The worn pelt and sagging frame of Ursa guarded the unsold goods. Boy with a Thorn was acting as another sentinel. The strongbox stood waiting. Nobody was taking notice of it. Everything seemed unexceptional.
Gornia liked to go to trouble. Using items for sale, he had created a small room-set, arranging a couch, tables, cupboards, stools. Lamps, some not even remotely erotic, hung from candelabrum stands. He had even set out a board and glass counters. Naturally people wandered in; one member of the audience took his ease on the long chair. Every man who went that way tried making a move on the gaming board. They all tried ringing the tiny bells on a tintinnabulum assemblage. That was rude; they always are. Primitive people who think a nude phallus can ward off evil must know little about life.
Bidding opened on a bunch of weathered stone dinner couches that must have been stripped out when somebody remodelled their garden. The sloped three-person loungers were basic; they would be covered with cushions if anybody used them. But, excitingly, they came in a set with a large fountain niche, ornamented with shells and mosaic. It had a coy Birth of Venus (small breasts, big hips, half-heartedly veiling herself with a wisp of seaweed) flanked by a pair of extremely muscular sea-horses, who were having fun thrashing twinkly glass foam. A fine piece: I could see why it had been salvaged by the canny building team.
Five of them were here. Wide men in dusty one-armed tunics and heavy site boots, all looking and feeling out of place, but fixedly watching bids on their lot. They had a large squelchy wineskin of mulsum, that sustaining mix of honey and vinegar, with their own cups. Every time someone made a bid, the labourers winced, then gulped their drinks. It was pure amazement at the money they were about to make, a fortune to them.
These were men who worked long hours, very badly paid when compared with the wealthy house-owners and fashionable designers who commissioned them. Somehow, for once, they had managed a windfall. Gornia must have asked searching questions but we all knew there was prodigious waste when homes were renovated. Beautiful things were often thrown away and we liked to see good come out of a rubbish skip − especially since my father had once found a baby in one, now my sweet cousin Junillus. Salvage was in our blood.
When their lot sold, the workmen sloshed more mulsum into their cups, looking stunned.
I went up and explained what they needed to do now. They were happy to transport both couches and fountain to the new owner in their heavy-duty cart, and even offered him a cheap deal for installation. I said we would gladly receive more salvage from them, although they always had to demonstrate they had the right to it: our auction house would not become receivers of stolen goods.
At this point, the Callisti turned up: Secundus and the cousin, well attended by belligerent guards. Gornia glanced at me, though they parked themselves harmlessly at the back of the crowd.
Hardly had they started casting gloom with their heavy presence than the wife of Niger rushed into the auction circle, followed by a shabby man with sweat dripping off him, also going full pelt.
‘Stop the sale!’ She flung both arms wide as if shepherding some tricky goats. ‘That chest belongs to my husband. You are not authorised to sell it!’
Gornia defused the situation by announcing he would auction off some wine vessels, while I ascertained the problem.
All the crowd perked up. The builders chose to stay and watch. Nobody paid any attention to Gornia’s calls for bids on the wine kraters, which were, to tell the truth, disappointing. One had an enormous crack. People buy those things because they’re smitten by their sheer size. Nobody uses the huge party mixing vessels afterwards: even empty, nobody can lift them. Most return in due course to be sold again. We welcome them back like long-lost sons and talk them up on ‘rarity’.
Cornering Niger’s hysterical wife, I kept my voice low. Auctioneers run into situations like this, but we knew how to defend our rights. ‘It is true,’ I said, ‘your husband made a bid on this strongbox, but he never paid. The chest therefore reverts to the original owners, who have authorised us to put it up for sale a second time.’
‘Titus Niger owns it!’
‘Only if he bought it. Let me explain again.’ I toughened up, while still playing reasonable. Grandpa, a ruthless charmer, would have cheered. ‘If you are claiming you own this item, you must produce proof – our docket to say that Niger gave us the money.’
The wife was frantic. ‘They won’t pay his fee. He is going nuts about his lost time.’
‘Then I suppose he might legitimately hold on to any item in his possession as collateral, but not this. Because we received no payment, we are selling the box again.’
‘But-’
‘No! Since this chest belonged to the Callisti, Niger must take up any dispute with them.’ We were going round in circles. ‘Anyway,’ I demanded in mild annoyance, ‘where is the famous Niger? What does the defaulter have to say for himself?’
His wife looked shifty. Her agent fixed his eyes upon the ground and made no comment. ‘My husband is out of town right now.’
‘Where?’
I realised his wife had no idea. That seemed slightly odd.
The sweaty man took a hand. ‘I’m acting as arbiter. I subpoena the chest until its true ownership is decided.’
Hopeless. He was a cheapskate hireling who should have given the woman better advice right from the start and never have let her come near the auction. I reckoned he was someone Niger dealt with in his work: that was how the wife came to know him. But Niger himself was far out of his class.
‘I do not accept your subpoena,’ I stated firmly. ‘Niger reneged. We asked the original owners for instructions and here we are, reselling. Any questions, go over there and take up your beef with the Callisti.’ During this altercation Callistus Secundus and his cousin never moved, though they heard what was being said.
‘This is a legal situation.’ He was red-faced and pompous – but he had that nervous eye-twitch that revealed he felt deeply unsure of his position.
‘Wrong.’ I smiled coldly. ‘This is an auction and we are proceeding with it.’
‘I’m going to fetch the vigiles.’
‘You do that.’ I signalled to Gornia to shift the strongbox with all speed.
The so-called agent was so busy blustering he did not even notice my sign. ‘I am going straight away and nobody is to touch that chest until I come back!’
‘I hear you.’ I would ignore him.
Niger’s wife’s agent hurried off in a new haze of sweat to annoy the law-and-order boyos. They would probably refuse to come, or more likely they would come tomorrow, when it was all safely over and no need for them to do anything. The woman cast a scared glance in the direction of the two Callisti, but could not pluck up courage to speak to them. Instead, she darted forwards and flung herself bodily on top of the strongbox. Lying there full-length, she glued herself to the lid, like a broad-beamed limpet, whimpering against the charred woodwork.
‘Do not dribble on that valuable piece, madam!’ Gornia nodded to Lappius, our largest minder, a big, peaceful, pock-marked man, who swung in and picked her up off it. He carried the flailing woman right to the edge of the crowd. Her large, flat, sandalled feet kicked out in all directions but Lappius set her down (because security operatives are courteous men – at least, ours are), then stood with his huge arms locked round her. He told her to shut up. She squealed. He played deaf. She called for help, so everybody near her edged away. She simmered down, though only slightly.
Gornia called time on the wine kraters, which would go back to store unsold again, then he announced the strongbox. The five builders who had sold the fountain niche had just stood their beakers of mulsum on it, which they lifted off shamefacedly.
It was far too heavy to carry about on display, so a junior porter who fancied himself as a circus performer pranced around it a couple of times, making ‘Lo! This wondrous strongbox!’ gestures. He was a daft imp.