by Nick Brown
Several times he had considered shouting. But as they hadn’t gagged him and he’d seen or heard nothing of anyone other than the guards, he assumed there was no one close. On the rare occasions he’d been able to snatch a glance through the door, he’d seen only pale grass and a dusty trail. He also thought that appealing for help would make him seem – and feel – weak.
As for escape, they were not taking any chances this time. He reckoned the entire room had been searched because he couldn’t find a single nail or anything else that might help him pick the padlocked manacles. And whichever of Warty or Narrow Eyes was on duty would regularly look in on him, day or night. There were always two of them present at meal times.
The pair had only one thing to say when they’d delivered his meal that morning: apparently he was to receive a visitor. Though Indavara was hungry and the plate of sliced bread, salted pork and figs looked appetising, he managed only a third of it. It was the sickness of anticipation and fear; a sickness he knew well. He felt sure that he would soon learn why he had been captured and taken what felt like halfway across the world.
He was still at the window when he heard voices outside, then the key turn in the lock. As was normal, they first pushed the door wide open to check where he was. Then Warty and Narrow Eyes – both holding cudgels – came in.
‘Down,’ grunted Warty. This was another routine: Indavara had to sit and remain still when they entered. He sat against the wall, the stone chilling his skin.
The third man wore a fine pair of boots, a pale blue tunic and a belt with a pricey-looking buckle. Indavara – who did not expect to be introduced – decided he would call him Slab, because his face was almost square in shape and grey in colour.
Slab came within two yards then stopped and looked him over.
‘He healthy?’ As usual, they spoke in Greek.
‘He seems right enough, sir,’ said Warty. Judging by how he and Narrow Eyes were now acting, they had great respect for their superior; were perhaps even scared of him.
‘That so?’
Indavara held up his wrists, which were sore where the manacles rubbed.
‘You’ll have to live with that.’ Slab noted the unfinished meal and spoke to the others over his shoulder. ‘Make sure he eats all his food.’
He squatted down and held Indavara’s stare for some time. ‘I know you, young man. I know all about you, so I doubt you scare easily but I will simply make you aware of the facts. These two told me what happened in Rhodes. If you try it again, I’ll take enough fingers to leave your right hand useless. You’ll not be much of a fighter after that.’
‘Why am I here?’
Slab spat, leaving a glob of spittle on the ground between them.
‘We’re going to be doing some things to you. You won’t like it; and I’m sure it will hurt; but we have an expert who assures me that – if you behave yourself – there’s a decent chance you’ll come through it.’
‘Through what?’
Slab stood, eyes still locked on him. ‘I doubt it will be worse than the arena and you survived that. Just let us do what we have to and it should all be over in a few days, couple of weeks at the outside. There is a reason why we’ve let you know nothing about where you are: when the time comes to let you go, you’ll never find us.’
Indavara did not believe for a moment that they intended to let him live. It didn’t seem wise to let them know that.
‘What is this? Revenge? Why—’
‘See you soon,’ said Slab as he turned away. ‘The surgeon should arrive tomorrow or the next day.’
He walked out, leaving the other two to lock up.
When they had gone, Indavara stood and looked out at the sky. He felt sure that he would suffer greatly before he died.
VI
As both Cassius and Kabir had hoped, they reached Tarsus in five days. After following the main northerly road out of Syria, they had passed through the city of Issus then entered Cilicia and travelled west to the capital. They were now in sight of the Taurus mountains; the range that ran for hundreds of miles across four provinces.
As predicted, Patch performed well and soon earned the respect of the nomads. The party stayed in a series of low-priced inns, squeezed into dormitory rooms with some unpleasant company and a selection of equally unpleasant odours. Cassius was usually too tired to worry; he remained almost as focused as Kabir and the Syrians on reaching their destination and finding some answers.
He could not help feeling that every day counted; the sooner he found the girl, the sooner they could look for Indavara. If there was no clue when he returned to Antioch – and if he could avoid the clutches of Abascantius – he planned to return to Berytus and start again from there. With his old ally Diadromes now magistrate, he would not be short of help.
Unsurprisingly, they had attracted some curious looks from other travellers and questions from the soldiers and tax collectors they encountered at army way stations and toll gates. A few words from Cassius regarding the Service was generally enough to put them off. He knew this entailed some risk (should Abascantius be sufficiently concerned – or angry – to send someone after him) but it was a necessary measure. He also had his oft-used letters of recommendation if required. He didn’t plan to employ the missive written by his superior but those from Prefect Venator of the Fourth Legion and Marshal Marcellinus, Protector of the East, remained invaluable.
An hour after dawn on the sixth day, Cassius and Simo left the latest unsavoury dormitory and met the Syrians in the inn’s courtyard. On the way outside, Cassius admitted that he was beginning to tire of the accommodation, even though they were making substantial savings. Simo didn’t seem to particularly enjoy such places either: he took great exception to the language and topics of conversation used by their room-mates. By contrast, the Syrians were always quiet and well mannered. Cassius had noted more than a few wary reactions but none of their fellow guests had been foolhardy enough to provoke the well-armed nomads.
