by Nick Brown
‘A drunk – dead to the world. Let’s check the second one.’
They took even more care this time; the second passageway offered a perfect view of the inn. Indavara waited until they were directly behind it before dropping down. Cassius knelt beside him.
‘See there,’ whispered the bodyguard. ‘Left side.’
The street was far brighter than the passageway and Cassius could clearly see the shape pressed against the wall; he could even make out the head and shoulder. Still as a statue, the man was staring at the inn.
Cassius said, ‘He must have seen us leave but he didn’t follow.’
‘Maybe he just has orders to watch the place. Well? Shall we grab him?’
‘We have to try. Should I go around to the front?’
‘That’ll take too long. I’ll come up behind him. You go along the right side in case he runs that way.’
Cassius generally acceded to Indavara in such matters. ‘Very well.’
‘Daggers. Swords will slow us down too much.’
They stood. Cassius held the sheath down and pulled out the blade. It was the first time he had drawn it since Arabia. He pushed away thoughts of the man he had killed. He was getting better at doing so; he couldn’t let it paralyse him for ever.
Indavara advanced slowly.
Cassius made for the right side of the passageway, treading softly. Not far away, two watchmen were conducting a shouted conversation, providing enough noise to cover the sound of their approach. Cassius kept clear of the wall, fearful of walking into a step or tripping over something. He could see neither Indavara nor the watcher; only the end of the passageway, dividing the inky black from the grey of the street.
Another shout from the watchmen. Then a cackle of laughter.
Indavara charged forward and slammed into the watcher, catapulting him across the pavement. The man slipped on the kerb and fell into the street. Indavara sprang after him, kicking him in the side before he’d stopped rolling. The watcher cried out.
Cassius heard fleeing footsteps. He ran out on to the pavement and turned to his right. The noise was coming from the side of the apartment block; the next alley along. He ran to it.
‘Corbulo, where are you …’
Cassius skidded to a halt. The second man was making no attempt to stay quiet; he was sprinting away, boots thrumming on the ground. Cassius was almost tempted to follow but he couldn’t know who else was out there. He heard Indavara swearing but his eyes were fixed on the street at the end of the alley. There was light there; a lantern above a door. The sound of the boots faded then he saw the dark figure reach the street, cut left and disappear.
Cassius jogged back towards the inn to find that a neighbour had opened his front door and was standing there with a lamp. As the Syrian enquired what was going on, Indavara dragged the watcher across the street by his cloak.
‘Let’s get a look at you,’ said the bodyguard.
‘What’s going on?’ asked the neighbour.
‘Army business,’ said Cassius. ‘Bring your light forward.’
Indavara let go of the man once they reached the kerb, then planted a boot on his gut. The watcher was pleading for mercy in Greek.
Satisfied he couldn’t move, Cassius placed the point of his dagger close to his face. The neighbour opened the lantern shutter wide and held it closer. The watcher was no more than fourteen or fifteen.
‘Gods, Scrofa,’ said the neighbour. ‘Not again. I would have thought you’d learned your lesson by now.’
‘You know him?’ asked Cassius.
‘He lives on the top floor of the apartments. I expect …’ The neighbour peered around the corner of his house. ‘Yes, I thought so. He likes to watch the girls – especially when they’re doing the washing.’
Indavara took his foot off.
Cassius looked down at the youth. ‘That true?’
‘The watchmen caught him twice before,’ continued the neighbour. ‘He said he couldn’t see enough from the third floor. What did Neokles tell you – you’ll go cross eyed!’
Cassius withdrew. ‘Get up. Go.’
Scrofa didn’t need another invitation. He scrambled to his feet and ran back into the shadows of the passageway.
The neighbour muttered something then walked back inside and shut the door.
‘Where’d you disappear to?’ asked Indavara.
‘There was a second man. When we broke cover he ran up the side of the alley and away. I saw him.’
‘Shit. If that fool hadn’t been there we might have grabbed him.’
‘At least we know now. They’re here and they’re watching me. Well, they’re not going to find me again. Let’s go inside and get ready. I want to be on the coast road and away before dawn.’
XI
Unsettled by something, the tethered horses cracked twigs under their hooves and sniffed the air. Above, the branches swayed, moved by the same wind that had drawn a slight swell from the sea. The clearing was on the landward side of the road, a hundred yards away and twenty above, offering an excellent view in both directions.
Indavara and Simo were perched on the same outcrop of grey rock, finishing off their lunch. A few yards away, Patch crunched his way through some carrots. Cassius was leaning against a tree on the other side of the clearing, gazing down at the road. He had moved several times to ensure his position was completely shaded from the blistering rays of the midday sun. Three groups had passed since he’d begun his vigil; none so far concerned him.
Though he’d slept for no more than an hour, he felt surprisingly sharp and alert. Then again, he had to be. If his pursuers could find him in Tripolis, they were clearly capable of tracking him to Berytus, so he had to give them as little to work with as possible. Only Quentin knew where the trio were really headed. Cassius had decided to tell Neokles and the girls that their destination was Laodicea, a city eighty miles to the north.
