This vigil was useless. I failed to spot any likely suspects. I had to pass the time somehow. Musing, I developed a witty theory that auctions are like politics. In an auction, you let yourself be fooled by appearances, get carried away and commit yourself rashly; then, as soon as it’s over and you take your so-called sound investment home, a leg drops off. Just like electing some sham who turns out to have neither talent nor morals …
Not Sextus Vibius Marinus, friend of my own honest friend Faustus, clearly. I must try not to be satirical about the lovely Vibius. Otherwise I would let an incorrect opinion slip, causing his chief supporter to take offence. Naughty girl, Albia.
I was bored.
Towards the middle of the morning, everything warmed up. I had shed my cloak and the porters were starting to glisten as they hauled stuff about. The Porticus of Pompey was at its most elegant. Fountains splashed attractively. The golden curtains on the art gallery shone with determined refulgence. Bright, unremittent sunlight was now flooding into the gardens, where every arcade had a full complement of flâneurs and women who fancied a fling – or who wanted to fool themselves they were risking their reputations, although they would dart away in horror if any sinful adventurer sidled up to them. Even the slave-gardeners seemed happy to be trimming up the box hedges.
Gornia had moved on to selling decent lots. The donkey boy fanned him. I could have used him fanning me.
There was serious interest. Warts had returned and were intently bidding against one another. Even unlikely objects found new owners. A nice young couple had snapped up a good table that they dearly wanted, at a price that seemed to surprise them (auctioneers have hearts: we are more pleased than you think to see customers go away delighted). The table had no hidden defects either. Joyous.
I scrutinised a man in a poorly dyed puce tunic, hanging about near The Boy with the Thorn. He pretended to look at the statue, then kept sidling off elsewhere.
From where I was he seemed good-looking and sturdy, but too indecisive to be a murderer. Still, he could be a sidekick sent to observe. He didn’t look as if he cost much to employ. He would have cost me nothing at all because I would have sent him packing. As soon as he saw me watching him, he beetled away guiltily.
Callistus Primus arrived. He was accompanied by two other men whom he brought across and introduced, his brother and cousin. Secundus, the brother, looked just like him but several years younger. They moved to one side where they stood in silence, watching their items come up. A good price left them expressionless. The few things that failed to sell, or failed to sell for what they had hoped, left them visibly disgusted. I dislike such men, but among auction clients they are common. People expect too much. If they don’t achieve the price they want, they blame the auctioneer.
Gornia was actually on good form. He had learned his trade from my grandfather, though no one will ever surpass Geminus at coaxing bids from the shy public. Didius Geminus could sell shit to a dung farmer – and get him to come and collect it in his own cart.
Gornia put up The Boy with a Thorn in His Foot. Puce Tunic did not bid. He just lurked unhappily behind some topiary. The statue failed to reach its reserve and was not sold. Surprise!
At this point, Gornia winked at me and did a little jiggle, signalling that I should go over to where he was standing on a box, his tribunal, and temporarily take over. When he needed to use the Porticus lavatory, we all knew it had to be regarded as urgent. He was an old man.
I surrendered the catalogue to the boy who normally marked it up. As Gornia nipped off, looking anxious, he passed me the hammer; according to family tradition, this implement came from an arena in Africa where it had been used to test if gladiators were dead or shamming.
Some of the audience were surprised when I jumped on the box and composed myself, but it was not the first time I had been left in charge of a gavel. My father had started to bring me with him after Lentullus was killed, wanting to lure me out from brooding alone. Falco said I was bossy enough to control an auction. He trained me.
I quite enjoyed taking charge. I always felt nervous initially but if there was a murmur among those watching, by the time I took the first lot it was over. All you need is a quiet, efficient manner. Punters don’t care, not if they are fired up to buy.
‘Gornia’s gone for a comfort break. You just can’t get the staff, these days. Be calm, my friends, this isn’t a Greek auction, no fear of accidentally acquiring a new wife − I am Falco’s daughter. Good afternoon.’
