by Nick Brown
Indavara glanced up at him from beneath his fringe but said nothing.
‘I see your mood hasn’t improved. I take it things didn’t go well last night?’
Cassius hadn’t expected a reply and he didn’t get it. He walked back to the other three. ‘Well, Simo? Convincing?’
‘Not bad, sir. May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
Simo reached up and ruffled Cassius’s hair, which he always kept short and well combed. The attendant then tugged at his master’s tunic, leaving an unsightly swathe of cloth bulging over his belt.
‘Really?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Much better,’ agreed Cosmas as he took the note back from Molacus. ‘We should go, the gates will be open by now.’
Cassius pointed at Molacus. ‘Please remember that I need to see as much of the premises as possible.’
‘Very well,’ said the Syrian. ‘But a counterfeiting operation in Berytus? It hardly seems credible. And didn’t I hear that the premises have already been inspected by city sergeants?’
‘We have good reason to believe this is the right place,’ said Cassius. ‘You are looking for anything out of the ordinary and you’re more likely to notice it than I am. Understood?’
Molacus sighed.
Despite his reluctance, the administrator proved himself a capable actor. He adopted what Cassius imagined was his usual brisk manner and led the way confidently through the gates and into the yard. A nervous young man who described himself as ‘production supervisor’ asked them to wait outside the factory while he fetched the manager.
Cassius looked around. The factory itself was brick-built and high roofed, with thin, arched windows. The only workers in view were gathered around a hoist which was obviously used to move the heavy sarchophagi on to and off carts. Eight vehicles were lined up neatly on one side of the yard.
‘So where does their stone come from?’
‘Most of it’s Proconeesan marble,’ said Molacus. ‘It’s shipped down to the port then brought here.’
‘Blocks of it?’
‘No, they shape the containers at the quarry before shipping. This place does the fine work; carving and so on – whatever the buyer has specified.’
‘Why do they need a forge?’
‘Some of the sarcophagi are given an interior lining, usually lead. They also use metal clamps to secure the lids. I believe this outfit manufacture their own.’
‘Do you know anything about where they go from here?’
‘Not specificially, but the marble is always popular with those that can afford it and it’s an extremely widespread trade.’
‘With a large potential market.’
‘The dead? In Syria? Certainly.’
The manager arrived; a well-dressed fellow sporting several silver rings. He greeted Molacus politely and introduced himself as Bathyllos.
‘Thank you for seeing me personally.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Bathyllos, without so much as a glance at Cassius. ‘Always happy to help the city. I understand you need to carry out some sort of check?’
‘We’ve had a few infractions regarding fire safety measures of late – I just need to ensure that you are keeping the risk to an absolute minimum. We have an excellent record in this area and my superiors are keen to maintain it.’
‘Of course.’
‘I will be checking all the other facilities in the area.’
Bathyllos smiled blandly. Cassius reckoned he didn’t appear notably more anxious than any factory manager would when facing a surprise visit from the authorities.
‘Where would you like to start?’
‘Wherever’s easiest for you,’ said Molacus.
‘Then follow me.’
Most of the building was taken up by one huge workshop where at least twenty artisans were gathered around sarcophagi mounted on sturdy wooden pallets. Many of the masons were working on the sides of the containers, which featured most of the artwork. Cassius could see why the marble was so popular; the handsome white stone was banded with grey and gleamed under the shafts of sunlight illuminating the factory. Using hammers and a remarkable variety of chisels, the men crafted the faces of gods, religious and solar symbols, and intricate garland and wreath designs. Cassius also noted that some were working from drawings and that most of the sarcophagi had names scrawled upon them in charcoal. The visitors attracted a few stares but again Cassius could deduce little from their reaction; there was certainly no sense of alarm.
Bathyllos showed them every corner of the workshop. Molacus made the odd comment and advised that all the window shutters be fully opened; the smell of an oil used to polish the marble hung heavily in the air.
The rear of the warehouse was accessed via a broad, high doorway. To the right was a storage area which opened out on to the yard beside the hoist. There were dozens of finished sarcophagi laid out in rows and Cassius spotted paperwork listing destinations as far afield as Bostra, Zeugma and Circesium, which was almost in Persia.
While Bathyllos and Molacus paused to discuss industrial accidents, he glanced down at the nearest coffin. It was lying open, with the lid propped against the side. Considering the weight, no one would notice a few hundred or even thousand coins stashed inside. Even better, an illicit cargo could be removed before reaching the eventual destination without the purchaser even knowing. As a cover, it was absolutely perfect; and yet he had seen nothing to indicate anything other than a well-run, legitimate business.
Bathyllos took them through a small office where a trio of clerks were at work, then to the rear left corner of the warehouse. This area was partitioned by an interior wall and contained the forge. A large oven was burning bright below a broad chimney and giving off a wave of heat that struck the moment they entered. The forge was also equipped with two broad anvils, clay moulds for the locking clamps and a stack of lead sheeting. The only two workers present were poring over a single sheet of lead, taking measurements with callipers and marking them with chalk.
