by Nick Brown
Simo set off down the ladder.
Diadromes said nothing but Cassius felt he should explain. ‘He is a Christian – as soon as we stop anywhere for more than five minutes he goes looking for fellow believers.’
‘There is a fairly large community here,’ replied the magistrate, ‘and growing steadily too. They do like to try and spread the word.’
‘Indeed. Thankfully, Simo now knows to keep his ramblings to himself.’ Cassius looked across at Cosmas. ‘These informers of yours – you think they’ll come up with something?’
‘Hard to know. Honestly, sir, I think you may have the wrong city. It sounds like a big operation – materials, production, transportation. Would take a few bodies; hard to keep quiet and contained.’
‘Officer Crispian has his reasons for thinking they’re here,’ said Diadromes. ‘And we do have hundreds of factories and workshops. With all the traffic and material coming through the port—’
‘Hiding in plain sight, perhaps?’ said Cassius.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Diadromes. ‘As deputy magistrate, I would like to tell you that Berytus is the safest, least corrupt place in Syria, but I’m afraid it is no different to any other city. It has its share of criminals, and secrets.’
Cosmas acceded with a nod.
‘Not to mention several hundred unhappy weavers,’ said Cassius. He was still interested to know of Diadromes’s view.
‘Thankfully yesterday’s protest didn’t last all that long. Maybe they have finally accepted that Pomponianus will not change his mind about their supplementary income.’
‘You don’t agree?’ asked Cassius, noting the cynical expression on Cosmas’s dark face. The sergeant glanced warily at his superior, who drank more wine then waved at his subordinate to answer.
‘Without the corn dole, some are struggling to get food on the plate. Hungry men can get angry. Hungry men with hungry wives and hungry children can get very angry.’
‘Why not just let them do the extra work?’ asked Indavara. ‘Who loses?’
Diadromes answered: ‘Unfortunately, my friend, it is more a question of principle. For a long time, weaving was not considered a particularly worthy job for a man. Those who own the factories and occupy seats on the council come from families with land. Even though the weavers bring great wealth to the city, the rich look down upon them; they are certainly not about to give in to people they view as little better than slaves. If they know what’s good for them, the weavers will stay in the factories and off the streets. Pomponianus will not hesitate to make examples of the leaders if he has to.’
‘How would you handle it?’ asked Cassius.
Cosmas also seemed interested in his superior’s answer.
‘Given my background, I am in a delicate position, Officer Crispian. Which means that I must always carefully consider my answers and my audience. To the weavers, I would say that I understand their grievances and will do what I can. To the factory owners and the council members – whose votes I depend on – I would say that I understand their grievances and will do what I can.’
‘And to me?’ asked Cassius.
Diadromes held up his glass. ‘How do you like the Massic?’
XV
Cosmas did not return for three days; a quiet period which, to Cassius, passed pleasantly enough. Simo and Indavara continued their work and took turns to go out for provisions, while he spent the entire time inside the tower. Thoughts of his enemies were never far away and he often found himself examining the streets below for any sign of watchers skulking in the shadows.
On the third day, he threw himself into a long-neglected project: his translation of an obscure but compelling Greek tome on military strategy. He was on to his fourth page when a messenger arrived downstairs; Cosmas at last had some news and would be visiting around the twelfth hour.
By late evening, Cassius was bored with the translation and joined Indavara for a weightlifting session downstairs. The bodyguard had lashed two large stones to an old iron spear and was completing repetitions of twenty. After each set he would take a brief drink of water then start again. Simo was out; he had asked for two more hours to help the local congregation with what he’d described only as ‘the Lord’s work’.
‘Can I have a go?’ asked Cassius when Indavara finished his third set.
‘Warm your muscles up first. Shoulders and back, especially.’
While the bodyguard completed his fourth set, Cassius did some push-ups, twists and jumps. Indavara was constantly lecturing him about how he had a good basic frame but needed to put weight and muscle on. Given his current predicament, Cassius could clearly see the benefits of being bigger and stronger.
‘You sure about this?’ asked the bodyguard when he walked over and examined the spear.
‘Well, I can give it a go. How much does it weigh?’
‘Simo reckoned about seventy pounds.’
‘Seventy?’
‘I can make up another one for you. There’s a broom handle around here somewhere and some pebbles outside.’
‘Very droll. At least let me have a go.’
‘All right, but not above your head. Just try to get it off the floor.’
Cassius squatted and placed his hands at either end of the spear. He gripped hard and pulled upwards. The stones did not move.
‘Caesar’s balls.’
‘Have you ever done weights before?’
Actually, the heaviest thing Cassius had lifted were the bodies of dead soldiers, but he didn’t particularly want to think or talk about that.
He decided to try again. Just as he set his grip there was a knock at the door. While Indavara went to unbolt it, Cassius let go and moved away from the weights.
Indavara looked through the viewing hole in the door before opening up. ‘Simo, that you?’
‘Yes.’
Cassius tutted; he’d hoped it was Cosmas.
