Furies (28 page)

“Not tonight.”

“You’re certain?”

“Quite.”

“Fine, sit and muse amongst your fellow sophists then. Good night. And try to find yourself a little pleasure, will you.” With that Capito stood a little unsteadily, braced himself, then walked out the door and into the street.

The evening breeze had picked up outside, whistling through the unmortared bricks of the kapeleion walls, rattling the door in its frame, the dry palm fronds that made up the roof rustling restlessly overhead.

Aculeo’s thoughts returned to the missing merchant Posidippus of Cos. What happened to him, I wonder. And what’s the moneylender’s interest in him? A thousand sesterces’ worth. With a merchant, there’s always money to guide you, as surely as the river leads to the sea. And at the head of this river – the moneylender Shimon-Petrus, who’d loaned the Cosian a small fortune, none of it repaid according to the documents. Was it possible Shimon-Petrus was somehow involved in Posidippus’ disappearance? And perhaps Iovinus’ murder too? It was difficult to conceive of – the man had always seemed quite honourable in any encounters they’d had. Still, being owed vast sums of money could adversely affect a person’s view of the world, as he himself well knew. Could he be connected to the rest of this somehow? If nothing else perhaps he can shed a little light.

Aculeo threw back his wine, his eyes watering as the harsh liquid seared his throat, and headed into the early evening streets towards the Agora.

Shimon-Petrus ran his enterprise from one of the high end shops along the Painted Stoa in an immaculate part of the Agora. The shops there were graceful and fashioned of heavy blocks of lime and marble instead of the mud brick used in poorer sections of town. A wind had picked up, sweeping in from the darkening sea, clattering the leaves of the date palms and sweet acacias that grew like weeds in tight groves along the Canopic Way. The early evening sky had turned a pale orangey-pink, like the inside lip of a seashell, ready to wink out on the horizon to the west, a warm fresh breeze blowing in from the harbour.

Shimon-Petrus was a negotiatore, not a moneylender of Gurculio’s sort but an investor in legitimate businesses, working on his own behalf and that of wealthy backers. He’d been an associate of Corvinus’ for many years, even partnered with him on occasional mutual opportunities. While Aculeo knew the man socially, he’d dealt with him directly only once. As they’d sought out bridge investors for the second fleet, Aculeo himself had approached Shimon-Petrus. The old man had listened but politely declined the opportunity, stating the deal was just too risky for his comfort. He’d also strongly encouraged Aculeo to reconsider his support of the deal for the same reason, but hubris had prevailed. And if I’d listened to the man, what then? My life would have continued along quite a different course.

Shimon-Petrus’ shop, it turned out, was closed for the evening. A neighbouring shop owner informed him it was the Jewish Sabbath and that the old man had already headed off to temple to worship. To Delta then, Aculeo thought.

The columns outside the Great Synagogue in Delta had been lit with oil lamps, making the entire area almost as bright as day. While there were numerous Jewish temples scattered about the city, Israel’s Glory was something else entirely. An enormous, oblong building of pale limestone quarried from distant lands, it rested within an exquisite double colonnade as a golden yolk lays within an egg’s shell. Broad marble steps led up from a garden to a pair of great bronze doors, a gold-gilded Star of David gleaming above the entrance, facing Jerusalem far to the east. The granite plaques on the walls next to the doors proclaimed that Augustus Caesar himself had been a patron of the temple, along with his wife Livia and eventually his successor, Tiberius Caesar. The worshippers slowly filed up the steps into the temple to join their brethren, the mournful sound of a gong echoing through the streets, summoning them to worship.

Aculeo covered his head and stepped inside with the other worshippers, the soot-stained walls dimly lit with torches. The interior of the temple was a vast hall, which quickly filled with worshippers, each standing amongst their own, goldsmiths with goldsmiths, bankers with bankers, blacksmiths with blacksmiths. Along the collonaded sides of the huge central hall, men often continued to conduct business and socialize during service.

In the centre of the temple sat seventy-one golden chairs arranged in a ring within which were seated the elders with their oiled white beards, fine tunics and himations. One of them, an elegant looking man with a neatly trimmed white beard, was Shimon-Petrus. A Jewish priest climbed atop a wooden platform in the centre of the ring and called the worshippers to prayer. The temple was so vast that as he read from the book of prayers a second priest would wave a red flag so the worshippers in the most distant sections would know when to answer for each blessing.

Aculeo listened to the worship, his head bowed, his eyes closed, hypnotic threads of solemn prayer and cries of Amen rising up through the windows cut near the temple ceiling, spilling against the darkening sky.

When at last the worship ended, Aculeo followed Shimon-Petrus and a small group of men out into the street as they chatted good naturedly with one another. He approached him with a friendly wave.

“Shimon-Petrus?” Aculeo said. “My apologies for the interruption.”

