ONCE WE REACHED the road, Anacrites expected me to tell him what was on my mind and began annoying me with his usual questions. I said he could do something useful by finding out about the house Calliopus had bought for his mistress. I would meet him later at our office in the Saepta. First, it would do no harm for me to visit the Granary of the Galbae. I only had to cross the Tiber and I was there.
He looked suspicious, thinking that was the last he would see of me. It had not escaped him that the Granary of the Galbae lay at the back of the Emporium and the Porticus Aemilia, just below the Lavernal Gate. From there it was just a short, steep hike up to the crest of the Aventine-and a long lunch at home with Helena. I reassured him that since I was going out to dinner I would not be needing lunch. Feeling evil, I made it sound as unconvincing as I could.
The Horrea Galbana was a whole palace of commerce. By the time I had struggled from the river wharf through the battling crush of stevedores and porters who were unloading barges and boats for the Emporium I was in no mood to be lightly impressed. It grated to enter this monstrous establishment, built by a rich family as the short cut to even greater wealth. The rental potential had always been enormous, even though the Sulpicii Galbae were probably unwilling to come down here themselves and haggle over grain prices. They had been persons of great status since Republican times; one of them became Emperor. He only stuck it for six months, but that must have been long enough to bring the Granary under state control.
I had to admit this was an astonishing place. It contained several great courtyards, each with hundreds of rooms on more than one floor, run by military-style cohorts of staff At least that gave me half a chance of finding out what I was after. There was bound to be documentation for everything, if I could find the relevant scribe before he bunked off for the local caupona. Anacrites was right; it was mid-morning: dangerously near the time when skivers had their lunch.
Not only grain was stored and sold here Space was rented out for everything from wine cellars to strongrooms. Some of the single booths were leased to working tradesmen: woven goods, expensive architectural stoneware, even fish. But mostly the buildings were specially constructed corn stores. They had raised tiled floors, set on dwarf wall… with ventilated thresholds to allow good air circulation through the tunnels underneath. They were plaster-lined, with only a louvred vent at the back for light. The great quadrangles were lined with rows of these dim, cool rooms, sealed with tight doors against dampness, vermin and theft, the triple enemies of stored grain. Most of the staircases turned into ramps after a few steps, to facilitate life for the porters as they struggled around with the heavy sacks on their backs; many of them were permanently bent in the spine and bow-legged. Cats were allowed to run everywhere as a countermeasure to rats and mice. Fire buckets stood at frequent intervals. Maybe it was my cold, but to me that day the air seemed thick with annoying dust.
I found the administrative office easily. An hour later I had wormed my way up the queue to see a slinky-hipped clerk with long eyelashes. He might eventually spare time from telling coarse jokes to his neighbour, the rent-clerk, and might discuss the dockets I needed to know about.
Once I reached him, he buffed his nails on the shoulder of his tunic and prepared to fob me off
We had a long wrangle about whether he was empowered to let me see despatching details, followed by a fierce set-to over his claim that there was no customer called Calliopus.
I borrowed a tablet from the rent-clerk, who had been observing my problems with a supercilious smirk. On it I wrote clearly: “ARX: ANS.'
“Mean anything?”
“Oh that!” mouthed the beauteous king of the dockets.
“Well, that's not a private customer.”
“So who is this public one?”
“Confidential.” I had thought it would be. “SPQR.”
I stood on his foot, letting my boot studs press between his sandal straps, grabbed handfuls of his pristine tunic, and pushed his chest until he was squealing and leaning backwards.
“Spare me the secret passwords,” I growled. “You may be the prettiest scribe at the snootiest old granary on the Embankment, but any tough nut with an ounce of good sweetbreads in his cranium can decipher that logo once he associates the words "grain" and "once a week". Adding “s' and "P" and "Q" and "R" just shows you know some of the alphabet. Now listen to me, petal. The corn you supplied this week is poisoning birds' Think about that very carefully. Then consider how you will explain to the Senate and People of Rome why you refused to help me find who tampered with the corn.”
I stepped back suddenly, loosening my grip on his tunic. “It goes to the Arx,” confessed the scribe in a terrified whisper.
“And the rest stands for " Anseres Sacri.” I told him, though he knew it well enough.
He was right to be anxious. The sack of corn that had poisoned the ostrich had been intended for the famous Sacred Geese.