Three mornings later I was sitting in a foodshop in Hispalis. Every muscle ached. I had blisters in obnoxious places. My brain was exhausted too.
Hispalis was growing hot. By midsummer this would be one of the most fiercely baked little towns in the Empire. Midsummer was closer than I dared contemplate. Weeks before then the child I had rashly fathered would be born. It could be happening while I was here. I could be breaking all my heartfelt assurances to Helena. The baby might have been born already without me. I could be a condemned man.
I felt like one, as I positioned my backside with extreme caution on the bench of this quiet place near the southwestern gate, within smell of the quays. The silence suited me. Eating bad food in an empty bar felt like home. For a moment I could imagine I was giving myself bellyache with a limp salad, somewhere on the crest of the Aventine. I was still enjoying the memory when the tambourinists arrived. Spotting a stranger they sidled up to try their luck with a noisy serenade. I would have left, but my stiffened limbs did not want to be disturbed.
Anybody who has lived in Rome has learned to ignore even the most vigorously orchestrated pleas from beggars. I had already set myself with my back to the wall, to avoid having my purse lifted from behind. I became resolutely deaf. Eventually someone who lived in a house next door threw open a shutter and screamed at the minstrels to lose themselves. They moved a few doorways up and stood there muttering. The shutter slammed. I kept chewing on rather tough lettuce.
This was supposed to be the third town in Baetica, after Corduba and Gades. My route had brought me in from the east, along with the aqueduct. Staggering under the town gate on the Corduba road last night, exhausted, I had ridden straight down the main street and discovered a modern civic forum complete with meeting-house, courts and baths: all people needed to dabble in the mire of local politics and justice, then wash off the stench afterwards. This morning I crawled out from the mansio, bleary-eyed and bilious, and soon found the original republican forum, with elderly temples and a more serene atmosphere, now too small for this thriving town. Further on towards the river was a third, extremely large piazza, the most busy of all, where commercial life hummed. Here the baths were bigger than in the forum, since there was more cash to build them, and the porticoes were more packed. Money-changers had their stalls set out soon after dawn. Not long after that the throngs of distributors, merchants, shippers and other speculators started to appear. I had soaked in the atmosphere until I felt at home. Then I found this backstreet bar. I had been overconfident in my choice.
When more street musicians hove in sight, I paid the bill (pleasingly cheap). I took the last of my bread and smoked ham, and ate as I walked. I headed out of town to the river. Here the Baetis was broad and tidal. Its banks were crowded with jetties made from hewn stone blocks, and noisy with boatmen and porters. Everywhere were negotiators' offices. Everywhere cargoes were being transferred from barges to deep-sea vessels, or vice versa. Substantial fortunes were being made from commodities which nobody here would be using and nobody here had produced. Oil, wine, cloth, minerals from the interior mines, and cinnabar were being shipped in quantities. It was a middleman's dream.
Returning from the waterside hubbub, I discovered the clubhouse of the guild of bargees near the commercial square. A few permanent fixtures were already there; they probably lived in the clubroom-and they were certainly the bargees who did the least work. I learned that the elder Cyzacus was not there today. They spoke with a note of jealousy, and said he lived out at Italica.
"He's in demand a lot lately! What's making him so popular?"
"I can't answer that. I have never really met the man-who else wants him?"
"Someone we'd prefer to you! Someone a lot prettier."
"A woman?" It came as no surprise. And it irritated me intensely. Trust Anacrites to lumber me. Trust one of his minions to spoil the show before I had the chance to survey the ground. But I was working for Laeta (much as I distrusted him) and I felt determined not to stand back and give Anacrites a free run. The only time Anacrites had employed me direct, he dumped me and tried to kill me. I would never forget that. "So does Cyzacus come into Hispalis for meetings with lissom girls?"
"Not him. The old bastard comes into Hispalis to tell the rest of us what's what!" I gathered they viewed him as a leisured degenerate who thought himself above them.
I knew what that meant. Cyzacus really was the best. He had worked hard all his life. He had sons who still ran his business for him successfully. He won all the contracts because people could rely on him. He devoted effort to the affairs of the guild. Meanwhile these grumpy layabouts who liked to start lunching immediately after they finished breakfast sat about here playing Soldiers and drinking posca, and steadfastly complained. "Was his girlfriend lissom-or long in the tooth?"
They cackled with grainy laughter, and I could get no sense out of them.
