by Nick Brown
Cyzicus, Roman province of Asia Minor, March, 271 AD
‘Thank the great and honoured gods.’
As the last grains of sand slipped into the bottom of the hourglass, Cassius Quintius Corbulo pushed his chair away from the desk and stood. Shaking his head, he peered down at the pile of paper: mostly lists and columns of numbers.
He had always felt certain that the study of grammar was the most mind-numbing activity known to man. Now he wasn’t so sure.
‘Taking your lunch, sir?’ asked Marcus.
‘Taking it? I’m running towards it, embracing it and giving it a long, passionate kiss. How long did you say you’d been working here?’
Marcus – a local clerk – ran a hand through his thatch of springy, black hair. ‘Ten months, maybe eleven.’
‘At twelve, don’t forget to ask for your long service award.’ Cassius tightened his belt two notches and straightened his tunic. ‘You coming?’
‘I can’t. Tuccius will have my head on a plate if I don’t finish these oil orders by the end of the day.’
‘You’re too scared of him. Nothing but a bully. Doesn’t know a thing about real soldiering.’
Marcus aimed his reed-pen at Cassius. ‘You still didn’t tell me about Syria.’
‘I will.’
In truth, he had no intention of doing so: firstly because he had no desire to relive what he’d been through; secondly because his lack of openness had led to an interesting development - he’d acquired a certain aura of mystique among the local inhabitants. All that was generally known was that he’d led the defence of a fort and been rewarded with a place on the staff of General Navio, who had recently taken command of the Cyzicus garrison.
Cassius unleashed a mighty yawn, pulled back the curtain of the tiny office, then navigated his way out of the maze of rooms at the rear of the basilica. He was close to the exit when two men emerged from an adjacent corridor.
One was Tribune Tuccius, his immediate superior. The other Cassius did not know; a slender man dressed in a very clean and well-arranged toga.
‘Ah, Corbulo,’ said Tuccius, ‘try to keep it to an hour today.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Cassius resented even using the word. From what he could gather, Tuccius hadn’t been anywhere near the frontier, let alone any hostile force.
The tribune turned to his friend. ‘You won’t believe this, Cominius, but Corbulo is a ‘grain man’ actually in charge of grain.’
‘I don’t follow,’ said Cominius, a weak-chinned fellow who had the look of a career bureaucrat. ‘I’ve heard the term but-’
‘Imperial Security Service,’ interjected Cassius. ‘I was commissioned directly into it. Officers such as myself are often known as ‘grain men’ because our original operatives worked in procurement. They were so knowledgeable about their local area that the emperor Domitian formed them into a specialised unit to gather intelligence on the enemies of the Empire. Or so the legend goes.’
‘I see.’
‘Corbulo is currently gathering intelligence on sources of grain,’ said Tuccius with a smirk. ‘The Fifth Legion is on its way so we must build up our supplies.’ His face took on a serious expression. ‘A crucial task - yet he seems almost bored by it.’
Cassius was several ranks below the man and several years younger but he would have preferred to take orders from a legionary.
‘When one has faced the enemies of Rome, other duties seem rather mundane. However, I will of course do my best.’
‘An hour, Corbulo,’ said Tuccius, already on his way. ‘Not a minute more.’
Cassius did as he was told and worked hard through the afternoon. Though it was customary to stop around the ninth hour, he continued until his current crop of papers were in order. His predecessor was in the army hospital suffering from a stomach condition and had clearly not been particularly efficient. Cassius was still awaiting some figures but – after a week’s work - he now had a rough idea how much grain was available for use by the army.
Leaving Marcus toiling over his olive oil orders, he set off for home as the streets grew dark. Unfortunately, he was on foot: his horse had injured itself on a sewer grating the previous day and there was still no word from the veterinarian. He passed several watchmen lighting their lanterns and numerous street vendors packing away. Though his uniform of military belt and scarlet tunic gave him some protection, he was unused to passing so close to unsavoury characters and shadowy alleyways. Quickening his pace, he reached the villa just as the sun set.
Cassius - and his Gaulish servant Simo - had moved in a month ago, when he’d been reassigned to procurement. Until then, they had been housed at the city’s fortress, which was some distance from the centre and rather noisy for Cassius’s tastes. Tribune Tuccius’s department was stationed at the basilica for ease of access to public officials and documentation. Cassius had expected the role to be easier than his previous post: liaising between the garrison and the city officials. There were fewer meetings but a lot more paperwork: overall he reckoned it might turn out to be equally irksome.
He found Simo stacking firewood in the yard behind the kitchen.
‘You’re late back, sir. I was beginning to worry.’
‘So was I – for my sanity. Working until dusk? I might as well become a farmhand.’
‘Bad day, sir?’
‘Not entirely. I’ve finally made some sense of what was handed to me. Cassius glanced back towards the kitchen, where something was cooking in a pot. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Fish stew, sir.’
‘The one with the basil?’
Simo heaved another lump of wood onto a pile against the courtyard wall. ‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Excellent. Is there any wine?’