They had left Tripolis with the streets still dark and encountered only watchmen. A mile beyond the city gates, Indavara had doubled back through an olive grove and checked behind them. He returned having seen nothing.
Cassius ran a hand through his hair and looked down at the carpet of pine needles beneath his feet.
Who? Why?
If they got hold of him, he’d find out soon enough. But for now all he could do was hope he’d lost them and take every precaution possible. What of the days and weeks to come? Would he ever really be able to relax when he knew they were still hunting him?
At least they were fallible. The watcher had panicked, alerted them, drawn attention to himself. Cassius just had to stay one step ahead; until he escaped them for good or decided to pursue Indavara’s tactic to its ultimate conclusion – hunter was an infinitely more favourable role than prey.
‘We’re clear,’ said the bodyguard confidently. ‘No way anyone followed us this far.’
‘Shall I pack up, sir?’ asked Simo.
Cassius looked back at the road. ‘No. Take your time. We’ll use the dark, enter Berytus after sundown.’
‘Sir, you do remember the warning we were given when we passed through the city before? The thieves that operate from the coves?’
‘Thieves do not concern me, Simo.’
Even so, he was just as relieved as the attendant when they reached the welcome glow of the torches at Berytus’s northern gate. Standing beneath the high, ornate arch, they waited for one of the legionaries on duty to fetch his superior, a guard officer. When he appeared, Cassius showed him the spearhead, gave him a denarius and explained what he needed. The soldier fetched some keys, then escorted them along the walls to a small side gate. He agreed to tell no one of their arrival and let them into the city. Cassius asked for directions for a quiet inn nearby; within an hour the horses were stabled and the trio in bed.
As Simo drew back the shutters, sunlight flooded the room.
‘Gods.’ Cassius turned away and shut his eyes.
‘Uh,’ was all Indavara could manage
.
‘Sorry, sir, you did give me instructions to wake you at the second hour.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Cassius yawned and stretched, then hauled himself off the bed. ‘Caesar’s balls, this place looks even smaller in daylight.’
The two beds – Indavara and Simo had shared the double – were pushed up against the window and there was barely five feet between them and the door. Most of this space was now occupied by saddlebags.
‘At least it’s out of the way, sir.’
‘True. I’d rather suffer this than be at some big, well-known place where we’re easily found.’
Cassius glanced at a nearby pile of clothes. ‘No uniform in public. We’re going to keep our heads down while we’re here, which will probably aid the investigation too. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Indavara?’
He was already snoring again.
‘Shall I wake him, sir?’
‘Ah, let him sleep – I’m not leaving here until I have my appointment with the magistrate. Fetch me my writing materials.’
While Simo dragged a saddlebag over and unbuckled it, Cassius lifted his sleeping tunic and relieved himself into the chamber pot.
‘Urgh! What’s that?’
Someone had already used the pot and there seemed to be as much blood as urine.
‘From Indavara, sir. Less every day apparently.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘You would like a separate room, I suppose, sir?’
Having finished, Cassius lowered his tunic. ‘I would. But for the moment I intend to keep as close to our big friend as possible – for obvious reasons.’
When Simo later returned from the basilica, Cassius was dismayed to learn that the magistrate could not offer an appointment until the ninth hour. They had a meal brought to the room around midday, after which Cassius and Indavara visited the nearest baths. While lounging in the warm room, Cassius spent half an hour considering what he had discussed of the case with Quentin and formulating his enquiries for the magistrate. Once they had finished bathing, both men put on clean tunics and returned to the inn.
Simo had tidied the room and was ready with Cassius’s satchel, in which the spearhead was safely secured. Hoping he looked like a merchant accompanied by bodyguard and assistant, Cassius asked the innkeeper for directions and they set off for the magistrate’s residence – a more private location for the meeting than the basilica.
It was now late afternoon, and even though most of the day’s business would have been concluded, the streets of Berytus seemed unnaturally quiet. They passed a marketplace populated only by a few cleaners and at the Temple of Aphrodite saw only a handful of worshippers.
‘Damned strange,’ said Cassius. ‘Innkeeper didn’t mention any festivals today, did he?’
‘No, sir. Might have been an outbreak of something.’
‘Don’t say things like that, Simo. Makes my skin crawl. By the way, you did give him the money?’
‘Yes, sir. He won’t be telling anyone about us.’
Their route skirted the north side of the city centre, towards the affluent residential district where the magistrate lived. Passing one end of a broad, colonnaded avenue, they found a dozen people staring south. Curious, Cassius stopped and joined them. What looked like a crowd of several hundred was marching towards the forum. He could also hear a chant and see sunlight sparking off the weapons and equipment of legionaries lining the avenue.
Cassius picked out a respectable-looking fellow accompanied by a servant holding a parasol over his head. ‘Excuse me, what’s going on there?’
The man looked him up and down before answering wearily.
‘Another protest.’
‘By whom?’
‘Bloody weavers. Who else?’
A tall man standing in front of them turned round. ‘Watch yourself – my brother’s a weaver.’
‘Why don’t you go and join them, then?’ said the gentleman.
‘Don’t much fancy catching a sword in the neck – got three children to provide for.’
