I said I was sorry not to help with his campaign work that afternoon. I needed to rest. And the next day I would be caught up in my own family’s business: tomorrow was the Callistus auction. I wanted to be there. I assured Faustus I would be required to do nothing that would tax me; I would only be an observer. ‘Oh, really!’
I strolled with him as far as the Vibius house, after which I would make my own way home. We parted with a light kiss on the cheek – good manners between acquaintances.
I found the energy to walk all the way to my apartment. It was not a long distance: along the Clivus Scauri and around the far end of the Circus Maximus, on the flat at first, though followed by a slow climb up the Aventine. That was steep, especially with food inside you, but I knew how to pace myself. I was in a good mood. The streets of the thirteenth district were quiet while everyone was lunching, at home or out in company. Businesses were shuttered now until early evening. Even the most excitable dogs were resting in the shade. Children had been called in. Beggars were taking a snooze and hustlers could not be bothered.
So I went home, and was happy to be there, even though I was alone and there was no chance at all of an afternoon’s sticky lovemaking.
12
Auctions begin at dawn, indeed often earlier. It was barely light when movement started. By hoary tradition professional dealers come along for first pickings, pawing your stock, tossing items around as they scavenge like particularly arrogant crows. These men, and occasional women, regard it as their right to make pre-auction bids, which are always preposterous. If rebuffed, they are annoyed, even though everyone knows they are trying it on. Many are shifty-looking; some bring unpleasant half-starved dogs. Father calls them the warts.
Today’s warts were on good form. They sauntered up, glum-faced, with no greetings for our staff, let alone me, although some exchanged curt nods with one another. As soon as they arrived, in dribs and drabs because they were solitary beings, they started inspecting the lots as if we were invisible − yet they scoffed, loud, derogatory comments for us to overhear.
‘Settle down!’ Gornia soothed them. He had seen it all before. He kicked one of the whippety dogs away from sniffing the big half-burned strongbox. ‘If your hound pees on anything, we’ll want compensation … You know it’s always hard going in July. We are lucky to have put together a sale. Falco wasn’t at all keen …’
Falco didn’t care that much. Falco regarded the auction house as a colourful, temporary hobby. He hankered to be back informing, but had to lie low and look as if he had retired because Domitian was known to be rancorous towards him. There was a reason. Father never said what.
With Domitian, nobody asked questions, in case merely mentioning his name should put the thought of you into his head. He brooded on slights long past as darkly as on offences now. Everyone scurried about with their heads down. The people of Rome were terrified of him, and the monster enjoyed that.
A snotty woman dressed in odd raggedy skirts and scarves pointed out that Falco had not even put in an appearance. ‘Exactly,’ smirked Gornia. ‘Gone fishing. Like I said, it’s July!’
The warts moved off, still without proper conversation. They dispersed to harry some other auctioneer if they could find one, despising his goods as much as they apparently despised ours. Once our bidding started, some would slide back. They had decided what pieces they wanted; indeed, if the items were small, the warts had surreptitiously hidden them under larger things, away from other eyes. At the auction, warts usually made fierce bids. That was why we let them poke through the lots. They looked like paupers, but they were out to buy and had plenty of cash hidden about their skinny persons.
So far it was chilly in the dark colonnades inside Pompey’s Porticus. The dawn atmosphere felt ominous, as if anyone who was lurking out in the central grove of plane trees must be up to no good. We went about our business, hoping they would stick to theirs. We usually employed big fellows to act as security, but they would arrive later, just before the auction started.
I huddled in a cloak while I kept an eye on proceedings. I was being the auctioneer’s daughter today. I would sit on the sidelines, on a stool or a chair. Regulars knew who I was. The decent professional dealers would give me a nod, possibly even come over to send their regards to Father. I would be called upon to adjudicate any problems, though Gornia could have done it, if none of the family were present.
In a plebeian family business, women have a valued place. They share the work. My Aunt Maia had kept the auction accounts for years. I wondered if I would see her today, though mostly now she worked at home where she could combine the figure-work with looking after her husband in his retirement. Somebody would take a big basket of receipts to her when it was all over, then Maia would squeeze in alongside Petro and his wine flagon on the sun terrace, where she would deal with record-keeping, send out bills and pay off the sales tax.
All over the Empire this was how it worked, even though in theory women were cyphers. I myself was fairly well informed about the art and antiques we sold. Fakes too. I had been tutored to recognise counterfeiting, ‘marriages’ and overdone distressing. I also knew how to let someone down gently when they brought along a ghastly heirloom, hoping their cracked item would be worth a fortune. I would even be careful what I said because, perversely, if a worthless dud went into a sale, some idiot might pop up and pay a lot of money for it.
I liked being allowed to take part. I would have enjoyed having my own family business, but that presupposed a husband to run it with me. I had stopped expecting either. Being an informer, a loner’s profession, would suffice. I did not fret about my life. I saw enough unhappy frustration among my clients.
In the dull patch before things started, I inspected today’s lots.
The Callisti must have had that granary storeroom crammed to its ceiling. Much of their list was furniture, one or two pieces with Vesuvian damage but otherwise simply goods they had grown tired of. Their taste was heavy – too much gilding and too many animal paws for me. They were parting with a whole chest of lewd lamps; someone had made a collection of flying-phallus chandeliers that a wife must be making him throw out. A matched pair of decent alabaster side-tables had been ruined by a neglected water spill on one (Gornia put up a notice that optimistically called it ‘restorable’). A generation ago some hapless ancestor had blessed them with misjudged art. I had seen reproductions of Greek sculpture that were almost better than the originals, fine work from Campania, but still the world contains far too many inferior gods and athletes in marble that is less than pure and Parian, or sometimes only painted plaster.
We called this the Callistus sale, but there were smaller lots from other people, right down to a single platter from a hard-up old lady. We accepted those because Father was so soft: whenever a sad-eyed grandma came bearing a pathetic treasure, he lied about the price it achieved, making up the difference from his own pocket. The grandma, hard as nails, would scuttle off to tell her cronies that the daft son of Didius Favonius was an easy mark.
As usual we had one or two pieces from our own family inheritance; it was years since my grandfather had died, but a lifetime of fervent collecting had been stashed in houses and warehouses. From time to time, Father discovered more, then faced the sorry decision whether to own up to his belated windfall and pay inheritance tax on it. Many a long hour in the evening was spent with furrowed brow as Didius Falco wrestled with his conscience – or so he said, as he called for another beaker of Falernian (from Grandpa’s cellar) to help him deliberate. He seeded an auction with choice pieces whenever he needed cash to fund a project. He grumbled and called it ‘dowry money’, though in fact these sales more often paid for funerals, education or travel. That was how he had helped to back my uncles, the Camilli, when they were entering the Senate.