Ruso and the River of Darkness

by R. S. Downie

  Nico turned out to be not some humble clerk as he had supposed, but the Finance Officer of Verulamium, with an office outside what must be the underground strongroom.

  Nico did not seem to be happy in his work. Long after the door marked ‘QUAESTOR’ in spindly red letters was closed, the little man was still scuttling about putting away documents and muttering to himself, occasionally glancing at the new problem that was standing before him in the shape of Ruso and repeating, ‘Yes, yes,’ in answer to a question Ruso could only imagine. His voice was small, his movements quick and light, and his eyes seemed to be permanently on the lookout for predators.

  Ruso helped himself to a folding stool. He sat very still, deciding it must be the recent strain of losing the money that had reduced the man to this state. It was hard to imagine what kind of outfit would put a mouse in charge of large sums of cash.

  Eventually Nico had cleared away everything except an abacus, which he placed on the windowsill, retrieved, set on the desk beside his inkstand and then retrieved yet again. Finally he stood between window and desk, clutching it and looking lost. Ruso reached across, took it from him and put it back on the windowsill. Then he said as gently as he could, ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll see what I can do to help?’

  After a final check round for danger, Nico settled behind his desk and began to nibble the top of his thumb. Ruso explained why he was here, not because he thought the man was listening but in the hope that it might calm him down. When he moved on to explain that he didn’t know how a Quaestor’s office worked and he needed someone to explain it to him, Nico’s eyes brightened.

  As Ruso had suspected, once the man started talking there was no stopping him. This was largely because every statement of fact had to be followed by a partial retraction and several long qualifications to cover differing circumstances, a pause for consultation as Ruso was asked to confirm whether that was his interpretation of the law also, and then a conjunction consisting of either ‘Oh dear, where was I?’ or ‘Now what else is there?’ and occasionally an alarming ‘But I’ll tell you about that later on. Don’t let me forget.’ No wonder he had so much work to do here that he barely found the time to attend Council meetings.

  It was a far cry from Firmus’ fantasy of an exciting investigation. Ruso wished he had brought Albanus, who might have understood some of this. Albanus took an arcane pleasure in the workings of officialdom. He made a genuine effort to listen but found his mind wandering off to the key question of whether or not Asper and Bericus had taken the money with them. Given the complexity of the system Nico was explaining, it was clear that the Council kept thorough records. That meant there was one thing about this business that could be easily proved or disproved. The tax money was either under guard in the strongroom (he had listened that far) or it wasn’t. Once he had established that fact, he could tether his theories to it while he tried to untangle them.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he said when Nico seemed to have come to an end.

  ‘Really?’ Nico looked nervous again, as if he was afraid his visitor was being sarcastic.

  ‘Really,’ said Ruso, and meant it. ‘You’ve obviously got a thorough grip on the job. Now if you could just show me the strongroom records for the day Asper disappeared …’

  Nico hurried straight to the relevant box, drew out an exceptionally long writing-tablet and flipped it open. Ruso suspected he had been staring at it in despair for much of the last few days. The black squiggle at the bottom apparently showed that the money had been signed out. ‘There’s a parallel record in Asper’s office,’ Nico volunteered before Ruso thought to ask.

  ‘You’ve got his records too?’

  Nico looked worried again as he explained how the Council had arranged for Asper’s home to be searched and his office to be broken into. ‘Just in case he hadn’t taken the money with him.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he take it with him?’ queried Ruso, guessing they had really been hoping Asper had enough money stashed away somewhere to replace what was missing.

  Nico looked out of the window and round the room, as if he was expecting to find the answer written up somewhere on the wall.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he take it with him?’ Ruso tried again.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nico confessed.

  ‘Perhaps he was going somewhere else? Did he mention visiting anyone?’

  ‘Oh no sir, he was definitely going to Londinium.’

  ‘I expect it made sense at the time,’ Ruso suggested, recalling the extremes he and the apprentices had gone to during their desperate hunt for the missing letter. ‘I’ll be checking his office myself. Did he say anything about his security guards?’

