‘Well, actually, I think recently was his first time with them. Niger was hoping it would lead to bigger things.’
‘He struck me as very experienced.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then he can live without the Callisti in his portfolio. People who let you down are a nightmare … Who does he work for otherwise?’
‘Oh, you would have to ask him that.’
‘I will if I can find him.’
‘He acts as an agent for some very nice people,’ the wife assured me, though I did not take this as reliable. Nice people are pretty hard to find. ‘Good payers, most of them, as well.’ Probably true. His income would impact on her household budget, so she would keep an eye on it. ‘They all think very highly of my husband as their agent. Julia Terentia gave us a beautiful set of glass beakers last Saturnalia.’ Presumably not much use if Niger was never at home to drink anything out of them.
‘That was thoughtful of the lady … I am not sure I know Julia Terentia?’
‘Oh, you must do,’ Niger’s wife insisted. ‘She is one of that lot on the Caelian. The rich, bossy one. Niger will tell you. Just ask him.’
I said I would come back later when Niger could give me the low-down on what Laeta had called ‘the Caelian Hill mob’.
Niger’s wife had told me little. In my work, I have many conversations that are utterly frustrating; I have learned never to lose my temper with the witness. No point. If they drive you nuts, you can ease your feelings later at home by throwing a bucket at a wall. Just make sure to use an empty one. You don’t want to end up scrubbing floors all day.
I hoofed it out of there and found Lappius, the big minder Gornia had imposed on me. I had left him in the street when I went up to the negotiator’s apartment. Now I had seen it, I knew it was decent, in both size and amenities, and only on the second floor. That fitted what I had just learned. Whoever he worked for other than the Callisti, Niger made a good living. So he had reputation, a nice home furnished with gifts from grateful clients, and an uncomplaining wife. This is the life all freelance professionals hope for. Not many of us achieve it.
Nobody in that position had much to gain by killing a man and stuffing him into a chest, especially when Niger knew from preparing the inventory that the chest was about to be auctioned, with certain discovery of its contents.
Lappius and I set off to see the Callisti.
21
Callistus Primus was not at home. I wondered if he was out with Niger, although if the agent was annoyed with him, that seemed unlikely. It was tempting to suppose that, like Niger, Callistus wanted to hide from me, but we informers have to beware of assuming other people’s lives revolve around us. Callistus was entitled to go out on business. He had probably forgotten I existed.
His brother and cousin were out too. Neither had been home the last time I had called, so this was routine for them. I had not met the father and saw no point in asking after him. He wasn’t in. I worked that out for myself.
I told the door porter I would wait like a morning client on their stone bench until somebody or other came home. As I was now a returning visitor, he brought me a cup of water. Things were looking up.
I had no real intention of hanging around for long, but was keen to sit down. I had walked a lot today: down to the Capena Gate, out on the Via Appia, back into Rome, across the Forum, on to the Porticus of Pompey, and now back again, first to the Oppian and then around the Caelian to here. The ‘bench’ was a simple ledge, but had a fine view across the main road from the Forum towards the big shrine of Fortuna Respiciens that sits at the base of the Palatine. Gazing at the temple saved me having to look higher up at Domitian’s flash new palace, with its élite stadium and private gardens occupying the crag.
I had a wary respect for the goddess of fortune, patron of good luck or bad, bringer of benefits by chance. ‘Respiciens’ meant looking over her shoulder, wise woman. In the past she had laid much misery upon me, yet from time to time she sent unexpected joys. Like all those heavy, big-hipped Roman deities, Fortuna had her quirks. That suited me. I possess a few myself, I am proud to say.
While I sat resting, I noticed again the large advertising space on a wall of the Callistus house. There had been slogans before, but it was blank now. I was sure the previous notice had been political, so it seemed premature to remove it. Was an election candidate slyly obliterating rivals’ claims? (That gave me ideas.) Most likely, someone had crept up and painted in a notice without paying the hire fee. The wall’s owner had scrubbed off the offending advert, while the culprit moved on to some other empty space.
Still pondering, I thought about how Claudius Laeta had said this year’s candidates were too close-knit. I ought to look into that, because to me few links were obvious. Faustus had failed to see what Laeta meant, too, or so he maintained, though I sometimes had a vague feeling Faustus and his man Vibius were keeping things from me.
It would not be the first time a client had held back vital information. Then when you finally discover the truth and point out how vital it is, they go fluttery, or they even turn on you: they protest that they thought it was not relevant; they did not want to hurt their mother; they wanted to shield you from unpleasant information; the truth was embarrassing; they simply forgot …
The first thing to know about clients is that they never help themselves.
Sometimes it pays to wait for things to happen. As I mused, the Callistus door porter popped out from the house, exclaimed at me being there still (though he had clearly come on purpose), picked up my empty cup and offered that if I was really desperate Julia could see me.
He had an odd expression; I noticed and was forewarned. When he led me indoors, a couple of other slaves were standing about in the atrium, as if watching to see what would happen. They reminded me of the auction staff just before they opened the strongbox for me, with the body still reeking inside it.
Remembering that Niger’s wife had spoken of a ‘Julia Terentia’, who had given her the Saturnalia glassware set and who lived on the Caelian, I wondered if by coincidence it would be her. Not so. This was Julia Laurentina, a Callistus wife, married to the cousin of Primus and Secundus. According to the porter, she was at home, sleeping off her lunch.
I swiftly said I would wait until she woke of her own accord. The last thing I wanted was an irritated interviewee. But the porter had already arranged for her to be woken.
As soon as I saw her, I knew it made no difference. Julia Laurentina was always annoyed, that was the reason her servants had been glancing at one another and, without doubt, were listening behind the door, to see just how rude their explosive mistress would be to me.
I jumped in quickly: ‘I am so sorry. I was too late to stop your people disturbing you.’ The sneaky bunch deserved to have the blame.
‘I don’t suppose you tried too hard!’
Oh dear.
I sat down, unasked, and composed myself with folded hands. If she raged, I would let it wash over me.
She was about thirty years old, sluggish as she rose from a rumpled couch. ‘Sleeping off her lunch’ could have meant she hit the wine flagon, though I detected no sign of that. She wore white, with gold embroidery. When she shook her head to clear her drowsiness, the earrings that tinkled against her long neck were highly fanciable droplets, each sporting a couple of large oyster pearls and what looked like a heavy garnet. I guessed she was given a lot of presents, in the hope of keeping her happy. It failed.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’
I stuck with being Falco’s daughter, on business from the auction house, and said there seemed to be a mix-up over paying for their bid.
‘Oh, my husband sides with his ridiculous cousins. Apparently, we’re now not having the thing back.’ It seemed Julia Laurentina despised her menfolk, even more than she looked down on me. This at least made her all too willing to complain about the men.