The clerk bolted for a back room and Brutus heard the clatter of his sandals as he rushed up a flight of stairs. He waited in uncomfortable silence with the two dockworkers, ignoring them.

A man wearing a toga that had seen better days came down the steps behind the clerk. Brutus sighed at the quaestor’s appearance.

“Provincials,” he murmured under his breath.

The man heard him and glared. “Where are your letters of authority?” the quaestor demanded.

Brutus stared at him, focusing on a food stain on the man’s robe until he flushed.

“You have no right to threaten us here,” the quaestor blustered. “We are loyal.”

“Really? To whom?” Brutus asked. The man hesitated and Brutus enjoyed his discomfort before he went on. “I have two cohorts going to join Pompey and the Senate in Greece. That is my authority. Your clerk was good enough to show me the records and a galley passed through here yesterday. Tell me where they were heading.”

The quaestor fired a poisonous glance at his hapless servant before coming to a decision. “I spoke to the captain myself,” he said reluctantly. “He was on patrol off Ariminum when the message reached him to come in. He was going to land at Ostia.” He hesitated.

“But you told him that Pompey had already left,” Brutus said. “I imagine he would want to join the fleet by sailing around the south coast, meeting them halfway. Does that sound like the conversation you remember?”

The quaestor stiffened at the tone. “I had no new orders for him. I believe he may have put to sea to deny the value of his ship to . . . rebel forces.”

“A sensible man,” Brutus said. “But we are loyal to Pompey, sir. We need that galley. I expect such a thoughtful captain would have told you his next port in case the right person came asking. Somewhere further south, yes?”

As he spoke, he watched the clerk’s eyes and saw them shift guiltily. The quaestor was a far better gambler than his servant, but he caught the glance and the muscles stood out on his jaw as he considered what to do.

“How do I know you are not with Caesar?” he asked.

The question had a far greater effect than the quaestor could have intended. Brutus seemed to grow slightly, making the little office feel smaller and oppressively hot. The fingers of his right hand drummed for a moment on the silver breastplate, the noise startlingly loud in the silence.