by Nick Brown
For now, master/servant convention had been forgotten, and Simo led the way, hurrying towards the building, a big basket of food in his hand. As they approached the tower, and the two legionaries leaning against the wall outside, Cassius reached into his satchel and took out the spear-head. The legionaries stood up straight.
Simo stopped to let Cassius past.
‘At ease,’ Cassius said casually. ‘Corbulo, Imperial Security. I’m here to question a man in your custody.’
‘We were told all the questioning was done with, sir,’ said the elder of the two soldiers. He was a chubby, squat individual, with the stomach of a man who spent too much time on guard duty.
‘I’m telling you otherwise,’ Cassius replied in his most imperious tone.
The legionary frowned and turned to his partner. ‘They took a few of them away last week. And one died, didn’t he?’
‘Think so,’ said the other guard.
‘What was the name?’ asked the older man.
Simo had grown visibly paler, but he managed to speak. ‘Abito.’
The guard went inside the shadowy doorway that led into the tower. He returned with a waxed tablet and ran a finger down one side as he read. The wait seemed interminable. Simo stood absolutely still, his unblinking eyes fixed on the legionary.
‘He’s here.’
Simo let out a breath and looked up at the sky.
‘But he’s one of the Christians,’ said the legionary. ‘You don’t want to speak to one of the collaborators?’
‘No,’ replied Cassius. ‘This man Abito.’
‘Why?’
‘Remember your rank, man. I’m not obliged to disclose such information to you. Now take us inside.’
‘I know my rank, sir. I’m an optio. And I’m in charge of this prison. They’re not supposed to have any visitors.’
‘From their fellows. Do I look like a Christian to you? This man might have vital information for the Service.’
The optio glanced at the basket of food. ‘To loosen his tongue, I suppose.’
Cassius nodded.
‘You can’t take it into the cell. They get hardly anything – the smell of fresh bread will send them mad.’
‘We shall need a private room. I’ll question this Abito in there.’
The optio was clearly wavering.
‘I do not have all day,’ Cassius continued. ‘If it will make you feel better, I shall drop a note to your superior later, telling him of my visit, and absolving you of any responsibility. What is your name? And his?’
‘Herminius. And it’s Tribune Bonafatius.’
‘Ah, yes, I know the man. I shall have a message to him within the hour.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Leaving the other guard outside, Herminius led them inside the tower and up the circular staircase. The interior was in a poor state: dirt and dust covered the floor and paint was peeling from the walls. They walked around and around, up and up, past small, grilled windows, until Cassius guessed they were sixty feet from the ground. They smelled the cell before they saw it – a noxious mix of stale sweat and urine.
The top of the tower had been split in two, with walled rooms to the right, the single cell to the left: a semicircular space enclosed by iron bars sunk into the floor and roof. Two more legionaries were on duty here. Simo pressed forward to get a look at the occupants of the cell. Cassius subtly moved in front of him and nodded at the rooms.
‘We can use one of these?’
Herminius went to the second room along and opened the door. Cassius could see a table and chairs inside.
‘Fine.’ He turned to Simo. ‘Take the food in there.’
Simo hesitated, then did so. Herminius led Cassius and Indavara past the other guards and towards the cell. Here the smell was at its worst, and when he saw the state of the prisoners, Cassius could see why. There were at least thirty of them, all sitting or lying down, all unshaven, their skin and clothes equally filthy. Cassius was wondering what they used for a latrine when he spied a hole under the large grilled window at the rear of the cell. Next to it was a bucket of water.
One man got to his feet. He came close to the bars and gazed curiously at Cassius and Indavara. He seemed especially interested in Cassius’s spear-head.
‘You’re from the Governor’s Office. Has he made his decision?’
‘That’s right,’ said Herminius. ‘You’re to be set free.’
Hope shone in the man’s eyes. He gripped the bars.
‘Set free into the arena,’ Herminius continued. ‘Where the crowd will cheer as wild dogs tear you limb from limb.’