He shook his arms to loosen up, then returned to the weight and gripped the spear once more. Indavara had opened the door but Simo still hadn’t come in. Cassius looked across at them.
‘What happened to you?’ said the bodyguard.
The Gaul came in slowly, head bowed.
Cassius let go of the pole again and hurried over. One side of Simo’s tunic was dirty and he was holding up his hand to cover his face.
‘Show me that,’ said Indavara, pushing his arm down. The attendant’s right cheek was discoloured and he had a cut just above his left eye. Dark blood had dried beneath it.
‘Simo, what happened?’ repeated Indavara.
‘I – I—’
‘Corbulo, get a stool for him.’
Cassius did so.
Simo slumped down on it then looked at his master. ‘I am so sorry, sir. They wanted me to stay but I knew I needed to get back.’
‘Gods, man, you’re shaking. What happened?’
Indavara placed a hand on his cheek. ‘Don’t worry. Just checking.’ He pressed against it with his fingers. ‘That hurt?’
‘Only a little.’
‘Shape looks all right. I’ll clean that eye up.’
Indavara grabbed a mug and filled it from an amphora of water, then went to look for a cloth.
Cassius’s first thought was that it might have been his enemies, trying to get information out of the attendant. His second was that they might have followed him. He ran to the door and bolted it.
‘Who attacked you, Simo?’
‘I believe they are followers of a local cult opposed to the Faith. We were handing out bread to the poor in an area not far from their temple. The men said that we were trying to convert them but it is not true. We wished only to help.’
Cassius shook his head. ‘Of course you did.’
Indavara brought the wet rag over and began cleaning the wound. ‘They attacked you because of that?’
‘We had women with us – they struck them too. One man has a broken finger, another a cut like me. And they took the bread. All of it.’
‘Sounds to me like these cultists were the ones making trouble,’ said Indavara.
Cassius pointed at Simo. ‘You know full well that I cannot afford to draw attention to myself yet you get yourself mixed up in this. You lose all sense and judgement when it comes to your “faith”. Well, it ends here and now. You will not visit this church-house or any other congregation while we are here in Berytus.’
‘Sir, please, I—’
‘Do not interrupt me. Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius looked over at the table; he was in dire need of some wine. But as Indavara took the bloodied rag away from Simo’s cheek, he paused.
‘Is it bad?’
‘Nothing broken. I’d say he was wearing a ring. An inch lower and it would have been a lot worse.’
Cassius glared at his attendant. ‘Idiotic. Absolutely idiotic.’
Simo and Indavara eventually decided that the cut needed stitches. Cassius told them to do it upstairs; he didn’t want Cosmas asking any awkward questions about what had happened. The sergeant arrived half an hour later.
‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Evening,’ said Cassius, securing the door behind him. ‘You look rather tired.’
‘Lot of walking today.’
‘Come, have a seat.’
Cassius now realised that Cosmas was one of those men whose face and figure didn’t quite fit together. Despite his compelling features, he was exceptionally short and slight for a city sergeant. He had of course forgone his club, and was dressed in an anonymous tunic.
They sat by the table, which was covered with the various foodstuffs and kitchen equipment Simo had acquired.
‘Some progress, then?’
Cosmas ran a finger and a thumb down his beard. ‘What we in the trade might call a definite possibility.’
‘Ah, well, that’s a start.’
‘I’ve been around most of my tale-tellers now, though a couple are always hard to locate. Lot of talk as usual, much of it invented for the sake of a coin, much of it of no use. Nothing on Florens. Not a thing.’
‘I expected as much. We don’t even have an alias.’
‘As far as counterfeiting goes, not a lot on that either. I’ve been down to the docks – nothing on illicit metals. I’ve been around the factories – nothing on new outfits needing premises with ovens and the rest of it. I’ve been round the cart drivers and the shipping agents – nothing on secret deliveries around the province.’
‘That’s a lot of nothing. What about this “definite possibility”?’
Cosmas leaned forward. ‘A pair of brothers named Gorgos. One of my tale-tellers reckons they’ve been seen around town with some well-dressed fellow, possibly an Egyptian. Apparently they’ve been helping him out: buying a couple of small properties, introducing him to locals. One of those locals is a character named Hagnon – who owns two freighters and a cart-hire concern. Barely a year passes when the municipal court doesn’t receive some accusation about him but so far none of the shit has stuck. Excuse the expression, sir.’
‘Excused. All very interesting but please tell me you have something more.’
‘The brothers. One is the muscle, the other an educated man – quite the scribe, in fact. Three years ago, he was charged with forgery. For a price he’d draw up false wills or other documents. I looked up the records at the basilica – he even tried his hand at creating false wax seals.’
‘And the trial?’
‘There were three witnesses. All retracted their testimony and refused to appear. The judicial prefect had to let it go.’
‘I see. Well, taken together, that all sounds quite promising. What do you suggest?’
‘If you don’t mind, sir, give me another day. I’ll watch these brothers, see what I can for myself. If I get no farther we can bring them in for questioning.’
‘And this Egyptian?’
‘Eyes and ears open for anything on him too, of course.’
‘Good.’