Molacus pronounced himself unhappy with the proximity of some firewood to the oven and instructed Cassius to make a note. Bathyllos agreed to make the change at once; and looked on while Molacus swiftly surveyed the rest of the forge. The inspector knelt briefly to attend to an errant shoelace then straightened up and gave a formal nod to Bathyllos.
‘Well, the small issue of firewood aside, everything seems to be in order. If you could make sure that it’s attended to by the end of the week …’
‘Of course,’ said Bathyllos smoothly. ‘Would you like to check outside also?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Molacus. ‘Exteriors are another inspector’s responsibility and I have several more premises on my list for this morning.’
‘Allow me to show you out.’
The manager took them back into the storage area then through a rear gate and around the side of the warehouse they hadn’t seen. Here were more blocks of stone and a rubbish pit where Cassius observed a complete lack of pale red amphora. They also passed a broad gate that led through to some stables. Bathyllos explained that this was part of the business and Molacus was pleased to see that such a fire risk had been sited well away from the forge.
As the two then moved on to small talk and the ‘disgraceful’ defacing of the Emperor’s statue, Cassius glumly considered his next move. Other than the suitablility of the sarchophagi for transportation, there was not a single reason to suspect the business was being used as a cover for counterfeiting. At least there were the two other factories to check.
Bathyllos escorted them as far as the gate and wished Molacus a good day. As they walked off, Cassius realised he’d gained a useful insight into the life of a lowly clerk. It was strange to be ignored; but he supposed that people of such status were simply accustomed to it.
‘Well done, you were most convicing,’ he told Molacus as they neared the sanctuary.
‘As was Bathyllos, though he must know about it, of course.
’
Cassius stopped. ‘Know about what? You saw something?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Molacus. ‘Two things, to be precise. You didn’t notice the barrel just sitting there in the middle of the forge? I imagine it covers a trapdoor. A cellar is hardly a rarity, of course, but far more conclusive is the metal pipe behind the oven. I had to kneel down to get a good view – it comes from below and runs into the main chimney. For the counterfeiter’s forge, I presume. Rather ingenious.’
‘You mean … under the factory? It’s hidden below the floor?’
‘I can see no other logical explanation. Shall we get going? I suppose I must go through the charade of these other visits or we shall arouse suspicion.’
Molacus strode on towards the sanctuary. Cassius stood alone in the middle of the street, clutching the waxed tablet and staring back at the factory.
Diadromes leaned against the wall, listening as a flock of gulls wheeled and shrieked high above the tower. When Cassius had finished, the Syrian took another sip of wine then deposited his mug on the table.
‘Gods, I can hardly believe it.’
‘Neither did Molacus until he saw that pipe.’
‘So what now?’
Cassius sat down beside Indavara. ‘Clearly we need to find something conclusive but we’re running out of reasons to check the place.’
Diadromes looked at Cosmas, who was standing on the other side of the tower. ‘What’s security like at night?’
‘Not sure, sir. There will certainly be a guard or two on the main gate, perhaps more inside.’
‘They might transport the coins after hours,’ said Cassius, ‘but I doubt they do any actual production. There’s the noise for one, plus they can’t use the chimney unless the forge is working upstairs.’
‘What was the manager’s name?’ asked Diadromes.
‘Bathyllos,’ answered Cosmas.
‘Don’t know him. What about the owner?’
‘I’m looking into it,’ replied the sergeant.
‘Subtly, please,’ said Cassius. ‘We can assume that Bathyllos is in on it and perhaps his employers too. If they hear of our interest—’
‘We must be careful in any case,’ said Diadromes. ‘I agree it is all damned suspicious but we cannot be sure.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Cassius, ‘if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few weeks it’s not to get ahead of myself.’
Diadromes said, ‘As if there isn’t enough going on at the moment. A criminal scheme between the gang and the factory, that’s one thing. But if one or more of our notable citizens is also involved it will become quite the scandal.’ He tapped a knuckle on the corner of the table.
‘It’s getting late,’ said Cassius. ‘I must compose my report for Pomponianus. Should I disclose everything?’
Diadromes considered this for a moment. ‘You must. If he has an opinion he can offer it before you take any decisive action. Just observation for now, agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
The deputy magistrate took his cape from a chair. ‘Speaking of the magistrate, I now have the delightful prospect of a late dinner with him, my fellow deputies and the chief centurion.’
‘Ah.’ What Cassius had seen of Diadromes’s role as deputy magistrate confirmed his long-standing theory that the burdens of such a post outweighed the benefits.
‘Something tells me I won’t have much of an appetite,’ added the Syrian. ‘I must persuade them not to kill five of the city’s sons.’
‘I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that would be extremely counterproductive,’ said Cassius.
Indavara spoke up. ‘They wouldn’t, would they?’
‘Hopefully not,’ said Diadromes. ‘But the governor and the centurion have grown increasingly close, and increasingly convinced that there is only one method of response to unrest. But I have allies too. We will do what we can.’
‘You can’t allow it,’ said Indavara. ‘It’s not right.’
‘My friend, I wish it were that simple.’
