These were men who worked long hours, very badly paid when compared with the wealthy house-owners and fashionable designers who commissioned them. Somehow, for once, they had managed a windfall. Gornia must have asked searching questions but we all knew there was prodigious waste when homes were renovated. Beautiful things were often thrown away and we liked to see good come out of a rubbish skip − especially since my father had once found a baby in one, now my sweet cousin Junillus. Salvage was in our blood.
When their lot sold, the workmen sloshed more mulsum into their cups, looking stunned.
I went up and explained what they needed to do now. They were happy to transport both couches and fountain to the new owner in their heavy-duty cart, and even offered him a cheap deal for installation. I said we would gladly receive more salvage from them, although they always had to demonstrate they had the right to it: our auction house would not become receivers of stolen goods.
At this point, the Callisti turned up: Secundus and the cousin, well attended by belligerent guards. Gornia glanced at me, though they parked themselves harmlessly at the back of the crowd.
Hardly had they started casting gloom with their heavy presence than the wife of Niger rushed into the auction circle, followed by a shabby man with sweat dripping off him, also going full pelt.
‘Stop the sale!’ She flung both arms wide as if shepherding some tricky goats. ‘That chest belongs to my husband. You are not authorised to sell it!’
Gornia defused the situation by announcing he would auction off some wine vessels, while I ascertained the problem.
All the crowd perked up. The builders chose to stay and watch. Nobody paid any attention to Gornia’s calls for bids on the wine kraters, which were, to tell the truth, disappointing. One had an enormous crack. People buy those things because they’re smitten by their sheer size. Nobody uses the huge party mixing vessels afterwards: even empty, nobody can lift them. Most return in due course to be sold again. We welcome them back like long-lost sons and talk them up on ‘rarity’.
Cornering Niger’s hysterical wife, I kept my voice low. Auctioneers run into situations like this, but we knew how to defend our rights. ‘It is true,’ I said, ‘your husband made a bid on this strongbox, but he never paid. The chest therefore reverts to the original owners, who have authorised us to put it up for sale a second time.’
‘Titus Niger owns it!’
‘Only if he bought it. Let me explain again.’ I toughened up, while still playing reasonable. Grandpa, a ruthless charmer, would have cheered. ‘If you are claiming you own this item, you must produce proof – our docket to say that Niger gave us the money.’
The wife was frantic. ‘They won’t pay his fee. He is going nuts about his lost time.’
‘Then I suppose he might legitimately hold on to any item in his possession as collateral, but not this. Because we received no payment, we are selling the box again.’
‘But—’
‘No! Since this chest belonged to the Callisti, Niger must take up any dispute with them.’ We were going round in circles. ‘Anyway,’ I demanded in mild annoyance, ‘where is the famous Niger? What does the defaulter have to say for himself?’
His wife looked shifty. Her agent fixed his eyes upon the ground and made no comment. ‘My husband is out of town right now.’
‘Where?’
I realised his wife had no idea. That seemed slightly odd.
The sweaty man took a hand. ‘I’m acting as arbiter. I subpoena the chest until its true ownership is decided.’
Hopeless. He was a cheapskate hireling who should have given the woman better advice right from the start and never have let her come near the auction. I reckoned he was someone Niger dealt with in his work: that was how the wife came to know him. But Niger himself was far out of his class.
‘I do not accept your subpoena,’ I stated firmly. ‘Niger reneged. We asked the original owners for instructions and here we are, reselling. Any questions, go over there and take up your beef with the Callisti.’ During this altercation Callistus Secundus and his cousin never moved, though they heard what was being said.
‘This is a legal situation.’ He was red-faced and pompous – but he had that nervous eye-twitch that revealed he felt deeply unsure of his position.
‘Wrong.’ I smiled coldly. ‘This is an auction and we are proceeding with it.’
‘I’m going to fetch the vigiles.’
‘You do that.’ I signalled to Gornia to shift the strongbox with all speed.
The so-called agent was so busy blustering he did not even notice my sign. ‘I am going straight away and nobody is to touch that chest until I come back!’
‘I hear you.’ I would ignore him.
