Bruce Macbain - The Bull Slayer

Suspicion was written across Silvanus’ beaky face. Pliny and his two attendants had gone straight from interviewing Fabia to the treasury building in the precinct of the Temple of Rome and Augustus in the center of the city. Sentries at the door had jumped to attention and Pliny sent one of them to fetch the chief accountant.

He eyed Pliny warily. “This is no place for you, Governor.”

“That is not for you to say,” Pliny snapped. “I’m here to learn what’s become of your procurator.” They sat in the accountant’s cramped office. There was no chair for the shorthand writer, who was forced to take his notes standing up. Towering bookcases, crammed with scrolls, lined every wall. Only a small window admitted any light. A fit habitation for a mole, perhaps; scarcely for a human. No wonder the man was so pasty-faced. “Did you see Balbus the day he disappeared?”

Silvanus’ jaws ground as though he were masticating food. It was a disconcerting habit that Pliny had noticed that night at Balbus’ dinner party. His words came slowly as though each one must be thoroughly chewed before it could be spat out. “He never arrived that day.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you do the next day when he didn’t arrive?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, what did you think ?”

“That he was ill. The next day I inquired of his wife. Then I sent someone to your office.”

“To your knowledge has he ever disappeared like this before?”

“No.”

“Where do you think he might be?”

Silvanus’ eyes focused somewhere over Pliny’s right shoulder. The jaws went on working. “I don’t know.”

Pliny tried a different tack. “Tell me about yourself, Silvanus. Have you a family? Where do you live?”

The eyes momentarily met Pliny’s with a look of alarm. Am I being accused? “I live here. I have no family.”

“And you’ve been with Balbus a long time?”

“Eleven years. I was his slave at first. He emancipated me before a magistrate, all legal, I can prove it. I’m a Roman citizen.” The point was clear. You can’t torture me.

“What kind of administrator was he?”

“I’ve no complaints.”

“Right.” Pliny got swiftly to his feet. This was getting him nowhere. “Until Balbus reappears, if he does, I am assuming control of the treasury. Don’t bother asking if I have the authority. I do. Now, I want a thorough tour of the premises and a rundown of your procedures, omitting nothing. Lead the way.”

The jaws-just for a moment-stopped grinding.

Pliny had served a term as head of the Treasury of Saturn-the Roman State treasury-and knew what to look for. What he saw did not please him. The building, which had once housed the royal treasure of the kings of Bithynia, was a warren of cluttered rooms and crooked corridors built around a wide courtyard. One whole side of it was the counting room. Here were long tables at which sat public slaves. They should have been hunched over ledgers, calculating with their fingers. Instead, they sprawled idly on their benches, talking, throwing knucklebones. They barely looked up when Silvanus and Pliny entered. It seemed pointless to ask why no one was working.

“Take me to the vault,” Pliny commanded.

The chief accountant lifted a trap door that lay at one end of the counting room and they descended a flight of stone steps that ended at an oaken door, secured by a massive bronze padlock. Silvanus produced the key from a wallet that hung at his belt and, with a grunt of effort, swung the door open. He lit a lamp inside.

Pliny found himself in a brick-lined chamber whose walls were lost in shadow. The air was hot and stale. A pyramid of iron-bound chests reached nearly to the low ceiling. Each chest was fastened with a lock and from each hung a parchment tag imprinted with a signet.

“How many keys are there?”

“Two. One for the procurator, one for me.”

“And where is his?”

“Hanging in his office. I’ll show it to you, if you like.”

The land tax in silver was, as Pliny knew, assessed by the procurator upon each city in the province. Local magistrates apportioned the tax among the landowners, collected it, and sent the required amount in chests like these under seal to Nicomedia. Some of it moved overland in cumbersome wagons guarded by soldiers, the rest, collected from the coastal cities, came on navy warships. Everything possible was done to secure these shipments. Was it enough? Probably not. And in Bithynia-Pontus where corruption ran so deep? The question answered itself. Suspicions-almost certainties-were starting to take shape in his mind.

“Is all of this year’s collection in?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I count the chests as they come in.”

“And if a chest went astray? Would you know?”

“If the total didn’t add up to the assessment, of course I would know. But it does add up.”

“But do you open each chest and actually count the coin?”

“Of course not. We open them when we need to make disbursements.”

“Open that one-over there.”

“Why?”

“Open it.”

Silvanus drew another key from his pouch, a smaller one, and unlocked the chest. Pliny looked in. It was full to the top with silver drachmas-the lifeblood of the Roman Empire. The tag read Three talents, eleven minas, fifty-three drachmas. Sent under my seal. Polemon, Treasurer of Heraclea Pontica. At a glance, it looked about right.

“Are you satisfied, Governor?”

“I am far from satisfied. I want a count of every coin of this year’s collection. Tomorrow I will send you my clerk, Caelianus, to supervise this. As of this moment, I am posting guards at this door. No one, including you, is to enter until I say so. Hand over your key.”

“But we have disbursements to make. The garrison to be paid, the sailors of the Pontic fleet, road repairs, earthquake damage, and the amount we have to send to Rome.”

Pliny left the chief accountant still protesting-the man seemed to have found his voice at last-and returned to the palace, suddenly overcome with a feeling of infinite weariness.

***

He found Calpurnia in the garden, reading in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. It was early October yet the weather continued unseasonably mild. Soon enough, though, they would be driven indoors by frigid winds blowing in off the sea. She put down her scroll when she saw him and offered her mouth to be kissed.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, “why didn’t you wake me this morning?” He sank down on the bench beside her. She took his hand. “You look tired.”

“And you look more beautiful than I even remembered. You’re thriving here, aren’t you? I knew you would. What are you reading? Homer?” He picked up the capsa and read the label: “ Chaireas and Callirhoe by Chariton of Aphrodisias. One of those romances the Greeklings are so fond of?” He put it down with an indulgent smile. “Is it any good?”

“It’s silly. A girl who’s captured by pirates on her wedding day. Husband goes searching for her.”

“Where did you get it?”

“At a book stall.”

How easy the lie. She had not premeditated it, yet there it was on her tongue as though only waiting to be spoken. “Gaius, tell me what’s going on. Balbus is missing? I couldn’t get much out of Suetonius.”

“I’m calling the staff together now. We have to do something, though damn me if I know what. I’ll leave you to your book. We’ll talk at dinner.”

***

Pliny paced up and down the room with his hands behind his back while the others followed him with their eyes. Nymphidius, the old soldier, scarred and lame, who had come out of retirement to serve with him; Postumius Marinus, his physician, always frowning through his tangle of gray beard; Caelianus, his clerk, a precise, observant little man; Aquila, his chief centurion, a hard-featured man, armored in greaves and a corselet of bronze scales; Suetonius, a shade too clever and rather too full of himself, the object of the others’ jealousy; and Zosimus, the lowest in status but the closest to Pliny in affection.