mistress of fathering a daughter on the promise of marriage and (this was the real eye-waterer) stealing her jewellery, including a valuable necklace that another lover had given her … As I found out later, much of this was unreliable.

  Rumours would do. When you blacken someone’s name in politics, hearsay can be freely deployed. Scandal needs to be colourful, not true. Vibius was never going to win if he had a conscience.

  ‘Surus looks like a lush to me,’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh, he’s a wonderful character. Laugh a minute, really enjoys life. We need a breath of fresh air in Rome.’

  Nobody knew who financed the candidates but I think that detail is always telling. I had to find out for myself. I would ask a banker.

  8

  On the left side of the Forum, as you face away from the Capitol and just after the Curia, lies the two-storey Basilica Aemilia, adorned with a colonnade called the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius. This was the Emperor Augustus honouring his grandson heirs through fancy shops. Gaius and Lucius died, but their fine arcade was still here, still smart enough to be frequented by bankers pretending to be upmarket. Our family used Nothokleptes, which Father claimed means thieving bastard, a pseudonym bestowed by my uncle, Lucius Petronius. There were now two generations in the firm, and we used the son even though wicked Uncle Petro said that for him we should add useless.

  Young Notho still kept chained deposit chests in the main aisle, on the lower level where desperate debtors could rush straight in from the Forum, into the arms of the kind-hearted financiers who were waiting to save them from creditors. For a huge fee.

  The banking stations graced a lofty interior that had massive floor-slabs of marble in beautiful, expensive international varieties. There I found the folding bronze stool Nothokleptes used, standing empty beside a change table, guarded by an ugly Pisidian bouncer, under a frieze with scenes from Roman myth and an enormous statue of a barbarian. I assume this was commissioned in gratitude, for it symbolised the origins of Rome’s wealth: crushing peoples from provinces like mine.

  I am generally Roman, but portrayals of sad, defeat
ed nudes in torcs soon turn me back into a Briton.

  I went straight upstairs, ignoring the Pisidian, apart from a mild jibe of ‘Who are you staring at, pig-face?’ (This was not prejudice, but factually accurate: his snout was squashed, he always stared and I always said it.) Nothokleptes Junior was at his barber’s in the upper colonnade. He was shady, even by the Egyptian standards from which he took both his monetary heritage and his crazy hairstyle. His rings were so chunky they kept his fingers splayed. Born and bred in Rome, he still managed to find tunics that were too long and too tight over his big belly, so he looked Oriental. Which in any lexicon is another word for dubious.

  His father was sitting with him, now reduced by age to watery smiles and silence. Always a heavy man, Nothokleptes Senior had spread slowly into a vast blob of smooth flesh. They had pegged a barber’s napkin under his chin, even though he was not being shaved, in case he dribbled. He didn’t know the time of day, but if you put a bag of mixed coins in front of him, he would rapidly sort it into denominations while palming a percentage by some sleight you could never spot. Most of his brain was far away, but his essence persisted. He still loved the feel of copper and silver under his clever fingers.

  His son was having his beard painfully scraped off with pumice, a daily routine that nevertheless left him permanently blue-jawed. ‘Nothokleptes! Yes, you, the useless one!’

  Junior gave me the family glare, a mix of blatant ingratiation and mild rebuke for useless thieving bastard. He would never get us to stop and, thanks to Uncle Petro, half Rome believed it was his real name.

  ‘Flavia Albia.’ His father had taught him to be reverently formal. This was supposed to set people at ease while loans they could not afford were seductively pressed upon them. It must work. They had pots of lucre to use for making more. Nothokleptes Junior had collected at least three priesthoods to show how highly the public valued being fleeced by him. ‘And how are you this fine day, Flavia Albia?’

  ‘Too hot. You can drop the fake politeness. I don’t need you. I’m solvent.’

  He pretended to laugh. ‘So like your dear father.’ He turned to his own and shouted, ‘Look, oldster, it’s Falco’s daughter!’

  Nothokleptes Senior dribbled with what might have been delight.

  ‘Didius Falco sends his regards,’ I told him gently. That was nothing like what Falco would have said, but the old man was past insulting.

  ‘So, daughter of the esteemed Marcus Didius, our favourite client,’ smarmed Junior, jumping up from the barber’s chair in the hope that he was tall enough to look down my tunic (he wasn’t but he never learned), ‘if you don’t want financial advice …’

  ‘Your advice is always “Borrow a lot of money from us at wincing rates of interest”! I can do without that kind of sorrow. No, I am working, Notho.’

  I told him about both my lines of enquiry. The man found in the chest fascinated him more than the election rivals.

  ‘It’s always possible the deceased in the strongbox had reneged on a loan with one of your more vicious colleagues and was punished as an example,’ I suggested. ‘He looked respectable before he started rotting, so if you hear of any punter who’s gone missing unexpectedly I’d like to know.’

  ‘You don’t need the ones we expect to disappear?’

  ‘No point. Your flight-risk bankrupts will have planned their exile – besides, they will come sneaking back, once they get tired of hiding on Greek islands. This man has met a surprise fate, I believe. I have no clue to his identity. He could be anybody. Even, in fact, a banker.’

  ‘Flavia Albia, if a banker goes missing, everyone will know.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Cheers would resound from here to Tusculum.’

  Junior was insulted too often to react. ‘I have been eagerly waiting for your proceeds from the Callistus sale, Flavia Albia, but who will bid, when the goods are contaminated?’

  ‘Fear not. Our staff say close contact with a corpse brings added value.’