Niger’s wife’s agent hurried off in a new haze of sweat to annoy the law-and-order boyos. They would probably refuse to come, or more likely they would come tomorrow, when it was all safely over and no need for them to do anything. The woman cast a scared glance in the direction of the two Callisti, but could not pluck up courage to speak to them. Instead, she darted forwards and flung herself bodily on top of the strongbox. Lying there full-length, she glued herself to the lid, like a broad-beamed limpet, whimpering against the charred woodwork.
‘Do not dribble on that valuable piece, madam!’ Gornia nodded to Lappius, our largest minder, a big, peaceful, pock-marked man, who swung in and picked her up off it. He carried the flailing woman right to the edge of the crowd. Her large, flat, sandalled feet kicked out in all directions but Lappius set her down (because security operatives are courteous men – at least, ours are), then stood with his huge arms locked round her. He told her to shut up. She squealed. He played deaf. She called for help, so everybody near her edged away. She simmered down, though only slightly.
Gornia called time on the wine kraters, which would go back to store unsold again, then he announced the strongbox. The five builders who had sold the fountain niche had just stood their beakers of mulsum on it, which they lifted off shamefacedly.
It was far too heavy to carry about on display, so a junior porter who fancied himself as a circus performer pranced around it a couple of times, making ‘Lo! This wondrous strongbox!’ gestures. He was a daft imp.
‘Thank you, Lucius,’ said Gornia, solemnly.
That was when Callistus Primus hove into sight, coming down the porticus with a clutch of new security: matched toughs with short legs and no necks. I watched our own guards confer. They normally spent a lot of time bored, but a rumpus looked promising. Secundus and the cousin muttered to their own heavies.
Gornia kept going: ‘This is a fine antique chest of exceptional size and armouring, and only ever in the possession of a single family …’
Primus closed on us. Scampering behind as best they could on high cork heels were the brothers’ two prettied-up wives, plus Julia Laurentina, wife of their cousin. They had brought maids to tend their curls, carry their kerchiefs and pretend to be providing chaperonage.
Now it was Callistus Primus who held an outstretched arm above the strongbox and declaimed, ‘Do not take offers on this box! I forbid the sale! This is an act of hideous impiety!’
That would have been fine. His family owned the box; we would not quibble.
Instead, Secundus ran forwards unexpectedly and barged Primus to one side so he fell into a pile of miscellaneous swags and moth-eaten curtains (some grey, some rainbow-striped, all horrible).
‘You don’t know!’ Secundus yelled at Primus, falling on top of him.
‘I bloody do!’
‘We were told it wasn’t him.’ The cousin dragged Secundus upright again.
Still cradled in old curtaining, Primus sounded full of misery. ‘You are a cloth-eared pair of innocents. You can’t bear the truth.’
‘Ignore this man!’ bellowed Secundus, to the world at large. ‘He’s crazy. Just get on and sell the chest!’
‘Sell it!’ screamed the cousin, joining in with a wild squeak like an agitated Syrian hamst
er. ‘Sell the damned thing now!’
‘Don’t sell it!’ shrieked the wife of Niger, suddenly breaking free from Lappius and hurtling into their midst.
‘What am I bid?’ enquired Gornia, hopefully, from his plinth. ‘Anybody start me?’
Only a lunatic would have placed a bid for an item in such an ownership dispute. The wiser dealers told him so laconically.
Even in ordinary circumstances this would have been an awkward moment to be joined by a substantial party of election candidates in their pristine whites. But, sure enough, into the Porticus of Pompey they all came strolling and smiling. These worthies were about to partake in circumstances that were in nobody’s definition ordinary.
31
A bad situation ripened to glorious.
Deep-throated barks from a huge dog announced that Trebonius Fulvo, fired up by the taunts Vibius had thrown at him earlier, had sent for his hunting mastiff. The new Incitatus had never had such a tremendous day out. He broke away from his handler, simply by pulling his head out of his horrible spiked collar. Ecstatic, Inky bounded about; he urinated on the unsold lots, tore to shreds anything he could get into his slobbering mouth, then made a run at his master and lovingly jumped up at him.