‘Yes, sir, I-’
Cassius held up a hand. ‘I’ll get it.’
He went inside, found the jug and poured the wine into the villa’s only glass. Sipping it, he looked through the doorway and watched the big Gaul work. Personable, efficient and literate, Simo was an excellent servant. He was also a slave, technically-speaking the property of one of Cassius’s father’s friends, who’d kindly donated him to help the young officer. They hadn’t made firm arrangements about the future but Cassius was giving serious thought to buying him. Good help was hard to find, especially in the provinces.
Since arriving, Cassius had spent much of his time socialising with the great and good of Cyzicus. General Navio had invited him to several dinner parties and from there more invitations had come his way. As ever, it was difficult to make progress with girls of his station without suggesting a serious relationship, but he had been on several romantic walks and two trips to the theatre. If these efforts proved unproductive, there was a healthy selection of tavern girls down near the port.
He hadn’t the energy for socialising on this night, however, and after-dinner entertainment was provided by a game of twelve lines. Simo was a decent player but, as usual, lost five-nil. Cassius had loved the board game since receiving a set on his tenth birthday. He had played hundreds of different people and only lost three times. As Simo set about tidying the kitchen, he retired to bed early.
The messenger arrived at the second hour of the following morning. Simo admitted the lad, who bowed to Cassius before presenting him with a single sheet bound with twine. Cassius read it, then blew out his cheeks.
‘Bad news, sir?’ enquired Simo.
‘Indeed. It would appear this is to be another long day.’
Though the March air was pleasantly cool, Cassius’s tunic was sticking to him by the time he reached the grain wareho
use. The walk from the villa was well over a mile and much of it had involved negotiating early morning traffic bound for the city markets.
The warehouse looked rather different from when he’d last seen it. Fire had gutted the entire central section of the long, high building, leaving a ragged hole of blackened timbers. Smoke was still drifting up from the interior where he could see dozens of damaged amphoras and baskets burnt to a crisp. Considering the structure was constructed mainly of wood, he supposed it was fortunate that the entire area hadn’t gone up in flames.
Many passing citizens were stopping to have a look but once Cassius put his cloak back on they were quick to move aside. Two soldiers, an optio and a guard officer, were inspecting the damage. A pair of vocal city sergeants – identifiable by the clubs hanging from their shoulders – were doing a good job of keeping the crowd back. One of them nodded respectfully to Cassius as he passed.
The optio, whose face and hands were stained with ash, noted his approach. ‘Morning, centurion.’
‘Morning. Corbulo, procurement.’ Cassius generally avoided mentioning that his true title was ‘officer’, not ‘centurion’. ‘Officer’ confused civilians and let fellow soldiers know that he belonged to the Security Service, an organisation many of them viewed with suspicion and contempt.
‘Memmius, second century. I live just over the road. I arrived just as it really got going – about two hours before dawn.’
‘You put it out?’
Memmius, a stocky fellow with a reddish beard, seemed amused by the idea. ‘I got word to the magistrate but by the time his men and the water-cart arrived it had died down.’
‘How?’
‘One of the rare occasions on which a prayer of mine was actually answered. Cloud burst – didn’t last more than half an hour but it did the job. We finished it off with buckets.’
‘Any idea how much we’ve lost?’
‘At least a third.’
‘Shit.’
‘You in charge of grain?’
Cassius nodded. ‘This is going to put a big hole in my numbers. Any idea how it started?’
Memmius brushed ash off his hands. ‘Bit of a mystery. No open fires close by and not enough wind to drop a spark onto it. Looks like the main blaze was right in the middle.’
‘Arson?’
‘Could be.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the guard officer, ‘but who’d want to fire a grain warehouse?’
‘Has been known,’ said Memmius. ‘Rebels wanting to harm the army; other enemies of the Empire.’
‘But this isn’t an army warehouse,’ said the guard officer.
‘True,’ replied Cassius. Of the twelve within the city’s bounds, nine were privately owned. ‘But it belongs to Eustathios – one of our major suppliers. Any sign of him?’
Memmius shook his head. ‘All right if I leave you in charge for the moment, sir? I was supposed to be on the parade ground half an hour ago.’
Cassius didn’t want to lose time from his day either but he supposed Tuccius would consider this a valid excuse.
‘Go ahead.’
As Memmius set off, Cassius walked around the warehouse. The doors at one end were bound by a padlock and chain and appeared untouched. He continued around to the other side. A twenty foot section of the timber walls had burned down almost to the ground. Cassius squatted to look underneath: like all grain warehouses the structure was suspended on stone posts; to improve air circulation and prevent infestations. Within the damaged area, the timbers and contents had collapsed through the floor. Even if any evidence of how the fire had been started remained, it was now buried by ash and unburnt wood.
Cassius heard a shrill cry, then saw a large figure hurry around the other end of the warehouse. He had been introduced to Eustathios the previous week at the basilica. The Greek merchant was wearing an opulent green cloak and a varied collection of finger rings. Accompanying him were an elderly clerk and a bulky bodyguard.