Kabir and the others had already claimed the courtyard’s largest table.
‘Food’s on its way,’ said the Syrian as Idan poured Cassius and Simo some watered wine. The scarred warrior remained generally monosyllabic but polite and cooperative. Kabir’s son Kammath was cordial enough but Cassius detected an underlying suspicion of him and his involvement in their cause. The chief’s nephew, Yablus, was a cheery fellow, always ready with a quip or a helping hand. Both youths seemed keen to practise their Latin and enjoyed hearing Cassius describe some of his travels. They had been particularly rapt by his tale of their trip to Africa: until their arrival at Issus, neither had ever seen the sea.
‘I spoke with some of the locals,’ said Kabir. ‘The slave market opens at the second hour. It’s less than a mile from here. How do you intend to begin?’
Cassius had woken before dawn and already given the matter some thought. ‘Ordinarily I would go directly to the magistrate and see what the authorities know of Meliton, or perhaps recruit some informers. But as we are pressed for time, we will simply go straight to the market and ask whomever we find. It would seem logical to start with the traders themselves. If that turns up nothing, we will have to seek out the illegal sector, which will not be easy. Another lead might be these forgers who produce the fake documents. Based on what we know of him, I would imagine this Meliton does not make himself particularly easy to find.’
The Syrians spoke amongst themselves for some time. As usual, Kammath came across as somewhat impetuous and Kabir remained his usual composed self. Idan rarely contributed to any conversation unless asked to by his chief; Yablus usually kept quiet.
During the journey, Cassius had discovered that Kabir’s tribe numbered over two hundred and that Idan owed him a lifelong blood-oath of brotherhood and protection. As children, Kabir had plucked Idan from a raging river and dragged him two miles to their camp. They had seldom been separated since.
‘Problem?’ asked Cassius when the exchange was over.
‘Kammath says his sister could be here in the city. Right now. Somewhere close.’
‘He’s correct,’ said Cassius. ‘But we must try to remain patient and calm. We are going to be encountering some unpleasant characters – I hope your son can keep control of himself.’
‘He can,’ interjected Kammath in Latin.
‘Good.’
A maid had just arrived with a tray of food.
Cassius added, ‘I suggest we eat on the way.’
He had seen several slave markets; the first occasion when he’d accompanied his father for the purchase of a gardener. He remembered Corbulo Senior’s advice: always ask the seller for their licence to trade, always insist on two written references, and try to spend some time talking to the slave. Though he could be immensely strict when he thought it necessary – and occasionally deployed the odd slap – Cassius’s father’s treatment of his slaves had been little different to that of his children. He also contended that an unhappy slave would work poorly and that it was in the household’s interest for relations to remain good.
Cassius had not, however, attended a slave market with a slave, and it soon became obvious that the silent Simo would rather be anywhere else. Cassius recalled the period in Bostra when they had returned from the Arabian desert and he’d almost sold the Gaul. The sense of guilt was familiar but the relief of a close escape was now more powerful. He could not even countenance a life without Indavara and Simo. Recently it had occurred to him that – in some ways – they too were his family now.
The slave market was less busy than most other types of market but there was plenty of business going on. It was located in a wide square between a row of high warehouses and a pleasant-looking sanctuary where a gang of workers were trimming trees and collecting leaves. Some of them seemed more interested in the goings-on next door than their work. Within the market were six circular wooden stages, two of which were currently unoccupied. The largest was positioned centrally and mounted on some sort of contraption that allowed it to revolve. Cassius guessed there would be some unfortunates inside powering a treadmill.
Checking that Kabir and the others were still close behind, he moved slowly across the square. Most of the slaves were standing with placards around their necks, declaring their province of origin, age and skills. In the first minute, Cassius spotted an elderly blacksmith’s assistant from Thrace; a skinny Arabian farmhand and three Galatians described as ‘general labourers’. Here and there, negotiations were going on. The traders were not hard to spot: middle-aged, dressed in expensive cloth, often overweight; and invariably accompanied by both clerk and bodyguard.
Cassius himself was dressed in a modest – but clearly superior – tunic of dark green with a band of black at the sleeves. He was also wearing his best pair of boots and a bronze belt buckle. His aim was to blend in but appear wealthy enough to be treated with respect by those he needed to extract information from. If that failed, there was always his letters, a small bribery fund and four Syrians with a singular sense of purpose.
Cassius was suddenly aware that the nomads had overtaken him and were running. They were headed for the last stage, which was situated close to a broad street. Quite a crowd had gathered there and it was not difficult to see why: this was where the female slaves were on display.
The Syrians stopped at the back of the throng, which was three or four deep. There were five female slaves on show and a very loud fellow adding detail to the information displayed on the placards. He was playing to the crowd, throwing in the odd salacious detail and aiming several japes at one of the slaves: a rather plain, middle-aged woman. She had wrapped her arms around her body and was staring down at the stage, as if trying to convince herself she was somewhere else.
