What was Diocles doing now, John wondered, apart from spreading malicious rumors about the new owner of the estate? In addition to worrying about whoever killed Theophilus, should he also be worried about any vindictive actions the former overseer might take? Was Diocles capable of violence as well as fraud?
He was contemplating the question when Peter limped into the room accompanied by a dusty rustic and announced: “A messenger seeking to speak to you, master.”
“Are you the person in charge, sir?” his visitor inquired.
When John confirmed that he was, the messenger handed over a writing tablet, bowed, and was escorted out.
John watched Peter’s obviously painful exit. The servant shouldn’t be up and about, but it was useless to tell him so.
He cut the thin cord tying the tablet’s two beechwood frames together and opened them. The wax surface within bore a confirmation relating to the purchase of a large flock of sheep. More of Diocles’ imaginary livestock? Unlike goats, there certainly were plenty of sheep on the estate.
John consulted the codex in front of him. He wasn’t surprised to find no mention of any such transaction on the date given in the tablet, nor for a week before or after.
Was this some peculiarity of business in Megara? Or business as conducted by Diocles?
The message must have been intended for the overseer. The messenger hadn’t asked for John or the owner of the estate but for whoever was in charge, which for years had been Diocles. No doubt the rustic bearer of the tablet was unfamiliar with Diocles and had naturally assumed John’s answer meant he was the estate overseer.
What could the purpose be? Diocles didn’t need such a message delivered to him to falsify the accounts. Unless he was being instructed to make a false entry?
No doubt Diocles would have understood what it meant.
Was it in code perhaps?
Having just spent time talking with people who seemed to be concealing information and now being immersed in Diocles’ duplicitous accounts, the idea of artful concealment was not far from his thoughts.
John muttered an oath and picked up the tablet again. He pondered what the reference to sheep could possibly mean. The world was full of things the gentle-faced animals could represent.
As he reread the message he noticed a mark on the wooden frame around the wax. A deep gouge marred one of the raised borders of the right hand leaf. Similar marks on the outer leaves were to be expected, but an inner location seemed peculiar given that, when closed, the two inner surfaces lay together, protecting both frame and wax.
During his years of imperial service John had learned of many ingenious methods for secret communications.
He gently scraped the wax from its shallow rectangular tray.
“Mithra!” he muttered.
Carved into the wood under the wax was a short message. Evidently written in great haste, as witnessed by the uneven depth of its lines, one of which ended with a deep scratch stretching to the gouge which had alerted him to investigate further.
The secret message was as cryptic as the original in that it appeared to be too innocent to require concealment:
“Per July agreement. Delivered to Nisaea iron in agreed quantity.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Like all the ports John had ever passed through, Nisaea was a scene of controlled chaos. By the time he arrived, the evening sun cast long ropes of shadow across the crowded docks where lines of workers moved unceasingly between moored ships, piles of merchandise, warehouses, and waiting wagons. The last time John had seen this raucous ant heap was when he and his family landed after their journey into exile. It was with mixed feelings he paused and watched several men running around and between some large crates stacked at the edge of the nearest dock, leaving a lurid trail of loud oaths hovering in the humid air that smelled of spices, fish, and the droppings of cart animals.
Now and then one of the men would leap upward and grab at something hidden from John’s view by the crates and then there would be another outburst of inventive swearing echoing across the water.
It might have been some arcane ritual performed when landing cargo.
However, he had not walked from his estate to the port to ponder local customs. What he sought was information on who had shipped a consignment of iron. Certainly it was an unremarkable, everyday kind of arrangement, but what raised his suspicions was why such a transaction should be recorded in a secret fashion when inscribing it on the wax surface of the tablet would have served as well.
It did not seem normal business practice and was therefore worth investigating.
He skirted a large fish tank sunk into the dock into which a pair of fishermen were transferring their catch from a boat that had seen better days, while a third man haggled about the price for a small octopus with a party who engaged in emphatic denigration of its value. Making his way to the harbormaster’s hut, John found a visitor arguing with the official in residence.
“It wasn’t my fault they got away,” the visitor shouted at the furious harbormaster as John entered the cramped untidy space buzzing with flies. “It was an accident. Accidents happen.”
“You mean one of your men let them loose deliberately to cause trouble, so your crew better catch them. The well-fed fool in Megara expecting them is not going to be very happy to hear his three monkeys have escaped and will probably never be seen again. Go and help the search and hurry up. His servant will be here in an hour or so to pick the demons up.”
“I’ll borrow a fishing net, that should help trap ’em. If not, you could always say they died during the voyage.”
“Possibly. I should have to levy a small charge to pay for that service. Now get on with it.”
As the other left, the official turned to John. “What do you want?”
His tone of voice made it plain his temper was short and his sunburnt face wore an angry expression emphasized by a deeply creased frown bridging dark eyebrows.
“I wish to inquire about a shipment of iron for my estate.”
“Your estate?” The harbormaster looked him up and down and sniffed, as if to say servants are all the same, talking about their estate as if they owned it. “You wish to know about an iron shipment? I know nothing about such a cargo and-”
A hoarse burst of swearing entered by the open door as a man in a ragged tunic raced past waving his arms and screaming abuse at an unseen colleague who, it seemed, had allowed the hairy little bastards to escape.
“It seems rather lively this evening,” John observed with a thin smile.
The harbormaster glared at him. “As I was saying, I don’t know anything about a shipment of iron. Have you any proof it even belongs to your estate? Valuable goods, iron. I can’t authorize its release to any vagabond who arrives claiming ownership.”
John, silently noting the harbormaster had just tacitly admitted he did in fact know of the shipment despite his initial denial, produced the tablet with the message burnt into it.
“Ah,” the harbormaster said after a brief glance. “Yes. Yes, this proves you are entitled to information. I am instructed to release it only to a person carrying this message. We do have your shipment, sir, and I shall see it arrives at the estate as soon as possible. It will involve a small charge for delivery, the usual arrangement to release goods landed here if they are transported on to their destination.” He paused. “You are not the usual courier.”
“I have not been in the area very long. Do you recall when the last shipment occurred?”
The harbormaster shrugged. “No. And the businessman involved does not send documentation. I admit it is somewhat unusual but shipping iron isn’t illegal and, after all, we must be flexible in dealing with the contingencies of marine business. I don’t have time to ask questions, considering the volume of goods landed here daily.”