by Nick Brown
‘And those are here?’
‘Some. Mostly copies. The originals stay with the legion. These are for the governor and the provincial administration.’ The clerk pointed to a wooden tablet just like the ones Cassius had seen in Palmyra. ‘Usually on these.’
‘So there must be thousands of them.’
‘Oh yes. We’ve a full room next door too.’
‘And how are they organised?’
‘By cohort and by century.’
‘Then I’d have to go through them one by one.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Cassius stood there for a moment, looking at the mountains of tablets and papers. He felt Petronax’s eyes on him. When he glanced back at him, the clerk looked away.
‘All right, I don’t think there’s much point in pursuing this at the moment. Just do this for me, would you: keep the personal files separate from the rest. I may well come back to check what you have.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ said Petronax with a rather suggestive smile.
This wasn’t the first time Cassius had had such an encounter and he doubted it would be the last. Well, if the clerk thought him attractive, so what? He might well need his help again.
Second stop was the Beroea Gate. After some more enquiries at the basilica, Cassius discovered that Tribune Bonafatius – the officer who could authorise a check on the gatehouse records – had an office in the forum next door. Cassius found him there, snowed under with paperwork, and – once he’d seen the spear-head – Bonafatius hurriedly scribbled the authorisation, not even bothering to ask the purpose of his enquiry.
As they marched back along the Avenue of Herod and Tiberius, Indavara pronounced himself hungry and bought some dates.
‘I thought you were watching your waistline,’ Cassius remarked, following the bodyguard as he shoved his way through a crowd of onlookers watching a juggler.
‘Fruit’s all right,’ replied Indavara, turning round.
As he turned back, the stave slung across his shoulders struck a man on the head. Unfortunately, the man was a city sergeant.
‘Watch yourself, idiot!’
He was a burly individual with a boxer’s nose and arms to match.
‘What’s that?’ Indavara enquired calmly as people moved out of the way.
‘I told you to watch yourself,’ the sergeant snarled. ‘Oh, perhaps you didn’t hear me.’ He stared at Indavara’s mutilated ear and grinned. Someone else in the crowd laughed. The sergeant slapped the club into his spare hand.
Cassius hurried forward but before he could say anything, another sergeant – an older man – pushed through the crowd.
‘That’ll do, Libo. It’s not worth the trouble.’
Cassius reckoned it was a good look at Indavara that persuaded the sergeant to restrain his friend. Libo was quite a brute, and a good ten years older than the bodyguard, but Indavara showed not the slightest sign of concern. He simply stared back at the man, chewing on a date.
‘Come on,’ said the second sergeant, putting a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.
Libo lowered his club with a frustrated grunt.
‘Very wise,’ Cassius said as he passed him.
The sergeant was about to retort until he realised he’d been spoken to by an army officer.
Indavara was still eyeballing Libo.
‘Let’s go,’ said Cassius. He made sure Indavara was following him, then hurried away, smiling to himself. The bodyguard was a miserable sod and an appalling conversationalist, but there was something both reassuring and enjoyable about having the tough ex-gladiator at his side.
Centurion Turpo wasn’t on duty. The man in charge at the gatehouse was a cooperative young optio. He read the authorisation, offered Cassius a chair, then pointed at the stack of logbooks.
‘Everything from the last few months is here, sir.’
Cassius sat down and glanced at Indavara, who was lurking by the doorway, still munching his way through the dates.
‘You can’t read, can you?’
‘No.’
Cassius examined the log for September. ‘Nothing? Not even in your own language?’
Indavara shook his head.
‘How’s your Greek, by the way?’
‘I can get by.’
‘And arithmetic? Can you count?’
‘I think so.’
‘What’s four plus nine?’
Indavara stopped chewing for a moment and thought about this. The optio and another legionary were listening in.
‘I’ll consider that a no,’ said Cassius. He turned to the soldiers. ‘I’d prefer to do this in private, if you don’t mind.’
The optio nodded and they went outside. Indavara leaned back against the wall and threw a bad date to the floor.
‘You like making fun of me, don’t you?’
‘On some occasions, though that wasn’t one of them.’
‘It’s not my fault. I haven’t been taught.’
‘I didn’t say it was.’ Cassius was examining the first few pages of the log but saw out of the corner of his eye that Indavara was still shaking his head. ‘Don’t be so sensitive. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. I can recite hundred-line declamations I learned five years ago but my swordplay is still an utter embarrassment.’
‘What’s a declamation?’
‘Often a futile exercise in repetition and pretentiousness, if you must know.’
‘I can help you with your sword-work,’ said Indavara.
‘I appreciate the offer,’ Cassius replied, looking up, ‘but the truth is I’ve never felt comfortable around sharp objects; six months of training and two years in the army haven’t helped, so I doubt very much you’ll be able to.’
Cassius turned back to the book. He’d already worked out the dates he wanted to check. Gregorius and the legionaries had left Palmyra on the night of August 31st, which meant they had been attacked on September 1st. By consulting the map and taking into account his own journey time, he thought it impossible the flag could have reached Antioch before the 7th, so he started on that page.
