Lindsey Davis - Deadly Election

Faustus listened.

‘There was a freak accident. You are allowed to see this as a funny story,’ I assured him, smiling wanly. ‘Lentullus would have found it hilarious. It was grim for me, being left behind so unexpectedly. But the accident could only have happened to him and I am easy with it nowadays …’

I pointed. Faustus and I stared up again at the vivid sculpture placed above the main gate. The four enormous reproductions of galloping horses, heads up, straining, manes flying, as Victory urged them on. The fabulously decorated chariot with its rapt driver. Each horse with one proud hoof raised, to give an impression of furious galloping movement forward.

‘What happened, Albia?’

‘Farm Boy, as I called him, was watching the sculptor’s men erect the four horses. He would have been fascinated. Lentullus had a childlike personality. We used to say, if ever there was a hole in the road with a notice saying, “Danger, keep out”, he would go straight over to see what the danger was, and fall in …’

His personality would never have altered, but I had changed in the intervening years. Although we were close to begin with, I would have grown out of him. It would have been a tragedy. He would never have understood why, and would have been heartbroken.

‘Go on,’ Faustus persuaded me gently, as I faltered.

‘Everybody laughed about him, but he loved me and I needed that.’ Faustus nodded. ‘To him, everything in the world seemed wondrous. He was always thrilled to watch things happening. He would have been completely absorbed here …’ I hesitated, then carried on unprompted. ‘The bronze horses’ legs had been cast as separate pieces, I presume because of their weight. They were being fixed to the bodies, which had already been winched up there. Something went wrong.’

I saw Faustus breathe, anticipating.

‘A leg fell. Witnesses said my poor daft boy made no attempt to move – he just stood with his mouth open, watching, while the enormous piece came down. If I had been there, he would have squealed, “Coo, look at this, chick! They’ve dropped a bit.” Marvelling. Unaware of his danger. Unable to move, anyway. So the bronze smashed down right on him. He was killed outright.’

Faustus looked at me.

‘By a horse’s leg,’ I said, permitting him to laugh, to laugh with me about it.

We did so gently. Farm Boy would have chortled with us. Then, although I had long ago learned to cope with my grief, I dropped my head forward onto the aedile’s shoulder, hiding an unbidden tear. Faustus let me bury my face in the folds of his toga. I wiped my eyes dry on its white woolly nap and stepped back quickly. He murmured that formal dress has some uses and I found his lack of fuss comforting.

We went and had lunch.

We walked down the ancient Via Tusculana via the Ludus Magnus, Domitian’s new gladiators’ training school. He had built it for the fighters in the Flavian Amphitheatre, to which it was linked by an underground passage. You could always hear exaggerated huffing, whacks, thumps and raucous shouts of encouragement, as big stupid men inside showed off.

Once we had passed the milling gawpers, who were trying to gain entrance to the restricted viewing facilities at the Ludus, and the huddle of off-colour bars that the fighters and their crude associates favoured, the street climbed a little at the beginning of the Caelian Hill, then soon became quieter. We found a civilised thermopolium. It had an interior garden courtyard. A few other people were there but we had arrived ahead of the crowd.

We decided against the stuffed vine leaves on offer. Quality depends on what they have been stuffed with. While Faustus unwound himself from his toga, I selected flatbread and chickpea paste. He ordered mulsum, the invigorating drink that is given to soldiers – and to invalids, though I accepted his choice. It was too hot to drink wine at midday, unless you were at home and could fall into bed afterwards for sticky lovemaking.

I did mutter a muted apology for my upset earlier, admitting I was not myself. That led Faustus to quiz me about my health. I described my stay at the coast, talking nonsense about life at our seaside villa. We were a still-young family. My brother, whom Faustus had met, was only eleven and although my two sisters were in their middle teens they often behaved like silly schoolgirls.

‘I hope everyone spoiled you.’

‘Depend on it.’

‘It was hard to let you go,’ Faustus said, chewing and playing nonchalant.

It had been hard to leave.

Time for work. I described all I had learned in the course of that morning about the rival candidates. My companion winced at some of the details, yet seemed prepared to use the information. He was the speech-writer. From what I had seen of Sextus Vibius, that did not surprise me.

‘You write it out and he reads the scroll?’

‘No, I make him learn it.’

‘Are you going to share these stories with Salvius Gratus?’

‘Not the obscene dwarfs.’ He showed amusement, teasing me. He must know I was jealous of Laia. ‘Don’t you think his upright sister would be shocked?’

‘Well, you know her better than I do!’ I sniped, gently by my standards. ‘It isn’t for lofty Laia to poke her nose in. We have to discredit the opposition where we can.’

‘That’s what I say,’ agreed Faustus, placidly, giving me grapes. ‘The dwarfs are in.’

This was him. He would not give way to Laia, though at the same time he never criticised her. He showed pain whenever he referred to their divorce, but I had to look closely to see it. He took the blame, so he always spoke of Laia with scrupulous good manners and there was no point in trying to make him exhibit rancour. Anyway, the marriage had been over for ten years.

Besides, I bet he had never taken Laia Gratiana to a friendly lunch like this. I had seen how she loathed watching us go off together today.

He went to the counter to fetch more mulsum, coming back with a new nibbles saucer. ‘They have cheese!’

We both loved cheese. Manlius Faustus measured by eye then divided the piece into two, being carefully fair. We shared a smile at the way he did it, before enjoying the treat in silence.

After lunch Faustus went to the Vibius house to work on the campaign. He had drawn up a list of senators, marking any who might be favourable to our candidate, which were cemented to rivals, which remained unknowns. He was making little headway with them. He wasted effort scurrying around and was depressed because even if he managed to approach them nothing they said could be trusted. They might assure him they would vote for Vibius – but many simply lied to escape being canvassed.

‘The really devious ones keep me talking for ages, even though they have no intention of supporting us, just to prevent me going off and seeing someone else.’

‘Well, the task is not impossible. You got in last year.’ I had better taste than to say Faustus was not well known generally and I could not see why the Senate had chosen him.

Manlius Faustus had somehow managed to obtain votes – even though he was a single man with no children, which put him at a disadvantage because husbands and fathers took precedence. He must have organised sufficient support in the Senate, not to mention avoiding Domitian’s veto.

He did a sound job now. He had been a perfect choice. Maybe senators had good judgement after all. No, all right. His Uncle Tullius had simply bought them.

Faustus threw back his head, as if enjoying the sunshine that filtered through the canopy of vines on a trellis above us. ‘Yes, I got in, thanks to my uncle. Fortunately he is helping again. He is very close to Salvius Gratus, always has been.’