for truffles. Owning a world monopoly was the aim. Luxuries only have to be scarce, not nice. Participants' enjoyment is in thinking they have something other people can't acquire or afford. As Vespasian said to Titus about their lucrative urine tax: don't mock the moolay, even if it stinks.
So here I was. Whether Justinus and I were truly galloping off towards endless chests of chinkies, I did doubt.
“Tell me, how did you set about finding this magical herb, Quintus?”
“Well, I had your sketch.”
“That was wrong, I gather. According to my mother I should have drawn you something more like giant fennel.”
“So what does fennel look like?” Justinus asked, apparently serious.
I watched him thoughtfully, as he forged eagerly ahead. He had a good seat on a horse. He had mastered Rome's least favorite mode of transport with the easy grace he applied to everything. Bareheaded, but with a length of cloth around his neck which he could wind over his dark hair when the sun grew stronger, he seemed to fit in here just as easily as I had seen him merge into Germany. His family had been mad to think they could tie him down to the numbing routine and pomposity of the Senate. He was too acute to stomach the low standards of debate. He would hate the hypocrisy. He enjoyed action too much to be penned into the eternal round of slow dinners among elderly bores with wine stains down their togas whom he was supposed to court, unworthy patrons who would be jealous of his talents and energy.
He looked back with that daredevil grin. “It was a missing plant hunt, Marcus Didius. I set about my mission the way you would pursue a missing person. I went to the scene, studied the ground, tried to win the confidence of the locals, and eventually started asking discreet questions: who saw the stuff last, what its habits were, why people thought it had disappeared, and so forth.”
“Don't tell me it's being ransomed by kidnappers.”
“No such luck. We could infiltrate and retrieve it then-”
“With missing persons, I always assume sex is involved somewhere.”
“I'm too young to know about that.”
“You're not so innocent!”
Perhaps sensing I was about to probe the issue with Claudia, the sly lad burbled, “Anyway, one aspect I had to deal with was that people might not welcome my enquiries.”
“I don't like the sound of this.”
“I can see two difficulties. One: if the story of the silphium being overgrazed by animals is true, whoever owns the greedy flocks will want to continue to pasture them unhindered. I was told the nomad herdsmen actually tore up silphium by the roots to get rid of it.”
“So they definitely won't be pleased to see us,” I agreed.
“Two: the land where this stuff grows is the hereditary property of the tribes who have always lived here. They may well resent strangers appearing and taking an interest. If the plant was to be exploited again, they might want to control it themselves.”
I coaxed my mount past a little bush that was filling him with foolish terror. “So you think that going after silphium might be quite dangerous?”
“Only if people see us looking, Marcus Didius.”
“You do know how to reassure me.”
“Suppose we really have found silphium again; people must realize what sort of investment it represents. The whole of the economy of Cyrene once depended on this. We will have to reach an accommodation with the landowners.”
“Or pinch a bit and grow it on land of our own.” I was thinking of Great-Uncle Scaro. Of course according to Ma, his experimental snippets all fell down and died. Also according to my mother, of course, the family member I most took after was my hopeless great-uncle.
“Could we cultivate silphium in Italy?” Justinus asked.
“It was tried. Many people had a go down the centuries-if they could lay hands on it, which the smart Cyrenians tried to prevent. A relative of mine attempted to take cuttings, without any luck. Seeds might work better, though we'd have to work out whether to plant them when they ripened up or in the green. Be prepared: the whole reason silphium was so rare was that it only grew in the particular conditions here. The prospects for transplanting it or cultivating it elsewhere are bleak.”
“I wouldn't mind acquiring land out here.” Justinus sounded more than pioneering; he had the grim air of a young man who was resolutely turning his back on all he knew.
“The problem with that, Quintus, is that even the locals don't have enough fertile soil to go around.” I had done some research. From the time of Tiberius, Roman efforts at administering this province had mainly consisted of sending our surveyors to adjudicate land disputes.
Justinus looked defiant. “Why don't you say, and anyway, I belong in Rome?”
“You have to decide for yourself where you belong.”
We flogged on past a few hundred more bushes, each one a source of discontent for the fragile horse I had hired. The only good thing about him was that he was easier to quiet than the agitated people I had cast myself among. If this horse had a tricky love life, he was bravely hiding it. Though when I tried to chivy him along, he ignored it just as stubbornly as everybody else did. Frankly, this was a trip where my funds of compassion were starting to run low.
The day we expected to arrive at the plant site was when things livened up unexpectedly. As we trotted along, trying to merge into the landscape to save us having to invent excuses for being there, shouts disturbed the peace. We ignored them, which led to a series of shrill whistles, then hoarse yells, and finally a thunder of hooves.
“Don't run.”
“Nowhere to run to.”
“What are we going to say?”
“I'll leave that to you, Marcus Didius.”
“Oh thanks.”
A group of five or six mounted locals surrounded us, jabbering loudly and waving their arms. They were brandishing long spears, which we eyed with diffidence. Obviously we were for it. We reined in, aiming to be helpful, since there was no alternative.
Communication was minimal. We tried Greek, then Latin. Justinus applied a friendly smile and even attempted Celtic; he knew enough of that to buy hot damson pies, seduce women, and halt wars-but it carried no weight here. Our captors became more angry. I grinned like a man who was confident that the Pax Romana had spread to every corner of all provinces, while I actually swore obscenely in several unpleasant tongues that I had learned at a low moment of my past career.
“What's up, do you think, Quintus?” I asked, leaning on my horse's neck and playing innocent.
“I don't know,” he murmured, this time through his teeth. “I just have an uncomfortable feeling these may be representatives of the warlike Garamantes!”
“Would those be the famous, very fierce Garamantes whose traditional recreation is to ride out of the desert looking for plunder? The ones who tend to kill anyone who crosses their path?”
“Yes, didn't we fight a war against them recently?”
“I think we did. Can you remember if we won?”
“I believe a commander called Festus chased them back into the desert, cut them off in a cunning manner, and gave them a smart thrashing.”
“Oh good for him. So if these stalwart fellows are some remnant of a raiding party who survived being slaughtered, they will know we are not to be trifled with?”
“Either that,” agreed my phlegmatic young companion, “or they are hot for revenge and we're in deep shit.”
We kept up the brilliant smiles.
We extended our repertoire by shrugging a lot, as if helpless to grasp what was wanted. That was pretty plain: we had to ride off with these excitable fellows the way they wanted us to go-and we had to do it immediately. Expecting to be robbed and thrown down a ravine, we let ourselves be nudged along with them. We were armed with swords, though they were in our packs, since we had not expected hairy entertainment. As the
