The Emperor's Silver: Agent of Rome 5 (8 page)

‘So what about these fakes? Do you have one to show me?’

Quentin nodded at Cassius’s hand.

‘This?’ He examined it. The detailing of the lettering and images was excellent.

Quentin passed him another denarius. ‘This is genuine. It’s actually slightly heavier – the fake is made with poor-quality bronze.’

Cassius held them in different hands. ‘I can’t tell.’

‘Only a trained man can. If you look closely at the Emperor’s crown and the lines of some of the letters, they are slightly different. This is how we know they are using the same initial die, though they must have produced copies because of the sheer number and spread.’

‘I’ve seen the odd fake around,’ said Cassius. ‘Mostly bronzes. They’re usually lighter, or smaller, or with ragged edges. It’s obvious.’

‘We see better counterfeiting in the northern provinces, Britain in particular, but these are the best I’ve come across east of Byzantium.’

‘This gang has expert help, then?’

‘Yes. And unfortunately there are a number of mint workers able to provide it. You are aware of the Felicissimus plot?’

‘Not the details.’

‘Felicissimus was Minister of Finance before Sabinus and was implicated in the fraudulent production of coins. He was making huge profits on the side, as were his accomplices at the mint. There were quite a few senior men on his payroll and several escaped justice, taking dies like you saw just now with them. Unfortunately, the new coins had already been issued in large numbers; we had no choice but to persist with the double X design.’

Quentin leafed through another pile of papers.

Cassius glanced over his shoulder. Indavara was working through the pastries at quite a rate but at least keeping the noise to a minimum.

Quentin slid a sheet across the desk. It showed five names.

‘These are the men with sufficient knowledge who are yet to be accounted for.’

‘Any trace of them in this area?’

‘Not that we know of.’

‘Presumably it’s also possible that an existing mint worker might be helping this gang.’

‘Indeed. Which is one of the reasons why I started my investigations right here in Tripolis. As you saw, our labourers work only in a single section; few possess the knowledge or the skills to carry out the process from start to finish – certainly not to a high standard. We must focus on what we call “casters” – senior men who oversee the whole operation.’

‘Anything so far?’

‘My men are concluding their interviews today. Nothing particularly promising yet. I should add that Arruntius is convinced the fakes are not linked to this facility in any way. And to his credit, he seems to have vetted his staff and maintained security well.’

‘How many casters are there here?’

‘Eight currently employed, eight who still live in the local area and previously worked here. They wouldn’t of course have had access to the new dies but they possess the necessary skills.’

‘I see. Other lines of enquiry?’

‘The second reason I based myself here is that – judging by the “sightings” of these fakes so far – the centre of production seems to be somewhere in Syria. The first report appeared several weeks ago – a fake spotted by an observant tax collector in Emesa. Ten days ago, I wrote to the procurators in every town and city in Syria as well as the neighbouring provinces of Arabia, Palestine and Cilicia. I told them what to look for and asked them to conduct an urgent survey of coinage.’

Quentin tapped another stack of paper. ‘Some of the replies are back; I’m expecting the rest soon.’ He then pointed at the map. ‘I hope to have collated the information within a day or two. That should allow us to narrow the search.’

Cassius made a few notes with the charcoal. ‘So – our possible ways in: firstly, the casters; secondly, the coin locations. Tell me what this gang would need.’

‘A smaller version of what you’ve seen here today.’

‘The raw materials – the metals – is there any way of tracing their supply?’

‘Possibly, but Syria has dozens of mines producing copper and silver, and both – like bronze – are used in a hundred different industries. This gang could easily lay their hands on enough without arousing suspicion.’

‘And the other equipment? With a trained man could they produce it for themselves?’

‘The most complicated piece is the die, the rest is comparatively easy.’

Cassius made a few more notes. ‘Even though it would be a smaller operation, they would need somewhere secure to work. Plus sufficient transport to bring in the metals and take out the finished coins.’

‘Somewhere remote perhaps,’ suggested Quentin.

‘More likely they’d locate themselves near other workshops or factories – places with smoking chimneys and artisans and carts coming and going.’

Quentin conceded the point with a shrug. ‘We can start with the industrial areas of Tripolis, I suppose. But you must bear in mind that we cannot be too open about the scale of the counterfeiting. We must try to preserve confidence.’

‘Understood.’

Indavara belched.

Cassius might have excused him, except that he was occupied by another thought. ‘Typically, what do these gangs do with the coins?’

‘It varies. Sometimes they sell them to other criminals – at perhaps a fifth or a quarter of their “real” value. With fakes of this quality they could make legitimate purchases: precious metals, jewellery, gems. Ultimately, this is what will cause us the most problems – influential people who find out they have been given hundreds or thousands of fake coins. That kind of uncertainty can be catastrophic for an economy.’

Cassius gazed up at the skylight for a moment. ‘The gang will assume that the treasury will eventually catch wind of what they’re up to and investigate. So they will probably want to move the coins on quickly – turn them into something with genuine, long-lasting value.’

‘Yes.’

‘Apart from what you mentioned they might also purchase interests in shipping perhaps, or farming. Or land.’

‘Possibly.’

‘I should like to talk to your clerks – hear about these interviews, see their notes even.’

‘As you wish.’

‘And I’d very much like to see that map, when it’s finished.’

‘Of course.’

‘Tomorrow morning I shall pay a visit to the basilica, establish what local records I can get my hands on – there may have been some unusually large purchases of late. And perhaps your clerks can think of a way to start checking over the factories and workshops. What do you think?’

Quentin was clearly surprised to be asked; it seemed obvious that he felt Cassius had been sent there to take over the investigation, not work alongside him.

