Faustus looked embarrassed. ‘Show Flavia Albia more respect, Sextus. Her father is an equestrian. He outranks us – and therefore so does she.’
I countered that gently: ‘Falco remains a plebeian at heart – and therefore so do I … Your opponents will be checking on you too,’ I pointed out to Vibius, wanting to demonstrate my skills. ‘Try to spot who their informers are. Ask me, in case I know anything against them. Then use my father’s trick – march straight up and greet them by name, cheerily suggesting they question you directly. Since openness is your policy, you will gladly supply the full facts.’
‘And shall I?’
‘Olympus, of course not! If you are to be a politician, your natural medium is lying. Surely your agent has explained that?’
Again, Faustus had to control a smile. ‘So, what should we be looking for, Albia? And what will the opposition try to uncover against Sextus?’
I had plenty of ideas. ‘A good informer will closely shadow a rival candidate, monitoring his life. The informer will be very persistent. Where does this man have lunch – does he go home, or slip down a quiet side-street to a pretty apartment that is occupied by a vivacious young woman, not his wife? When he attends a harp recital, does he take his honoured spouse − or does he spend time in close conversation with the wife of his best friend?’
Both men nodded gravely. Faustus had not always been pure and I wondered about Vibius. There would be no point in criticising his opponents if they discovered worse things done by him.
Personally, I would not think Vibius Marinus was worth a rash affair. Still, other women constantly surprise me with their crazy choice of lovers.
Faustus, on the other hand … But I had tried to get him into bed. No luck.
‘For really juicy titbits,’ I went on, ‘winkle out who the candidates bank with. Have a quiet word. Are they in debt?’ More nods. ‘When they parade their so-supportive family in the Forum, who is quietly missing? Have they behaved badly to a sibling, wife or child? Do they have a complicated history of divorce?’ I tried not to look at Faustus, who himself had that. ‘We must cosy up to their slaves and ask how popular they really are. And don’t be fooled by the business associates who are supporting them. Look for associates who have stopped doing business with them. Then we’ll find out why.’
Faustus exclaimed admiringly to Vibius, ‘I told you! Flavia Albia is superb. She has even more gristle than Quintus Cicero. You see why I want her with us.’
‘Oh, you just want to supervise my convalescence,’ I murmured.
He quickly gleamed at me, not denying it. ‘Sextus, listen to her and don’t let me see you slipping down any side-streets for libidinous lunches! You must have an immaculate reputation. Which, of course, you do,’ he assured his friend, sounding as if he fully believed it. A true politician.
I was privately glad of this chance to work with Faustus. I asked who the other candidates were, the men I had to lumber with grubby reputations. Faustus supplied names. I wrote them in my note tablet. Vibius mentioned someone else, Volusius Firmus. ‘No, he dropped out,’ Faustus said. ‘Don’t know why. Run out of money? Salvius Gratus is pooling resources and working with us,’ he told me.
‘A joint ticket?’
‘A coalition.’
‘Is that legal?’
‘No, but everyone does it.’
‘What is Gratus like?’ I asked.
‘Surprisingly amenable, given he is your ex-brother-in-law,’ chuckled Vibius to Faustus. That was unwelcome news.
I knew how Faustus had come to be divorced. I had had recent dealings with his ex-wife, Laia Gratiana. She was bound to be supporting her brother but her grudging presence as a campaign collaborator held little appeal for me.
I wondered how much Vibius knew. Faustus had confided in me the story of his split from Laia: his fault, due to a fling with the wife of a patron. Ten years ago, he must have told his best friend something, though the scandal was hushed up. Had he been as frank with Sextus Vibius then as he had been more recently, after his wounds had healed, with me?
Faustus looked uneasy so I changed the subject. ‘I am puzzled, Tiberius. I thought elections were no longer held. Our emperor pores over the lists and controls new appointments himself. If Domitian has the final veto, what is the point of campaigning?’
Faustus groaned bitterly. I saw him check around with a glance, making sure there were no pottering slaves to overhear. ‘Good question. Domitian certainly chooses the consuls. But years ago electing other magistrates was passed to the Senate.’