The man looked up, his pale brown eyes clouded with cataracts, squinted at him then gave a puzzled smile. “Tarquitius Aculeo. Well, well, such a pleasant surprise.”

“Kind of you to remember me, sir. I was hoping to speak with you about something.”

A young man looked warily at Aculeo and took Shimon-Petrus by the elbow. “This is my son, Eli. We need to get home for our dinner. Come, Aculeo, we can talk as we walk. You’ve been well I trust?”

“Well enough,” Aculeo said as they headed down the well-lit street. “I would have fared better had I listened to you about my last investment.”

“You had a bad turn, I know.” Shimon-Petrus placed a hand on his shoulder. “I was sad to learn of the deaths of Corvinus and his lovely wife. A terrible loss. I considered them dear friends.”

“Corvinus was like a father to me. This is an unrelated matter though. At least, I think it is. I understand you had business dealings with Posidippus of Cos.”

“Yes?” the old man said, puzzled.

“He’s disappeared.”

Shimon-Petrus paused for a moment, his smile slipped off his face. “Is this true?”

“Quite true.”

The man looked shaken. He shook his head and tapped his son’s arm. “Let’s keep walking, Eli. Ah, this is not good news. Not good at all. Any idea where he might be?”

“No. By the looks of his warehouse, he left quite quickly, either on his own or against his will. I understand he owed you quite a bit of money.”

“He did indeed. But how did you know that?”

“He left some documents behind.”

“And so you’re wondering if I might be involved somehow in Posidippus’ disappearance?”

Aculeo glanced at the elderly man walking beside him at his son’s arm, frail, gentle, his vision failing. Any suspicion he might have had suddenly dissipated like smoke, leaving him with nothing. “Nothing like that. I’m simply trying to find him. I was hoping with your connections you may have heard something.”

“I’ve heard nothing at all I’m afraid. Posidippus did indeed owe me money. I let it carry on too long. I should have been more careful, but he’d always been a fair man to deal with, a little rough about the edges perhaps but a shrewd businessman.” Shimon-Petrus paused, deep in thought. “He missed a repayment of his loan five months back and came to me for further investment. A bottomry loan. I declined until he could give me a better sense I’d ever be repaid. Posidippus is not an easy man to say no to, but I had little choice. He got quite angry but he finally went elsewhere.”

“Do you know where?”

“I had heard he received funding from the Concessionary Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator.”

It wasn’t unusual, of course, Aculeo thought. Unlike the Imperial banks, which were dedicated solely to the always thriving business of tax collection, the Empire licensed out a small number of concessionary banks responsible for greasing the other parts of the machine required for a successful marketplace, including bottomry loans to ship-owners, loans against land holdings and tax farming. The Bank of Arsinoe the Consummator was one of the largest of these. “Do you know who at the bank he might have dealt with?”

“Ah, well, a loan in the amount he was looking for, twenty thousand sesterces if I recall correctly, he would have had to deal with the principle owner directly. Ralla, that is.”

Aculeo stared at the other man. “Albius Ralla?” he said, trying to hide his shock.

“Yes. I’m not sure whether or not the venture was even successful, although Posidippus has yet to settle his debt to me. I have doubts now he ever will.”

They had arrived at the gatehouse of a lovely home in Delta, the rich smell of broiling fish wafting through the air. “We should go in now, Father,” Eli said. “You should eat.”

“I’ll come in a moment, you go ahead.”

“But Father …”

“Do as I say.” Shimon-Petrus smiled as the young man turned and entered the gates of the home. “He worries about me too much.”

“He’s a good son who honours his father,” Aculeo said. “Do you know Ralla well?”

“Well enough,” the old man said.

“Do you think he could be involved in the Cosian’s disappearance?”

Shimon-Petrus looked directly at Aculeo with his milky eyes and reached his hand out to touch his arm. “You should take more care with your words when it comes to men like Ralla, my friend. Wealth and influence are everything in Alexandria, and he has a great deal of both.”

“I’m merely asking questions,” Aculeo said.

“Well, I doubt a man of Ralla’s stature could be involved in such a sordid thing. And even if he were …” The old man shook his head in dismay.

“Did you ever have any dealings with Iovinus?”

“Your negotiatore? Of course, on several occasions. Why do you ask?”

“Did he ever approach you directly seeking investment? Since Corvinus’ death I mean.”

Shimon-Petrus gave him a look of genuine surprise. “Did he not drown when your fleet sank?”

“That’s what we all believed, until he returned to Alexandria a week or so ago and was found murdered.”

“Oh?” The old man’s cheeks turned pale. “That is most troubling news. Are these things connected?”

“I don’t know. I think they must be somehow, but …”

“Father,” called a voice. Eli stood in the entranceway of their home, his jaw clenched as he glared at Aculeo.

“My family is expecting me,” Shimon-Petrus said. “Please, join us for dinner.”