Caveat emptor

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 strong room below the shrine.

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 strong room and the entrances. At night everything was locked up and two men remained on patrol while two others slept at the top of the strong room 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 money changer’s office was chiefly notable for the guards standing on either side of the entrance. They were not as smartly turned out as Dias’s 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 coins that go into the strong room,” 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 coins 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 money changer’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 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.