  He cheered up. ‘So, any plans to have a body in every sale?’

  ‘No. Restraint, Notho, is the motto of our house. Anyway, the market is too volatile – you can never get hold of a good gloopy cadaver at the right moment.’

  He blenched. Changing the subject as a courtesy, I asked what he knew about the men standing for aedile. Even though Uncle Petro called him useless, he knew quite a lot. I obtained the names of all their bankers, plus confirmation that Dillius Surus had inherited the best wine cellar in Rome but it was now known to be empty, due to his diligent testing of vintages. ‘It doesn’t matter. He married a rich woman. Terentia wants to be the wife of a magistrate so, until he is one, she will humour him.’

  ‘Into his grave, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Could be her plan. They reckon he is about two days away from seeing eight-foot rats climbing walls. She’ll find a new husband easily. Horrible woman, but she has exceedingly pretty investments. I’d love to acquire a client with such placement in Baetican olive oil and shipping squid-in-brine. Her broker is a magician, even though his armpits are hairy and his feet stink … Which of the fine upstanding bastards are you working for, Flavia Albia?’

  ‘Vibius Marinus.’

  ‘Handsome lad? Are you trying to get him into bed?’

  ‘Notho, my father would kill me if I went to bed with a magistrate.’ Well, only if he found out. ‘No, his agent has employed me to dig dirt on the others.’

  ‘Oh, you’re going for easy labour, these days?’ We laughed. ‘What have you turned up so far?’

  ‘After one morning’s work and picking your brains, I think they are all unspeakable.’

  Notho made an Egyptian gesture of amazement. ‘Even your client? Mind you, Falco’s customers were never up to much and I haven’t noticed you choosing better. You want to start earning real money and build up some decent savings, Albia, or you’ll never attract a new husband.’

  ‘I want one who thinks I have a wonderful mind.’

  ‘That’s why you have been single for the past ten years.’ Notho was wrong. I could have been married. I simply preferred to keep looking for a man whose habits and personality did not fill me with rage. ‘Marinus, you say … I still fail to place him, Albia. Is he the wife-beater?’

  ‘I hope not!’

  ‘Well, somebody mentioned that one of them is. I forget exactly. Maybe it’s Marinus whose dog bit a priestess of Isis. And on her birthday, poor slut! The word is, she ended up with gangrene and has only days to live.’

  ‘Ooh − lovely details. Thanks for that, Nothokleptes. I’ll trace the dog and ask for his side of the story …’

  Notho went on to say I had been misled about Dillius Surus suing his grandfather (the sick man who would not live to see justice); Notho claimed that was Trebonius Fulvo, one of the bullies. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Hard-arse who does weight-training? My cousin has the grandfather’s account. It was all he could talk of last Saturnalia.’

  ‘Thanks again, then … May I ask whom the banking fraternity have decided to support? I presume you have put your heads together and chosen your favourite?’

  ‘Trebonius and Arulenus.’

  ‘Surely not! They look like dangerous men.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Notho Junior was unrepentant. ‘Looks are not everything – though Arulenus would do well to get that eye fixed. Weird appearance puts people off more than he thinks. But we cannot be complacent, Flavia Albia. These men are tough. They know how to govern. Firm hands on the tiller, that is what Rome needs. Not whimpering simpletons who will fail to collect any fines.’

  Ah! Bankers would be involved in investing fines income – or even, when some aedile believed public office existed to help him amass bribes, they would launder the money. Either entailed fees for them.

  Trebonius and Arulenus were perfect for bankers. Apparently they gave legendary dinners for their supporters and had promised they would change the law to allow higher interest rates.

  They looked unbe
atable. But were usury laws even in the aediles’ remit? I would consult Faustus. If not, Vibius Marinus could gain ground by announcing that his rivals not only sued their granddads and cheated on their fancy women but made impossible promises. Shocking!

  All right. I am not that naïve. But if he accused them of lying, everyone would believe it. The rivals would never sue him; defamation had to diminish the plaintiff’s reputation. Nobody would think any the less of Trebonius and Arulenus for the customary sin of fibbing.

  There were probably no votes in this. But Vibius Marinus would look like a man who was enticingly outspoken. Rash claims about opponents can only help.

  Slander was promising, but sleaze would be better. I must try to find some.

  9

  Talking to your own banker is hard, but it’s nothing like trying to squeeze information from somebody else’s. Juno, you might almost imagine that bankers are bound by confidentiality rules. This cannot be true. My father has many tales of ravenous creditors learning exactly when he had a few denarii – information only his banker could provide.

  Yet they are picky who they speak to. Do you, an ordinary person, desire to check whether someone is creditworthy? Ask their tailor or their fishmonger. Their banker will never help, not even if the person in question owns vast unmortgaged estates and squillions in a strongbox in the Forum – no, not even if he wants you to believe he is sound so has himself given you his banker’s name as a guarantee.

  To tell the truth, if someone offers his banker as a reference, all the investigators in my family assume he has prepaid the banker to lie.

  Nothokleptes and Nothokleptes certainly counted fake credit ratings as a service they provided. Rates were in their business prospectus. It came in cheaper than them sending bail money to get you out of prison. If you pleaded for that, the bastards charged a sky-high fee. Best of all for the Nothos was producing a witness statement in a claim for divorce − which they did pro bono because if they saved your dowry from a grasping spouse it enhanced your value to them.

  How do I know these things? Because I am the one person in Rome who always scans notices and price lists. If words are written, I read them. Helena Justina brought me up that way.