by Nick Brown
Simo pointed at the note and the letter on the corner of the table. Cassius sat down on a stool and drank some of his milk before investigating them.
‘Cold water for your wash, sir?’
‘In this temperature? Of course.’
‘We’re well shaded here at least.’
‘You seem cheerful. And no more minor sabotage. You are sticking to what we agreed?’
Simo kept his back to him as he filled a jug from the water barrel and poured it into a bowl. ‘Of course, sir.’
Cassius checked the note first – just a few lines from the deputy magistrate. Diadromes had obtained the appropriate authorisations from Pomponianus, Nemetorius and Berytus’s procurator (who, like Nemetorius, was concerned that the daily functions of tax collection not be disrupted). Twenty-four sergeants were to carry out the search for the fictional Egyptian spy; each pair had been assigned three or four premises. Under Cosmas’s supervision, they would aim to complete the operation by the fourth hour. Cassius was to contact Diadromes before the evening if he had any remaining queries. He did not.
Cassius drank the rest of the milk then looked across the tower and realised the door was open. ‘Er, Simo.’
The Gaul turned round. Cassius pointed at the door.
‘Sorry, sir, I wanted to get some air in.’ He trotted over and bolted it.
‘With no Indavara here? Gods’ blood. Think, man.’
‘Yes, Master Cassius. Apologies.’
Cassius looked again at Diadromes’s letter: a black scrawl on fine paper.
He imagined the gang skulking in the corner of some factory; hearing of the sergeants’ arrival, then hastily packing their tools and coins on to carts and speeding towards the eastern gate. He tapped his fingers against the table. It might work; a lot of effort for nothing if it didn’t.
Having scraped the wax seal away with a spoon, he unrolled Quentin’s letter. The treasury agent had continued collating his ‘coin sightings’ and now had the majority of replies. His findings confirmed that the fake denarii were now in widespread use across Syria and the adjacent provinces. Cassius thought about the coins themselves; could he somehow trace their origins, again without drawing too much attention? Quentin had little else to report and seemed more interested in Cassius’s progress. (He too had received an impatient missive from Marcellinus – or his adviser Glycia, to be precise.)
‘Something to eat, sir?’
‘Roll. Any cheese?’
‘Goat’s.’
‘That’ll do. And a few of those pickled onions – I won’t be breathing on any ladies today, more’s the pity.’
Cassius watched Simo putting his breakfast together, his thoughts drifting back to Delkash. After he’d given him the plate, Simo poured more milk into his master’s mug then leaned against the table.
‘That weaver, sir – the one the centurion took away. What do you think happened to him?’
‘Nothing pleasant.’
‘Berytus does seem to have its share of problems.’
‘We are interested only in one of them. I do wish you and Indavara would remember that.’
Cassius put down the onion in his hand and looked up at the Gaul. ‘If you had the eyes of a god – any god – you would see arguments and fighting and cruelty and death in every part of the world. From the deserts of Arabia to the Pillars of Hercules. You two think only of what you see in front of you, as if to help one man is to help every man.’
‘That is precisely what the Faith teaches us, sir.’
Cassius picked up the onion, then dropped it again. ‘Do you or Indavara ever think about what I have done? In Arabia or here in Syria with the Persian flag – I helped to avert a war. What better way is there to prevent suffering and death? You could spend half a century throwing brass at beggars and you would never match that.’
Simo – though clearly surprised – nodded.
‘I’m proud of it,’ added Cassius. ‘And considering how you both helped me, you should be proud too.’
‘I suppose he has a point,’ said Indavara. ‘But you must always remember, Simo – Corbulo doesn’t know what it is to go hungry, or be beaten, or imprisoned. He is not the worst of his kind, not by a long way. But he thinks only of himself.’
Simo stopped in the middle of the darkened street. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t.’
‘Come on. Corbulo is safe in that tower and we’ll only be a couple of hours. Why would he suspect anything?’