Some actually answered obediently, ‘Good afternoon.’
‘First item is this robust garden-god statue, fully equipped in every sense.’ The evil porters had set me up with a stone Priapus. Luckily I do not embarrass easily. I talked it up. ‘A fine feature to impress friends at your peristyle supper parties. I had a close look and his dibber shows very little trace of wear!’ I had them. ‘A slight chip in the foreskin, best not to think how that happened. Let’s face it, there must be women here who have been saddened by worse sights … I’ll take a thousand.’
They bid. Not a thousand, but enough. A woman bought it. We had a laugh. She was fifty and took the banter in good part. Perhaps a widow. Free to have what she liked in her garden now, without her husband picking at her.
The audience were mine and the porters had had their moment, so I could continue in my own style, being serious and direct. The job is easy, in my opinion. You only have to make it clear whose bid you take. ‘I am with the red tunic. Any advance? Sir at the back, thank you. Are we all done?’
Drop your hammer decisively. Move on.
‘Next, please, porter. Now this is lovely. Who will start me at five hundred?’
I sold several routine lots, to let everyone feel comfortable with my presence and pace. The Callisti stopped looking nervous. The regulars had never been bothered anyway. It must be close to lunchtime. We had a large crowd and I even spotted a haze of ultra-white on the outskirts, as if we had been joined by election candidates. People were fanning themselves, some drinking water, a couple of lads trying to cool off in the fountains.
The Boy with a Thorn limped round again. He failed to sell a second time. ‘Oh dear. If nobody takes him home soon, this poor wounded lad will end up with gangrene!’ Enjoying myself, I was soaring like a seagull on a thermal. I called the no-sale. Almost without intending to, I heard myself say, ‘I’ll take the handsome strongbox next.’
Perhaps I should have waited. But, Hades, it had to go some time. It was just a half-burned chest.
13
Some people knew its history. There was a rustle of anticipation. The three men of the Callistus family gave away little, though I saw them grow tense. This was the best vantage-point for me: right at the front, raised on my stand and, by virtue of my task, looking directly at everyone.
Puce Tunic was back, lurking. A couple of fellows pushed in closer to the strongbox. People do that. People who have no intention of bidding like to approach the lot you are taking, stand alongside and gawp. Lunatics. I hoped the smell choked them.
‘This is a fine antique chest of exceptional size and armouring, with a good provenance of south Campanian workmanship, only ever in the possession of a single family. It shows some singeing; buyer takes it as found. There are working locks; a handsome key goes home with it.’
As one, the burly Callisti had folded their arms, subconsciously defensive. People were shooting sly glances in their direction. People knew all right.
On the edge of the crowd, I definitely identified Manlius Faustus, with Vibius and Salvius Gratus. The brutes, Trebonius Fulvo and Arulenus Crescens, were in their group too, surprisingly. They were all pretending to be on good terms with each other. Anywhere out on the Field of Mars was a suitable haunt for candidates. Strolling into a porticus to watch an auction was an acceptable activity. They kept turning to people nearby, shaking hands and causing a disturbance. I enjoyed myself calling out, ‘Less noise over there, please. Give the bidders a chance to make up thei
r minds!’
I saw Faustus and Vibius walk over and shake hands with the Callisti, but the next time I noticed, they were back with the other chalk-whites.
I concentrated on the chest. I named a price, well above its value, and found no takers. Anyone who had viewed the item properly must have seen it had substantial damage. I brought my price down in stages, gently, without excitement, as you do. The trick is never to sound desperate. Like love, really, as my sisters would say.
The two loons by the box were jostling like village idiots. A serious buyer would remain quiet. If this ridiculous pair had been sent by the killer to observe, they were drawing too much attention to themselves. I had seen tribesmen in round huts show more sophistication.
‘Somebody start me.’