The merchant stopped close to Cassius and stared into the ruined interior. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ He clenched a fist and glared at the sky. ‘What have I done?’
As the Greek had spoken in his native tongue, Cassius did the same. ‘Bit of a mess, eh?’
Eusthathios seemed to be about to snap back at him, then realised who he was addressing. ‘You’re …’
‘Corbulo, procurement. I don’t suppose you have reserves to replace what you’ve lost here?’
The Greek threw a hand towards the building. ‘This was my reserve.’ He looked around. ‘Where in Hades are the magistrate’s officers?’
‘Not here yet. Any idea who’ll be in charge of investigating?’
Eusthathios turned to his clerk. ‘Well?’
‘Probably Stolo.’
‘Of course.’ Eusthathios shook his head. ‘Get some men down here to start tidying up. More bloody expense.’
The clerk nodded and hurried away into the crowd, calling for a runner.
‘You are assuming foul play, then?’ said Cassius.
‘This building has been in my family for decades,’ answered the Greek. ‘We have never had a fire here.’
‘Who would have cause to do such a thing?’
Eusthathios grimaced and opened his mouth but then hesitated before speaking again. ‘I suppose we shall have to see what Stolo discovers.’
‘You don’t seem particularly confident in his abilities.’
Eusthatios chose not to reply.
Back at the basilica, Marcus was working at his desk while a maid brushed the floor. She looked attractive from the rear but Cassius was dismayed to discover that she had a large and crooked nose.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Marcus. Hear about the warehouse?’
‘No. What happ-’
‘Corbulo! I say, Corbulo!’ From the main corridor came the distinguished tones of Tribune Tuccius.
‘Gods, didn’t take him long.’ Cassius stepped over the maid’s brush and met his superior just outside the office.
‘Well?’
‘I got the note, sir – had a look on my way in. I would estimate that a third of the stock was lost.’
‘How will that affect our supplies? Will we have enough?’
‘I’m not sure yet, sir.’
‘Find out exactly how much has gone, then work out how you can replace it. Prefect Penarius of the Fifth Legion has asked for a certain figure and we must meet it. We will not let him down.’
Cassius knew from some more of the more talkative locals that Tuccius harboured political ambitions. Prefect Penarius’s family was extremely well-connected; in Cyzicus, in Rome and just about everywhere else in between.
‘I will do my best, of course, sir, but there are only so many local sources.’
‘And if they run dry you will have to go further afield, Corbulo.Whether by land or by sea, you will ensure we have enough. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir. Can I ask what you know of Investigator Stolo? It seems he will be looking into the cause of the fire.’
‘The cause?’
‘Yes. It may not have been accidental.’
‘Oh.’
‘The owner, Eusthatios, has suggested foul play. If that’s the case, it’s possible more of his warehouses – and our grain - might be targeted.’
‘I see. Well, I can’t say I know the man but hopefully this Stolo character will get somewhere.’ Tuccius nodded at the office. ‘You best get on, Corbulo - every day the Fifth marches closer.’
Cassius held the curtain open for the maid to leave, then entered and sat down.
‘Sir,’ said Marcus, turning his chair around.
‘What?’
‘Tribune Tuccius may not be aware because he’s not been here that long but Investigator Stolo-’
Belatedly realising his pen was dripping ink, Marcus replaced it in the pot. ‘He … well, he used to be very well-respected.’
‘But not any more?’
The clerk
lowered his voice. ‘Let me put it this way – if would be no surprise to see him worshipping at the temple of Dionysus.’
‘Ah.’
‘He conducts most of his meetings from Flora’s – the tavern on the Via Cappadocia.’
‘Wonderful.’ Cassius reached for the closest stack of papers.
Declining a dinner invitation from his neighbours – a friendly married couple who he got on well with – Cassius ate in the courtyard. Once again, he wasn’t in the mood for socialising. His mind felt addled and his eyes ached; hardly surprising after six hours of calculations and deciphering the handwriting of semi-literate clerks.
Simo collected his plate and the chunk of pork he had left upon it.
‘Actually it’s not all that fatty,’ said Cassius, feeling slightly guilty for earlier taking out his frustrations out on the attendant’s cooking. ‘I’m just not hungry.’
‘Nothing on the cause of the fire, sir?’
‘No but I’ll check in on this Stolo when I can. The merchant thought it no accident but clearly didn’t want to name any names. Anyway, that’s their problem. I just have to ensure we have enough grain. The last thing I need is some bloody requisitioning trip – or even worse a sea journey. I really thought this job would be less taxing.’
‘Perhaps General Navio might be able to find you something else, sir?’
‘I cannot possibly request any more favours from him. Truth be told I – we – should be grateful that we are well away from the armies of that rampaging bitch Zenobia. Apparently they take thirty miles of territory every week.’ Cassius sighed. ‘To think of all the men that died at Alauran and elsewhere … the Emperor needs to act quickly.’
Simo stood there with the plate in his hand. ‘You don’t think the Palmyrans could reach us here, do you, sir?’
‘By all the gods I hope not.’