  Nico’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I don’t know about visits and guards. I only know about money.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure the money went out?’

  ‘Oh yes! I was there.’ He seemed relieved to have an easy question at last.

  ‘What time of day was it?’

  ‘In the morning.’

  ‘But he didn’t leave town until the afternoon.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ muttered Nico. ‘Oh dear, oh dear …’

  ‘That’s not your fault,’ Ruso assured him. ‘Who would have known that he had it?’

  This seemed to be something the Quaestor had not considered. ‘Well – anybody could have seen, I suppose. The hall’s usually busy in the mornings.’ Unprompted, he continued, ‘We had the guards put a watch on the gates. They called in reserves and sent all their best men out to look. We made a sacrifice to Jupiter and we offered a raven to Sucellus, and still nothing –’

  ‘I heard it was a dog,’ said Ruso, ‘but I’m sure he liked it, whatever it was. Is there any way we could identify the money if it’s found? Anything distinctive about it?’ It was something he might never have thought of, had Tilla not been given the stolen money that had somehow drawn her into Metellus’ web. When Nico still did not answer he rephrased the question. ‘Is there any way we can tell your money from anybody else’s?’

  ‘Oh no!’ The Quaestor shook his head, as if ‘No’ were not a clear enough answer. ‘No, no. It’s just ordinary money. Mostly silver.’ He paused. ‘You could talk to our moneychanger. He labels all the bags.’

  Ruso, who could think of nothing else to ask, thanked him and got up to leave. He was almost out of the door when Nico blurted out, ‘Nothing like this has ever happened before! What will the Procurator say?’

  Ruso said truthfully, ‘I can’t tell you.’

  46

  Apparently the Council clerk had the key to Asper’s office on his belt, and he was still trapped over in the Council meeting. Ruso decided to check the strongroom.

  The guards stationed at the top of the descending flight of stone steps snapped to attention as he approached. Glancing down at the iron-studded door, Ruso ordered the men to stand easy. They seemed to like being addressed as soldiers. They liked it even more when he showed an interest in their duties, answering all his questions in passable Latin with the eagerness of the underappreciated. They told him there was an eight-man rota for guard duty in the hall, alternating between the strongroom and the entrances. At night everywhere was locked up, and two men remained on patrol while two others slept at the top of the strongroom steps. ‘Four hours on, four hours off, sir.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Ruso, as if he were a visiting dignitary come to inspect them.

  He was informed with pride that this was a top job, which he understood to mean that it was under cover and involved very little effort. He restrained an urge to warn them about the dangers of varicose veins and bad feet from standing around all day. ‘And if I want to get in?’

  They seemed genuinely sorry they were not able to oblige. ‘Nobody allowed in without the Quaestor, sir. And him not on his own.’

  ‘That applies to everyone? Even the tax-collector?’

  ‘Especially him, sir. If we knew what he was doing we would have kept him out.’

  Ruso said,
‘You were on duty when he took the money?’

  ‘He was with the Quaestor, sir.’ The tone was defensive, as if they were afraid he was accusing them of negligence.

  ‘Was there anything unusual about him that day?’ asked Ruso, noticing Nico emerge from his office and scurry across the hall to the exit. ‘Anything he said or did?’

  The guards thought about it. Finally one of them said, ‘It is not our job to notice what our betters do, sir.’

  ‘So you just saw him take the money out as usual?’

  ‘It’s not our fault, sir!’ put in the other one, suddenly anxious.

  ‘No,’ agreed Ruso, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t.’ It was hard to imagine them being bright enough to steal anything.

  The sign said ‘Satto, official money exchange’, and there were crude paintings of coins, but the moneychanger’s office was chiefly notable for the guards standing on either side of the entrance. They were not as smartly turned out as Dias’ men, but the studded clubs and steely stares suggested that they would be happy to respond to any complaints.

  Satto was a small wiry man of about forty. He was seated between a hefty oak chest and a counter substantial enough to hold a considerable weight in cash without rocking his weighing-scales. He responded to Ruso’s request for a private conversation by gesturing to his guards to wait outside. Ruso ordered his own men to join them.