‘Domitian loathes the Senate!’
‘But, remember, a tyrant hates to admit he is one,’ Faustus said quietly. ‘The worse he is, the more he claims – and even believes – that traditional religion and democracy matter to him deeply and determine all his actions.’
That was true. Some of Domitian’s worst cruelties had been carried out in the name of upholding some ancient practice or in supposed devotion to the gods. His favourite excuse for executing people was to claim they were ‘atheists’. (This could have been macabre humour on his part: the god that people didn’t believe in was Domitian.)
‘Candidates announce they are standing,’ Faustus continued, ‘then lobby important people, including senators.’
‘It is taken seriously? But canvassing who? Emperor or Senate?’
‘Hopefuls ascertain that the Emperor has no objection to them – and, if possible, even get him to call them “Caesar’s candidates”. That makes success certain because, obviously, Domitian’s choices are voted on first.’
‘Why are you campaigning now?’ I asked. ‘Don’t the Senate vote in January?’
Faustus scowled. ‘In the old days, elections for aedile took place in July. The job starts on the first of January, so a successful man had six months to prepare himself. Now people still campaign in July even though aediles designate are appointed for the following twelve months.’
‘Hades! You could have fallen under a cart by then!’
‘Or simply lost interest.’ He seemed depressed. ‘If we are especially unlucky, by January the Emperor will have returned from Pannonia and he will turn up to preside.’
‘Don’t worry. He hardly ever goes to the Senate. But I assume you can’t canvass Domitian directly. You work on his officials?’
Faustus groaned. ‘Endless imperial freedmen.’
‘So you ran your friend’s name past some stylus-pusher?’
‘We tried. They are all jumpy. Their chief, Abascantus, has been sent away under a cloud. Currently no one knows who is in charge.’
I nodded. ‘Domitian could have any of them removed tomorrow. The old “mismanagement of funds” charge, no chance to defend themselves, then swift execution … My father knows one who may help,’ I volunteered. ‘Claudius Laeta – he is elderly now, but bureaucrats never entirely retire.’
‘Would your father mediate for us?’
‘No need. We can take along some invalid porridge and I’ll introduce you to the tottery scroll-master myself.’
Faustus raised his eyebrows. Turning to Vibius, he said, ‘Flavia Albia always amazes me. The other thing I have not mentioned is that she has two uncles in the Senate.’
Vibius was certainly not grateful. ‘Just another five hundred and ninety-eight to win over,’ he grumbled self-defeatingly.
Faustus had met my uncles, Camillus Aelianus and Camillus Justinus, when they advised us on a case. I would make no attempt to coerce them. Let other women work behind the scenes for political favours; I had never seen that as my role. Faustus would have to persuade them himself. But I did suggest I would let him know next time I intended to visit so he could tag along.
Faustus eagerly suggested he bring Vibius, too. I agreed, though somewhat coolly.
The conversation ended. I took my leave, since I wanted to conduct research on all the candidates before anything else.
I had another motive. Manlius Faustus seemed to think he had diverted me, but I wa
s still interested in the dead man found by the auction staff. I pretended I was going home to rest, though in fact I intended to visit the undertaker.
Faustus had sent away Gornia’s donkey earlier; he now produced a carrying chair, I think borrowed from his friend’s mother. ‘Take Flavia Albia wherever she wants to go,’ he ordered the bearers. Then to me he pleaded, ‘One diversion, Albiola! Promise me not to tire yourself – just one sly errand, then please go straight home.’
He knew me too well.
6
I had had the body sent to Fundanus. He was a barbarian. I don’t mean he came from a country outside the Empire where they cannot speak Greek and eat their children. His forebears had had premises by the Circus Maximus for generations, believing that narrow-minded opinions were their ancient right as Roman males. From conversations Fundanus had inflicted on me about his filthy views on life, I knew he thought slaves were less than human, foreigners not much better, that all men should beat their wives and all women were sluts. He called this traditional. I called it rats’ piss. I deduced he had a forceful wife he was scared of.