Near the front a hand lifted, barely a movement of the fingers. Probably only I noticed the gesture. Even though he was professional – I recognised this dealer − he had weighed in too soon and would probably end up not buying. I called the bid, which encouraged someone else. We were far too low, but there was time. A third and fourth joined in, but half-heartedly. Number three dropped out at once. Four could be a possible. I made sure I kept eye contact.
Numbers two and four went at it against each other. They slowed. A new bidder entered. Four perked up, hiking his price with a big jump. Excellent. Another new bidder gave me a nod, over by Puce Tunic, though not visibly associating with him.
A pause. I rested and went with it.
‘Come now, we are surely not all done yet? Do I have any more? If not, I am selling. Last call, fair warning …’
The lull seemed about to continue. When I raised my hammer, teasing them, bidding resumed as I expected.
I love the rise and fall. I love the sense of steering the event. Dull days are depressing, but here in the sunlight we were having fun today. I understood why my grandfather had loved his work.
I sold the box. I got a good price. The hammer came down on a high figure, considering how damaged the item was. I saw what the staff had meant about notoriety. This old chest had caused a frisson that had been missing at the sale all morning.
A thin man with a heavily acned face was the buyer. He wore an unobtrusive beige tunic and joined the bidding late on: a type I recognised – almost certainly not working on his own account, but acting on instruction either for a dealer or a private individual. He had bided his time, then come in once the rest were tiring. It was skilfully done.
‘Thank you!’ I said to the audience, polite but firm.
Gornia reappeared. He must have deliberately let me take the strongbox. As he passed me, he muttered something.
I looked over. The Callisti − Primus, Secundus and nephew − were leaving, as if they had seen all they came for. That was understandable. The buyer, who still had to complete the purchase formalities with us, did not even look in their direction. Yet I believed what Gornia had said to me: the skinny man was their negotiator.
The Callisti had secretly bought back the strongbox themselves.
14
It was not a unique event, though buying back was rare. Anyone sensible who changed their mind simply withdrew their item from sale.
Relieved of gavel duties, I went up to the negotiator as he made payment. He wanted to give us a banker’s draft, which needed family authorisation. ‘That’s acceptable,’ I instructed our finance clerk. ‘Sir, we need your note by tomorrow. We keep the goods until the payment arrives.’ I congratulated the man on his purchase, making my remarks sound routine. Then I slipped in, ‘I am told that you act for the owners?’
He scowled but did not deny it. As he finished the formalities, I leaned in, letting him see me read his signature. He was a lanky strip of wind who went by the name of Titus Niger. I drew him to a quiet corner. ‘If you work for the Callisti, Niger, was it you who went to that storeroom they use and prepared the inventory for sale?’
‘Yes, I did that.’
‘I’ve been hoping to talk to you. At the store, did you look inside the strongbox?’
‘No.’ The tall skinny man was very sure of that.
‘Did you notice anything odd in the room where it was kept?’
‘No.’ Despite his brief replies the negotiator was keeping a polite manner. He had a weaker voice than his trusted position and confident air suggested. I put the squeak down to nerves. The Callisti had warned him I was trouble and that he must watch what he said.
‘Footsteps in the dust on the floor, for instance? Or a nasty smell?’ I prodded.
‘Nothing that caught my attention. The light was poor. I had a lamp to write my list by, but it was dim. Everything smelt musty, but that was to be expected. Stuff had been in store for years.’
I said I presumed he knew I had discussed the chest with Callistus Primus. ‘He will have told you what our people found inside?’ Beige Tunic nodded. He was probably fifty, long in experience. ‘So may I ask what your principals were thinking when they made you bid for the old chest?’
‘They changed their minds. It is allowed.’
‘Of course! But if they want to keep it, why not ask us to cancel the sale? People have second thoughts. My father is always obliging. I assure you there would have been no comeback.’
Looking uncomfortable over his strange buy, the negotiator gave in. ‘Primus decided not to let the strongbox go to some inquisitive ghoul who wanted the thrill of finding bloodstains.’