  When they were alone, Satto reached behind him for a folding stool. Ruso opened it, guessing that most of Satto’s clients had to stand and wait while he decided what rate he was prepared to offer them. ‘I’m investigating the theft of the tax money.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘I’m told you might be able to show me how to identify it.’

  Satto extended one bony hand across the counter. On his little finger was an oversized bronze ring with a red stone. As he rocked his fist from side to side, the light from the window caught the dip of what looked like a tiny human figure engraved into the stone. ‘I inspect all the coin that goes into the strongroom,’ he said. ‘If it’s still bagged, my tag should be on it with the date and that seal.’

  Ruso tried to picture the little figure in reverse, stamped into wax. ‘I’d imagine it’s been rebagged by now.’

  Satto withdrew the hand. ‘Unless it’s been stolen by someone very stupid.’

  ‘What do you think a thief would do with it?’

  Satto pondered that for a moment. ‘He could trickle it out slowly, or go somewhere nobody knows him – but arriving with a lot of coin would make him noticed. I would melt it down. It would be worth less, but much easier to hide.’

  ‘How would it be worth less? It’s still silver.’

  He caught the surprise on the moneychanger’s face and guessed that a real Procurator’s man would have known the answer to that. He said, ‘I’ve only just been transferred to the Procurator’s office.’

  ‘So I see.’ Satto leaned back, lifted the lid on the trunk and groped about inside. ‘You’ll find that money is very rarely what it seems, investigator.’ He produced a little wooden box, pushed it towards Ruso and lifted the lid to reveal three small silver coins. ‘Take a look. They’re all the same.’

  Ruso held one towards the light, peering at the profile of an Emperor and the worn inscription around the perimeter.

  ‘You won’t see many of these.’

  ‘Are they fake?’

  ‘No.’

  The worn lettering was largely illegible, but something about the fat cheeks and the bouffant hairstyle was familiar. ‘Nero?’

  ‘The Emperor known as Nero,’ Satto confirmed. ‘You won’t see many of them, because coin is not what it once was.’

  ‘No?’ Ruso flipped it over in his palm. It looked much like any other denarius to him. The sort that arrived in his possession in depressingly small quantities and usually left very shortly afterwards.

  ‘Around about the time of the great disaster,’ explained Satto, presumably referring to Boudica rather than Vesuvius, ‘the Emperor Nero gave orders to have the amount of silver in the coinage reduced. There’s more silver in one of these than in anything they’re minting today.’

  Ruso thought about that for a moment. He had never before considered that a denarius might be anything other than – well, than a denarius. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if I melted down ten of these, and I melted down ten modern ones, what I ended up with from these would be worth more?’

  ‘Exactly. Although not as much as they’re worth as coins.’

  ‘So if somebody brings you one of these and wants change, do you give them more for it?’

  ‘As I said, I rarely see one. Except perhaps when somebody’s turning out some old savings.’

  It was a neat avoidance of the question. Ruso said, ‘And do they always know what they’ve got?’

  ‘Not until I tell them.’ Lest Ruso should not believe him, he added, ‘Don’t listen to what people say about us, investigator. Most of us are honest men. You may not recall that the Emperor Galba once had a false moneychanger’s hands cut off and nailed to his counter, but you’ll understand why we find it …’ He paused, as if searching for a word. ‘An inspiration.’

  Ruso said, ‘I’ll check my cash more closely in future.’

  Satto retrieved his treasure, glancing at it before he lowered the lid as if to make sure that Ruso had not performed some cunning sleight of hand and exchanged his valuable antique for some worthless modern bauble. ‘Not everything with Nero’s head on it is worth more. You have to know which is which.’

  It was clear that there was more to coin exchange than Ruso had realized. It was not, after all, simply a matter of raking off a percentage of the bronze people used to buy bread as a reward for giving them the silver or gold they needed to pay their taxes. ‘So would there be any of these coins in the tax money?’

