Lindsey Davis - Deadly Election

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 was 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.

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.

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.