It stopped being inconvenient.
They had a row of stone benches outside their front door, where clients hoping for patronage could wait every morning for a handout, letting the world see how important the Callisti were. However, I did not have to sit out in the sun. Once I hinted I might report a misdemeanour, I was hustled indoors.
I knew the occupants were a father, two sons and a nephew. They were the kind of family where you never heard about their womenfolk, though presumably they existed. The Callisti were a masculine, business-oriented bunch. Still, I guessed they had a venerated old mother who made nice soup with her own arthritic hands, and daughters who were married off at twelve to dim sons of colleagues.
I was kept waiting, inevitably. One of the younger Callisti was at home, but he was ‘in a meeting’- having his beard shaved, screwing a kitchen boy, prostrate with a hangover, or even studying a scroll of deep Greek thought, though I doubted the last. All sorts of unlikely people are self-educated, but probably not these. Their family money came from running a fleet of heavy barges on the Tiber; one branch built river-navigable craft. A hobby of racing chariots absorbed much of their cash, but there was plenty to spare; it was easy come, easy go, with them. I had been told all this by Gornia; our auction house did not accept a sale without financial checks. As an informer, my papa specialised in that kind of investigation for clients − and in checking up on his clients themselves, before he accepted them, unless they were attractive widows, in which case he was notoriously trusting. I learned informing from him, though I was more sceptical of widows, being one myself.
I had been popped into a small waiting room with the doors closed, but once the porter left I sneaked back into the corridor and looked around. I listened, too. The house had a well-occupied ambience. Thick walls were absorbing noises from the busy streets outside. Any staff indoors were behaving discreetly. The entry mosaic had a clichéd beware-of-the-dog message but it was a standard floor package, just for show. Tesserae don’t bark.
I went back and waited. Nobody brought me refreshments. I was trade. I wanted something from them; they had no need of me. I would have to ask for even a cup of water. They would let me have one, but asking would mark me as a chancer.
When he was ready, Callistus Primus, one of the sons, appeared. He was in his late thirties, wide-built, confident. A well-swathed tunic and heavy gold rings. Nothing too bad. If he had married my best friend, I wouldn’t have stopped going to see her. But I might have visited when I thought he would be out.
Polite enough, he summed me up in turn; I guessed he thought sending a woman along meant our auction house was cheapskate. I was dressed to look businesslike, but with a gold necklace to show I represented management.
Once I’d told him about the corpse, Callistus sharpened up. He denied all knowledge; no surprise there. Although he raised eyebrows at my news, his immediate reaction was to remove himself and his family from being linked to the death in any way.
Nevertheless he told me about the armoured chest. After the Mount Vesuvius eruption it had been dug up from their buried villa on the slopes. They safely rescued its contents − money and treasures – after which they put the damaged container in a warehouse in Rome. It had stood there untouched for the past ten years. Now they were disposing of unwanted items. An agent had visited the storeroom recently to make a sale inventory, although the man would have had no need to open the box because it was known to be empty. I was not invited to interview this agent and I judged it premature to make a fuss.
Callistus reiterated that he had no idea who the dead man could be, or who might have put him in the chest. We agreed it was someone who had known the chest existed, but that told us little because it could be a number of people. Callistus stressed the likely involvement of warehouse staff, rather than anyone connected with his family; I made no comment.
Either way, the perpetrator must have thought the chest would continue to be stored there while the body rotted until identification became impossible. Callistus insisted the killer could not be close to his family; otherwise whoever it was would have heard the auction being discussed. In the way of families, they had had argy-bargy about the sale over breakfast every day.
I asked if Callistus Primus would take a look at the corpse while we had it, but he refused.
I didn’t blame him. I smiled and said so.
Looking curious, he asked why I was bothering with this. I explained how my father and I took responsibility for the mysterious dead. Somebody had to. ‘You may like to think that if your wife poisons your mushrooms, someone will expose her crime before she grabs the inheritance.’ Callistus Primus’s expression changed. So he had a wife. I did not necessarily assume she wanted to kill him off. ‘The work suits us,’ I went on drily, still thinking about his faint facial twitch. ‘We meet a lively cross section of society and we solve puzzles. We hope to console people. Perhaps the strongbox man had a worried old mother or little children who are now crying for their missing breadwinner.’
‘You must be crazy,’ Callistus disagreed. ‘Why don’t you just shove the remains on a rubbish heap like anybody sensible?’
I smiled again. ‘We may yet do so.’
His question was a good one, of course: why hadn’t whoever hid away this corpse simply secreted him under a pile of dung on the streets or weighed him down with rocks in the river?
An answer might be that the dead man was somebody who would be searched for, his disappearance perhaps reported to the authorities, notices asking for help put up in public places. If such a corpse happened to be found, it might be recognised. Perhaps that would make his killer or killers obvious. Maybe there had been bad blood with someone. A clear motive. So leaving him to rot in a box might have seemed safer.
This was good news. If the corpse was identifiable, the incident was worth looking into. I stood some chance of solving the mystery – and if I did, a grateful associate of the dead man might even pay for news of his fate.
Don’t start going all self-righteous. I have to think about fees. Being an informer is not an act of public benevolence. Nobody does it to win approval from their gods. It’s a job. It’s supposed to pay your rent. It puts bread on the table. If you are good enough, it even buys all the wine you have to drink to make you forget what a horrible job informing is.
The sight of that body in the chest was a disturbing memory.
4
The Callisti hired storage space in an old granary a couple of streets off the Via Tusculana; it runs on the east side of the northern peak of the Caelian, not quite as far along as the Querculana Gate with its lovely little grove of oak trees. People choose such storage places because granaries are specially built to be secure, dry and comparatively fireproof. They have thick walls and strong floors raised on brick columns for aeration, with a certain amount of fortification against vermin – although any smart rat knows granaries are food containers. It was lucky the box containing the corpse had been so strong, despite the fire damage, or he would have been nibbled.
The biggest granaries and stores are situated along the river, but Rome is packed with warehouses. This was freedman-owned and not enormous, just one courtyard, with only a single entrance beneath a modest brick pediment. Rooms led off the courtyard on three levels, with ramps instead of stairs to the upper floors to assist loading. There was a small lodge near the entrance, then rows of other rooms that I could see were all barred with wooden beams, secured with heavy padlocks after they were slotted in. You could not squeeze a cart through the entrance (a security measure) so there were loaders to hand-manoeuvre goods. They looked foreign. Slaves, I presumed.