  ‘Only if I was having a bad day when I checked it,’ said Satto. ‘It should be all modern.’

  Ruso returned to the main hall deep in thought. There was no doubt that many things weren’t what they used to be, but he had always assumed that silver was silver and that a coin was worth what it said, no matter how old it was. Yet now it seemed that silver was not really silver despite bearing the Emperor’s name and the stamp of the official mint. Passing beneath the plaque over the main entrance, he was reminded that Domitian had really been a murdering bastard despite all the toadying inscriptions that had been erected during his lifetime. You couldn’t trust a word you read.

  He was beginning to think Tilla’s ancestors, obstinately illiterate and coinless, might have had a point.

  47

  The Council session had just broken up when Ruso returned to the chamber. Several toga-clad figures were striding towards the doors. Others were clustered together in groups. The urgency of conversation and the way the groups were eyeing each other suggested that the meeting had ended in disagreement. One or two men approached Ruso to thank him, but nobody offered any new information. The clerk gathered up a collection of scrolls and hurried away with his head down, as if he was hoping to escape without being noticed.

  Caratius abandoned what appeared to be an argument, raised his hand to acknowledge Ruso’s presence and advanced towards him. Immediately Gallonius broke away from another group on the far side of the hall, gathered up fistfuls of toga and set off in the same direction. For a moment it looked like a race down the chamber, with Ruso as the finishing post.

  Caratius got there first and opened his mouth only to be drowned out by Gallonius with, ‘Sorry about the lively debate earlier.’

  ‘Outrageous!’ put in Caratius. ‘No respect. Can’t even let a guest speak without interrupting. This place is a disgrace. I’m sorry, investigator. You and I are trying to find out why men lie murdered and money is missing, and these people are interested in nothing but petty squabbles about who’s allowed to be seen where.’

  ‘Since it turns out Asper wasn’t the thief my fellow Magistrate has been making him out to be,’ said Galloniu
s to Ruso, ‘it’s just as well some of us went to pay our respects.’

  ‘An action for which you did not have the Council’s approval,’ said Caratius.

  Gallonius turned on him. ‘The Quaestor and I went to the funeral as private individuals. It’s not at all the same thing as illegally representing the Council to the Procurator, as you well know.’

  Caratius looked as though he was considering punching his fellow Magistrate, then managed to get himself under control. ‘The investigator isn’t here to waste his time on this kind of nonsense,’ he said. ‘I know what kind of game this is, Ruso, I’m counting on you to find out the truth. If not, I shall appeal to the Governor. One way or another, I will have justice!’ He turned to Gallonius. ‘In the meantime I suggest you stop talking nonsense and concentrate on finding something useful to tell him.’

  Ruso watched the tall, straight-backed figure march out of the chamber, grey hair flowing over the folds of the toga. He had to admit it was an impressive exit.

  When his rival was gone Gallonius took Ruso by the elbow as if he were an old friend. He steered him into an alcove and gestured him towards one elaborately carved chair while squeezing himself into the other. ‘Sorry about that, investigator. It’s been a difficult morning. Do sit down.’

  Ruso sat. It was almost as uncomfortable as Valens’ couch.

  ‘Would you believe the man refused to resign?’ continued Gallonius, ‘even though the brother’s body turned up on his land.’

  ‘He says he knows nothing about it.’

  ‘Of course. But it doesn’t look good, does it?’ Gallonius’ expression suggested it was not especially bad either.

  Ruso wondered if Caratius’ enemies on the Council had retained Asper’s services out of spite.

  ‘On behalf of the town, I apologize for the way he came bothering the Procurator. It’s beginning to look as though we should have dealt with this ourselves.’

  Ruso’s insistence that there was no need to apologize was brushed aside with a wave of the hand. ‘He’s always been a difficult man. Doesn’t listen. Rushes in without thinking. We’ve tried to get rid of him before on the grounds that he doesn’t live in the town, but until now he’s always managed to wriggle round it. This morning we’ve finally done it.’