The least plain of the women was named Fortunata. According to her placard she was an expert seamstress but that didn’t seem to be of any interest to some of the more boisterous onlookers, who wished to see her unclothed.
‘Serious buyers only!’ shouted the announcer in response.
Sitting on a small, square platform beside the stage was the trader, as easily identifiable as the others. He was sheltered by a broad parasol and seemed to be negotiating with a toga-clad fellow accompanied by quite a retinue. The subject of the negotiation was a young woman. She was sitting on the edge of the stage, talking to a well-dressed lady, nodding politely and answering questions.
Kabir and Kammath were already on their way towards the trader.
‘Where are you going?’ said Cassius.
‘To talk to him.’
‘He’s busy. We’ll try him later.’
Cassius pointed at an empty stage nearby. Another seller was lining up his slaves and instructing a clerk what to inscribe on the placards. Amongst his charges were what looked like a family, including a father, mother and three children.
‘We’ll try over there first,’ he said, turning round. ‘And then there.’
Situated in the middle of the market was a low enclosure inside which were several tables and chairs. Stationed there were four clerks and four city sergeants.
‘They might have some answers for us.’
‘Sir,’ said Simo. ‘Look.’
Kammath had pushed his way to the stage and was calling out to the girls, his shouts audible even over the noise of the crowd. Kabir, Idan and Yablus followed but Cassius was dismayed to see that they did nothing to stop him. Before long, one of the trader’s bodyguards was dispatched to intervene. Shaven-headed and a foot taller than all those he was now shoving aside, the enforcer didn’t look like the type to take no for an answer.
‘By the gods.’
One of the most appealing aspects of life as an officer of the Roman Army was the way most people moved respectfully aside. Without this advantage, Cassius arrived several moments after the enforcer, who was already berating Kammath.
The Syrian ignored him. ‘Aikaterine. Her name is Aikaterine. She’s very young, very pretty.’
The attractive seamstress seemed to be listening but was shaking her head.
‘You!’ barked the enforcer. ‘Away!’
Idan moved between him and Kammath. A sight of the Syrian’s ruined face might have put most people off but the enforcer didn’t seem concerned. As he reached for the club hanging from his belt, Cassius darted forward.
‘No need for that. I shall have this lot out of your way in no time.’
Kabir already had his hand on Kammath’s shoulder but the youth could not be deterred and his cousin was trying to talk to the other girls. Not for the first time, Cassius was surprised by how disobedient the son was. He suspected this was down to Kabir’s physical weakness. Apart from the change in his appearance, the nomad often seemed tired, his movements laboured. Simo suspected some kind of long-term condition.
Cassius gripped Kammath’s other arm and spoke into his ear. ‘Listen to your father and listen to me. This is not the way to go about things. Move back.’
‘What if they know something?’
‘Then we’ll find out. But not like this.’
Kabir’s patience had evaporated. He hauled his son backwards and Kammath did not resist as his father escorted him to an open space. A gesture from Idan sent the cousin after him.
‘You too, handsome,’ suggested the enforcer.
Idan held his gaze for a moment then followed.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Cassius. On his way back through the crowd, he realised the trader had observed the whole incident.
He waited for Kabir to finish admonishing his son in Aramaic before speaking. ‘This simply will not work if we’re pulling in different directions. We cannot afford to bring too much attention to ourselves. With the greatest respect, the magistrate’s men won’t need much of an excuse to arrest you. City-dwelling Romans don’t have a lot of time for desert tribesmen. I don’t say it’s right but that’s how it is. If we need to use a bit of force, be assured that I will alert you. Until then, I ask that you let me do this my way.’
>
‘Of course,’ said Kabir.
‘Apologies,’ offered the cousin.
‘Kammath?’
The youth looked close to tears. Despite his bravado and bulky frame, the eighteen year old was acting his age. ‘Yes.’
‘I suggest you remain here for the moment. Simo, you know what to do. Got the money?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Not for the first time, Cassius planned to use the attendant to mingle amongst the lower ranks. Simo had a remarkable way with common folk and was invariably able to make subtle enquiries without getting into trouble.
‘We’ll be quick,’ Cassius told Kabir before hurrying over to the empty stage. While the scribe continued to write on the placards, the seller was poring over a waxed tablet.
‘Good morning,’ said Cassius.
The man appraised him swiftly. ‘Morning, sir. Buying or selling?’
‘Buying. But not slaves – information.’
The seller frowned.
‘A man in your profession by the name of Meliton. Know anything of him?’
‘The name, yes. A criminal, if memory serves.’
‘Does he sell here?’
‘I believe he did in the past, yes.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
The seller shook his head. ‘No. Look, I’m afraid I’m rather busy – unless you’re—’
‘If you tell me something I can use, I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘I’ll decide what’s worth my while.’
He hurried away and started issuing instructions to a woman who was combing the hair of the slave family’s children. The father caught Cassius’s eye and spoke quietly so that the seller wouldn’t hear.
