‘Hopeless.’ Every time someone says this is the last time, it impresses spongers less and less. Even I was seeing the wealthy Julia Terentia as a soft touch, though we had never met. ‘Then Terentia procured further work for Niger, with the Callisti. Let’s discuss that, Galeria.’
‘He should never have done it. The election work was all right, but then it went wrong on him.’
‘You mean, the strongbox? He thought not paying for it would damage his reputation?’
Galeria shook her head. ‘He was upset, yes. But he could have told people the Callisti had had a disagreement among themselves, so it wasn’t his fault. I said no one would care – well, he was only obeying their orders. But something much worse had happened. Something to do with the old man. Niger was going spare. He said he just didn’t know what to do for the best.’
‘Over what, Galeria?’
‘There were two things, really. First, Albia, when he was asked to go and see that body – you know, the one that was found in that strongbox …’ Her voice faltered. ‘The box where some villain put my Niger afterwards.’
I helped her out, as she bit back tears: ‘The Callistus family asked him to go to see whether the first corpse was their father. Niger said not, although I can tell you for certain that it was Valens. So what happened? Did Niger accidentally get it wrong? Was the body too degraded to recognise?’
Galeria was quick to defend him. ‘Well, be fair, Niger didn’t know the father well. He only met him once. And he told me that body was horrible. He could hardly bear to look at it.’
‘But?’
‘Niger was dead set in his mind that something else had happened. He had already been to their estate to see if he could find out why Valens had disappeared. He came up with nothing. Absolutely nothing. So he was convinced the old fellow had just bunked off for a few days, in his litter, taking his escort slaves, maybe a tryst with some secret girlfriend.’
I balked at that. Nothing had ever suggested Callistus Valens had had a mistress − or that, if he had, he needed to keep it hidden from his family. Some men like the thrill of leading a double life but everyone said Valens was a dear person. I doubted whether his relations would interfere.
Galeria saw my doubts. ‘Or a gambling party? Men in a barn, playing with counters for a lot of money?’
‘Two problems there, I think. The Callisti all like a flutter, but they generally bet on chariots. More importantly, at the time Valens was perturbed that they were short of cash, after their election efforts went bottom-side up. Valens doesn’t sound like a man who would play games of chance, with meaningful stakes, at the same time as he left his lads desperately trying to recoup funds.’
‘Well, then. My Niger was very soft-hearted. He didn’t want to have to tell those relatives that corpse was their father, not when it was in such a terrible state. If he had said it was, they would have rushed down there. He didn’t want them to look at it. And he wasn’t sure. Albia, he really was not sure.’
I managed not to show what I thought. Did Niger, the soft-hearted idiot, never think that the missing man’s absence would eventually need an explanation? The Callisti would have to find out one day that Valens was dead.
‘He should have just told them, shouldn’t he?’ Galeria quavered woefully.
‘If he recognised the dead man, I think so.’
‘The point is, he couldn’t tell for certain. The funeral director hadn’t bothered to do up the corpse nicely. He was all green and blue and bloated. Only afterwards – and this is the second thing, Albia − someone else said something to him, so poor Niger realised it must have been Valens.’
I sat up slightly. ‘Who said what?’
Galeria saw how significant this was. ‘A man he knew, Albia. Talking about the strongbox at the auction. After Niger bid for it, this fellow came up and got talking to him, then made a peculiar joke. He said that the Callistus brothers had just bought back their father’s sarcophagus, hadn’t they? Niger told him to be more sympathetic, and the man said he’d been told Callistus Valens had had it coming to him. He had had it coming for years and now he had paid.’
I tried to stay calm. ‘Who was this man? Who was Niger talking to?’
‘He wouldn’t say,’ sighed Galeria. ‘Afterwards, talking to me, he felt the man knew more than he should do – he must have been there at the murder. Apparently he was that sort of man. Very strong. Handy with his fists. Up for any crooked scheme, if it would make money. Niger said there was nothing we could do about the situation so he didn’t want me to know any more. It was safer if he didn’t tell me who the man was.’
But I knew who it was. Our staff at the auction had witnessed that conversation. I remembered them telling me they had seen Niger talking to the man in the puce tunic.
That bastard had looked suspicious all along. All afternoon I had worried about what he was up to. I’d watched him bid for The Boy with a Thorn in His Left Foot as if that accounted for his presence. Then he never paid for it. All along, his real interest must have been the strongbox.
‘The thing is,’ said Claudia Galeria, ‘my Niger had a conscience. He was always very straight. I worry that he might have gone to see the man again, and maybe the man didn’t like to be asked about it.’
I believed it. Puce Tunic was stupid to have made his veiled comments to Niger but killers are often stupid. Perhaps, later, he regretted what he had said. He would certainly have seen his mistake once an anxious Niger turned up and tackled him. Cornered and threatened with exposure, a man who had finished off Valens might well kill Niger to silence him. After which he had lacked imagination to think up a new solution and just stuffed the second victim into the same strongbox as the first.
That left me with the urgent question: who was Puce Tunic?
51
There was nothing useful I could say until I discovered more evidence. I agreed to write a notice in the Forum requesting information.
As we drafted out wording, first briefly describing the victim, I mused on how different physically this couple had been. Galeria had now lost weight, presumably through grief, but she remained heavy in the body. I reckoned she ate to fend off troubles. Despite mundane appearances, her life had been a constant swivel between outward complaisance and inner anxiety.
Niger, on the other hand, had been so thin because he lived on his nerves, a man in a precarious profession, yet he had been good at it and was probably more secure than he let himself admit. When we first met, I had thought Galeria mouldered at home in ignorance of his work, but it was clear today that Niger had brought worries to share with her. He had only refused to name the man who knew about the murder of Callistus Valens because of the obvious danger to her.
Would that man see my notice?
I took Galeria with me. I let her watch me select a decent place and carefully chalk up our request: Titus Niger, negotiator, fifty years old, slim build, found lately in the Porticus of Pompey, murdered. For information leading to his killer, his grieving friends will show their gratitude. Contact Flavia Albia, the Eagle Building, Fountain Court, the Aventine.
I remembered that his face was covered with acne scars, but I omitted that as a courtesy.
My original notice about Strongbox Man had been rubbed out by some apothecary to make space for his advert for virility pills. Rome contained quite enough virility.
After Galeria left me, I cleaned the wall and, as if scrawling arena graffiti, I wrote in different handwriting (I have several): Defaulter in puce tunic, I know you and where you live! The threat was meaningless, but it might shake him up.
I had not signed the notice, an omission that probably contravened civic regulations. It also seemed best not to leave a contact address. Apart from thwarting any advert-monitoring aedile, I did not want the killer turning up at my apartment. Rodan would probably let him in and serve him wine and almond biscuits.