"At least as far as hunting leave," the proconsul agreed more jovially. I felt he quite enjoyed having kicked out the young Quinctius, even though it could only be temporary. "Luckily, the office runs itself."

I had seen offices that allegedly ran themselves. Usually that meant they were kept steady by one wizened Thracian slave who knew everything that had happened for the past fifty years. Fine—until the day he had his fatal heart attack.

Hunting leave is an ambiguous concept. Young officers in the provinces expect a certain amount of free time for slaying wild animals. This is normally granted as a reward for hard work. But it is also a well-known method for a pernickety governor to rid himself of a dud until such time as Rome sends out some other dewy-eyed hopeful—or until he himself is recalled.

"Where can we contact you?" asked the great man. He was already shedding his toga again.

"I'm staying on the Camillus Verus estate. I expect you remember his son Aelianus?" The proconsul signaled assent, while avoiding comment. "The senator's daughter is here at present too.

"With her husband?"

"Helena Justina is divorced—widowed too." I could see him noting that he would have to meet her socially, so to avoid the agony I added, "The noble Helena is expecting a child shortly."

He gave me a sharp look; I made no response. Sometimes I tell them the situation and stare them out. Sometimes I say nothing and let someone else gossip.

I knew, since I had picked it open and read it, that my letter of introduction from Laeta—as yet unopened on the proconsul's side table—gave a succinct description of our relationship. He described the senator's daughter as a quiet, unassuming girl (a lie which diplomatically acknowledged that her papa was a friend of the Emperor). I won't say what he called me, but had I not been an informer it would have been libelous.

TWENTY-THREE

 

The flock of scribes scattered like sparrows as I emerged. I winked. They blushed. I screwed out of them directions to the quaestor's office, noting that my request seemed to cause a slight atmosphere.

I was greeted by the inevitable ancient slave who organized documents in the quaestor's den. He was a black scribe from Hadrumetum. His will to subvert was as determined as that of the smoothest oriental secretary in Rome. He looked hostile when I asked to see the report Cornelius sent to Anacrites.

"You'll remember inscribing it." I made it clear I understood how delicate the subject matter had been. "There will have been a lot of fuss and redrafting; it was going to Rome, and also the material was sensitive locally."

The inscrutable look on the African's face faded slightly. "I can't release documents without asking the quaestor."

"Well, I know Cornelius was the authority on this. I expect the new fellow has had a handover, but the governor told me he hasn't been granted his full authority yet." The scribe said nothing.

"He came in to meet the proconsul, didn't he? How do you find him?" I risked. "Very pleasant."

"You're lucky then! A baby-faced brand-new senator, working abroad, and virtually unsupervised? You could easily get one who was arrogant and boorish—"

The slave still did not take the bait. "You must ask the quaestor."

"But he's not available, is he? The proconsul explained about your new policy in Baetica of screwing poll tax out of wild boars! His honor said if you had taken a copy of the letter you should show me that."

"Oh I took a copy! I always do."

Relieved of responsibility by the proconsul's authority (invented by me, as he may well have guessed), the quaestor's scribe at once started to hunt for the right scroll.

"Tell me, what's the word locally on why Anacrites first took an interest?" The scribe paused in his search. "He's the Chief Spy," I acknowledged frankly. "I work with him from time to time." I did not reveal that he was now lying insensible in the Praetorian Camp. Or already ashes in a cinerary urn.

My dour companion accepted that he was talking to a fellow professional. "Anacrites had had a tip from somebody in the province. He did not tell us who. It could have been malicious."

"It was anonymous?" He inclined his head slightly. "While you're finding the report Cornelius wrote I'd be grateful for sight of the original inquiry from Anacrites too."

"I was getting it. They should be linked together..." Now the scribe was sounding abstracted. He was already looking worried, and I felt apprehensive. I watched him once more search the round containers of scrolls. I believed he knew his way around the documents. And when he found that the correspondence was missing, his distress seemed genuine.

I was starting to worry. When documents go missing there can be three causes: simple inefficiency; security measures taken without a secretariat's knowledge; or theft. Inefficiency is rife, but rarer when the document is highly confidential. Security measures are never as good as anyone pretends; any secretary worth his position will tell you where the scroll is really stowed. Theft meant that somebody with access to officialdom knew that I was coming out here, knew why, and was removing evidence.

I could not believe it was the new quaestor. That seemed too obvious. "When Quinctius Quadratus was here, did you leave him alone in the office?"

"He just looked around from the doorway then rushed off to be introduced to the governor."

"Does anyone else have access?"

"There's a guard. When I go out I lock the door." A determined thief could find a way in. It might not even take a professional; palaces are always rife with people who look as if they have the right of entry, whether they do or not.

When I calmed the scribe down I said quietly, "The answers I want are known by your previous quaestor, Cornelius. Can I contact him? Has he left Baetica?"

"His term ended; he's going back to Rome—but first he's traveling. He's gone east on a tour. A benefactor offered him a chance to see the world before he settles down."

"That could take some time! Well if the junketer's unavailable, what can you remember from the scrolls that are lost?"

"The inquiry from Anacrites said hardly anything. The messenger who brought it probably talked to the proconsul and the quaestor." He was a scribe. He disapproved. He liked things safely written down.

"Tell me about Cornelius."

The scribe looked prim. "The proconsul had every confidence in him."

"Lots of hunting leave, eh?"

Now he looked puzzled. "He was a hardworking young man."

"Ah!"

"Cornelius was very worried," the scribe continued doggedly. "He discussed things with the proconsul, though not with me."

"Was that usual?"

"It was all so sensitive."

"He dictated the report to you though. What did it say?"

"Cornelius had concluded that people might want to inflate the price of olive oil."

"More than general overcharging?"

"Much more."

"Systematic fixing?"

"Yes."

"Did he name names?"

"No."

"Still, he thought that if action was taken quickly the cartel could be nipped in the bud?"

"Did he?" asked the scribe.

"It is a customary phrase. I was told that was his verdict."

"People are always repeating wrong statements that are supposed to be in reports," said the scribe, as if the very untidiness of the habit upset him. Something else was annoying me: Camillus Aelianus had apparently lied to me about this point.

"So Cornelius felt the situation was serious? Who was supposed to act on it?"

"Rome. Or Rome would order action by us—but they preferred to send their own investigator. Isn't what why you are here?"

I smiled—though the fact was, with Anacrites out of it and Laeta so untrustworthy, I had no idea.