‘Can I …’
‘Yes, of course. I expect you’d like to get home.’
Cassius led the way over to the door and opened it. Cosmas had one foot outside when he stopped. ‘Ah, sorry, sir, I forgot. Magistrate Diadromes wanted me to pass this on: the procurator’s office have found one of the fake coins right here in the city. Apparently a clerk was going through his change from the market and spotted it.’
‘Oh.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Cassius quickly shut the door and bolted it. He stood there for a moment, gazing up at the windows facing west, where the last red rays of the sun speared the darkness.
It was all so damned tenuous; and once again he was basing the investigation on hunches and a few disparate threads that might add up to very little. Still, he was grateful for the help offered by Diadromes and Cosmas; staying off the streets was a definite advantage at the moment.
Indavara and Simo’s beds had arrived the previous day. There seemed to be no end to Diadromes’s generosity and the mattresses were well made and stuffed with straw. They had also been given two cushions each, and Indavara still wasn’t quite used to such soft support for his head. He twisted and turned for a while, unable to get comfortable.
‘Are you still awake?’ asked Simo.
‘Yes, unfortunately.’
‘Do you think Master Cassius meant what he said?’
‘Probably.’
Indavara adjusted the light blanket he used in the summer months. The tower was dark and silent. Outside, he could hear a cart bumping along the street.
‘Simo, who were these people you were giving bread to?’
‘Some were Palmyran refugees. Some were ill. Some were just poor. They gather near the docks, living off scraps. We’d only given out a few loaves when the men came. It has nothing to do with belief; just common thievery. They took the bread right out of the hands of the old and the young and the sick.’
Simo whispered a prayer to himself.
‘What about the city sergeants – they’re supposed to deal with crime, aren’t they?’
‘Not if it means helping Christians.’
‘None of your lot will fight back, I suppose?’
‘Actually one man tried to. He is a legionary – he follows the Faith but has to keep it a secret from his fellow soldiers.’ The tone of Simo’s voice changed. ‘I fought too.’
Indavara turned on to his side, facing the Gaul. ‘They’ll try again, your friends – to feed these people?’
‘I expect so. Without me, though.’
‘Maybe not. What if I came to help next time?’
‘Indavara—’
‘Don’t worry, I would leave my blades here. I just … I would like to help.’
‘But what about Master Cassius?’
‘Leave him to me.’
The following morning, Diadromes’s clerk arrived with two letters (Cassius had asked the deputy magistrate to have his office collect any post that arrived for him at the basilica). The letters were bound together: one was from Abascantius, one from Marcellinus.
Cassius read them in his room after breakfast. Marcellinus had written only a few lines but had made it clear that – whatever the gravity of the investigation – he was to employ caution when dealing with men of rank. Abascantius seemed more upset by the wasting of time and overall lack of progress. Both of them concluded by reminding Cassius that he had to move quickly; Minister Sabinus had now brought the situation to Aurelian’s attention and the Emperor was enraged by the thought of his likeness and new coinage being exploited by criminals. Abascantius reckoned Cassius had about two or three weeks to make a breakthrough. Once Sabinus’s patience ran out he would send a senior treasury official to take charge.
Having read all that,
Cassius felt somewhat guilty about the prospect of another unproductive day spent waiting around to see if Cosmas got anywhere.
The one material the gang would definitely need a lot of was bronze; and it would come in via either the roads or the port. Cassius called Simo up and dictated a letter to Diadromes; it was surely wise to capitalise on the Syrian’s goodwill while the favour remained fresh in his mind. Cassius asked him to find out if the municipal tax collectors or anyone else maintained records on those outfits within Berytus that imported, stockpiled or made use of large quantities of bronze. He requested that any information be sent to him at the tower immediately.
When Simo finished writing and headed for the stairs, Cassius added a final instruction.
‘You wouldn’t dream of visiting your new friends on my time, would you? I am not going to change my mind about this. You deliver the note then come straight back.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius spent the morning up on the roof, working on the translation again. After completing another three pages, his pen ran dry. Unfortunately, Simo wasn’t yet back from the basilica so – instead of going to prepare some fresh ink for himself – he sat there daydreaming, slumped on the table, head resting on his arm.
One of his uncles had a friend in Rome who published military texts. Cassius imagined returning home with his translation complete, then visiting bookshops with his mother and father, seeing his new work upon the shelf. Cassius Quintius Corbulo, author. He liked the sound of that.
‘Corbulo!’ shouted Indavara from below.
‘What?’
‘Want to do some sword work?’
Not particularly. ‘I suppose so. Where? I’m not doing it outside with every bugger watching.’
‘I’ve found somewhere quiet. Close by.’
Cassius sighed. ‘Very well.’
‘Somewhere’ turned out to be a small sanctuary just down the street. Like the tower’s, much of the wall had collapsed but the interior was shielded from prying eyes by overgrown trees and bushes, most of which had been dried to a crisp by the summer sun.
‘Wonder which god or goddess it was for?’ said Indavara, tapping his wooden sword against his knee as they made their way inside.