The dog stood four feet tall with his four paws on the floor. This was an expensive, heavy beast that had apparently been bred for bringing down wild bulls, far too strong for Trebonius. Trying to avoid his pet’s frantic licks, the candidate fell over in his chalk-white toga. Since he was turning away from the dog’s tongue at the time, he landed face down or, as Inky saw with much delight, bottom up. The dog fell in lust with him. Insults would be easy now: never mind his respectable wife cooing gooily at him in public, Trebonius was a man whose dog had copulated with him, in full view of the baying public.
The thrilled crowd thought this was better than buying old platters and squashed couches. Dealers pushed in for a better view, forcing their way past the two massive metal wine kraters (faux-silver, faux-Celtic chasing, faux pas decidedly); both grandiose vessels toppled on their cranky stands and started rolling to and fro. Anyone caught behind the knees was felled, usually dragging someone else down with them.
The Callistus brothers were now engaged in violent fisticuffs. Invading Gornia’s carefully created room set, they floundered about throwing punches. Primus broke a side-table. Secundus shattered lamps. Their cousin tried to intervene until they both turned on him. One of them yelled, ‘Get this fool!’ Heavies with cudgels rushed at the cousin, who soon had an ear torn half off and was reeling. Every time someone tumbled out of the mêlée, our laughing auction guards picked him up and threw him straight back in.
The three wives stood on the sidelines, squealing; it was impossible to tell if they wanted the fight to end or were calling for more blood.
Beside a colonnade, the struggle against the mastiff continued, Trebonius gasping helplessly while crude people cheered. Arulenus Crescens might look effeminate but he was a loyal co-candidate and carried a lot of weight, literally. He grabbed Dillius to help. Dillius looked squinty and sozzled, but they managed to rescue Trebonius.
Incitatus ran away. We saw him bounding towards the art gallery where, being a true dog, he was soon pulling down curtains. Yes, I do mean the fabled gold brocade hangings about which you may have read in reverent guidebooks. Soon the cries of horrified art-lovers were heart-rending.
Back at the auction, Vibius and Ennius showed their potential as men of law and order by taking on the fighting Callisti. Unexpectedly, the two candidates grappled the brothers until others came to help.
A wife plonked herself by each Callistus and loudly complained of being shown up. Their cousin was in deep trouble after his thrashing by the guards. Bent double, he started woozily vomiting into one of the wine kraters; I suspected he was concussed. His angry wife Julia Laurentina told him he was disgusting, though concerned dealers attended him. He was now floundering on top of the big wine vessel as if he had no idea where he was.
While Ennius still grappled Secundus, Julia Verecunda had to decide whether to approve of her son’s initiative or reprimand him for joining a brawl. ‘Keep out of it and let them kill one another!’ He feigned not to hear her. Brave fellow.
Sextus loosened his hold on Primus because the older brother suddenly broke down. Sextus had to support his burly frame while Primus shuddered his heart out in what we all could see was unbearable grief.
For whom?
The three wives bunched together anxiously. I strode up to them. ‘What on earth is going on?’ None answered.
More people were arriving. One was Manlius Faustus, bringing Patchy back for me. Dromo and the boy were both riding the donkey, kicking at his flanks with their clumsy feet. Patchy crashed into Ursa, trying to shunt the lads off his back. The stuffed bear teetered and wobbled, then crashed to the floor. Her head fell off. Our porters cried out, grief-stricken. We had had Ursa a long time.
On his way here, Faustus had been accosted by a member of the public. This striking dignitary carried a jug in her left hand and a rattle in her right – not what most women would choose as accessories. Her veiled ringlets were crowned with a small mock-gold palmette, and over her long, heavily pleated tunic she had a many-folded shawl with a fringed edge, tied in a large knot of mystical design in the centre of her bust. (I agree: one fancy item too many. My sisters would have redesigned her outfit from scratch, with cries of horror.)
This woman was instantly recognisable as a priestess of Isis. All she needed was a snake wrapped round her wrist, but she had left it at home that day, probably because her arm was bandaged from thumb base to elbow. I remembered that Trebonius’s dog had famously bitten her.