A few others in the crowd were listening to the exchange.
‘Nobody knows who killed that young man,’ replied the gentleman. ‘The weavers have been telling everyone it was a legionary because that’s what they want you to believe.’
‘Maybe that’s what Pomponianus wants us to believe,’ said the other citizen, ‘to keep people away from the protests.’
Cassius was also listening: Pomponianus – the man he was on his way to meet.
The tall man nodded up the avenue. ‘Not that brave bunch, though. Perhaps I will join them after all.’ With a defiant scowl, he stalked away.
The Syrian rolled his eyes. ‘What can you do? The ignorance of the lower classes never ceases to amaze me.’
‘What’s at issue?’
‘It started with the corn dole, I suppose. It was withdrawn last month – the governor needs the food for the soldiers.’
‘Same across Syria, though, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’ Even though the others were no longer paying much attention to him, the gentleman kept his voice down. ‘But here we have over a thousand weavers employed in a dozen factories. When times are tough they take on other work outside hours. The old governor used to let it go but Pomponianus is fining anyone found to be doing extra.’
‘Why bother?’
‘A lot of people in Berytus – myself included – think the weavers are getting too big for their boots. Pomponianus has had trouble with them before and he wants to make sure they understand who’s in charge. The factory owners are all friends of his and there’s an election in September.’
‘I see. And the young man that other fellow spoke of?’
‘There was another protest last week. Usually there’s a few speeches, a bit of chanting and everyone goes home. But on this occasion there was a scuffle. The weavers are saying a legionary stabbed the young man because he was a ringleader. The army are denying it.’ The gentleman ran a finger along one of his bushy eyebrows. ‘Frankly, I hope they grab a dozen of the bastards and burn them in the arena. That would put an end to all this nonsense. Good day.’
With that he strode away, his servant struggling to keep the parasol over his head.
Indavara cast a disparaging glance at him. ‘This Pomp …’
‘Pomponianus.’
‘Yes, him – sounds like a bit of an arsehole.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Cassius. ‘Can’t have a bunch of rowdy labourers running a city. People need to know their place.’
‘People also need to feed their children.’
Simo was nodding. He desisted when he realised Cassius was watching him.
The magistrate’s residence was an impressive townhouse surrounded by a substantial wall painted pale red. Cassius didn’t want to draw attention to himself but there was no choice other than to approach the main entrance and the four city sergeants armed with hefty wooden clubs. Thankfully the guards were expecting him and opened the gate as soon as he gave his (false) name.
A servant was summoned who then escorted them to a side door, past shaped swards of grass and an elaborate fountain where – despite the season – water still flowed. Half a dozen gardeners were at work weeding and trimming the turf. The servant asked Cassius to wait under a cool portico, then trotted inside. While he drank from his flask, Simo told Indavara about the different varieties of flowers populating the beds between the townhouse and the wall. From within the house came the sound of giggling children.
After about five minutes the servant returned with a tall, brawny man dressed in a fine linen tunic. He looked to be about forty and sported several bracelets and an ostentatious belt-buckle. He was smiling and already had his arm outstretched.
‘Officer Crispian, good day to you, and welcome to Berytus. No, I am not Magistrate Pomponianus.’
They shook forearms. ‘Deputy Magistrate Diadromes. There are three deputies in Berytus. My area of responsibility is
trade and commerce, which is why the magistrate asked me to speak with you. He is rather occupied today but I’m sure you’ll meet at some point.’
‘Ah,’ said Cassius. ‘Good day.’
Diadromes already struck him as unusual. Vulgar displays of wealth were rare among city bureaucrats and his accent and manner of speech were rather reminiscent of a street trader.
The deputy magistrate turned his attention to Indavara and Simo. ‘Let me guess – bodyguard and attendant.’
‘Quite right.’
‘Good day.’
This, again, was unconventional, and caught the pair off guard. Even so, they both replied politely, Simo adding a bow.
‘Shall we walk or sit?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Cassius.
Diadromes pointed at a long wooden bench shaded by the portico and facing the garden. ‘I wouldn’t mind taking the weight off – been traipsing round the cloth market all morning looking for fake silk, would you believe?’
Cassius followed him, noting the pronounced bald patch amid the deputy magistrate’s fuzzy brown hair.
‘So, counterfeiting?’ said the Syrian once they’d sat down.
‘We have good reason to believe a gang might be operating from Berytus. Firstly, none of their coins have – to our knowledge – been sighted here, which suggests they don’t want to draw attention to their centre of production. Secondly, the ex-caster that was spotted here last week.’
‘Well, you’re right about the coins. The letter from your man Quentin was passed to me a while back – I’ve had people checking but no, nothing so far. I must confess I didn’t know about this caster until today – you have the name?’
‘No.’
Diadromes reached into a pocket sewn into his tunic (again, not something most gentlemen would have) and pulled out a scrap of paper.
‘Lucius Sepercius Florens. He was seen by a man from the procurator’s staff who had worked with him back in Italy. There’s a description here too.’ Diadromes gave Cassius the note.
‘Average height and build, cropped grey hair – not massively helpful. Have any enquiries been made?’
