“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 toward Ruso, and lifted the lid to reveal three small silver coins. “Take a look. They’re all the same.”
Ruso held one toward 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 coins are not what they once were.”
“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 afterward.
“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 money changer’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 the 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 center of the Great 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 toward the doors. Others were clustered in groups. The urgency of conversation and the way the groups were eyeing one another 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 toward 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 Gallonius 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, gray 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 toward 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’s 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’s expression suggested it was not especially bad, either.
Ruso wondered if Caratius’s 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.”
“But I haven’t finished my-”
“Oh, nothing to do with the theft and the murders, even though everyone can see what happened there. No, we’ve finally nailed him on a technicality.” The chair squealed in protest as Gallonius leaned back. “Caratius took money for overseeing drainage repairs outside the meat market eighteen months ago. The work’s not finished, I’m still getting flooding into my property, and the money’s not accounted for.” He lifted a pudgy finger toward one of the brass plaques on the far side of the Hall. “It’s clearly laid out in the Constitution. Tablet six, halfway down, The Sending Of Ambassadors. No man who has not accounted for public funds-you know the sort of thing.”
Ruso neither knew nor cared, but he was wondering whether Caratius was in the sort of financial trouble that would tempt him to steal the town’s money.
