Today Father was selling a fine large silver urn and its even finer little brother, plus a number of eastern carpets. Otherwise, not much attracted me, though I admired a weathered stone bench with dolphin ends that I chose as my perch for the day. Gornia said he could pull it out of the sale for me but I had nowhere to keep it.
Oh, look. Some wild hopeful was trying to offload a statue of A Boy Pulling a Thorn out of His Foot. Good luck with that, deluded person!
Our security arrived, silent musclemen from a local gymnasium, bearing breakfast rolls for all. The day brightened. The Porticus warmed up. Members of the public began strolling by, at first idlers who looked alarmed and moved on rapidly if we spoke to them, then people with a genuine interest, who were prepared to stay and make bids.
As soon as we had attracted a small crowd, Gornia began selling. The hour was still too early, but no use waiting around like shrimp-girls outside a gladiators’ barracks: we needed our event to sound lively, as if something unmissable was happening.
I installed myself on my bench with a pile of waxed tablets, the catalogue, which I marked up whenever an item sold. I was part of the scenery. Ideally, to look like the auctioneer’s daughter, I would have fixed up complicated hair and cosmetic work. Having had to leave my apartment in the dark, I had simply thrown on a fine tunic with rich hems, big earrings and lashings of necklaces – the kind of outfit that makes your mother shriek you look like a travelling trapeze artist. Otherwise, I had my usual work uniform: a plain plait and a clean face. Laced shoes, a stout satchel, a brightly woven belt. Helena would have groaned if she saw me going out of the house like that, but I felt the look was a good mix of the exotic and the businesslike … In my heart, I had remained fifteen.
Once we started, no one took any notice of me.
Quite a few punters slunk around as if they had sinister motives, but that’s the way of crowds. There were a few genuine sneak thieves, sly idlers with big patch pockets, all closely watched by members of our staff. The rest looked genuinely respectable, which could hardly have been true. This was Rome.
I was convinced that whoever was responsible for Strongbox Man would have heard his container was in this sale. Whether they knew we had opened it and found him was an interesting point. We had kept quiet. Would the Callisti have let any news out? Did the killer think the corpse was still curled up inside?
I had my eyes peeled for anyone suspicious. Unluckily for me, many people turn up to auctions out of curiosity. They convince themselves they won’t bid – before, inevitably, they lavish more than they can afford on a wild offer for something they don’t want. When their wife back at home says she hates it, they are stuck …
This vigil was useless. I failed to spot any likely suspects. I had to pass the time somehow. Musing, I developed a witty theory that auctions are like politics. In an auction, you let yourself be fooled by appearances, get carried away and commit yourself rashly; then, as soon as it’s over and you take your so-called sound investment home, a leg drops off. Just like electing some sham who turns out to have neither talent nor morals …
Not Sextus Vibius Marinus, friend of my own honest friend Faustus, clearly. I must try not to be satirical about the lovely Vibius. Otherwise I would let an incorrect opinion slip, causing his chief supporter to take offence. Naughty girl, Albia.
I was bored.
Towards the middle of the morning, everything warmed up. I had shed my cloak and the porters were starting to glisten as they hauled stuff about. The Porticus of Pompey was at its most elegant. Fountains splashed attractively. The golden curtains on the art gallery shone with determined refulgence. Bright, unremittent sunlight was now flooding into the gardens, where every arcade had a full complement of flâneurs and women who fancied a fling – or who wanted to fool themselves they were risking their reputations, although they would dart away in horror if any sinful adventurer sidled up to them. Even the slave-gardeners seemed happy to be trimming up the box hedges.
Gornia had moved on to selling decent lots. The donkey boy fanned him. I could have used him fanning me.
There was serious interest. Warts had returned and were intently bidding against one another. Even unlikely objects found new owners. A nice young couple had snapped up a good table that they dearly wanted, at a price that seemed to surprise them (auctioneers have hearts: we are more pleased than you think to see customers go away delighted). The table had no hidden defects either. Joyous.
I scrutinised a man in a poorly dyed puce tunic, hanging about near The Boy with the Thorn. He pretended to look at the statue, then kept sidling off elsewhere.
From where I was he seemed good-looking and sturdy, but too indecisive to be a murderer. Still, he could be a sidekick sent to observe. He didn’t look as if he cost much to employ. He would have cost me nothing at all because I would have sent him packing. As soon as he saw me watching him, he beetled away guiltily.
Callistus Primus arrived. He was accompanied by two other men whom he brought across and introduced, his brother and cousin. Secundus, the brother, looked just like him but several years younger. They moved to one side where they stood in silence, watching their items come up. A good price left them expressionless. The few things that failed to sell, or failed to sell for what they had hoped, left them visibly disgusted. I dislike such men, but among auction clients they are common. People expect too much. If they don’t achieve the price they want, they blame the auctioneer.
Gornia was actually on good form. He had learned his trade from my grandfather, though no one will ever surpass Geminus at coaxing bids from the shy public. Didius Geminus could sell shit to a dung farmer – and get him to come and collect it in his own cart.
Gornia put up The Boy with a Thorn in His Foot. Puce Tunic did not bid. He just lurked unhappily behind some topiary. The statue failed to reach its reserve and was not sold. Surprise!
At this point, Gornia winked at me and did a little jiggle, signalling that I should go over to where he was standing on a box, his tribunal, and temporarily take over. When he needed to use the Porticus lavatory, we all knew it had to be regarded as urgent. He was an old man.
I surrendered the catalogue to the boy who normally marked it up. As Gornia nipped off, looking anxious, he passed me the hammer; according to family tradition, this implement came from an arena in Africa where it had been used to test if gladiators were dead or shamming.
Some of the audience were surprised when I jumped on the box and composed myself, but it was not the first time I had been left in charge of a gavel. My father had started to bring me with him after Lentullus was killed, wanting to lure me out from brooding alone. Falco said I was bossy enough to control an auction. He trained me.
I quite enjoyed taking charge. I always felt nervous initially but if there was a murmur among those watching, by the time I took the first lot it was over. All you need is a quiet, efficient manner. Punters don’t care, not if they are fired up to buy.
‘Gornia’s gone for a comfort break. You just can’t get the staff, these days. Be calm, my friends, this isn’t a Greek auction, no fear of accidentally acquiring a new wife − I am Falco’s daughter. Good afternoon.’
Some actually answered obediently, ‘Good afternoon.’
‘First item is this robust garden-god statue, fully equipped in every sense.’ The evil porters had set me up with a stone Priapus. Luckily I do not embarrass easily. I talked it up. ‘A fine feature to impress friends at your peristyle supper parties. I had a close look and his dibber shows very little trace of wear!’ I had them. ‘A slight chip in the foreskin, best not to think how that happened. Let’s face it, there must be women here who have been saddened by worse sights … I’ll take a thousand.’