He organised slave-torture for the state and for private individuals, so he was bound to be crude. It did make him an ideal undertaker after foul play, an unflinching brute who could cope with any unpleasantness.
Fundanus was cheery. Coming from Britannia, I happen to know that true barbarians tend to be morose. They stand around flicking fleas out of their curly beards and moaning that if the rain doesn’t let up the crops will fail. Sometimes it snows in Britain, which they find very exciting since iced-up beards don’t itch so much, and it gives them a chance to drown, falling into frozen lakes.
A true barbarian engages in human sacrifice, but for the best of reasons. Fundanus was horrible because he liked it. I was not looking forward to talking to him about the man in the chest while I was still feeling seedy. There was a good chance I would snap at his diatribe, grab an embalming tool and shove it down his throat. Never helpful. I tried to be more mature, these days.
Perhaps it was lucky Fundanus was out.
One of his staff, a pyre-builder, talked to me. He had probably absorbed his master’s hate-based bigotry but he had a fluffy little beard and came across as a sweetie. He may not have noticed I was female and a foreigner. If he had, he knew I was paying the bill and respected that.
He told me they had learned little more than I had seen for myself. Fundanus had put the dead man at fifty-five or sixty, older than I had thought; he was generously built and well fed, enjoyed his drink and could afford it. In so far as his gooey remains could be inspected, the funeral people had found no distinguishing scars, misshapen bones, tattoos, birthmarks or amputated limbs. His teeth were ground down and half missing, just like everyone’s. He had no obvious signs of disease, having died from being trapped in a confined space. Fundanus thought the man had been thumped, probably to stop him struggling while his arms were being bound, so he was unconscious when he went into the box. He probably never woke again and the expression I had thought I saw on his face meant nothing.
I was relieved. ‘That makes it a kinder death. I bet Fundanus was disappointed; he loves to imagine pain … But when his assailants put him there, the man was alive?’
‘Possibly – they could not tell.’
‘You are very fair-minded! And this was a respectable citizen?’
‘Barbered and manicured. Nice tunic and undershift – regrettably we had to burn them. White mark from a signet ring that someone had removed. There was a plain wedding ring they didn’t bother to take. We had to cut his finger off, but the ring is here for you.’
‘Please tell me the finger is not still in it.’ I knew funeral directors’ ways.
The pyre slave grinned. ‘I can pull it out.’
I nodded weakly. ‘My hero!’ The slave considerately turned his back. There was a slight thump as he chucked the finger into a rubbish pail, then he handed me a metal object. He had the courtesy to place it on a scrap of material in which I could wrap the unsavoury takeaway; best not to wonder whose tunic they had cut up for rags or what that person had died of.
I scrutinised the ring, which was narrow and undecorated. ‘Real gold, or mainly so. Half of Rome has one like this, except when they are chatting someone up so take it off to hide the fact they’re married … Was there anything else?’
‘Do you want to see his belt?’ The slave unbuckled a decent leather effort that he was himself wearing. It looked standard and difficult to trace so I gave it back to him.
He had on a pair of good boots too. He saw me looking, but we did not mention those.
They did not fit. As he saw me out, he walked in an awkward, bandy-legged way.
While I was being taken home, I thought hard but could see no way to go forward with this odd mystery.
Even so, I was not ready to admit failure. The auction staff, and Manlius Faustus, were all waiting for me to drop the case. I would delay as long as possible before I caved in.
7
When I returned to Fountain Court I felt tired, yet more stable climbing the two flights back to my apartment than I had been that afternoon coming downstairs. Work had given me a boost. Informers are tragic people.
I slept soundly, rose early, then went out for breakfast. On my way, I told Rodan to send a message down to the auction house, asking for use of Patchy every day until my stamina improved. The others would curse me, but old Gornia would be thrilled because he could sleep at the Saepta Julia. He would be happier there, cramped among the dusty stored furniture, than in his terrible doss. I made a note to tell Father to give him a mattress and not make him go home all the time. That way, if Gornia was taken ill in the night, someone would be there to help him in the morning. If he died, we would soon find him.