The other guards laughed as Herminius aimed a kick at the bars. ‘Get back, traitor!’
Herminius turned to Cassius as the prisoner withdrew, head down.
‘Palmyra-lover. Spied on the governor for their whore queen.’ Herminius gestured for Cassius to follow him. ‘Your Christian’s over here.’
The men on the right side of the cell were in fact in a far worse state than the others. Several were lying flat and hadn’t stirred. Others could barely summon the energy to turn and examine the visitors. Close to the bars, two men lay on thin, holed blankets. One was very old – pale and emaciated; he looked close to death. The other was no more than thirty. His face was wet with sweat and he was rambling in Aramaic, pawing at the blanket. A third man was sitting between them, holding a damp cloth.
‘We were glad when this one decided to stop eating,’ said Herminius, nodding at the young man. ‘Loud-mouthed bastard never shut up. I think that one’s Abito.’
For one awful moment, Cassius thought he meant the old man, but it was the third individual who glanced up. Cassius saw instantly that he was Simo’s father. Though a far smaller man, he had the same thick hair as his son – albeit a slate grey – and the same kind eyes too. He got to his feet.
‘Officer here needs to question you,’ said Herminius.
One of the guards unlocked the door at the right-hand end of the cell.
Abito looked at Cassius but said nothing. Across his forehead was a nasty gash surrounded by a yellow and purple bruise. He walked to the door and out of the cell. Some of the other Christians spoke up.
‘Strength, brother.’
‘The Lord is with you.’
Herminius grabbed Abito roughly by the neck and pushed him towards Cassius.
‘He’s all yours.’
Cassius took Abito’s arm. It was thin, like a child’s. He could feel the man shaking as he escorted him to the room. He whispered to him as they rounded the corner: ‘I’m a friend. I have your son here. Do not cry out when you see him.’
Cassius took Abito inside the room, and Indavara quickly shut the door behind them.
Simo rushed forward and embraced his father, who hadn’t even a chance to speak. Cassius and Indavara moved away as Abito gripped his son’s broad back.
‘My boy. My boy Simo.’
Abito began to cry, his tears running down his face and on to his son’s tunic. After a time, Simo held his father out in front of him. He kissed him once, then examined the wound on his head.
‘It’s not bad,’ said Abito.
‘Tell me you’re eating,’ said Simo. ‘Tell me you’ll have some food.’
‘Gladly.’
The Gaul embraced his father again.
‘I knew you wouldn’t give up. I knew it.’
‘I told the others,’ announced Abito, turning to Cassius and Indavara. ‘My boys lost their mother before they could speak. I always said I’d not leave them on their own.’
Cassius nodded but raised a finger to his mouth. Herminius or one of the other guards might easily have drifted back towards the door to listen in. Indavara turned away and went to the window, staring contemplatively down at the river.
Simo gestured to Cassius. ‘My master, Father – Cassius Quintius Corbulo.’
Abito bowed.
‘And that’s Indavara, his bodyguard.’
Abito bowed aga
in, though Indavara kept his back to him.
Simo went to the basket and brought out some bread and cheese, and a gourd of water.
‘Sit, Father, sit,’ he said, pulling out a chair.
A distant cheer from the hippodrome drifted across the island towards them.
Simo laid out a cloth for the food on the table.
‘Do the guards give you anything to eat?’ enquired Cassius, sitting down on the other chair.
‘Nothing for five days. They said it’s a waste – because we don’t want it.’
‘All the other Christians have refused food?’
‘Not all. I and three others have tried to make them see sense. There might be more chance now that Albar is so weak. He was the most determined.’
Abito tore off a piece of bread and swallowed it down, then grabbed a lump of cheese.
‘Slowly, Father,’ advised Simo.
‘You must keep your fellows alive,’ Cassius continued. ‘Letting them die just provides the governor with a convenient solution.’