Once Diadromes had left, Cassius told Simo to get started on dinner; Cosmas would eat with them, then they would get over to the factory and begin their second night-time vigil.
While Indavara helped the Gaul and the sergeant went to find a messenger, Cassius adjourned to his room to write a brief summation of the day’s progress for Pomponianus. Once it was done, he rolled up the page and made a rough seal with some candlewax; just enough to prevent anyone at the magistrate’s office getting curious. He was almost to the stairs when he paused and glanced back at his figurines.
Great and honoured gods, I thank you.
They were not so lucky with an observation point this time. The factory was surrounded by similarly large buildings and, like most of them, guarded by a pair of sentries. As they passed the gate, Cassius saw the two men squatting below a lamp playing dice.
They walked on – occasionally drawing suspicious glances from other guards – and eventually reached the square at the end of the street. They halted beside another looming statue not far from some beggars singing an indecipherable song. Cassius looked back. He had been so focused on his performance earlier in the day that he’d taken little notice of the surrounding area. ‘No alleys or side streets close enough?’
‘Not that would provide a decent view of the front,’ said Cosmas.
‘The rear?’
‘It’s right next to a warehouse, separated by an alley. No good for observation but there is a small gate – shall I go and check if it’s guarded?’
‘Please.’
As Cosmas jogged away, Cassius turned to Indavara, no more than a dark shape beside him. ‘You’re still quiet. What is it – this girl?’
The bodyguard sniffed.
‘Come on, what have I told you before about bottling everything up? It might help you to talk about it, even with me. I promise to be pleasant.’
‘She is a slave.’
‘I see.’
‘I think they mistreat her. She tried to run away.’
‘And you will save her, I suppose?’ Cassius instantly regretted his tone, if not the sentiment.
‘Is that you being pleasant?’
‘Sorry. Realistic. Look, I can understand it. You wouldn’t be the first. Rushing to a poor maid’s rescue, it’s … attractive.’
‘Attractive?’
‘You know what I mean. But unless you have the money to pay off her owners – and we both know you don’t – there is little you can do. And frankly, any suggestion that you could would give the girl false hope.’
‘She has no one.’
‘Isn’t she with the Christians? Can’t they help?’
‘They say she should obey her master.’
‘Well, I don’t often agree with them but they are right. She must learn to make the best of it; she has no other choice.’
‘She could run.’
‘And what then? A girl, alone in the world? That is no solution.’
‘So I can do nothing?’
‘We will be moving on soon. There’s no sense in getting caught up in all this.’
‘You don’t understand.’
Cassius reckoned he was probably right about that. Neither of them said anything more until Cosmas returned.
‘No guard at the back. Strong gate and lock, though. Over the wall’s probably the best way in.’
‘Well, we have some experience in that field.’
‘The warehouse?’ asked the sergeant.
‘The warehouse.’
‘Dead quiet,’ added Cosmas. ‘Doesn’t look like there’s going to be much happening tonight.’
‘Unfortunately, we still need to watch the place.’
Cosmas let out a long breath.
‘You’ve done enough, these last few days,’ said Cassius. ‘Go and get some sleep.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I won’t deny I could use a bit of shut-eye. Goodnight.’
‘Why don’t you go too?’ said Indavara.
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t take two of us to watch the place. At least you can get some rest. I won’t sleep anyway.’
Cassius appreciated the offer but he feared the prospect of journeying alone across the city.
Indavara said, ‘If you hurry up, Cosmas can see you back to the tower.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Go.’
After their discussion, Cassius wasn’t all that happy about leaving him but Indavara was a man of his word; if he said he’d stay and watch, he would.
‘Very well. Thank you. But about this girl – you won’t do anything silly, will you?’
‘See you back at the tower in the morning.’
Cassius could no longer hear Cosmas’s footsteps. He ran past the statue and across the square.
XXX
Dear Fortuna, goddess most high, help me. Please, please help me.
Indavara wandered through the fruit market, head lolling, eyes heavy.
The hours of night had passed slowly. He had ended up slumped against the bottom of the statue, watching the factory, his mind elsewhere. He’d decided to listen to Corbulo, to forget Mahalie. He’d reminded himself of who paid him, of the oath he’d taken to the army. He felt great pride about moving the investigation forward and was determined to see it through with Corbulo. That was more important.
But his resolve hadn’t lasted long. He could not forget her. If he found her, he could help. He just knew it.
Sometimes, back in Pietas Julia, he had been put in a cell on the exterior of the arena. Capito – the organiser of games – often did this before a big fight. He called it ‘advertising’. Indavara sat at the back, in the shadows, and spoke not a word to those who came to see him. There were children, women, gangs of youths, soldiers, gentlemen. They all looked at him, talked about him as if he wasn’t there. The closest he’d ever got to speaking was when a young lad of no more than six walked up to the bars. He wanted to tell Indavara about his day.
‘My father took me to the beach. I made a river in the sand and I watched the fishermen. The water was lovely and for lunch we had melon. You can go to the beach one day – when you get out. My father says you will win your freedom. My father is always right.’
