They bid. Not a thousand, but enough. A woman bought it. We had a laugh. She was fifty and took the banter in good part. Perhaps a widow. Free to have what she liked in her garden now, without her husband picking at her.
The audience were mine and the porters had had their moment, so I could continue in my own style, being serious and direct. The job is easy, in my opinion. You only have to make it clear whose bid you take. ‘I am with the red tunic. Any advance? Sir at the back, thank you. Are we all done?’
Drop your hammer decisively. Move on.
‘Next, please, porter. Now this is lovely. Who will start me at five hundred?’
I sold several routine lots, to let everyone feel comfortable with my presence and pace. The Callisti stopped looking nervous. The regulars had never been bothered anyway. It must be close to lunchtime. We had a large crowd and I even spotted a haze of ultra-white on the outskirts, as if we had been joined by election candidates. People were fanning themselves, some drinking water, a couple of lads trying to cool off in the fountains.
The Boy with a Thorn limped round again. He failed to sell a second time. ‘Oh dear. If nobody takes him home soon, this poor wounded lad will end up with gangrene!’ Enjoying myself, I was soaring like a seagull on a thermal. I called the no-sale. Almost without intending to, I heard myself say, ‘I’ll take the handsome strongbox next.’
Perhaps I should have waited. But, Hades, it had to go some time. It was just a half-burned chest.
13
Some people knew its history. There was a rustle of anticipation. The three men of the Callistus family gave away little, though I saw them grow tense. This was the best vantage-point for me: right at the front, raised on my stand and, by virtue of my task, looking directly at everyone.
Puce Tunic was back, lurking. A couple of fellows pushed in closer to the strongbox. People do that. People who have no intention of bidding like to approach the lot you are taking, stand alongside and gawp. Lunatics. I hoped the smell choked them.
‘This is a fine antique chest of exceptional size and armouring, with a good provenance of south Campanian workmanship, only ever in the possession of a single family. It shows some singeing; buyer takes it as found. There are working locks; a handsome key goes home with it.’
As one, the burly Callisti had folded their arms, subconsciously defensive. People were shooting sly glances in their direction. People knew all right.
On the edge of the crowd, I definitely identified Manlius Faustus, with Vibius and Salvius Gratus. The brutes, Trebonius Fulvo and Arulenus Crescens, were in their group too, surprisingly. They were all pretending to be on good terms with each other. Anywhere out on the Field of Mars was a suitable haunt for candidates. Strolling into a porticus to watch an auction was an acceptable activity. They kept turning to people nearby, shaking hands and causing a disturbance. I enjoyed myself calling out, ‘Less noise over there, please. Give the bidders a chance to make up their minds!’
I saw Faustus and Vibius walk over and shake hands with the Callisti, but the next time I noticed, they were back with the other chalk-whites.
I concentrated on the chest. I named a price, well above its value, and found no takers. Anyone who had viewed the item properly must have seen it had substantial damage. I brought my price down in stages, gently, without excitement, as you do. The trick is never to sound desperate. Like love, really, as my sisters would say.
The two loons by the box were jostling like village idiots. A serious buyer would remain quiet. If this ridiculous pair had been sent by the killer to observe, they were drawing too much attention to themselves. I had seen tribesmen in round huts show more sophistication.
‘Somebody start me.’
Near the front a hand lifted, barely a movement of the fingers. Probably only I noticed the gesture. Even though he was professional – I recognised this dealer − he had weighed in too soon and would probably end up not buying. I called the bid, which encouraged someone else. We were far too low, but there was time. A third and fourth joined in, but half-heartedly. Number three dropped out at once. Four could be a possible. I made sure I kept eye contact.
Numbers two and four went at it against each other. They slowed. A new bidder entered. Four perked up, hiking his price with a big jump. Excellent. Another new bidder gave me a nod, over by Puce Tunic, though not visibly associating with him.
A pause. I rested and went with it.
‘Come now, we are surely not all done yet? Do I have any more? If not, I am selling. Last call, fair warning …’
The lull seemed about to continue. When I raised my hammer, teasing them, bidding resumed as I expected.
I love the rise and fall. I love the sense of steering the event. Dull days are depressing, but here in the sunlight we were having fun today. I understood why my grandfather had loved his work.
I sold the box. I got a good price. The hammer came down on a high figure, considering how damaged the item was. I saw what the staff had meant about notoriety. This old chest had caused a frisson that had been missing at the sale all morning.
A thin man with a heavily acned face was the buyer. He wore an unobtrusive beige tunic and joined the bidding late on: a type I recognised – almost certainly not working on his own account, but acting on instruction either for a dealer or a private individual. He had bided his time, then come in once the rest were tiring. It was skilfully done.
‘Thank you!’ I said to the audience, polite but firm.
Gornia reappeared. He must have deliberately let me take the strongbox. As he passed me, he muttered something.
I looked over. The Callisti − Primus, Secundus and nephew − were leaving, as if they had seen all they came for. That was understandable. The buyer, who still had to complete the purchase formalities with us, did not even look in their direction. Yet I believed what Gornia had said to me: the skinny man was their negotiator.
The Callisti had secretly bought back the strongbox themselves.
14
It was not a unique event, though buying back was rare. Anyone sensible who changed their mind simply withdrew their item from sale.
Relieved of gavel duties, I went up to the negotiator as he made payment. He wanted to give us a banker’s draft, which needed family authorisation. ‘That’s acceptable,’ I instructed our finance clerk. ‘Sir, we need your note by tomorrow. We keep the goods until the payment arrives.’ I congratulated the man on his purchase, making my remarks sound routine. Then I slipped in, ‘I am told that you act for the owners?’
He scowled but did not deny it. As he finished the formalities, I leaned in, letting him see me read his signature. He was a lanky strip of wind who went by the name of Titus Niger. I drew him to a quiet corner. ‘If you work for the Callisti, Niger, was it you who went to that storeroom they use and prepared the inventory for sale?’
‘Yes, I did that.’
‘I’ve been hoping to talk to you. At the store, did you look inside the strongbox?’
‘No.’ The tall skinny man was very sure of that.
‘Did you notice anything odd in the room where it was kept?’
‘No.’ Despite his brief replies the negotiator was keeping a polite manner. He had a weaker voice than his trusted position and confident air suggested. I put the squeak down to nerves. The Callisti had warned him I was trouble and that he must watch what he said.