‘Dear me, I shall have to investigate Volusius Firmus,’ Laeta decided, fussing, fretting, agitated not to have the gossip. ‘This simply will not do. The Emperor’s favourite stands down? Somebody failed to foresee that. He should never have been on the list in the first place. Standards are slipping …’
‘So why was he Caesar’s candidate?’ I asked. ‘How would Domitian know him?’
‘Domitian has never met him, depend on it.’ Laeta was crisp. ‘Abascantus must have pushed Firmus, for some reason.’ Money changed hands, I presumed. ‘Now that Abascantus has been nudged aside, Firmus is wise to step down. Just in case Abascantus is out of the picture permanently,’ Laeta said, clearly hoping for it.
‘Do you then approve of the Senate being given a steer from the Emperor?’ asked Faustus, shifting ground.
‘Provided the Emperor has been steered by wise counsel first.’
I laughed. ‘Claudius Laeta means, Faustus, the Emperor’s choice should be steered by his freedmen. Government by secretariat. Democracy through bureaucracy.’
‘Long-term planning,’ Laeta decreed. ‘A suitably strong briefing note.’ He must have written hundreds of those. ‘They need it!’ he scoffed.
‘And how do you see the current mood in the Senate, sir?’ asked Faustus.
‘Abject terror.’ This was despite the fact Laeta cannot have visited the Senate for some years. ‘Their anxiety is heightened by the Saturninus shambles.’ That was January’s military revolt in Germany.
Faustus was settled on his stool now, enjoying the debate. ‘I thought the received wisdom was that Saturninus failed because he omitted to organise Senate backing? He was in Germany, raiding legionary funds, but here in Rome he had worked up no support. So, everyone assumes the Emperor regards the Senate, for once, as innocent?’
‘Just because the Emperor has not dispatched swords at dawn, do not suppose Domitian exonerates them,’ Laeta answered. ‘My sources say his suspicions have, if anything, increased. He believes the members were coerced − but it was cleverly covered up.’
‘Does Domitian blame Abascantus for that?’ I asked; it would explain the freedman’s sudden exile.
Claudius Laeta gave me a long, purse-lipped gaze. However much he despised Abascantus, as two bureaucrats they were bonded. He would not snitch.
Faustus then supplied the names of the other candidates, seeking Laeta’s views.
‘Whoever devised such a dreadful list?’ Laeta snapped crossly. ‘Someone should receive a reprimand! It’s the Caelian Hill mob, all clubbing together – when they are not feuding. There ought to be men from other districts and backgrounds. Variety. Choice. This selection has had no beneficial management. A list should be elegant, pleasingly simple so voters can navigate with confidence.’
I was intrigued that Laeta saw an election list as something to be supervised by officials. I had foolishly supposed that candidates personally decided to stand, then had to make their own way. ‘No, Flavia Albia, there are rules, of course there are. This is a stupid pickle. We may live in a city where family counts, but you don’t want all your magistrates sharing a bed. Especially if, every time one turns over on the pillow, the one behind stabs him in the back.’
Faustus sounded anxious: ‘I suppose you mean that my candidate is paired up with my ex-wife’s brother …’
The oomph went out of the freedman. ‘Did I say so? No. Thank you for telling me. I did not know that. Manlius Faustus … who are you? I know nothing about you. Where have you arrived from?’
‘Falco’s daughter, has your father completed a background check on this “good friend” of yours?’ he demanded of me abruptly. He had remembered my words of introduction. He remembered Father’s methods too.
‘Ah, Falco is always suspicious of his daughters’ friends.’ I chuckled.
‘Well, thank the gods someone still has standards! The election is murkier. I shall have to think about the implications. It is all too much for me today.’
‘Sir?’
We had lost him. In a moment Laeta faded before our eyes; he seemed to become confused and drowsy, an old man in his dotage, losing all vestiges of his past powers. We felt like intruders, harrying the man in his declining years.
I lifted the beaker from his hand. As we tiptoed from the room, Tiberius Claudius Laeta, one time behind-the-scenes steersman of government, seemed sunk in his chair, dozing, a lumpen shadow.
I did not entirely believe it. From what I knew of his history, nodding off may have been an act. I thought there was life – and mischief – in Claudius Laeta yet.
I apologised to Faustus that the interview had gone rockily. He thought about that, as we walked back to the city between the roadside tombs that grace the Via Appia. He surprised me by saying that in his opinion we would hear from Laeta. The old freedman would not forget our visit. After we had gone, Laeta would deploy whatever contacts he undoubtedly still possessed. Then, sooner or later, he would send us information.
We walked some distance further. Suddenly Faustus demanded, not breaking his stride, ‘Well, has he?’
‘Has who done what?’
‘Has Didius Falco carried out a check on me?’
I kept it light. ‘Of course. He made up an excuse about the auction house and came back to Rome for three days on purpose.’
Faustus said nothing. That was Faustus.
‘Tiberius, I strictly instructed him not to.’
For a while Faustus remained quiet. I dared not look at him. His voice was taut: ‘He loves you. He wants to protect you.’
‘Rubbish. I told him you are not interested in being more than a friend.’
I did turn and look at him then, only to find Manlius Faustus laughing. ‘Oh, oh, I shall never be allowed to forget that!’ He meant, as I had meant, the time I wanted to go to bed with him but he turned down the offer. ‘I must have been crazy!’
I stared straight ahead and kept walking.
After a moment more, Faustus murmured, ‘I like it.’
‘What?’
‘Having an embarrassing story that I shall be teased about for years to come.’
‘Years?’
‘Better get used to it.’
Again, I kept walking and made no answer.
Some time later, inevitably, the aedile wanted to know what my father had found out about him. I claimed that Falco had refused to tell me.
18
Back at the Capena Gate, Faustus turned left towards the Arch of Dolabella and Silanus, intending to visit Sextus Vibius.
Laeta had said, ‘the Caelian Hill mob’. What did he mean? I asked Faustus but he either did not know or chose not to tell me.
I continued straight ahead on my own towards the Flavian Amphitheatre. I passed along the Sacred Way to a place where my father kept an advertising space on permanent hire. Since the Callistus sale was virtually over, I scrubbed its details from the wall, found the chalk we left behind a loose brick, and neatly wrote up a description, all we had, of the strongbox corpse. I appealed for information about the man’s identity. I gave my contact details, and promises of gratitude, although I stopped short of offering a reward. I could not face all the chancers who would turn up at the merest sniff of money.
People would look. They might gossip initially. All too soon they would ignore the wall, taking no more notice of my appeal. Still, I might as well try.
Occasionally someone responds. I do it myself. I had met Manlius Faustus when I answered a notice he had put up, asking for witnesses to a street accident.
At a loose end, I decided to walk on to the Porticus of Pompey and check how the auction had finally ended.
Most lots had been sold. Everything had petered out. Yesterday’s items had been taken away, either collected by buyers at the time or dragged off before dawn by Felix in our own delivery cart. The professional dealers had gone on their way; only a thin crowd of casuals remained, no one taking too much interest in the last selection of distressed goods. Further down the porticus, a fool who didn’t care if he disturbed the peace stood on a barrel telling dirty jokes; most of the idlers had moved up there and were craning their necks. Anyone morally offended would complain to an aedile. By the time the aedile came to fine him for obscenity, the comedian would be long gone.