I had a good idea why Cyzacus might prefer the quiet life in Italica. I found out how to get there, then moved on to my next task.
Norbanus, the Gallic negotiator who arranged shipping space, occupied a majestic office right on the commercial square. People from whom I asked directions told me where it was, sneering openly. Nobody likes foreigners who demonstrate how successful they are. It was clear from his wide portals, carpeting of polychrome mosaic, statuettes on marble tripods, and neatly dressed office staff that Norbanus knew all there was to know about making money from other peoples goods.
The staff were neat, but just as sleepy as subordinates anywhere once the master goes out. Because he was a Gaul, many of his menials were family. Their response was pretty Gallic. They excitedly discussed my question concerning his whereabouts amongst themselves for a long time, then one admitted with extremely formal wording that he wasn't here. They could have told me in a few words right at the start, but Gauls like the embroidery of debate. Urbanity for them means an impression of superior breeding-coupled with a barbarian yearning to swipe off your head with a very long sword.
I asked when Norbanus might be returning. They gave me a time that I felt was just a put-off. We all shook hands. They were smooth; I stayed polite. I ground my teeth in private. Then, having no option, I left.
It was death to my blisters, but I walked back to the mansio, claimed a new horse, and set off across the river to ride the five miles to Italica.
Founded by Scipio as a colony of veterans, Italica boasted itself the oldest Roman town in Hispania. Before that the happy Phoenicians had known it, and the ancient tribes of Tartessos had made it a playground when the shepherds who had already exploited wool as far as possible, learned that their land possessed great mineral wealth and eagerly took to mining. Set on slightly hilly ground, with an open aspect, it was a very hot, dusty cluster-relieved by the presence of a grandiose complex of baths. Those who lived to be old men would know this dot in the provinces as the birthplace of an emperor. Even when I was there the rich used it as a hideaway, separated from Hispalis by just sufficient distance to make Italicans feel snooty.
There was a theater, and a good amphitheater too. Everywhere was spattered with plinths, fountains, pediments and statuary. If there was a bare space on a wall, someone erected an inscription. The wording was lofty. Italica was not the kind of place where you find a poster from the guild of prostitutes pledging their votes to some deadbeat in the local elections.
In the strict grid of well-swept streets near the forum I found mansios that would not disgrace the finest areas of Rome. One of them belonged to Cyzacus. I was not allowed in, but I could see from the doorstep with its matched pair of standard bay trees that the entrance corridor was painted richly in black, red and gold, and that it led to a sumptuous atrium with a pool and gorgeous fresco-paneled walls. This was elegant public space for the patron's reception of his clients-but informers did not qualify.
Cyzacus was out. His steward told me quite agreeably. Cyzacus had been driven into Hispalis to meet a friend at the bargees' guild.
I was running around to no purpose here. The day was slipping away. This was the kind of work every informer dreads. The gods know it was appallingly familiar to me.
I went to the baths, felt too fretful to enjoy them, spurned the gymnasium, had a bowl of almond soup with enough garlic to ensure nobody spoke to me again for a week, then I returned to Hispalis myself.
The bargees' clubhouse was a large bare room, with tables where the layabouts I had seen that morning were still dicing. With midday more members had come from the wharves to eat. Food was brought in from a thermopolium next door. It was probably bought at special rates, and looked good value; I reckon they got their wine for free. The atmosphere of comradeship was of the quiet kind. Men entering nodded to those present, and some sat down together; others preferred to eat alone. Nobody challenged me when I started looking around.
This time I found them: Cyzacus and Norbanus, two familiar faces from a month ago at the Baetican dinner on the Palatine. Sitting at a table in a corner, looking as deep in gossip as the last time I saw both of them. It seemed like their regular venue, and they looked like customary daytime debauchers. They had already finished their lunch. From the piles of empty bowls and platters it had been substantial and I guessed the wine jug would have been replenished several times.
My arrival was timely. They had reached the point of slowing down in their heavy meal. Where diners at a formal feast might
now welcome a Spanish dancer to whistle at while they toyed with the fresh fruit, these two pillars of Hispalis commerce had their own diversion: me.
Cyzacus was a dapper, slightly shrunken old featherweight, in a slimline gray tunic over a long-sleeved black one. He was the quiet, better-mannered partner in what seemed an unlikely pair. He had a hollow, lined face with an unhealthy pallor, and closely clipped white hair. His bosom pal Norbanus was much heavier and more untidy, pressing folds of belly up against the table edge. His fat fingers were forced apart by immense jeweled rings. He too was a mature vintage, his hair still dark, though with wings of gray. Several layers of chin sported dark stubble. He had all the physical attributes that pass for a jolly companion-including a painfully raucous personality.