Each daily entry in the logbook was divided into six columns: Hour, Goods, Description, Name, Monies Collected, Special Comments. In general, only the hour and monies collected columns were filled. As Turpo had suggested, details were taken only for unusual porticos. On the 7th, the column had been completed for loads of Theban granite, salted fish and something called ‘general aggregate’. There was no mention of barrels full of low-denomination coins.
Cassius turned his attention to monies collected. The amount taken was always two or three sesterces, or multiples thereof. He checked the first page and saw that a small piece of paper had been glued there. The low rate was for a load on a donkey or horse, the higher rate for a cart. No distinction was made between sizes of cart.
He looked through all the records up to the previous day, the 22nd. Between fifty and a hundred carts had entered the city on each day. There was no mention of any barrels of coins and Cassius noted that no record was kept of loads leaving Antioch; only incoming goods and traffic were taxed. He shut the book and stared blankly at the wall.
The young optio came to the doorway. ‘Got what you needed?’
‘Not really. Come here a moment, would you?’ Cassius turned his chair round to face the man. ‘Tell me, do you recall seeing or hearing mention of a very large cart, probably with a big group of men? The cart was carrying barrels, possibly filled with low-value coins.’
‘Not at all. Sorry, sir.’
The optio looked back over his shoulder. He stepped closer to Cassius and spoke in a low voice. ‘Of course, that doesn’t mean it didn’t come through here.’
‘Obviously. It seems as if the loads are hardly ever checked.’
‘That’s not quite what I mean, sir.’
‘You’re implying that loads are sometimes let through without being checked or taxed.’
>
The optio shrugged.
Cassius matched his hushed tone: ‘For the right amount of coins in the right hand?’
Again, the young officer was careful not to make a definitive reaction.
‘Relax,’ said Cassius. ‘Even if I have the time to report it, I’ll make sure you’re not mentioned.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The optio left.
Cassius stood up and glanced at Indavara. ‘A legionary confessing all to a Service man. I shall enjoy the moment – it may never happen again.’
Indavara nodded at the book. ‘So nothing useful?’
‘The cart may have come through here but there’s no way to be sure. Let’s hope our third stop of the morning is a little more productive.’
The gold and silver market wasn’t really a market at all; it was a series of large, superior stores on the southern side of the Avenue of Herod and Tiberius. There were no pedlars, entertainers or beggars here. In fact, anyone who lingered and didn’t look like a potential client ran the risk of being unceremoniously moved on by the hired muscle that lurked outside every store. Three pairs of city sergeants were also on duty. A team of washer-women were scrubbing hard at some graffiti on a column. The only two words Cassius could make out were governor and dog.
He walked into the first store with the spear-head in his hand. Another guard stood close to the owner, who was lounging on a pile of cushions in one corner, reading a book. The sturdy shelves that covered every wall were laden with silverware – a Syrian speciality. Behind the counter were two glass boxes containing gold ingots of various sizes and grades. Hanging from the wall was a long sheet of papyrus with exchange rates listed in Greek; it seemed the proprietor was a money-changer too. Upon spying the spear-head, he scrambled to his feet and threw the book to one side.
‘Good-day, sir,’ he said, pressing down the front of his wine-stained tunic. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Officer Corbulo, Imperial Security. Just a few questions. Your name?’
‘Gallio Barrius Bulla.’
Bulla clasped his hands behind his back, and thrust out his chest, as if signalling he had nothing to hide.
‘Have you been offered silver or gold ingots in the last few weeks?’
‘No. None.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘I can check my ledger but I’m pretty sure I haven’t been offered anything since the spring. People are still holding on to what they have. Prices have been all over the place, what with all the uncertainty.’
Cassius wasn’t sure he believed this but there was a certain logic to it.
‘Tell me: if one wanted to offload a big pile of silver and gold quickly and quietly, how would one go about it?’
‘It wouldn’t be easy. You’d have to spread the sale around to avoid unwanted attention. How big?’
‘Very big.’
‘Not many people have that amount of coinage just lying around. You could exchange for gems, I suppose.’
Cassius reached into his satchel and retrieved the sheet with the sketches of the Palmyran jewellery.
‘What about these? Seen anything like them in the city?’
Bulla carefully studied each sketch in turn.
‘Unfortunately not. Lovely pieces though. We’d hoped some Palmyran stuff would turn up, but it looks like the Emperor grabbed it all.’
Bulla laughed nervously, realising he’d spoken out of turn. Cassius couldn’t really have cared less, but he rather enjoyed being seen as a defender of the Emperor’s honour so glared at the dealer until he looked away.
‘All right, that’s it. For now.’
There were six more stores to visit but it didn’t take long because all the dealers said the same. Cassius knew there were any number of reasons why they might not disclose their true dealings to a Service man; but all had seemed disappointed that so little Palmyran booty had found its way to Antioch, and he was inclined to think they were telling the truth.
‘Another dead-end,’ he muttered as they made their way back along the avenue.
‘Excuse me,’ said a voice. They turned to see a young man behind them. Cassius recognised him: a slave who’d been at work cleaning jewellery in the fifth store.
‘May I talk to you for a moment, sir?’
‘You may.’
