“Gallus Crispus, praetor of Philippi,” the slave almost shouted, although they were the only three in the room.
Quin approached, bowed, and repeated his name. He held out the scroll given to him by Vespasian.
Gallus took it silently and read the parchment. “I see Vespasian is making good use of his fame. It really is not his place to be handing out land here.” He tossed the parchment to his slave.
Quin looked down on the duovir, a full head shorter. “Apparently the emperor disagrees.” He quirked a brow. “Look toward the bottom.”
Gallus retrieved the scroll and unrolled it again, glanced at the last line. Glared at Quin. Handed it back.
“I’ll need that back.” Quin held out his hand.
“It needs to be filed here in the clerk’s office.”
Quin flinched at the thought of his proof of ownership leaving his hands, but he had no choice. The duovir said leave it, and he must obey.
Gallus’s hard stare moved from Quin’s head to his toes, then he turned on his heel and left the room.
The slave stepped forward. His face was round and open, his smile bright. “I’m Leonidas. The scriba is not here at the moment, but if you return in the morning, he can take you to your land.”
“Thank you. Your kind words are welcome at the end of a long day.” Quin extended his hand, and Leonidas grasped it. “Is there somewhere I can spend the night?”
He pointed west. “Go east to the last street, Via Augusta, and you should find several inns where you can stay for the night.”
“Leonidas. Greek?”
He nodded. “From Athens.”
“My servant was from Athens.”
“Did he come with you?”
Attalos’s face flitted through Quin’s mind. “He had to remain with my pater.”
“He seems to have meant a great deal to you.”
Quin nodded. The man couldn’t begin to know how much.
Back in the carriage and halfway to the far end of Philippi, Quin chuckled. Gallus Crispus couldn’t be yet thirty. How had he managed to be elected duovir? Either he—or his pater, or both—must have some very influential friends. Hopefully Jupiter provided an experienced magistrate for the other duovir.
No matter. Not his problem. He was retired.
Near the western edge of the city, they turned north on a smaller road where houses and inns abounded. He needed only one of them to have an empty room for the night. A sign on the door of one of the cleaner, taller buildings proclaimed a vacancy, and the carriage pulled to a halt.
Quin alighted. “How much?”
“Twenty-five denarii.”
He handed over the silver coins. After pulling his bag from the raeda, he rapped on the door.
A young girl answered.
“I’m looking for a room for the night.”
Without a word, she disappeared.
An older man, short, bow-legged, but with bright eyes, came to the door. “Enter, please. We are honored with your presence.” He bowed. “My daughter will show you to your room, where you may rest before our evening meal.” He gestured to the quiet girl who had escaped earlier.
“That will be most appreciated.”
“Servants will be up momentarily with hot water and towels.”
She led him to an upstairs room that overlooked the forum. A large bed with a wool-stuffed mattress and a table with an oil lamp were its only furnishings, but it was clean and filled with sunlight. And Quin was tired and hungry.
The owner and his daughter were kind enough, but tomorrow he would have his own land, presumably with his own house.
Only one thought bothered him: the fact that he had left his deed in the hands of a boy who pretended to be a duovir.
But others had seen him with the scroll. What harm could the young, inexperienced magistrate of such a small colony do to him?
7
“Anyone who withholds kindness from a friend
forsakes the fear of the Almighty.”
Job 6:14
In the dark of night, Gallus formed a plan. One that would bring him the coin he so desperately needed and get that troublesome tribune out of his way at the same time. It was bold, risky even, but he didn’t get to be magistrate at this age by being overly cautious. And if his plan failed . . . nothing much would be lost.
The position of duovir afforded him great honor, considerable power. But he wanted more. And next year was his best opportunity to grab nearly unlimited control of Philippi.
Every five years the duoviri managed the census, which allowed them to choose which new citizens would be enrolled, who remained in the senate—and who left. Only one hundred men could be members of the ordo, so if some had to go to allow new blood . . . well, that was a price some would have to pay so the right men—the men Gallus had in mind—would be in place.
But in the meantime his position was costing him more of his personal fortune than he had planned. Decimus had tried to warn him, but that old man blathered on and on about so many things that Gallus didn’t listen most of the time. His first day in office he was required to contribute 10,0000 sesterces to the treasury. Then there were the compulsory public festivals, sponsored by him, of course . . . the list was endless. His private funds needed replenishing.
He stopped by the records office on the way to the basilica. “Helios.”
Standing before a shelf piled full of rolled parchments, his scribe turned to face him, thinning gray hair sticking out in all directions. “Yes, Domine?”
“The tribune from yesterday. Where is his scroll from Vespasian? My slave delivered it earlier?”
“On this shelf.”
“Bring it to me.”
The lanky clerk drew his fingers along a row of parchments, stopping at one. He slid it from its space and offered it to Gallus.
Pursing his lips, he inspected the grant, reading it once, twice. “Where is the land? Show me.”
Helios led him to a large map inscribed on leather attached to the wall. “May I see the grant again?”