I slumped on a bench and came to the point: "The last time we met, gentlemen, I was at home and you were the visitors. We were dining, though." I cast my eyes over the empties, with their debris of fish skeletons, chewed olive stones, stripped chicken wings, oyster shells, bay leaves and rosemary twigs. "You know how to produce an impressive discard dish!"
"You have the advantage," Norbanus said. He sounded completely sober. Feasting was a way of life for these men. He had already buried his snout in his cup again, making no attempt to offer a drink to me. "The name's Falco."
They did not bother to make eye contact, either with one another or with me: they had known who I was. Either they really remembered being introduced on the Palatine, or they had worked out that I was the none-too-secret agent investigating the cartel.
"So! You're the respected master bargeman Cyzacus, and you're the notable negotiator Norbanus. Both men with sufficient stand ing to be entertained in Rome by the eminent Quinctius Attractus?"
"The eminent crawler!" Norbanus scoffed, not bothering to keep his voice down. Cyzacus gave him an indulgent glance. The negotiator's contempt was intended not just for the senator; it embraced all things Roman-including me.
"The eminent manipulator," I agreed frankly. "Myself, I'm a republican-and one of the plebs. I'd like to hope the senator and his son might have overstretched themselves." This time they both stilled. I had to look closely to spot it, though.
"I've been talking with your sons," I told the bargee. There was no way young Cyzacus and Gorax could have communicated with their papa in the three days since I saw them; I was hoping to make him worry what they might have said.
"Nice for you." He did not disconcert so easily. "How are my boys?"
"Working well."
"That makes a change!" I was in a world of rough opinions and plain speaking, apparently. Even so I felt this wary old man would not leave his boys in charge of business upstream at Corduba unless he really trusted them. He had taught them the job, and despite the ruck they must have had when the natural son went off to dabble with poetry, nowadays the three of them worked closely together. The two sons had struck me as loyal both to each other and to their father.
"Cyzacus junior was telling me about his literary career; and Gorax had his mind on some chickens. They explained to me how when I saw you in Rome you were there to talk tough about exports."
"I was there as a guest!" Cyzacus had the manner of a meek old chap whose mind was wandering. But he was defying me. He knew I could prove nothing. "Attractus invited me and paid for it."
"Generous!"
"Bottomless purse," cackled Norbanus, indicating that he thought the man a fool. I gained the welcome impression that these two had cynically accepted the free trip without ever intending to be coerced. After all, they were both in transport; they could certainly go to Rome whenever they wanted, for virtually nothing.
"It strikes me that much as Attractus may admire your wit and conversation, to pay out fares and offer hospitality in his own fine home-all of which I gather he has done on more than one occasion for different groups of Baeticans-might suggest that the illustrious codger wants something?"
"Excellent business sense." Norbanus grinned.
"And a sharp eye for a deal?"
"He thinks so!" Another insult tripped lightly off the Gallic tongue.
"Maybe he wants to be the uncrowned king of Baetica."
Norbanus was still sneering: "Isn't he that already? Patron of Corduba, Castulo and Hispalis, representative of the oil producers in the Senate, linchpin of the copper mines-"
Talking about mines depressed me. "What part of Gaul are you from?"
"Narbo." This was close to Tarraconensis though outside Hispania. It was a major entrepot in southern Gaul.
"You specialize in shipping olive oil? Is that just to Rome?"
He snorted. "You can't have much idea about the market! A lot of my contracts are bound for Rome, yes; but we're shipping thousands of amphorae. We cover the whole of Italy-and everywhere else. The stuff goes in all directions-up the Rhodanus in Gallia Narbonensis, to Gaul, Britain and Germany; I've done shipments straight across the Pillars of Hercules to Africa; I've sent it as far as Egypt; I've supplied Dalmatia, Pannonia, Crete, mainland Greece and Syria-"
"Greece? I thought the Greeks grew their own olives? Weren't they doing it for centuries before you had them here in Baetica?"
"Not got the taste. Not so mellow."
I whistled quietly. Turning again to Cyzacus I said, "Expensive business, exporting oil. I gather the price starts going up as soon as they funnel it into the amphorae?"
