Lindsey Davis - Deadly Election

I was tired, though not as tired as I had feared I might be. I spent a little longer in the Forum watching the candidates as they went about, giving fine performances of men who could be trusted with public funds, religious duties or other people’s desperate hopes for the future: smiling, shaking hands, asking after the families of complete strangers, endlessly promising favours they would make no attempt to remember.

As they criss-crossed between the temples, arches and statues, the men nodded to one another if their paths met, while their womenfolk looked daggers. Prostitutes catcalled. Slaves cursed. Busy freedmen on urgent errands weaved in and out among them adroitly, dodging the more obvious pickpockets and the snack-sellers who carried enormous trays, often above their heads and at a dangerous angle. It was midday, with the sun relentless. Everywhere that didn’t smell of frying oil stank of bloody meat or fish. There was so much uproar coming from stallholders in the colonnades, even the harsh bray of a distressed donkey was lost.

This was Rome, a huge, casual madhouse that made Londinium look staid. I had never quite grown used to it.

Everyone paused, trying not to show annoyance, as a short procession of Vestal Virgins moved sedately from the sacred spring outside the Capena Gate to their own Forum temple, snooty dames bearing half-full water jugs on their shoulders and expecting the pungent populace to move aside for them. They made no eye contact with anyone, but I had two teenaged sisters so I knew for sure when women were secretly scanning the streets, hoping to view muscular workmen with extremely short tunics and visible buttocks.

I was thinking this and smiling to myself when someone put a hand on my shoulder. Before I had time to sink angry teeth into the hand, Manlius Faustus pulled me round so I could see that it was him. That hand, which he hastily removed, was scarred on both sides where I had once speared him to a table with a metal kebab skewer. His fault: he insulted me unpardonably. I come from Britain where the wild tribes are proud of their hot tempers.

Faustus looked at me as if he knew what I was thinking about those buttock-loving Virgins.

‘Tiberius! I have been about your business.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Lots.’

‘Brilliant. Lunch?’

‘Lovely.’

We started to walk. Then my good spirits died on me. Faustus had been with Vibius and other people when he had seen me and come over. Now he was heading back to them. Vibius was talking to his colleague, Salvius Gratus, whose horrible sister accompanied him as stubbornly as a bailiff. I was starting to feel sorry for her brother.

Laia Gratiana glared. She did not want me besmirching his campaign. I restrained my aggravation. While I would have liked to apply strong kitchen implements to delicate parts of her, the gadget had not yet been invented that would grate up that woman finely enough for me.

For a grim moment I thought Manlius Faustus intended we would all go to lunch as one large party. I was bound to get stuck next to Laia, who would blank me, and I knew the men would drink all the wine they ordered, ignoring us women.

Vibius appeared to think a big sociable lunch was on: he invited everyone home to his parents’ house; those parents were quiet elderly people who had come to support him and were now waiting nearby in a litter. Happily Faustus excused us. ‘You go ahead. Albia and I need a strategy meeting. I’ll come along to the house later.’

The Grati were promised elsewhere. As they left, I heard Laia ask, ‘When shall we be seeing your wife, Sextus Vibius?’

‘Ah, please excuse her. The poor girl really cannot abide crowds.’

I wondered if, like me, she could not abide Laia Gratiana.

‘ Darling Julia! ’ Laia cooed, so I wanted to vomit – and I did not even know Vibius’ wife.

Faustus wheeled me away in his brisk manner. The others were all walking one way around the Flavian Amphitheatre, past the Sweating Fountain, but he headed around the ellipse in the other direction. Once we shed them, he let out an oddly triumphant whistle between his teeth. (He had teeth a dentist would curse, none in need of extraction.) ‘Smart getaway!’

He grinned. I hid my surprise. Still, if Manlius Faustus thought I had news, he would want to assess it with me in private. Vibius was impetuous; Faustus liked to prepare a plan thoroughly before talking to him about it.

We were at the south end of the Forum. On the far side of the amphitheatre, Faustus muttered with mild annoyance. He had spotted a senator he needed to beard while he had an opportunity: the man was, for once, unencumbered by mistresses or hustlers trying to sell him things. With a quick apology Faustus left me for a moment while he darted over to canvass the senator’s vote.

I watched him go, a relaxed figure in the formal dress he was obliged to wear for business. Many men found it hard to endure a toga, but Faustus shouldered the heavy folds easily. He refused to let it interfere with whatever he wanted to do. He looked the perfect campaign manager, efficient and intent.

I waited in the shade. For personal reasons I rarely came here, or rarely stopped to look around. The great, glorious drum of Vespasian’s triumphal arena rolled away on both sides, clad with Travertine marble from its specially opened quarry and decorated with statues that my father and grandfather had helped source. From street level nobody noticed that some were substandard: legs, spears, even heads had been missing, but the damage was expertly repaired for my naughty grandpa.

I felt slightly daunted. Three monumental levels of the great arena towered above me, each ringed with one of the classical orders of columns, then above them soared the topmost level with its huge flashing bronze shields; even that was crowned with yet another feature, the awning that shaded spectators. It was the highest building in Rome. With the sun at full strength, I felt heat throbbing off the gleaming marble.

Standing there below the grand entrance, I let myself gaze up at the big bronze four-horse chariot that dominates the imperial archway. This is what you are supposed to notice. I should never have looked: I was overwhelmed by a great gust of melancholy.

Faustus returned. I brightened my expression. He paused. ‘Was I too long?’

‘No, no.’

‘You look subdued.’ He, too, glanced up, a little surprised. ‘Do you have an aversion to the Victory quadriga?’

I don’t know why. He cannot have expected it, but I blurted out why I was sad. ‘This is the spot where my husband was killed.’

‘Here?’

‘Right here.’

He was shocked. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. I would never have left you anywhere so painful … Quickly, let’s go somewhere else.’ When I stayed put, Faustus grew still. ‘I never liked to ask you what happened, but do you want to talk about it?’

‘That’s brave! Don’t worry, I won’t cry.’

‘Cry all you want. Share your trouble.’

He had done quite enough for me, but maybe I was still so weak I needed his offer. That was unusual for me. My husband and I had kept our joys private; after he died I clutched my bereavement to myself in the same way. People had worried over me, but I never let any of them come close. All my life I had managed grief by myself.

‘Tell me,’ urged Faustus. ‘You and I can tell each other anything, you know that.’

That was news to me. Still, for once breaking my silence seemed right.

‘Well Lentullus, my husband, had a badly damaged leg. He had been wounded, defending Uncle Quintus in a fight. He could walk and do most things, but he often struggled and his movement was hampered. If he attempted sudden turns, he would even fall down.’