Simo waited for a gang of labourers to pass. They were lugging huge amphoras full of something and muttering complaints and oaths with every step.
‘It’s the lying, the deceit. The Faith tells us we must respect our masters, do their bidding.’
‘Well, you’ve already deceived him once, now twice. Might as well make the most of it.’ Indavara put a hand on Simo’s arm and coaxed him onward. ‘What’s happening tonight anyway?’
‘Elder Cobon wants to get some food to those people in the area where we were attacked last time.’
‘Stubborn old boy, isn’t he?’
‘Determined. We cannot simply give up in the face of adversity. Those people need our help.’
‘And your people need a bit of security.’
‘I expect that legionary will be there too. You did leave all the blades at the tower?’
Indavara was armed only with his stave. ‘I did, though I can’t say I’m happy about it.’
Once again, they met at the church-house, where Indavara counted fourteen people present. Elder Cobon first spoke to the women, who departed immediately, apparently with their own separate task.
While Simo and the others filled sacks with bread, Cobon took Indavara aside and introduced him to the legionary. A man of around thirty named Bromidus, he didn’t seem particularly keen to be there. It took Cobon a while to persuade him to leave his dagger behind and take only a cudgel. The old man asked them both to use minimum force if the party was attacked. As he departed, the pair exchanged a cynical look.
Indavara asked the stocky legionary – who was wearing nothing to mark him out as a soldier – if he’d helped the group before.
‘Few times,’ Bromidus replied morosely, sipping from a small flask of wine.
‘Why?’
‘Family. We must all do our bit for the Faith.’
‘You are part of the city garrison?’
‘Last three years.’
Indavara knew there weren’t that many Christians in the army. ‘Is it difficult, with the other soldiers?’
‘It might be if I told them.’
Bromidus left him in a corner, joining the other men as they formed a circle. They clasped their hands together and bowed their heads as Elder Cobon delivered a short prayer.
Indavara looked on and hoped there wouldn’t be any trouble. He wanted to keep coming to this place and helping the Christians. There was a simplicity to it; people were hungry, you gave them food. He was sure Corbulo would consider it pointless but surely even he couldn’t dispute that it was better than doing nothing.
Cobon sent the others outside while he locked up, then led them away. Even though it was another warm, humid night, Bromidus wore a cape with a hood which he immediately pulled up. Nobody spoke as they followed Cobon on what seemed to Indavara like a rather indirect route. Twice they waited in the shadows for city sergeants to pass, which elicited quiet curses from Bromidus. At one point they came close to the soaring walls of the theatre, from which muted cheers and laughter rang out.
Later, Indavara overheard the others talking; apparently their destination was an area known as ‘back of the taverns’. They passed one brightly lit street where drunks lurched about and customers gathered at well-stocked counters and steaming grills. Indavara felt his stomach rumble at the smell of cooking meat.
Despite the roundabout route, Cobon clearly knew exactly where he was going. As the streets grew darker and the smells became far less pleasant, Indavara glanced at the surrounding buildi
ngs. Many were in disrepair, most seemed unoccupied. Cobon halted at a particularly gloomy corner and a message came back that they should watch their footing.
They turned left into a narrow alley. After only a few paces Indavara heard Bromidus trip and curse – loudly this time. Soon the harsh odour of burned wood overtook all others and they reached a more open area illuminated by the half-moon.
Here was another ruin, this one of timber. The warehouse was very long and would have been high too had the roof and a good portion of the walls not collapsed.
‘Careful, all of you,’ said Cobon.
One man with a lantern opened the shutter wide, casting a fuzzy glow over a patch of ground cluttered by foundation stones and planks painted black. There was no fire but Indavara could already hear people on the move. Cobon and the others looked towards an inky opening in the side of the warehouse. Four figures appeared, whispering to one another as they approached. Cobon took the lantern and held it up. The men blinked and turned away from the light. Their faces were as grimy as their clothes and two had livid lesions upon their skin. They were bearded and very dark, and looked to Indavara like Arabians.
