Callistus had given me a letter of introduction. This caused more suspicion among the granary guards than if I had simply turned up and asked questions. For one thing, they were unable to read. I had to untie the tablet strings and recite the contents. If the letter had really been a recipe for turnip soup they would have been none the wiser.
They were a pair of Syrians who had only broken Latin, perhaps because few people ever spoke to them. I mimed an attempt at translation, before we all gave up and they waved me in. Being on guard was so boring they fetched keys and were soon happily taking me round and showing me what valuables everybody had in store. That was interesting. Bullion boxes. Jewellery caskets. Lifetime records. Mildly hideous paintings.
Why would anybody want four identical statues of Venus with the Big Behind? Try not to be lewd when answering. Send suggestions to the procurator for art tax fraud at the Imperial Treasury. Don’t hold your breath for a reward.
While the guards were being so helpful, a clerk bustled up, returning from a late breakfast or early lunch. I could smell wine on his breath from four strides away. Someone must have let him know I was there, so he came tumbling back from his all-day bar vigil. He looked nervous. Was that because he knew there had been foul play?
The clerk was a tufty, paunchy, bleary-eyed disaster. He shooed away the guards and himself showed me to the ground-floor room where the Callisti kept their unwanted stuff. It was almost empty after their recent clear-out, though various dud bits still remained, no doubt rejected by Gornia as unworthy of sale. Short oars, mostly. Nothing that appealed to us: we specialise in reproduction marble wares with not too many pieces missing, or furniture we can describe as high-end, even if that’s pushing it. We don’t handle stupendously barnacled planks.
Gornia must have accepted the fire-damaged chest because it had once been really good quality. People who attend auctions will buy anything if it is correctly talked up. There had been a period when we needed to conceal from buyers the fact that something had emerged from the volcano eruption, but its sad associations had not been a deterrent for long. ‘Vesuvian’ was now attractive, because people thought it meant ‘owner lost; item going cheap’.
A large rectangular patch in the dust on the floor, with various scuff marks, showed where the great chest had stood and how it had been dragged out. There were footprints in the dust, none meaningful now. Our auction staff would have trampled about, unaware they were compromising evidence. If the dead man had been seized and tied up here, there was no way now to tell. Nor could I deduce how many assailants had been with him.
The door to the room was protected with a hefty padlock, for which the clerk had produced a key when he let me in.
‘Where do you keep the padlock keys?’
In his little office by the gate, all hung on hooks, all labelled. I asked what happened if anybody called unexpectedly, wanting access to their store, while he was off the premises, as he clearly often was. The lying lump swore the guards turned people away, but I already knew better from their guided tour for me. All you needed was an air of authority. I bet those guards would even let anyone charming take a key for themselves. The lodge with all the keys was not locked.
We walked back to the gate, where the guards were pretending to look busy. I quizzed them about any visitors a week ago, but as far as I could tell through the language barrier they remembered no one. It seemed pointless to ask the tipsy clerk, but I dutifully raised one eyebrow and inevitably he shook his head. I asked if records were kept of when storerooms were opened and by whom. Of course not.
Irritated, I told the clerk he had to go to the undertaker’s and see the body, in case he recognised the man. He tried to wriggle out of it, but I said if he refused to cooperate I would report him for negligence. Even a habitual drunk could see that having a corpse dropped there without his knowledge counted against him.
‘Go today,’ I said, adding cruelly, ‘He’s in a horrible condition, so we can’t delay the funeral. Have a good look at him, before he gets any more putrid.’
It struck me that, since this granary was so cool and airy, I might have underestimated how long Strongbox Man had been dead. The Callistus storeroom was not so chilly as a cave or cellar, but inside three-foot walls its temperature felt even and low. I had arrived at the building flapping the top edge of my tunic to fan myself, but cooled off comfortably while there. This atmosphere might have kept the body fresh. Not long enough for me to be very far out, though; not in Rome in July. Call the corpse ten days old, rather than a week.
I was about to leave, feeling despondent and tired.
In the shadow of the entrance gate other visitors were loading scroll boxes onto a handcart wielded by a grumbling slave. I recognised the cart first, next the slave, then his master. The master wore formal dress, a rich white tunic with wide purple stripes on the hems. It makes magistrates stand out anywhere, which presumably is the intention.
His name was Manlius Faustus. He was the noble friend who had saved my life when I was ill. I was surprised to find him here; he looked perplexed to see me.
‘Oh, no!’ grumbled the slave, whose name was Dromo. ‘Now I’ll have two of them bossing me!’
‘Shut up, Dromo.’
I said that. Faustus, always a silent type, was too preoccupied. He was inspecting me tetchily − a man who had put himself out for a woman whose foolish behaviour was now jeopardising his good work. I began to feel hot and queasy, enduring the scrutiny.
5
‘You look ready to pass out!’ Faustus dropped the merciless Medusa stare. He ran his fingers through a head of dark hair in an exasperated gesture. He had seen me at my lowest ebb, and I now felt shy with him. ‘What happened to convalescing? Please don’t tell me you are working, Albia.’
Even though we were in the dank shade of a large gatehouse, sunlight came whacking in off the street outside with its full midday glare. He must have seen I was finding it too much.
‘Just an errand for our family business,’ I hedged. ‘My father is still at the coast-’
‘What can be so important? Look at the state of you. You need to sit down and rest.’ He was visibly agitated. ‘I can’t stop now. I dare not leave Dromo on his own – he’ll be mugged in minutes … I’ll have to take you with us.’ Seeing I meant to object, he interrupted. ‘We’re only going three streets – is that your donkey?’
‘How can you tell?’ I murmured.
‘By how hopeless it is.’
Gornia’s donkey stood with its head down, apparently too careworn to bray. He was of mixed colouring, with uneven brown patterns, and known to our staff as Patchy. ‘Kind-hearted Tiberius, the mangeball is acting. I know how much he costs in hay.’ I stroked the beast’s long ears; it leaned on me confidingly. I staggered, as it nearly pushed me over.
Faustus shouldered Patchy off me. He was a naturally sturdy plebeian; he probably exercised, though never seemed unbearably athletic. I would call him strong but sensitive – except ‘sensitive’ fails to fit the whiplash rebukes he often launched at me.
He smacked the donkey on the rump, probably because he was too buttoned-up to do it to me. He was anxious. He cared, really. Too much for his own good, other people might say.
While Faustus and I had our tussle of wills, the boy with Gornia’s sad animal put out his tongue at Dromo, who gurned back so hideously I was afraid his eyes would pop out. After these formalities the lads seemed to tolerate one another. Faustus also settled down. He turned back to the granary clerk. ‘I hope we can count on you to support Vibius Marinus for aedile. He is holding a little reception for loyal supporters, so do come. Bring your friends – well, bring a few.’ Faustus grinned affably so the dipsomaniac grinned back, won over by the offer of a free drink.