‘Albar said Gordio is under the power of the demons,’ replied Abito. ‘Domnus too.’
Cassius sighed. ‘The governor is under the power of the Emperor. Which is why he had to act against your bishop in the first place. I’m sure he couldn’t care less about Domnus or Paul, or this split. He is simply doing his job – trying to keep the peace.’
Simo passed his father the gourd, then turned to Cassius. ‘Do you think Master Abascantius might be able to help, sir?’
‘Even if he was inclined to – which I doubt – certainly not at the moment.’
‘Then what can we do?’
Cassius pointed at Simo’s father. ‘Your group could write a letter to Bishop Domnus pledging your allegiance. I imagine that might be enough.’
Abito sat higher in his chair. ‘We cannot, sir.’
Cassius shook his head and turned to Simo. ‘Would you see your father die in here? Talk to him.’
Simo seemed to be about to speak but then stopped himself.
Cassius slapped the table with his hand and stood up. ‘This ridiculous misplaced loyalty.’ He paused a moment, reminding himself to keep his voice down. ‘Where is your precious Paul now? Where is he in your time of need?’
Simo looked down at the floor.
Abito smiled. ‘He came to me. In a dream. He told me—’
‘Oh, spare me, please,’ said Cassius. He leaned over Simo’s father. ‘You have a simple decision to make, Abito. Which is more important to you: your faith or your life? If it’s the former, I don’t see that I can help you any more.’
Another roar from the hippodrome.
Cassius tapped Indavara on the shoulder and pointed at the door.
‘Simo, we shall give you a few moments alone. Think about what you want to say to your father. You may not get this chance again.’
Indavara followed Cassius to the door and shut it behind them. Cassius walked back round the corner to where Herminius stood with the other guards.
‘It’s true you’re not feeding the Christians anything?’
Herminius shrugged. ‘What’s the point if they won’t eat it?’
‘Did your tribune authorise that?’
‘Not exactly.’
Cassius stared down at him.
‘No,’ the optio admitted.
‘Then you provide food for every man in that cell. If some of them don’t want it, the others can take it. And make sure they have enough water to drink. I shall mention all this to Bonafatius. Ensure that it is done.’
Sneering, Herminius pointed at the Christians.
‘Two weeks back – at festival time – we gave them a little extra food, so they could make an offering to Jupiter. They threw it back at us. They disgust me.’
‘They should burn, sir,’ added another of the guards. ‘Every one of them.’
Cassius took a step backward, and when he spoke, addressed the guards as a group. ‘You men would do well to remind yourselves of your station. It is not your place to make decisions that rest with your superiors.’
Herminius gave a reluctant nod.
Cassius turned towards the cell. ‘These men are zealots. Idiotic, stubborn zealots admittedly, but that’s all they are. Not robbers, not murderers, nor even traitors.’ He looked back at the guards. ‘Remember that.’
XXV
Cassius was about to doze off for the third time when Indavara gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs. They were sitting on a bench between two clumps of bushes, in the grounds of a small temple devoted to the mountain god Dolichenus. Cassius had struggled to stay awake throughout their two-hour vigil opposite Octobrianus’s house – a surprisingly modest villa not far from Hadrian’s Bridge.
He peered across the street. A servant carrying a lantern had appeared. They heard the key turn as he unlocked the gate and opened it. Octobrianus stepped out on to the pavement. He was wearing a long cloak with a hood, which he now flicked up over his head as he hurried away. Once more, Cassius was struck by how utterly unmemorable the man was. He was physically small, and his manner gave no suggestion of his status, nor the power he wielded in the city.
Indavara vaulted over the stone wall in front of them and dropped quietly on to the street. Cassius clambered after him, shaking his head to try to wake himself up. He was wearing a pale blue tunic and a non-military belt with a fine silver buckle. It was a warm night and – knowing they might have to move quickly – he hadn’t bothered with a cloak or cape. He and Indavara were armed only with their daggers.