I ate at the Stargazer, my tiresome aunt’s terrible bar. Sometimes Manlius Faustus happened along and joined me in a bread roll, though not today. He would be busy with his friend. Until the election was over, we would have to shelve our habit of meeting ‘by chance’ as I took breakfast. Today I chatted with Apollonius while he served at the counter, but it wasn’t the same.
I told myself working with Faustus was fine, but I must not grow too used to it. Better the pleasure I used to take in waking up slowly over my dish of olives in my own quiet company.
Then I kicked the table leg and thought, dammit, I liked breakfasting with Faustus.
To work.
I wanted to size up the rival candidates. The best place to start would be in the Forum where I could take a look at them parading with their retinues. If they had read that tract by Quintus Cicero, they would appear good and early. None would have read it personally, but all their advisers would have pored over the thing. Like Faustus, the men behind the other candidates would be crazily searching for ways to success, looking for the magic charm. I remembered when my family was plotting to get my uncles, the Camillus brothers, into the Senate. They were hopeless. We had to do everything.
People with asthma should avoid men who are running for office. They are called candidates because on formal occasions they wear robes whitened with chalk. The Latin for ‘white’ is candida. I found this year’s contenders by following the clouds of white dust and bystanders coughing … I am not entirely joking. But the commotion made by the chalkies’ supporters, together with the hoary jeers they were throwing at each other, helped identify them.
What a glorious crop. (Now I am joking.)
Vibius Marinus had already set my teeth on edge, even though the respectable Manlius Faustus could be heard assuring onlookers that his friend was a man of grit, integrity and flawless ancestors, who would be a hard-working, honourable magistrate. Vibius smiled graciously. Any swine can do that.
Trebonius Fulvo and Arulenus Crescens were working a ticket in partnership, and doing so effortlessly. They looked a pair of bullies. Surrounded by bull-necked cronies, one had fistfuls of finger-rings and a lazy eye; the other carried three times his proper weight,
rolling through the crowds with a side-to-side sway, like a sailor. I decided on sight that neither had an interest in public service for its own sake; both would use any office for their own advancement. They would pick on people for petty misdemeanours, then take handouts in return for not punishing them. But their campaigning style was so smooth it made me groan. They could talk like fishmongers pushing last Thursday’s rancid octopus. I quickly identified the slick duo as having the morals of the brothel and the habits of the gutter. The electorate love that. These two were the serious opposition for Vibius and Gratus.
Dillius Surus appeared to have only just crawled out of bed, so I made a note to look into the tousled layabout’s drinking habits. With luck, his late-night antics would involve flute-girls of the good-time kind. Well, any flute-girl would do. Even if she’s virginal, nobody believes it. Needless to say, the crowd were being kind to Dillius. They adore anyone debauched.
Ennius Verecundus smiled constantly and was supported by his mother. She wore one of those old-fashioned outer tunics with thin straps over the shoulder, and had her hair screwed back so hard it hurt to see. Traditional: she could have whopped the warlike Volscians single-handed. I would have voted for her. I would have been frightened not to.
And, finally, here came Lucius Salvius Gratus, significantly wealthy brother to Laia Gratiana. Neat and trim; well organised and bumptious. The type my father hates on sight, my mother, too. He had fair hair with pale skin and looked as if he were constantly blushing, though I guessed he was as shameless as the rest. His pale, thin, elegant sister stood loyally beside him, though was too snooty to shout his praise in public. She would work on people in private, not wanting to be mistaken for a loud-mouthed manicurist – as if anyone ever would. Manicurists are lovely girls.
Famous herself for show-off religious duties at the Temple of Ceres, Laia was expensively dressed, heavily jewelled and naturally blonde. These traits amount to star voter-appeal. If Faustus’s ex-wife helped get his best friend elected − which she would, if people were as daft as I thought − it was not for me to quibble.
Deadly Election Page 4