‘There was nothing left to find inside,’ I said. ‘There never had been blood. The poor victim suffocated.’
‘Primus thought people wouldn’t know that. And he feels whoever killed that person and dumped him in their storeroom gave them responsibility.’ That was certainly not how Primus had reacted when I talked to him. His brother and perhaps his cousin may have persuaded him have a rethink, but they looked similar types, all unsentimental. ‘I was told to buy it incognito. When it comes home, someone will burn it and make a proper end of the thing, rather than let it become some ghastly souvenir.’
‘Well, that will be respectful to the dead.’ I kept my face neutral. ‘So why did the Callisti come here today, when it might have been better not to draw attention?’
Niger gave me a look. ‘They wanted to watch and see who else was interested in their box.’
I, too, was pinch-mouthed. ‘You should tell them that even if the killer hoped nobody had found the body he would never buy the chest himself – too dangerous.’
‘So you don’t think he was here?’
‘Oh, certainly! He was here – or someone acting for him was.’
‘And wanted to buy the body back?’
‘They probably realise we found the corpse. No, I think any culprits will have wanted to discover today what is known about the dead man. After all, if somebody identifies him, the finger of suspicion may point at them.’
The Callistus agent gazed around the audience. Most were intent on Gornia selling Father’s carpets. ‘So who is it, Flavia Albia?’
‘My guess is he or they have already left.’
The negotiator went off, too, without another word.
I felt Niger had no connection with the killing. Mind you, being plausible was his job.
My next task was to move casually about the audience, making a closer inspection of everyone who had bid on the chest unsuccessfully. I took one of the porters to introduce me to them. I still thought the killer would have been crazy to attempt to purchase the box, but you never know. Killers can be stupid.
I found that those who had shown interest were all regular dealers and bidding for themselves, apart from one shipper we had not dealt with before, but he had only arrived in Rome two days ago, giving him an alibi.
Out of politeness I went and said hello to Faustus and company. They were still fingering goods and making themselves agreeable to all and sundry.
None bothered with warm greetings for me. Laia Gratiana applied an expression of austere distaste. ‘Do you often do that, Flavia Albia?’
; ‘Take an auction? Not often – but, as you saw, I know how.’
‘Quite a skill!’ blared Trebonius Fulvo, not bothering to introduce himself – a man who assumed everyone knew him. He was the one with the odd eye and knucklefuls of self-promoting jewellery. He came and stood too close.
‘It just requires a little theatre work,’ I murmured, with an unobtrusive sidestep.
‘I like a girl who does Priapus jokes!’ Trebonius trowelled on lewd insinuation.
‘As she said, acting for the punters,’ said Faustus, moving in to support me. ‘Flavia Albia is perfectly modest by nature.’ Somehow he sounded as if he meant that.
Laia snorted.
I shot Faustus a grateful look. ‘We have some superb items still to come. I hope you will all stay and enjoy more of the auction – maybe you would like to buy something!’ I spun on one heel, my sensible shoe staying on firmly, as I moved off to continue my circuit.
I strolled around representing my father: shaking hands, smiling, enquiring about business, asking after families. ‘We were all very sorry to hear about your wife, such a lovely woman and far too young to go … Your youngest must be walking now … How is your brother getting on with his new business?’ Occasionally with newcomers I introduced myself, ‘Hello, I am Didius Falco’s daughter. I hope you are enjoying the sale. Do talk to any of our staff if we can help at all …’
I was ‘going about’ like the candidates. The only difference was, I paid for no favours and made no fake promises.
I returned to the dolphin-ended bench. The catalogue boy had been there but he moved off when Manlius Faustus approached, clearly about to speak to me.
‘So this is a big-earrings day!’ Manlius Faustus could be a man of surprises; he seemed to like my jewellery.
He sat down with me but the bench had reached its turn for bids. As we rose from it, Faustus must have seen my rueful glance and how I stroked the worn head of one of the dolphins. ‘You like it?’
Deadly Election Page 8