Isis was a respected foreign goddess in Rome, favoured by Vespasian and Titus, who had been in the east, and by Domitian, who had once taken refuge among the cult’s followers when his life was threatened. Domitian had rebuilt the Temple of Isis and Serapis in fabulous style and this priestess carried herself as if she personified the goddess: Isis, the universal mother, mistress of all the elements, primordial child of time, sovereign of all matters spiritual, queen of the dead, queen of the sea, queen also of the immortals, the triple goddess of the underworld, the heavenly one … Not a neighbour to offend. To fend off the wrath of Isis you might need more than a phallic wind chime.
As soon as the wounded priestess spotted Trebonius Fulvo among the huddled candidates, she let out an eye-watering shriek of accusation. Incitatus heard her, turned round, saw somebody he recognised and hurtled up to greet her. The frightened priestess tried to deter him by battering him on the snout with her rattling sistrum.
The dog bit her again.
Manlius Faustus sounded a stentorian order: ‘Someone catch that bloody hound for me!’ As an aedile, he was responsible for escaped wild animals in public places. Unfortunately, as an aedile his person was sacrosanct, so he never had guards to help.
The five builders saw that nobody else was brave enough to tackle Inky, so they would have to. The men picked up their mulsum beakers (all they had to hand) and advanced on him. ‘Here, boy!’
He nipped three of them, then shoved his great muzzle into a cup, lapping the honey and vinegar thirstily. I grew up with dogs. I grabbed a cord off the auctioned curtain swags, walked up quietly and, as he drank, fondled him between his ears. His fur looked smooth, but felt rough; he was not a dog anyone ever brushed. He growled as he considered whether being stroked offended his dignity, but he let me.
‘Who’s a good dog?’ He wagged his tail. The tail caught a pile of ceramic platters, which shattered. ‘Don’t seem threatening,’ I told the builders. We all smiled, staying very still and careful. I made a loop and tied it round Inky’s mighty neck.
‘Watch yourself, girl!’
‘She’s good with animals.’ That was the quiet voice of Faustus, at my back. ‘Albia, step away safely.’
‘He just feels too hot and he needs a drink, don’t you, precious?’ Inky stopped drinking l
ong enough to drag his hot rasping tongue across my hand. I had him under control, though I was scared stiff.
The builders had found lengths of rope from somewhere, as builders do; they configured a harness and delicately fitted it round the mastiff. Inky grew calmer. He sat when I told him to. So far, so good.
Manlius Faustus hauled Trebonius Fulvo out of the crowd. Faustus formally asked the weeping priestess what compensation she wanted; with Egyptian alacrity, the handmaiden of Isis named a healthy price. Faustus called it fair (she was copiously bleeding) and doubled it because she had been bitten twice. The priestess serenely staunched the blood, using her shaggy shawl. Large numbers do not faze primordial daughters of time.
Faustus ordered Trebonius to pay up and avoid the need for a court case. ‘No choice, man! You compensate the holy woman, or you pay the same as a fine.’
Trebonius agreed to settle, but would not consent to take Incitatus home. I informed Faustus how the dog had jumped Trebonius when he fell over. Faustus kept his face straight, just.
‘Don’t blame your dog,’ I told Trebonius. ‘It’s not his fault. He needs a handler who likes and understands tough dogs. Just think about how your wife controls you.’ Standing within earshot, she blinked and did not smile. ‘You can manage him.’
‘Not in Rome,’ declared Faustus. ‘This is not a city dog. Trebonius Fulvo, you are forbidden to let him rampage any more in our streets and public places. I order you to keep him on your country estate.’
Trebonius was still refusing to have him back at all. His wife agreed, which was probably because the dog caused havoc in her no doubt comfortable house. The original handler had vanished. To solve the dilemma, I volunteered that Incitatus could come home with me, but only for one night. If Inky behaved, Trebonius would have to take him back. If not, the dog would be put down. Manlius Faustus announced that was a proper solution, suggesting Trebonius should pay me for his dog’s overnight boarding – and danger money.
‘What’s his proper name?’
Deadly Election Page 17