I thought about Vibius, also Gratus, Arulenus, Trebonius, Dillius and Verecundus, wondering how each of them would cope with a situation like this. Poorly, in my opinion. Mind you, that was traditional. Even the mighty Vespasian, a future emperor, had been hauled up for failure of duty when he was an aedile; the folds of his toga were loaded with mud from the streets he had failed to have properly cleaned.
It must be just before lunchtime. It was hotter even than yesterday.
Some of our workers were packing up; they were being discreet because the auction was still running, just about. I saw Gornia, looking more harassed than usual. He had only the last few items, which had been collected together around his tribunal.
I recognised a moth-eaten stuffed bear we had been trying to shift for months, which kept failing to attract any bids and we all knew why: interested parties had only to wander up for an inspection and her mouldy smell made them recoil. Until we found someone with a sinus infection, Ursa would remain ours. There were a bunch of ceramic comports with uneven stands, a huddle of barnacled fish-pickle amphorae, a dog kennel for a very small dog that didn’t mind being rained on, and an old friend.
The mediocre statue of The Boy Taking a Thorn out of His Left Foot had come back.
19
‘I do not believe this!’
Taking a breather, Gornia mopped his brow. ‘I know. It did seem too good to be true.’
‘What happened?’
‘Defaulter.’
‘The bulgy man in the puce tunic? I don’t understand it. He’d been hanging about all day waiting for his chance to bid, hoping no one else would have a go.’
‘I wish they had. I wish we’d had a good underbidder that I could drag this bloody thing along to … In fact I’m ready to give it away.’ Gornia was bitter. ‘Buyers have to see the docket boy. Everyone knows the routine. He never even tried to complete. Must have waved his hand and made his bid, then scarpered. Strolled off straight out of the porticus. No money, no delivery instruction, and a no-show this morning. It happens,’ the unhappy old fellow told me, trying to defend the situation. ‘We were all so tired, nobody saw it. Your pa will understand.’
‘My pa will get on to him about it, surely – assuming we know who he is?’
‘Falco won’t bother. No point, not if he really made up his mind he didn’t want it. Once they’ve gone off the scene, we don’t usually chase them. He’ll never pay. We still have the goods. We’ll just sell the thing next time.’
‘And do we know?’ I insisted. ‘Do we know who Puce Tunic is?’
‘Absolutely no idea,’ said Gornia flatly. ‘Never seen the swine before.’
He gave The Boy with a Thorn a kick, then went back up on his stand to try to sell Ursa, the seven-times-attempted mouldy bear.
However, half our staff had been listening in. They love to watch an upset. ‘Puce Tunic was talking to that other one,’ the money-clerk told me, taking a break from his lunch. ‘That skinny one. Him who bought the strongbox.’ Titus Niger.
Gornia brought down his gavel on a no-sale for the stuffed bear. He leaned down from his box. ‘And that’s another thing, Flavia Albia. We had a bad day yesterday – the skinny man still has not sent his banker’s draft. Looks like the old Callistus chest is staying with us, too. It’s lunchtime. We’re never going to see him bring a purse now.’
I sighed. ‘I suppose you are going to tell me this is what comes of holding auctions in July.’ I spoke mildly. I had no wish to offend Gornia.
‘Bad payers don’t care. It’s bloody ridiculous,’ he snarled back. He seemed a sweet old fellow, but he had a furious side. ‘I’d like to know what’s going on – what games are these jokers playing?’
I thought it felt more complex than games. I was suspicious of two defaulting buyers talking to each other. Were they really unconnected, or was this a concerted scam? Anything involving the chest seemed significant, while the puce-attired man had looked dodgy from the off – and not just in his taste for tunic dye. If he and the Callistus negotiator knew one another, that certainly caught my attention.
‘I always thought The Boy with the Thorn was ours for keeps. The strongbox is really outrageous, though,’ Gornia raved. ‘I had good bids on that.’
Neither of the no-shows was our fault. You conduct your sale as best you can, then there has to be trust between auctioneer and bidder. Defaulters are a menace; if feasible, you ban them from attending again. Rome has a tradition of allowing goods to go home with people on credit, but shrewd auctioneers don’t allow it. Too many strangers. Too many peculiar buyers.
I still felt I was the family representative. I said I would go to see the Callisti and, if I could not discover what was going on, at least I would give our clients some colourful language.
‘Now you be careful!’ Gornia had heard me before when I sounded off. He sent a porter with me, Lappius. The large one. The Callisti were used to taking the lead in their business affairs. They were not used to anyone arguing. Especially anyone like me.
First, though, I went to see their skinny agent. He, unlike Puce Tunic, had foolishly left us an address.
20
Niger lived off the Via Tusculana, a small side-street on the lower edge of Oppian Hill. He was not entirely daft: in case anybody angry called, he had gone out.
Luckily for me, he had one of those strange wives who like to be at home all day, mopping floors. I made sure not to step on the wet part.
Broad of beam and wide of features, this put-upon woman assured me she had no idea where her husband might be or when she could expect him home. Many marriages, I knew, are run on these pathetic lines. (Not mine!) It flagrantly flouts the definition that marriage is the agreement of two people to live together. ‘Together’ being the crucial word. If he goes out, either he takes you with him − if you definitely want to go − or he damn well tells you where he is off to so you can turn up there later and catch him with his arm round that dumpy barmaid nobody else would look at.
I commented politely that Niger’s woman kept the place nice for him, so she said it was expected, wasn’t it? In the Manlius Faustus style of discussion, I made no reply. If she had been brighter, she would have seen my silence as dissent.
I managed to extract from her that Niger had been highly upset last evening when the Callisti sent a curt order not to honour his bid. She said he was so angry, he raved around the house all night, shouting his objections to the way he had been treated − which at least meant his wife had discovered what was wrong. She explained the issue: Niger was worried that our auction house could count him as liable. If we came down on him for the money (and my presence now hinted that we might) it was too much for him to find. Even if he could pay up, he was landed with a rubbishy old chest.
If we let him off, defaulting on his bid was bad practice; Niger had an image to keep up. It was important because he was not salaried to the Callisti but worked as a freelance; he relied on having a good reputation and references to obtain other work. He needed to look like a man who knew what he was doing.
I expressed fellow feeling; it went over her head. Niger’s wife had no concept of a woman working, let alone working for herself. She thought I was just a messenger today. ‘Your husband had been hired by Callistus Primus on other occasions, I presume?’