The Bull Slayer - By Bruce Macbain Page 0,21
never arrived that day.”
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do the next day when he didn’t arrive?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, what did you think?”
“That he was ill. The next day I inquired of his wife. Then I sent someone to your office.”
“To your knowledge has he ever disappeared like this before?”
“No.”
“Where do you think he might be?”
Silvanus’ eyes focused somewhere over Pliny’s right shoulder. The jaws went on working. “I don’t know.”
Pliny tried a different tack. “Tell me about yourself, Silvanus. Have you a family? Where do you live?”
The eyes momentarily met Pliny’s with a look of alarm. Am I being accused? “I live here. I have no family.”
“And you’ve been with Balbus a long time?”
“Eleven years. I was his slave at first. He emancipated me before a magistrate, all legal, I can prove it. I’m a Roman citizen.” The point was clear. You can’t torture me.
“What kind of administrator was he?”
“I’ve no complaints.”
“Right.” Pliny got swiftly to his feet. This was getting him nowhere. “Until Balbus reappears, if he does, I am assuming control of the treasury. Don’t bother asking if I have the authority. I do. Now, I want a thorough tour of the premises and a rundown of your procedures, omitting nothing. Lead the way.”
The jaws—just for a moment—stopped grinding.
Pliny had served a term as head of the Treasury of Saturn—the Roman State treasury—and knew what to look for. What he saw did not please him. The building, which had once housed the royal treasure of the kings of Bithynia, was a warren of cluttered rooms and crooked corridors built around a wide courtyard. One whole side of it was the counting room. Here were long tables at which sat public slaves. They should have been hunched over ledgers, calculating with their fingers. Instead, they sprawled idly on their benches, talking, throwing knucklebones. They barely looked up when Silvanus and Pliny entered. It seemed pointless to ask why no one was working.
“Take me to the vault,” Pliny commanded.
The chief accountant lifted a trap door that lay at one end of the counting room and they descended a flight of stone steps that ended at an oaken door, secured by a massive bronze padlock. Silvanus produced the key from a wallet that hung at his belt and, with a grunt of effort, swung the door open. He lit a lamp inside.
Pliny found himself in a brick-lined chamber whose walls were lost in shadow. The air was hot and stale. A pyramid of iron-bound chests reached nearly to the low ceiling. Each chest was fastened with a lock and from each hung a parchment tag imprinted with a signet.
“How many keys are there?”
“Two. One for the procurator, one for me.”
“And where is his?”
“Hanging in his office. I’ll show it to you, if you like.”
The land tax in silver was, as Pliny knew, assessed by the procurator upon each city in the province. Local magistrates apportioned the tax among the landowners, collected it, and sent the required amount in chests like these under seal to Nicomedia. Some of it moved overland in cumbersome wagons guarded by soldiers, the rest, collected from the coastal cities, came on navy warships. Everything possible was done to secure these shipments. Was it enough? Probably not. And in Bithynia-Pontus where corruption ran so deep? The question answered itself. Suspicions—almost certainties—were starting to take shape in his mind.
“Is all of this year’s collection in?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I count the chests as they come in.”
“And if a chest went astray? Would you know?”
“If the total didn’t add up to the assessment, of course I would know. But it does add up.”
“But do you open each chest and actually count the coin?”
“Of course not. We open them when we need to make disbursements.”
“Open that one—over there.”
“Why?”
“Open it.”
Silvanus drew another key from his pouch, a smaller one, and unlocked the chest. Pliny looked in. It was full to the top with silver drachmas—the lifeblood of the Roman Empire. The tag read Three talents, eleven minas, fifty-three drachmas. Sent under my seal. Polemon, Treasurer of Heraclea Pontica. At a glance, it looked about right.
“Are you satisfied, Governor?”
“I am far from satisfied. I want a count of every coin of this year’s collection. Tomorrow I will send you my clerk, Caelianus, to supervise this. As of this moment, I am posting guards at this door. No one, including you, is to enter until I say so. Hand over your key.”
“But we have disbursements to make. The garrison to be paid, the sailors of