Octobrianus set a quick pace. With the streets quiet, their footsteps seemed alarmingly loud so they kept well back. Cassius soon realised the procurator was heading towards the Orontes. As they got closer to the river, the quality of the housing decreased, as did the width of the streets. At one point, they passed two shifty-looking characters in an alley. Indavara’s hand went to his dagger, and he made sure he was between them and Cassius, but the men stayed in the shadows.
They eventually came to a street that bent around to the left, running parallel to the river. As the procurator approached the bend, a dark shape seemed to lift off the wall beside him. They heard a voice. A woman’s voice. Octobrianus tried to pull away but it seemed she had hold of him. Struggling to get free, he looked back along the street.
‘Keep walking,’ Cassius told Indavara, hoping the procurator would get away before they reached him. The woman was pleading for money. Octobrianus reached into a purse and handed over a coin. She let go and he made his escape around the corner.
Cassius exchanged a relieved glance with Indavara. They kept to the right – well out of the beggar’s way – as the street opened out on to a broad square divided from the river by a low wall. Beyond the wall was a wooden jetty where skiffs and rowing boats were tied up. On the other side of the river, several barges lay at anchor on the edge of a marsh. A strong breeze was blowing. Furled sails and lines flapped, and the boats bounced against their moorings.
Here and there were small groups of men, either sitting in the boats or standing on the jetty. There was enough moonlight to see by; and it caught the glass of the bottles some of them were holding. Others were still hard at work, ferrying barrels off the boats and up to the square.
Cassius and Indavara stopped by the wall and continued to watch Octobrianus, now striding purposefully along the other side of the square, hood still covering his face. There were at least ten different establishments facing the waterfront. Cassius knew some would be inns, some brothels, some both. Song, laughter and the hum of conversation spilled out from the windows.
The procurator nodded to a doorman before hurrying inside a two-storey building with a striking sign above the door; the erect phallus was at least two feet high. Cassius grinned speculatively as he turned to Indavara.
‘Always the quiet ones, eh?’
‘What?’
‘See the picture below the lantern there?’
‘Ah.’
‘A she-wolves’
den. You’ve sampled the delights of such a place before?’
‘No.’
‘Well, thanks to my uncle, I have. So follow my lead.’
‘Why do we need to go inside? It’s obvious what he’s there for.’
‘True. But establishments like that are also useful meeting places. Anyway, why so reluctant? Surely the prospect of all those willing young women doesn’t unnerve you?’
‘No.’
‘If anyone asks, I’ll stick with the Raetian investor story – Cassius Oranius and all that – but let’s try and keep our mouths shut and our eyes open.’
‘Are you going to take a girl?’
Cassius shrugged. ‘In order not to look out of place, I may be required to indulge. All in the name of duty, of course.’
‘What will you be having tonight, sirs?’ asked the woman behind the counter.
The bluntness of the question surprised Cassius.
‘Er . . .’
He and Indavara stood in the small reception room at the front of the brothel, watched by two more doormen armed with staves. The woman – who was old enough to be a grandmother and didn’t hide the fact particularly well – nodded down at the first of two woven baskets on the counter. Inside were square tokens made of bark with crude drawings on them.
‘You must buy at least one token each. Give it to the girl when you’ve chosen her. That gets you an hour. What you do with her is up to you; you can recite poetry to her for all I care.’
The woman pointed at the second container. ‘These are the special tokens, for . . . specific tastes.’
‘Perhaps another time. Just two normal tokens please.’
‘Twelve denarii.’
Cassius paid. ‘Rather pricey, isn’t it?’
‘We have the best girls in Antioch.’
The hostess walked over to a thick red curtain and pulled it back. Beyond was a narrow corridor lit by wall-mounted lamps.
‘Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.’
Cassius turned to Indavara as they walked along the corridor. ‘What else could I do?’
Indavara shrugged.
Cassius offered him a token.