Bromidus spoke into his ear. ‘Stay well back. Might be lepers.’
Indavara hadn’t thought of that and swiftly resolved to follow the legionary’s advice.
Cobon was trying to speak to the paupers but they didn’t seem to understand.
‘Don’t know that tongue,’ said Bromidus. ‘Could be—’
The legionary seemed to have heard something. ‘Behind us?’
Indavara looked past him, back along the alley, but he could see nothing in the darkness. He heard Bromidus slip his cudgel from his belt and reached back to grab his stave.
The paupers advanced towards Cobon and the others with arms outstretched, desperate eyes fixed on the sacks of bread.
Then Indavara spied a light in the alleyway up ahead. It was faint, perhaps only a candle, but definitely coming towards them. ‘Look, Bromidus. There.’
‘I see it.’
By now Cobon had given one sack to the paupers but they were already fighting over it and more had come out of the warehouse. These men seemed to be older or weaker or both. One tripped in the melee, falling into the lantern’s glow. He had lost all his hair and one entire side of his face was covered in thick, crusty scabs. The others were cursing and spitting at him.
Simo gave a large loaf to Elder Cobon, who handed it to the afflicted man. He nodded vigorously then scuttled away towards the warehouse with his prize.
‘Indarus.’
‘Indavara.’
‘Behind us,’ said Bromidus, ‘they’re getting closer. I can hear them.’
‘This way too.’ The light was perhaps only twenty feet away now; Indavara could see the fingers on the candle and the face above it.
Cobon and the others had retreated, unsure what to do. There were now at least a dozen of the paupers on the ground, tearing loaves from the sack and each other.
Indavara pulled Simo away. ‘Get ready to move.’
Cobon and others heard him and turned.
‘You go forward,’ said Bromidus. ‘I’ll watch the rear.’
Indavara pulled the stave from his back and held it in both hands.
The candle had stopped. Above it was a narrow face and a fearful expression.
Indavara took three steps towards the man. ‘Who are you?’
The stranger answered in Latin. ‘Food. Do you have food?’
‘Who are you?’
Bromidus moved up beside Indavara. ‘Come forward. Show yourself.’
The man was not alone. As others appeared behind him his candle flickered and went out. Bromidus snatched the lantern from Cobon and held it up.
‘Do you have food?’ repeated the stranger.
With him were a woman and several children, each as grubby and emaciated as their parents.
‘Please,’ said the man. ‘For them.’
Indavara moved aside as the Christians came forward with bread.
‘I know that accent,’ said Bromidus. ‘Palmyrans.’
Indavara followed him to the rear, where the legionary held the lantern up once more. ‘Who’s there? Show yourselves.’
Indavara heard sniffing, then a confused whine. The two dogs padded out hesitantly from behind a pile of timber. They were tall, leggy things, with not a lot of meat on their bones.
‘Gods,’ said Bromidus. ‘My nerves.’
Indavara looked around. The paupers seemed to have divided up their spoils and were now pleading with Cobon for the last sack. Indavara hurried over and took out two stale rolls then threw them to the dogs. They looked hungry too.
Back at the church-house, the women were busy with something inside. Indavara and Bromidus looked on as the men gathered in the yard, discussing what they had seen. Elder Cobon seemed keen to hear suggestions as to how else they might help the diseased paupers.
‘It wasn’t leprosy, Simo said so.’
‘Expert, is he?’ replied Bromidus with a sneer. ‘I tell you one thing, you won’t catch me round there again. Old Cobon’s never satisfied with just helping out – I swear he’d prefer to be down in the dirt with them if he could. He’s always telling us we must forget earthly trappings like food and clothes. Bloody ridiculous.’
‘Why bother coming, then?’
‘Told you – family. My mother’s taken ill with something bad. She and my father reckon we need to atone for our sins, do good deeds so that the Lord helps us. Personally, I can think of better ways of spending my leave.’