‘Again, that all sounds very sensible.’

‘Thank you for bringing me up to speed, Quentin. At least we’ve made a start, eh?’

For the first time, the treasury agent offered a trace of a smile. ‘I wish I had more men. Minister Sabinus demands weekly reports but has seen fit to give me only the two clerks.’

‘I suppose I should feel fortunate. My master has told me I only need to write to him every ten days.’ Cassius packed away his charcoal and the paper. ‘Well, we must return to the city and get settled in.’

‘You’ll have to wake your friend up first.’ Quentin nodded at Indavara. The bodyguard’s head was hanging off the bench, his mouth wide open.

As usual, Simo had chosen well. Though rather hemmed in by apartment blocks, the inn’s rear terrace offered a fine sea view. Dusk had fallen and only a handful of lights could be seen bobbing upon the black waves – the last few fishing boats returning with the day’s catch. The water was less than a quarter-mile away, close enough to give a salty tang to the air. Night brought the same sounds to every city – parents calling in children, householders bolting their doors and shutters, watchmen shouting greetings as they did their rounds.

The terrace contained four tables, two of which were unoccupied. At one was a solitary merchant, copying something on to a waxed tablet by lamplight. Cassius sat at the other, glad that his fellow guest didn’t seem keen to talk. He waved away a persistent fly and put his head back against the wall.

Arabia already seemed a long way away. He looked at the three sheets of paper by the lamp. Letters: one from his father, one from his mother, one from his eldest sister. They had arrived in a bundle a month ago. Around that time he’d been indulging himself with fantasies of leaving – Bostra, the Service, the army, everything. He could easily have ridden to the coast and found a ship bound for Ravenna. Once there, it was a short walk from the port to the villa – straight through the gates and into his mother’s arms.

A month ago he had not felt able to read the letters. He’d taken a cursory look at them then locked them in his hardwood box. But he was feeling better now: drinking less, sleeping more; and his habitual optimism was returning. He had already done three years in the army; only two left. Surely the worst was past. With assignments like this one, he was confident he could make it.

Half an hour later, the letters had been read and the merchant had gone inside. Simo came out to ask whether Cassius was ready for his dinner. After informing the proprietor that he was, the Gaul joined his master.

‘Where’s Indavara?’

‘With Patch. The cook found some carrots for him.’

‘I swear you two spend more time looking after that bloody mule than the other three horses put together.’

Simo fanned himself with his hand. Though the sun had set, it was humid and warm.

‘We’ve got all the luggage upstairs, though, sir – very convenient what with the stables so close.’

‘Good choice, this place,’ said Cassius, holding up his glass. ‘Wine’s decent too.’

Simo glanced at the letters. In times past, Cassius reckoned he would have asked about them but the attendant was clearly wary of taking a risk with his master these days. Cassius didn’t regret what had happened; he felt it had been justified. But he wanted no more reminders of Arabia. He wanted things the way they were.

‘I read them properly at last.’

Simo turned to him, ready to listen. It seemed like an age since they’d last discussed each other’s families.

‘Father seems very excited about the Cyrenaica affair. He’s had senators and magistrates coming up to him, asking how I tracked down the man who killed Memor.’

‘He must be very proud, sir.’

‘And rather surprised, I should imagine. I didn’t tell him about it.’ Cassius moved the jug towards Simo. ‘I don’t really tell them all that much.’

‘To spare their feelings, sir?’ The attendant poured himself a little wine.

‘My mother’s, especially. Mine too, in a way. I find I can’t write it down. Just all seems too much. I suppose if I saw them face to face I might be able to speak of it.’

‘You must be due some leave, sir. Do you never think of a brief trip home?’

‘I couldn’t do it, Simo. Once there, I don’t think I could bring myself to leave.’

The Gaul brushed his thick black hair away from his eyes.

‘You need a proper haircut. We’ll start your allowance up again. Take your first month’s from what we have.’

‘Thank you, sir. How is your father?’

‘Some trouble with his eyes – he seems to think he’s going blind in one of them. But his estates are earning well; his other concerns too. My eldest sister has had her second child, after another miscarriage. A boy. Father’s very happy about that, of course.’

‘And your mother, sir?’

‘She wrote of day-to-day things: the family, the house. Asking if I’m eating properly, if I have enough clothes, can she send me anything.’

Simo smiled.

‘There was such an excess of trivialities that she clearly could not say what she really wished to. I don’t know what she imagined I did before but I would guess this talk of Cyrenaica has reached her. I suppose she must be very worried. She wrote that the great gods were watching over me; she wrote it three times, actually.’

‘Would you like me to take out your figurines, sir? We could display them in the room if we’re to be here a while.’

‘Yes, do that.’

Cassius looked out at the sea again. ‘Sometimes I wish I had carvings of my family instead. I have forgotten their faces, Simo.’ He turned back to the Gaul. ‘The Christian “kingdom”; your place of happiness – where everyone you love can be found and all is well?’

‘Sir?’

‘Mine is close, just across the water. And only two years away. Do you think I’ll get there?’

‘You deserve to, sir. I know that.’

With his usual immaculate timing, Indavara arrived just as dinner was being served: grilled bream with lemon, followed by apricots in syrup.

‘Nice place, this,’ said the bodyguard as he plundered the remains of Cassius’s dessert. A slimy apricot slipped out of his hand and dropped into the bread basket.

Cassius shook his head as he watched Indavara pluck it out and slurp it down. He gestured at the basket. ‘You’d better check that again – I think you missed a few crumbs.’

‘My first master could eat a lot,’ said Simo. ‘His sons too. But nothing compared to you.’

‘I take that as a compliment,’ said Indavara.