John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

“Do whatever is necessary,” he said.

“It might be best if you send the astronomers back to Alexandria while some of them are still alive. Their work on the calendar is done. You don’t need them here anymore.”

“That might have been a good idea a few days ago, before the killings started. But one of them may be the killer, though I can’t imagine why.”

“I can’t either, but that signifies nothing. People kill one another for a great number of reasons, it isn’t always for world-shaking stakes or simple, understandable jealousy or points of honor. I’ve known people to kill for reasons that seem perfectly adequate to themselves but defy all understanding by anyone else.”

“Quite true,” Caesar said, already sounding bored. “Very well, get on with it, but bring me some results soon. I am hard-pressed for time these days and I want all business, major and minor, concluded before I depart for Parthia.” He did not indicate whether my investigation was a major or a minor affair.

So I departed. Ordinarily, this was the hour for going to the baths, but that was going to have to wait. I gathered up Hermes and we walked a few streets to Rome’s great grain market. Here was a huge square almost the size of the Forum itself, surrounded by granaries and the offices of grain merchants and speculators. The granaries were giant warehouses where every day of the harvest season wagons came in from the countryside to discharge loads of wheat and barley. It would buzz with activity again when the barges came up the river to unload the Egyptian harvest.

In its center was a spectacular statue and shrine of Apollo. There was also a more modest shrine to Demeter, goddess of the harvest, but Apollo had pride of place. He might seem an eccentric choice as patron of grain merchants and protector of granaries, but in very ancient times, farmers sacrificed to Apollo to protect their granaries from mice, and some learned persons claim that Apollo was originally a mouse-demon from Thrace before the Greeks promoted him to his current glorious status as a solar deity, patron of music, culture, and enlightenment.

Grain is the most volatile commodity on any market. People absolutely must have it to live, and you never know how much of it there will be in any given year. This meant that there were vast fortunes to be made from the stuff and much collusion went into artificially inflating prices.

A few years previously Pompey, as proconsul, had been given an extraordinary five-year oversight of Italy’s grain supply. Part of his task had been to eradicate this sort of business. He had had some success, but it seems to be especially difficult to root out such harmful practices when they are so long established. It didn’t help that so many senators got rich out of it. Senators were not supposed to engage in business, but the fact that it was grain meant that it was actually a part of agriculture, which was honorable. Besides, they always had stewards and freedmen and foreign partners to act as fronts.

We were looking for the offices of one Publius Balesus, grain merchant. I have long thought that life would be greatly simplified by having some sort of system of identifying where persons live and businesses are located. Unfortunately, so far the only way to keep things under control is to concentrate certain trades in a particular district. Then you go to that district and keep asking questions until you’ve found what you are looking for. This we did, and soon found our man. His office was located on the second floor of one of the huge granaries, opening off a balcony overlooking the plaza. The rich, pleasant smell of grain permeated everything.

I did not think much of my chances here, but this case was so devoid of solid leads that I thought it was worth a try. The man, who looked up from his desk as we came in, was a big, bald-headed specimen who looked as if he had done his time in the legions. His face and right arm were scarred and he had blunt, peasant features that had the cast of southern Latium.

“Yes?” he said, looking slightly annoyed, a busy man interrupted at his work.

“Publius Balesus?” I said.

“That’s me.” The accent matched the face. He was from somewhere south of Rome.

“I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus, and I need to ask you a few questions.”

He looked a little more accommodating, but still suspicious. “I remember when you were aedile. Those were fine games. How can I help you, Senator?”

“You may have heard that the foreign astronomer who called himself Polasser of Kish was murdered a few days ago.”

He nodded. “I heard the rogue was dead. Good riddance, I say. The man was a fraud and a cheat.”

“The praetor peregrinus of last year, Aulus Sabinus, says that you tried to bring suit against Polasser, but he wouldn’t hear it.”

“Probably got a whopping bribe from Polasser, if you ask me.”

“Let’s not get into that,” I said, knowing that it was all too likely. “In what way did Polasser cheat you?”

“First off, he’s supposed to be able to see your future, right?” He began to fume. “All these eastern star-men are supposed to be good at it. Well, he told me to buy heavy, that the coming year should be a good one for speculating in grain. It made sense, didn’t it? Civil war, everyone nervous, everyone hoarding. So I followed his advice. Well, you know what happened to the grain market last year, don’t you? You’re a senator, you have estates.”

“The market was flooded first with a good harvest here and then with cheap grain from Egypt.”

“Exactly,” he said disgustedly. “I know what your kind think of mine. You think we’re schemers who batten on the misfortune of others, Well, it’s business, isn’t it? It’s a hard world. And when things turn out good for others, nobody sheds tears because it’s a disaster for us.”

“I’m not passing judgment on you,” I assured him. “I know plenty of senators who are in your business, at one remove or another.”

“Buggering right,” he said. A man came into the office.

“Master, some wagons just came in from Apuleia.”

“Good,” Balesus said. Then, to us, “I bought this lot before it was planted. See what a risky business it is? Let’s go look at it. I’ll show you some things.”

“Lead the way,” I said. Hermes raised his eyebrows at me but I ignored him. We went out onto the balcony and down some stairs to a yard behind the building. Eight or ten wagons stood there, loaded with big leather bags.

“Late harvest in Apuleia this year, and these wagons were a long time on the road. Now the first thing you do is this.” He went to the third wagon and selected a bag apparently at random, opening its top. He reached in and took out a handful of grain. He held it up close to his eyes. They were fine, fat grains as far as I could see.

“Looks good so far,” he said. “No mold, properly dried, no mouse dung in it. Now this is the next thing you do.” He thrust his hand down into the grain until his arm was buried past the elbow. He withdrew another fistful of grain from deep within and examined it. “The same stuff. We’ll go through some other bags before I’ll take it, but it looks like I’m not being cheated. Now I’ll show you something else. Come along.”

So we followed him across the plaza to a rather splendid building decorated with reliefs of wheat sheaves, harvest implements, and various gods of field and storehouse. It was the guildhall of the grain merchants. He led us to a room where a bored clerk sat with a pair of scales and a number of weights.

“I want to show the senator those bags the thief from Neapolis brought here last month,” Balesus said.

“Help yourself,” the clerk said, indicating a number of the big leather sacks that leaned against a wall nearby. “It’s not needed as evidence anymore, the man’s been sentenced. I was going to throw it out and sell the sacks.”