The youth darted between two passers-by and into a narrow alley. He went and stood behind a pile of rotting vegetables and gestured for them to join him.
‘A bit further on if you don’t mind,’ said Cassius, holding his nose as he pointed further up the alley. They stopped twenty feet from the avenue.
‘Can I see those sketches?’ asked the slave, wiping sweat away from above his mouth.
Cassius reached into the satchel and showed him the sheet.
After a few moments, the slave pointed at a necklace. ‘That’s it – the pearls, and the gold links shaped like wheat.’
‘Your employer was offered some of these?’
‘No. But I’ve seen one.’ The youth cast an anxious glance towards the end of the alley.
‘Where, man?’
‘I shall tell you, sir. But on two conditions. First, my master must not find out that I spoke to you. Second, I want four denarii.’
‘Demanding little wretch, aren’t you?’
‘I know how valuable information can be, sir.’
‘All right, but you’re only getting two denarii.’
‘I need the four, sir.’
‘Two. Or I can have my ex-gladiator friend here beat the information out of you.’
The slave looked at Indavara. ‘All right, two. I’ll take it now.’
Cassius reached into his money bag and handed over the coins. The youth bent down and tucked the coins into the back of his sandals.
‘Start talking.’
‘I saw a necklace just like that in an inn over by the Wall of Tiberius two nights ago. There was a man there, drunk, showing it off to his friend. I knew what it was but he denied it was Palmyran, said it was Arabian or something. After I asked about it, he put it away and left.’
‘This man – you know him?’
‘No, but I got his name from one of the serving girls. He’s called Nabor. I thought I might be able to get in touch with him and arrange a deal for my master.’
‘Where does he live, this Nabor?’
‘She didn’t know. But he works at the glass factory south of the Daphne Gate.’
‘Anything else?’
The slave shook his head.
‘All right. You may go.’
‘You promise you’ll not tell my master of this?’
‘I’ll not promise anything to the likes of you. And remember – we know where you work.’
The youth hurried away down the alley.
‘Not an entirely wasted morning, then,’ said Cassius. ‘Come, looks like we’ve a bit of a walk ahead of us.’
XXII
‘We should have ridden,’ Indavara said wearily as he and Cassius trudged along the side of the road.
‘I told you, I’m not going on a horse for at least another week. Anyway, I thought you wanted some exercise.’
Though the city was beginning to quieten down again for the afternoon, the factories and workshops south of the Daphne Gate were still busy. They had passed iron and bronze casters; rush-weavers and wool-cleaners, tanners, fullers and potters. The next track leading off the road turned left to a large dye-works. At least two hundred workers – mainly women – were dunking sheets into vats of red and orange dye and hanging them out to dry on wooden racks.
‘Why are these places so far out of the city?’ asked Indavara.
‘The stench for one thing. Risk of fire for another.’ Cassius pointed up at the slopes of Mount Silpius, where a high aqueduct ran parallel to the road. ‘Plus they can get plenty of water; well, at least when the rains come again.’
At the far end of the dye-works was a ditch, then an area of open ground dotted with pits and piles of sand. I
n the middle of the mess was a big, stone-built factory. The building faced the road, and as they drew level with it, Cassius spied the glow of furnaces inside.
‘Looks like we’re here.’
Indavara tightened his belt. Upon hearing they might have to apprehend this man Nabor, he had insisted on bringing along his bow as well as his sword and stave.
‘Now listen,’ Cassius continued. ‘If Nabor’s here, we’ll need to question him first – make sure we’ve got the right man. But he might try to run, so be ready.’
They turned on to a path littered with broken glass and wood shavings. Ahead of them was a lad leading two horses to a stable. The horses’ load had been a broad cart, now at rest in front of the factory. Two workers were shovelling broken glass out of the back into barrels below. They stared at the strangers.
Cassius had left his helmet and officer’s cloak back at the villa and now wore a light cape over his tunic. The spear-head was wrapped up, though one end of it stuck out of his satchel. He reminded himself not to let Indavara weigh himself down with weapons in future; it attracted too much attention.
Rounding piles of firewood, they came to the factory itself. A sturdy, middle-aged man was squatting in the shade, reading a waxed tablet.
‘Officer Corbulo. Governor’s staff. Your name?’
The man stood and let out a long breath before replying.
‘Juba. Foreman.’
‘Excellent. I’m looking for a man named Nabor, apparently he works here. Nothing serious. Just a few questions.’
‘Nabor’s been away. Haven’t seen him for a long time.’
Juba’s reply was rather too quick and definitive for Cassius’s liking.
‘I see.’
Cassius wandered over to the factory and looked inside. Indavara followed him, Juba too. Eight men sat at stools in front of small, domed, clay furnaces, focused intently on their work. They were all wearing thick leather gloves and long aprons and their skin shone with sweat. The worker closest to them stood, then carefully eased an iron pipe out of the furnace. Attached to the end of it was a molten chunk of glass the colour of a newly risen sun. The worker put the pipe to his mouth and blew. The glass wobbled, then began to expand. Cassius had heard of the process but had never seen it done before. Indavara moved closer, utterly entranced. Cassius turned to the foreman.
