It was a seriously banded and studded affair, on four stocky legs. The locks looked fierce. I wondered why anyone would sell this, unless they were bankrupt, which was not what I had heard about the Callisti: they were well-known businessmen. Then I noticed the wooden parts had signs of old fire-damage.
The staff politely offered to show me the corpse. Even though I had made no complaints about them eating on Father’s time, I noticed they put their lunch away. I guessed what was going on here. Whatever waited inside the box was revolting; they had taken bets that I would throw up.
Well, that warned me. I motioned to have the lid raised, bracing myself. I looked inside, saw all I needed, smelt the gruesome stench, then gestured frantically. The porter slammed the lid down. He sprang back, gagging. I had stifled a squeal but just about managed to maintain my dignity. A stiff bout of dysentery gives you good practice in self-control.
The staff looked disappointed.
‘You must have jumped when you found that.’ Still wanting to vomit, I brazened it out. In my job either you are tough or you are lost.
‘Yes, he’s a bit ripe!’ The cheeky blighters were still hoping I would be sick or pass out.
‘About a week old,’ I speculated. ‘In Rome in July even an embalmed body would stink … How long have you had this dodgy sarcophagus?’
‘Came today.’
‘Didn’t you notice the niff? You should have sent it back.’
‘We’re used to pongs. And nothing oozed out at the bottom. It’s too solid.’
‘Some of the weight must be him inside. He’s not skinny.’
I forced myself to think about him.
The man folded up in the chest looked at least fifty. He had all his hair and was clean-shaven. The hair was almost grey, thick and curly; it looked matted, though that was probably a nasty result of putrescence. My rapid glance had taken in that he was of solid build, normal height, wearing boots and a blue tunic. I could see ropes tightly tied round his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Even though his facial features had started to decay, enough expression remained to make me suspect he might have been alive and struggling for air when someone closed down the lid on him. If so, he would eventually have suffocated.
A foul thought.
‘What are the Callisti dreaming of? And don’t you ask people to check items they are putting in for sale?’
‘Never. Then anything we find is ours!’
‘Does my father approve?’
‘Falco’s instructions.’
‘Oh, really?
I bet they had been up to this trick since my grandfather was the auctioneer. Geminus might have started the practice – though it could just as easily date back aeons to the estate sale after Romulus the Rome-founder killed his twin brother Remus. A few forgotten coins must have dropped out of moth-eaten old wolfskins on that occasion, only to be palmed by innocent-faced auction porters. Centuries of scavenging ‘lost’ valuables followed. It was a recognised perk. But in the trade we were not so keen on acquiring dead bodies. As I remarked to the staff, that lowered the pre-sale estimate.
‘Maybe not,’ a porter disagreed cheerfully. ‘We can bump up the value by trading on notoriety.’
‘Oh, well done! … Now, look. I know this will be a nuisance, so don’t whine, but we have to find out who he is and who locked him in there.’
Falco would have said the same. They knew he would. The staff glumly agreed that, even though he adopted me from the ends of the earth, I was my father’s daughter.
Since foul play was so obvious, I had to investigate, rather than simply let our porters tip the corpse into the Tiber after dark, which they were longing to do. If he knew about this, Father would be in there, identifying the man and discovering who had dumped him. I wouldn’t tell him yet. I always enjoyed beating Falco at his own game.
I authorised calling for an undertaker to collect the remains. We would pay for that, then add the fees when we billed the Callisti for our commission. Our fees were so high, they might not even notice anything extra. ‘Once he’s tipped out, wash the chest and keep it closed during the sale. Say you don’t have the key to hand, but any buyer will be given it on completion.’
‘We can keep it at the office as a precaution. “Just in case it goes astray during the viewing”.’
‘Convenient! Have we had a lot of keys disappear on us?’
‘Used to be regular. Now we never put them out.’
‘Good. Tell the undertaker I need to know anything he discovers on the body. Any clue to who this is. Arm-purse, amulet, wedding ring, signet. Take a note of funny warts or birthmarks … He’ll know the routine. People are always being found knocked down by carts or drowned in the Tiber.’
‘Do you want any items to be kept for you?’
‘I suppose I’d better.’
‘Brave girl!’
Luckily I was no longer a girl, but a tough raisin who had seen life.
3
The delivery driver had taken his cart and bunked off. That was typical of Felix.
Fortunately the head porter, Gornia, was now so old my father had supplied him with a donkey to travel to and from his home. Though frail, Gornia still insisted on starting work at dawn and not leaving until dark. I knew his rented room was so dismal he preferred being at work. During the day, the others often used the donkey; keeping it busy was their idea of animal welfare. So it was here at the Porticus and I could borrow it. A wizened boy led the creature about; he could come with me, wait outside and make sure nobody stole the beast or spoiled it by offering carrots while I was indoors at the Callistus house.
Prosperous people, they lived on the Caelian Hill. Dominated by the massive Temple of Claudius on its northern side, this was an old aristocratic enclave near the Forum and Circus Maximus, where plebeians were now muscling in. Livening it up, according to the incomers, or, if you were old-style nobility, lowering the tone.
The Callisti had taken over a whole block on the western slope, though they leased shops, laundries and bars on all four sides, leaving only their own entrance actually on a street. Outside the house I vaguely noticed a large advertisement space hired by some election candidate’s supporters, though I had not bothered to take in whose name was painted in. I thought the Senate voted in January, so was it old news? The Callisti might simply have hired out the wall, or they could have supported someone themselves. The Tiber oar-makers like Idiotus … One of them might even have been standing. Our auction might be necessary to pay for an expensive campaign. Only the rich can stand for office.
This had once been a beautiful area, near the Vestal Virgins’ shrine at the spring of Egeria, the Camenae as it is called, and the Temple of Honour and Virtue, although these days the concepts of honour and virtue were much debased. A relay station for watering horses had been built at Egeria’s sacred spring, then the entire shrine and grove had been rented to Jewish entrepreneurs, ex-prisoners, to exploit for grass and wood. On the Caelian, property prices had slumped from exorbitant to almost reasonable.
Even so, most people here had more than a few sesterces. The Callisti were prosperous because they were gritty men of commerce, the kind who would sell you your own cloak if you’d let a footman take it when you visited. As it was July I didn’t have a cloak, and I kept my stole loosely over my head to look modest.
I don’t normally hide behind my father’s name when I am working, but in this case I said firmly that I was Didius Falco’s daughter, here on auction business. When the porter still looked reluctant, I added, ‘I prefer to see one of the family, but if that is inconvenient my complaint is very serious. I can go to the authorities instead.’