Gallus held up the unrolled parchment, pointing to the section delineating the land.
Helios moved his long, thin fingers over the map. “That would be here.” He pointed to a plot of land outside the city’s walls.
“A very nice size. An excellent location. And why was it available?”
“I’d have to look.” He returned to his wall and immediately retrieved the proper document. How the man could possibly know which was which from all those rolled up lengths of parchment was beyond Gallus. They all looked identical from where he stood.
Helios unrolled the scroll, his eyes scanning quickly, his lips moving silently. “This portion—a double portion—was originally assigned to Centurion Massala. His son inherited it, and his grandson recently died without an heir. It was then returned to the Empire.”
“Have you taken Quintus to his land?”
“No, I had closed for the night.”
Gallus paced a few moments, tapping his chin with the rolled scroll. “Here are your instructions. When he returns today, you will tell him you have no memory or record of ever receiving this document. If he has any questions, you will send him to me. Is this clear?”
Helios blinked several times. “But—”
Gallus raised his chin and stepped closer to the clerk. “In my opinion, which is, of course, the only opinion that matters in this room, this is an illegal grant. Legate Vespasian has no right to transfer land in Philippi without my consent, and I do not give my consent. So the transfer will not take place.”
“But it carries the emperor’s signature . . .”
Gallus leaned nearer. “Are you going to continue to question everything I say?”
“N-no, but I took an oath . . .”
“You also swore to obey me.”
“Yes, Domine.” The scriba fidgeted with his cloth belt.
“So, if you want to keep your highly paid and esteemed position and serve as my scriba next yea
r when I am magistrate during the census—and there will be many, many documents that will need to be formalized for the new members of the ordo—then you will do as I say.” He smiled and shrugged. “Or you can be sent to one of the lesser provinces.”
Helios studied his sandals. “Yes, Domine.”
“And you will not speak about any of this to anyone.”
Helios nodded.
“Is there anything unclear about that?”
Shoulders slouched, he raised his head. “No, Domine.”
“Good then.” Gallus strode out, the scroll in his fist.
In his own more spacious office, he dropped onto a lectus and unrolled the parchment again. This land was immensely valuable. He’d need to be very careful if he wanted to turn it from farmland to coin without raising suspicion. Later today when Quintus came back to register his grant, he would be told there was no such grant. Never had been. He would, of course, tell everyone.
Let him talk. Who would people believe? Their popular duovir, or a recently arrived, dismissed soldier?
Gallus would need to wait to put enough space between Quintus’s arrival and the sale, so the two couldn’t be connected. He would need to find someone to act in his name, and preferably sell the land to a buyer from outside Philippi in order to gain the highest price. There were always businessmen who were less than particular about the minutia of the laws when it came to profit and who would gladly help him complete the transaction.
Only he and Helios knew which parcel belonged to the newcomer. As long as the scriba kept his mouth closed, there shouldn’t be any problems. And with so many opportunities for authorizing private transactions coming to the clerk every week, at a hefty fee he was allowed to keep to himself, he had every motivation to keep his position.
No, Helios should not be a problem at all.
And if he insisted on letting his conscience get the better of him, Gallus could take care of him the same way he’d taken care of other obstacles in the past. He’d really hoped he was past such extreme measures, but nothing would stop him from following his plan, and gaining all the power he deserved.
The sun beat warm on Quin’s shoulders as he took the steps down to the stoa that ran along Commercial Road. Shrill voices competed with neighing horses and rumbling oxcarts. Smells of meat and fruit and perfume collided in a somehow not unpleasant mixture, perhaps due to the strict separation and placement of various categories of goods.
Perhaps the young magistrate had some good ideas.
The merchants of household items occupied the stalls toward the west. Anything you could possibly want for your home, or your body, could be found here—pottery and cookware, gold and silver jewelry, rugs and blankets. If it wasn’t there yet, from the basic and mundane to the unnecessary and opulent, someone could get it, and then sell it at a greatly inflated price.
Food was sold in the shops to the east. Fruit, vegetables, wine, and prepared foods were all available. From ground wheat to fresh bread, grapes to wine, newly slaughtered animal to roasted meat, it was all available.
Quin ambled past the shops. As in any market, the best items could be seen early in the morning. The best prices could be had late at night, but selection was worse.
“What can I get for you, Tribune?” An old man, chubby and balding, dipped his head in an exaggerated bow, his hands clasped together in front of his chest.
“Where do your rugs come from?”
“All the way from Persia. They are the finest in all the Empire.”
“May I see them?”
“Of course.”
Quin stepped around the man to finger the rugs piled high on a rickety table. These rugs couldn’t possibly have come from Persia. Anatolia, maybe.
“How many can I sell you today?” The man bowed again.
“None today, thank you.”
“Not even one? You must have at least one. At a Roman’s price, of course.”
“I don’t even have a house yet to put it in. Perhaps another day.” Perhaps never.
“I shall await your return.” The man bowed again.