He shrugged. "The on-costs are terrible. It's not our fault. For instance, on the journey down from Corduba we have to pay port taxes every single time we stop. It all gets added to the bill."
"That's after your own profits have been taken out. Then Norbanus here wants his percentage, and the shipper too. All long before the retailer in Rome even has a smell of it."
"It's a luxury item," Cyzacus replied defensively.
"Luckily for all of you in Baetica it's an item in universal use."
"It's a very wonderful product," Norbanus put in dryly, in a holy voice.
"Wonderfully profitable!" I said. I had to change the subject. "You're a Gaul. How do you get on with the producers?"
"They hate my guts," Norbanus admitted proudly. "And it's mutual! At least they know I'm not some bloody interloper from Italy."
"Speculators!" I sympathized. "Coming out to the provinces from Rome solely because they can get away with low cash inputs, then drain off huge profits. Bringing their alien work practices. If they ever come out here in person, clinging together in tight little cliques-always planning to go home again once their fortunes are made… Attractus is a prime example, though he seems to want more from it than most. I know about his olive estate and his mineral mine-what interests does he have in Hispalis?"
"None," Cyzacus said, disapprovingly.
"He built the baths near the wool market," Norbanus reminded him. Cyzacus sniffed.
"Didn't it go down well?" I asked.
"The people of Baetica," Cyzacus informed me, sucking in his thin cheeks, "prefer to be honored with benefactions from men who were born here. Not outsiders who want to impress for their personal glory."
"Where does that leave you as a Gaul?" I demanded of Norbanus.
"Stowing my money in a bankchest!" He grinned.
I looked at them both: "But you two are friends?"
"We dine together," Cyzacus told me. I knew what he meant. These were two dedicated men of commerce. They could exchange public hospitality on a regular basis for years on end, yet I doubted if they had ever been to each other's houses, and once they retired from business they might never meet again. They were on the same side-cheating the oil producers and forcing up prices for the eventual customers. But they were not friends.
This was good news. On the face of it the men Quinctius Attractus had invited to Rome last month shared a common interest. Yet several kinds of prejudice divided them-and they all loathed Attractus himself. The bargees and negotiators tolerated each other, but they hated the olive producers-and those snobs on their grand estates shared no common feeling with the transport side.
Was this antagonism strong enough to prevent them all forming a price ring? Would their shared distrust of a Roman interloper dissuade them from joining him? Had Attractus miscalculated the lure of money? Might these hard-nosed operators reject him as a leader? Might they reckon there was sufficient profit to be made from oil, and that they were perfectly capable of squeezing out the maximum gain without any help from him-and without any obligation to him afterwards?
"You know why I'm here," I suggested. Both men laughed. After the size of meal they had eaten all this hilarity could not be good for them. "There are two reasons. Attractus has drawn attention to himself; he is thought to be a dangerous fixer-and I'm looking into ways of fixing him." The two men glanced at each other, openly pleased he was in trouble. "Of course," I said gravely, "neither of you has been approached to take part in anything so crooked as a cartel?"
"Certainly not," they agreed solemnly.
I smiled like a pleasant fellow. "Reputable businessmen would want nothing to do with such villainy?" "Of course not, they assured me.
"And you would immediately report such an approach to the authorities?" I dropped the pose: "Don't bother to insult me by answering that!"
Old Cyzacus was picking his teeth, but behind the ensuing grimace he may have looked offended that I had just accused them of lying. Liars are always very sensitive.
Norbanus continued to be as unhelpful as possible. "Is there a cartel, Falco? If so, good luck to it!" he declared. Then he spat on the floor. "Tcha! They'll never do it-the bloody producers couldn't organize themselves!"
I leaned my elbows on the table, linking my fingers and surveying the reprobates over my hands. I tried ingratiating myself: "I think you're right. I've seen them in Corduba. They spend so much time making sure they don't get missed off the guest list for the next soiree with the proconsul, they can't manage much else."
"All they care about," Norbanus growled, "is taking a turn as duovir and sending their sons to ponce about in Rome spending money-wasting their capital!" he added, as if failure to thrive as an investor was an unforgivable offense.
"So don't you think Attractus managed to lean on them?"
Cyzacus took an interest: "He could lean until he fell over. The producers would never do anything risky."
"And what about you two?" I challenged. This only produced contemptuous smiles. "All right. You've been frank with me, so I'll return the compliment. I have to report to the Emperor. I'm going to tell Vespasian that I am convinced there is a cartel being mooted. That Attractus is the prime mover. And that all the men who were seen dining with him at the Society of Olive Oil Pro-
ducers' dinner at the end of March have assured me they were horrified and that they spurned the idea. Well, you wouldn't want to be indicted with him before the court of conspiracy, would you?