The legionary glanced at Cobon, still addressing his earnest followers. ‘Tell them I’ll be back when I can.’ Bromidus opened the courtyard door but then stopped. ‘What about you? Why are you here?’
Indavara didn’t have an answer for him.
The legionary left.
Indavara reckoned they should be getting back but Simo was still listening intently to Elder Cobon. He wandered along the side of the courtyard and up to the door to see what was going on – and to check if the young woman from before was there.
She wasn’t. There were five women, all gathered close to the hearth. Four of them were middle aged, one was little more than a girl. Indavara wondered why they had a fire going; it was still very warm. At an instruction from one of the older women, the girl went to fetch something. Indavara now realised that they were all standing around a table. He moved closer. Upon the table was a wooden tub, and inside was a little pink baby, the tiniest he had ever seen. One of the women was holding its head up while two of the others washed its little legs.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ The woman on the the far side of the table had seen him watching. ‘Come closer if you want.’
Indavara didn’t move. He didn’t feel right standing there, nor did he know what to say. The woman dried her hands, then left the others and walked over to him. She was wearing a scarf over her hair and had a friendly smile.
‘Another one saved for the Lord.’
‘Saved?’
‘She is a foundling.’
‘A what?’
‘A baby left to die. We found her at the rubbish dump – that’s where they leave the ones they don’t want.’
‘Why?’
‘Sometimes because they don’t have the money. Or because of some physical imperfection – but not this one, though. Probably just because she is a girl. Another was not so fortunate.’
The woman closed her eyes and turned away for a moment.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The dogs. They got to him before us. We can’t be there all the time and the dump is so big. Sometimes we miss them. But at least we found her.’
As she walked back to the table the baby began to wail. Even though the little thing had been saved it sounded to Indavara like a cry of despair.
XXII
The eastern gate was a functional lump of dark grey stone adorned by some partially decorated columns and a lot of pigeon shit. The
arch was on the narrow side but boasted a fearsome portcullis that could be raised and lowered by winch. There were two little rooms in the gatehouse, on either side of the road. One was used by the army, the other by staff from the procurator’s office. The senior tax collector on duty was accompanied by three assistants and two scribes. On this particular day, the army could boast only half their numbers: Cassius, Indavara and a one-legged guard officer named Matho.
Standing in the doorway, Cassius looked on as one of the two Egyptian slaves also assigned to the gatehouse shovelled horse manure into an amphora. While waiting for loads to be checked, horses, donkeys and mules continually voided their bowels and bladders on to the hexagonal flagstones. The tax collector, Sellic, called over the other slave to mop up a yellow pool of urine.
‘About average so far?’ Cassius asked over his shoulder. Matho was inside, resting his good leg on a stool and polishing some belt-buckles.
‘Let’s see. What’s come out? Er … about a dozen horses and mules, same number of carts? Yes, about average.’
Like Sellic, Matho had been told by Cosmas only that Cassius and Indavara were on special assignment for the army and the magistrate’s office. The gatehouse staff were to continue as normal for the day but render any assistance required. Sellic – clearly as fastidious as most in his profession – had insisted on seeing the written authorisation.
Taking care not to tarry beneath the portcullis, Cassius walked towards the city and looked up at the hazy sun, now well above even the highest buildings.
‘Must be in the second hour. Cosmas’s men will have been into quite a few places already. You all right?’
Indavara was squatting in the shadow of the arch, seemingly unconcerned by what was being cleaned up a few yards away. He was staring blankly at the opposite wall.
‘Indavara, you all right?’
The bodyguard gave a slight nod, then stood up and walked to the other side of the gatehouse. He looked out at the broad road that ran east, eventually reaching the lushly forested hills beneath the mountains.
‘Get your rolls! Get your loaves!’ bellowed a vendor. The gatehouse was a prime spot and the traders had set up outside well before dawn. A lot of their custom came from the farmers bringing in produce for the city’s markets. Plenty had already come through but Cassius had left them to Sellic and his men; he was interested only in traffic leaving Berytus.