Quin moved on, chatting with the merchants and trying to ascertain the quality of the goods. By the time he reached the end, he noticed activity around the records office. After climbing the stairs to the forum level, he strode to the scriba’s office and peeked in.
Leonidas stood near a table talking to a wiry man about his same height.
Quin rapped on the doorframe.
The man turned, and Leonidas smiled and moved to the door. “Tribune Valerius, you found us. It’s good to see you. May I introduce you to Helios?”
Helios smiled weakly, shuttling rolled parchment. “Of course. I just need to adjust some records—”
A burly, hairy man barged in the door, shoving Quin as he passed. His fox skin hat and patterned load marked him as a Thracian. He pressed himself to Helios’s table and leaned over it, resting on his fists.
“I just went to my stall, the one I gave good coin, lots of coin for, but someone else is there. Explain that to me!”
Helios stood straight, backed up a step. “I assure you, no one is in your stall. I would not allow it.”
“Would you like to come see?” He lunged forward.
Quin stepped closer, his hand resting atop the pugio hanging from his belt.
The Thracian threw him a side-glance and moved back.
Helios unrolled a parchment with a meticulously drawn layout of Commercial Road complete with individual stalls. “Show me where you think your stall is.”
He shoved a fat dirty finger at a spot on the map.
“And there is the problem. You are here.”
“I am not!” He roared at the scriba.
“You most certainly are. All food vendors are here. Together, and downwind of everyone else.”
“But I paid dearly for this spot.” He pointed at the other spot again.
Helios pulled out another parchment. “This is your contract. Here is the spot number, and here is the price you paid. Agreed?”
He nodded warily.
“This spot”—Helios pointed at the one the man wanted—“costs triple that.”
The larger man slammed his open hand on the table and growled. Quin grasped his blade, but the Thracian left without moving toward Helios again.
“That happen a lot?” Quin pointed to the door where the man had just exited.
“Once a week or so.” He pointed at the stack of contracts. “I keep excellent records.”
He grinned. “I’m sure you do.”
“Now, how can I help you?” Helios quietly placed the contract into its proper place and rolled up the map, stowing it on a rack along the back wall.
“I arrived yesterday with a grant from Vespasian. The duovir took the grant from me and said you could show me to my land this morning.”
“I have received no such grant.” The scribe busied himself with arranging the scrolls on the shelf.
“But I left it with Leonidas.” He looked to the Greek beside him.
“He did, and I brought it here.” He shrugged.
Quin closed his eyes. His chest ached. What had happened?
“That scroll has to be here. Look again.” He controlled his breathing, a skill learned from years in battle.
“I know every scroll on every shelf in this room. It. Is. Not. Here. If you have any questions, I suggest you visit the duovir.” Helios walked to the door and opened it, refusing to meet Quin’s eyes. “Now, please leave. I have a great deal to do.”
Quin exited, as stunned as the day he had awakened bloodied on the ground in Britannia.
Leonidas came beside him. “Something’s not right here.”
“My land has been stolen from me. That’s what’s not right.”
“Do you wish to see the magistrate?” Leonidas tilted his head in the direction of the basilica.
It probably wouldn’t get him his land, but he might be able to gather something from what he said. Or didn’t say. �
��Please.”
They moved next door to the magistrate’s office and rapped on the door. A servant let them in.
Gallus reclined on a lectus, a servant waiting nearby with a platter of sliced fruit and fresh bread. “Tribune, what brings you here?”
“You know exactly why I am here. You and I and Leonidas all know I had a grant from Vespasian yesterday that has somehow disappeared. Why?”
“This is my city. Not Vespasian’s. And I want you, and Rome, and Vespasian to know it.” Gallus popped a grape in his mouth.
His blood heated, but he would not show his anger. “Then you did steal my land?”
“It’s not your land. Never was. Never will be. Now get out.”
Rage coursed through him like one of Britannia’s wild rivers. This . . . child . . . had just admitted to fraud, theft, who knew how many other crimes—and he would get away with it. Because he was the law here. The final authority.
It took all his training to keep from unsheathing his pugio and driving it deep into this man’s chest. Or better, wrapping his bare hands around Gallus’s scrawny neck until that smug smile disappeared with his last breath.
On the vast portico outside the office, Quin shook his head. How could this happen?
Fortuna mocked him, smiling down on him. He would find no luck in Philippi.
Now what? He couldn’t go back to Rome. He couldn’t stay here.
He had no coin, no land, and no options.
8
“He who diligently seeks good seeks favor, but he who seeks evil, evil will come to him.”
Proverbs 11:27, NASB
Quintus lay on his sleeping couch in his rented room, staring at the ceiling. It had been two days since Gallus had told him his land was gone.
It was the deceit that bothered him most. In the army, disorder and disobedience were deadly and dealt with at once.
But deceit . . . first Flavius, now Gallus. When you can’t prove you’ve been wronged, what do you do?
Sold Into Freedom Page 7