"Let us know if you get him there," Norbanus said dryly. "We'll all come and cheer."
"Perhaps you'd like to help me form a case? Perhaps you'd like to give evidence?"
Neither even bothered to reply. And I didn't bother offering another free fare to Rome on the strength of future assistance. They would not appear in court. Rome has its own snobberies anyway. A couple of foreigners engaged in transportation-however flourishing their business-would be despised. I needed to subpoena the estate owners at least. Land counts. Land is respectable. But to indite a senator with a long Roman pedigree even Annaeus and Rufius would not be enough. The Quinctii would walk, unless I could produce witnesses of their own social weight. And where were they?
I was glad I had spoken to these two in person, despite the long trip. I did feel their story carried weight. Their assessment of the producers matched my own. Norbanus and Cyzacus seemed too self-reliant to follow the lead of an entrepreneur from the political world-and too capable of making money on their own account. Not that I could ever rely on this: if the men Attractus had summoned to Rome had leapt at his suggestion, they were hardly likely to tell me. Price-fixing works on subtlety. Nobody ever admits it is happening.
I was leaving. "I said there were two reasons why I came to Baetica."
Cyzacus stopped wielding his toothpick. "What is the other one?" For a vague old man, he responded well.
"It's not pleasant. The night you dined on the Palatine a man was killed."
"Nothing to do with us."
"I think it was. Another man, a high official, was seriously wounded. He may be dead too. Both victims were at the dinner. Both were in fact dining with Attractus-which means he's implicated, and as his guests so are you. Somebody slipped up that night-and it won't go away." This was a long shot. I was hoping that if the Baeticans were unconnected with the attacks, they would turn in the real perpetrator to absolve themselves.
"We can't help you," said Norbanus. So much for that pious hope.
"Oh? Then why did you leave Rome so fast the next day?"
"Our business was concluded. Since we turned down his offer, we all thought it would be presuming on the senator's hospitality to remain."
"You've just admitted that an offer was made," I pointed out. Norbanus grinned evilly.
The excuse for leaving could be true. Staying at the Quinctius house after refusing to play the Attractus game could have been embarrassing. Besides, if they hated the plan, they might want to escape before Attractus tried putting on more pressure. And if they had said so, then they heard about the murder and suspected it was connected with the cartel scheme, they were bound to flee.
"It looks bad," I returned somberly. "A sudden departure straight after a killing tends to appear significant in court. Part of my work includes finding evidence for barristers, and I can assure you that's the sort of tale that makes them gloat and think of massive fees."
"You're making wild accusations," Norbanus told me coolly. "No."
My simple reply for once caused silence. Cyzacus recovered himself. "We offer our sympathy to the victims."
"Then perhaps you would like to help. I need to find a girl who comes from Hispalis. In delicate official parlance: we think she may have important information relating to the deaths."
"She did it?" Norbanus sneered crudely.
I smiled. "She was at the dinner, dancing for Attractus; he claims he doesn't know her though he paid her fee. You may have recognized her; her name's Selia-probably."
To my surprise they made no quibble about it: they knew Selia. It was her real name. She was a local girl of moderate talent, struggling to make a career where all the demand was for dancers from Gades. (Gades dancers had organized a closed shop on the entertainment circuit… it had a familiar ring.) Cyzacus and Norbanus remembered seeing Selia at the dinner on the Palatine; they had been surprised, but assumed she had finally made the big breakthrough in Rome. Recently they had heard she was back in Hispalis, so they assumed it came to nothing.
I stared Cyzacus in the eye. "Just how well do you know her? Would Selia be the lovely who came here looking for you recently?"
"Girls like Selia are not welcome at the bargees' clubroom," he maintained.
"So she never found you?"
"That's right," he answered with a cool glare that suggested he was lying again, but that I would extract no more.
Patiently I explained why I was asking: "There's another woman going around asking questions about this business. They're both trouble. I need to know which is up to what. Your fellow members implied that the girl who came here was a looker-but their standards may be more flexible than mine." The daytime skivers playing dice looked as if anything in a dress would make them salivate. "So was it Selia or not?"
"Since I never saw her," sneered Cyzacus, "I can't say."
