Quentin leafed through another pile of papers.
Cassius glanced over his shoulder. Indavara was working through the pastries at quite a rate but at least keeping the noise to a minimum.
Quentin slid a sheet across the desk. It showed five names.
‘These are the men with sufficient knowledge who are yet to be accounted for.’
‘Any trace of them in this area?’
‘Not that we know of.’
‘Presumably it’s also possible that an existing mint worker might be helping this gang.’
‘Indeed. Which is one of the reasons why I started my investigations right here in Tripolis. As you saw, our labourers work only in a single section; few possess the knowledge or the skills to carry out the process from start to finish – certainly not to a high standard. We must focus on what we call “casters” – senior men who oversee the whole operation.’
‘Anything so far?’
‘My men are concluding their interviews today. Nothing particularly promising yet. I should add that Arruntius is convinced the fakes are not linked to this facility in any way. And to his credit, he seems to have vetted his staff and maintained security well.’
‘How many casters are there here?’
‘Eight currently employed, eight who still live in the local area and previously worked here. They wouldn’t of course have had access to the new dies but they possess the necessary skills.’
‘I see. Other lines of enquiry?’
‘The second reason I based myself here is that – judging by the “sightings” of these fakes so far – the centre of production seems to be somewhere in Syria. The first report appeared several weeks ago – a fake spotted by an observant tax collector in Emesa. Ten days ago, I wrote to the procurators in every town and city in Syria as well as the neighbouring provinces of Arabia, Palestine and Cilicia. I told them what to look for and asked them to conduct an urgent survey of coinage.’
Quentin tapped another stack of paper. ‘Some of the replies are back; I’m expecting the rest soon.’ He then pointed at the map. ‘I hope to have collated the information within a day or two. That should allow us to narrow the search.’
Cassius made a few notes with the charcoal. ‘So – our possible ways in: firstly, the casters; secondly, the coin locations. Tell me what this gang would need.’
‘A smaller version of what you’ve seen here today.’
‘The raw materials – the metals – is there any way of tracing their supply?’
‘Possibly, but Syria has dozens of mines producing copper and silver, and both – like bronze – are used in a hundred different industries. This gang could easily lay their hands on enough without arousing suspicion.’
‘And the other equipment? With a trained man could they produce it for themselves?’
‘The most complicated piece is the die, the rest is comparatively easy.’
Cassius made a few more notes. ‘Even though it would be a smaller operation, they would need somewhere secure to work. Plus sufficient transport to bring in the metals and take out the finished coins.’
‘Somewhere remote perhaps,’ suggested Quentin.
‘More likely they’d locate themselves near other workshops or factories – places with smoking chimneys and artisans and carts coming and going.’
Quentin conceded the point with a shrug. ‘We can start with the industrial areas of Tripolis, I suppose. But you must bear in mind that we cannot be too open about the scale of the counterfeiting. We must try to preserve confidence.’
‘Understood.’
Indavara belched.
Cassius might have excused him, except that he was occupied by another thought. ‘Typically, what do these gangs do with the coins?’
‘It varies. Sometimes they sell them to other criminals – at perhaps a fifth or a quarter of their “real” value. With fakes of this quality they could make legitimate purchases: precious metals, jewellery, gems. Ultimately, this is what will cause us the most problems – influential people who find out they have been given hundreds or thousands of fake coins. That kind of uncertainty can be catastrophic for an economy.’
Cassius gazed up at the skylight for a moment. ‘The gang will assume that the treasury will eventually catch wind of what they’re up to and investigate. So they will probably want to move the coins on quickly – turn them into something with genuine, long-lasting value.’
‘Yes.’
‘Apart from what you mentioned they might also purchase interests in shipping perhaps, or farming. Or land.’
‘Possibly.’
‘I should like to talk to your clerks – hear about these interviews, see their notes even.’
‘As you wish.’
‘And I’d very much like to see that map, when it’s finished.’
‘Of course.’
‘Tomorrow morning I shall pay a visit to the basilica, establish what local records I can get my hands on – there may have been some unusually large purchases of late. And perhaps your clerks can think of a way to start checking over the factories and workshops. What do you think?’
Quentin was clearly surprised to be asked; it seemed obvious that he felt Cassius had been sent there to take over the investigation, not work alongside him.
‘Again, that all sounds very sensible.’
‘Thank you for bringing me up to speed, Quentin. At least we’ve made a start, eh?’
For the first time, the treasury agent offered a trace of a smile. ‘I wish I had more men. Minister Sabinus demands weekly reports but has seen fit to give me only the two clerks.’
‘I suppose I should feel fortunate. My master has told me I only need to write to him every ten days.’ Cassius packed away his charcoal and the paper. ‘Well, we must return to the city and get settled in.’
‘You’ll have to wake your friend up first.’ Quentin nodded at Indavara. The bodyguard’s head was hanging off the bench, his mouth wide open.
V
As usual, Simo had chosen well. Though rather hemmed in by apartment blocks, the inn’s rear terrace offered a fine sea view. Dusk had fallen and only a handful of lights could be seen bobbing upon the black waves – the last few fishing boats returning with the day’s catch. The water was less than a quarter-mile away, close enough to give a salty tang to the air. Night brought the same sounds to every city – parents calling in children, householders bolting their doors and shutters, watchmen shouting greetings as they did their rounds.
The terrace contained four tables, two of which were unoccupied. At one was a solitary merchant, copying something on to a waxed tablet by lamplight. Cassius sat at the other, glad that his fellow guest didn’t seem keen to talk. He waved away a persistent fly and put his head back against the wall.
Arabia already seemed a long way away. He looked at the three sheets of paper by the lamp. Letters: one from his father, one from his mother, one from his eldest sister. They had arrived in a bundle a month ago. Around that time he’d been indulging himself with fantasies of leaving – Bostra, the Service, the army, everything. He could easily have ridden to the coast and found a ship bound for Ravenna. Once there, it was a short walk from the port to the villa – straight through the gates and into his mother’s arms.
A month ago he had not felt able to read the letters. He’d taken a cursory look at them then locked them in his hardwood box. But he was feeling better now: drinking less, sleeping more; and his habitual optimism was returning. He had already done three years in the army; only two left. Surely the worst was past. With assignments like this one, he was confident he could make it.
Half an hour later, the letters had been read and the merchant had gone inside. Simo came out to ask whether Cassius was ready for his dinner. After informing the proprietor that he was, the Gaul joined his master.
‘Where’s Indavara?’
‘With Patch. The cook found some carrots for him.’
‘I swear you two spend more time looking after that bloody mule than the other three horses put together.’