He and Norbanus were closing up on me, but when I asked the most important question they did know the answer and they told me straightaway: they gave me directions to where Selia lived.
I walked back to the quays, needing to rid my mind of other men enjoying a long convivial lunch-which they called doing business. I hated my work. I was tired of working alone, unable to trust even the people who had commissioned me. This was a worse case than usual. I was sick of being a plaything in the pointless bureaucratic feud between Laeta and Anacrites.
If Helena had been here, she would have made me feel ludicrous by appearing to sympathize-then suggesting that what I wanted was a new job as a cut-out-fringe sewer in the suede-purse market, with a stall on the Via Ostiana. Just thinking about it made me grin. I needed her.
I found myself staring at the shipping. More boats than I would have expected had plied their way through the straits of Hercules and into the broad gulf at the start of the Atlantic Ocean, past Gades, past the lighthouse at Turris Caepionis, and up the wide estuary of the Baetica to reach Hispalis. Huge merchantmen from all around the Inner Sea were here, and even deep-sea ships that ventured around the outer edge of Lusitania to make landfall in North Gaul and Britain by the hard route.
They lined the wharves; they jostled in the channel. Some were anchored out in the river, for lack of space on the quays. There was a queuing system for the barges that came down from Corduba. And this was April, not even the olive harvesting season.
It wasn't April. May had arrived. Some time this month, unavoidably, Helena would produce our child. While I stood here dreaming she might even be having it…
Now I had Selia's address. Even so, I was in no hurry to go chasing there. I was thinking about this just as carefully as a man who has finally made a successful move on a girl who had been playing hard to get-and with the same mixture of excitement and nerves. I would be lucky if the worst that happened was acquiring a slapped face.
Before I could tackle the dancer, I had to prepare myself. Brace myself. She was a woman; I could handle her. Well, I was a man so I assumed I could; plenty of us have been caught out like that. She might even be on my side-if I had a side. The evidence in Rome said Selia was a killer. It might be wrong. She might work for Anacrites. If she did, someone else must have attacked Valentinus and him-unless the Chief Spy was even more behind with approving expenses for his agents than usual. That would be typical, though not many of his deadbeats responded by trying to crack his skull.
If Selia was in the clear I still had to identify the real killer. That was a very big unknown.
Whatever the truth-and being realistic, I thought she was the killer-this woman knew I had come to Baetica; she would be waiting for me. I even considered approaching the local watch and asking for an escort, an option I rejected out of sheer Roman prejudice. I would rather go alone. But I had no intention of just strolling up to her door and asking for a drink of water like an innocent passerby. One wrong move and the dangerous lady might kill me.
I must have been looking grim. For once the Fates decided that I was so pessimistic I might give up this job altogether and deprive them of a lot of fun. So for the first time ever they decided to offer me a helping hand.
The hand was ink-stained and nail-bitten, attached to a weedy arm which protruded from a shrunken long-sleeved tunic with extremely ragged cuffs. The arm hung from a shoulder over which was slung a worn satchel; its flap was folded back for easy access and I could see note-tablets inside. The shoulder served as a bony hanger for the rest of the tunic, which came down below the knees of a short, sad-looking man with pouchy eyes and uncombed hair. Every dry old thong of his sandals had curled back on itself at the edges. He had the air of being much rebuffed and cursed. He was clearly ill-paid. I deduced, even before he confirmed the tragedy, that he worked for the government.
"Is your name Falco?" I shook the inky hand cautiously as a sign that it might be. I wondered how he knew. "I'm Gnaeus Drusillus Placidus."
"Pleased to meet you," I said. I wasn't. I had been half-enjoying myself remembering Selia as I prepared myself to visit her house. The interruption hurt.
"I thought you would be coming downriver to speak to me."
"You knew I was here?" I ventured cautiously.
"The quaestor's clerk told me to look out for you." The old black slave from Hadrumetum; the one who had lost the correspondence with Anacrites-or had it lifted from him.
"He didn't tell me about you!"
The man looked surprised. "I'm the procurator," he cried importantly. "I supervise the port taxes and export tax." My enthusiasm still failed to match his. In desperation he lowered his voice and hissed, "It was me who started this!"
I nearly let myself down completely by asking "Started what?"
But his urgency and the way he looked over his shoulder for eavesdroppers explained everything.
"It was you!" I murmured discreetly, but with the note of applause the man deserved. "You were the sharp-eyed fellow who first wrote to Anacrites, sounding the alarm!"