by Nick Brown
The first way station they came to was virtually deserted but they were directed to one closer to the centre. Unusually, the city’s fortress – which housed the garrison – was three miles away, built upon the site of another ancient fortification.
Upon reaching the second way station, Cassius discovered that the ranking officer was an optio, who the legionary on duty sent for. While they waited, he asked about the prisoner column. The soldier confirmed that they had passed through Tyana three days ago; due to Chariton’s previous trips, his face was well known. As they spoke, a courier arrived with a delivery of post from the south. Cassius eyed the package, concerned there might be something from Abascantius.
The optio entered the office with an older man in civilian dress. After they’d exchanged greetings, he made straight for the pile of post. ‘Excuse me, I must just check these. I’m waiting for something from Tarsus – my men haven’t been paid in months.’
As he began checking through the recently arrived scrolls, Cassius interrupted. ‘Sorry, but this is urgent – I need information on the situation to the north.’
‘Who are you with?’
‘Imperial Security.’
The optio looked up. ‘Well, then this is your lucky day.’ He pointed to the older man, who was leaning languidly against the wall. ‘You can talk to Tarchon – he’s a grain man too.’
Cassius had spent very little time with other agents of the Imperial Security Service. There were many things he would have liked to discuss but – given the danger of facing arrest once more – he told Tarchon that time was short. As it turned out, the agent was also in a hurry. He had only dropped in at the way station to pick up a map and was heading east into Cappadocia. He didn’t say why.
As the two of them exited the way station, Cassius realised he hadn’t formally introduced himself. Deciding whether to do so seemed a rather taxing issue. As it happened, he didn’t have to decide.
‘Are you Corbulo?’ asked Tarchon as they both shaded their eyes from the sun. He was an imposing character; almost as tall as Cassius and solidly built. His cropped, spiky hair showed the early signs of grey and his face was handsome but rather weathered. Cassius guessed him to be not far off forty. He didn’t plan to lie to him any more than was necessary.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. Abascantius doesn’t have any others of your age. I’ve heard a few tales about you.’
‘Ah.’
Tarchon was now looking at the four Syrians towing horses who had hurried over to meet them. He cast a sideways glance at Cassius, who smiled.
‘They’re with me.’
The agent showed them where to tie up their mounts beside the station then led them to a rickety table sheltered by a tree. Not far away, a squad of legionaries were conducting a sword drill. Cassius couldn’t stop thinking about the contents of the imperial post but he relaxed when the optio arrived bearing a wooden sword to join in the drill. With only a cursory glance at the two agents, he announced to the men that pay would be arriving in a week. The news was greeted with a cheer.
There was only space for Cassius, Tarchon, Kabir and Idan at the table. The two youths stood behind the older men while Simo went off to look after Patch. Before Cassius could speak, Tarchon addressed Kabir in what sounded like perfect Aramaic. Cassius watched the Syrian’s reaction. After a few terse comments, he nodded cordially.
The agent turned to Cassius. He had a presence about him that went beyond his stature. Even the bold Syrians seemed wary of him. He reminded Cassius slightly of Indavara.
‘So why has the old man sent you here?’
‘Actually he hasn’t.’ Cassius had decided to stay as close to the truth as possible. ‘I’m on leave. These men are old allies and friends. Kabir’s daughter and two other girls from his tribe were captured by slave-traders in northern Syria. They were sold on in Tarsus – we don’t know who to – by a man named Meliton. He was recently sentenced to a period of slave labour and was with a column that passed through here three days ago. We need to catch up with them.’
‘They’re headed to the salt mines, I presume?’
‘Indeed. Do you know the most likely route?’
‘The situation is fluid up there, what with the banditry and the last outbreak, but the fastest route is to follow the main road until you reach a town called Zynnada. From there is a passable trail that runs about twenty miles north-west to Tuz. There are other ways in and out but that will take you straight to Draco’s mine.’ Tarchon grimaced. ‘Not sure you’ll catch them before they get there though; that Chariton keeps the men going at quite a lick. Nobody wants to hang around in that area for too long these days.’
‘It’s that bad?’
‘The area south of Tuz is the worst; half the population lost, much of the rest stricken. I rode down from Nazianus last month. They hear a horse on the road, you see bands of them coming out of the trees. Some begging, some with weapons. Some of them just groups of children. I took three horses. Barely stopped from sunrise to sunset.
‘And at the mine? Will this Draco character cooperate?’
‘I’ve not met him but he has a reputation for being his own man.’
‘As reptilian as his name suggests?’
‘I’ve never been sure if that’s his actual name or a moniker he has acquired. He’s certainly an opportunist; many of the more respectable concerns left the area when the plague struck. He has a virtual monopoly now and several sources of cheap labour. I imagine profits are good.’
‘Nobody ever lost money selling salt.’
‘True.’
Cassius summoned the courage for a rather impertinent request. ‘I feel … awkward mentioning this but well … we’re running rather low on funds. I don’t suppose you’d be able to help?’
Tarchon’s brow furrowed for a moment but then a grin appeared. ‘I’m sure you’re good for it. How much do you need?’
‘A hundred denarii.’
‘Not a problem. I have a banker friend just round the corner; we do each other favours from time to time. I shall have to ask a question though – to check you are who you say you are.’
Cassius tried to look relaxed. ‘Right.’
‘What’s the old man’s horse called?’
Now Cassius grinned. ‘Antheon.’
XII
They parted less than an hour later. Tarchon emerged from the banker’s well-guarded townhouse with a bag of money and handed it over with no further query. He wished the group well; speaking to the Syrians in Aramaic once more and reminding Cassius to get in and out of the Tuz area as quickly as possible. As the pair shook forearms, Tarchon also asked him to pass on his greetings to Abascantius, in case he saw him first.
Having replenished their supplies, they left Tyana and – in the three hours of daylight left – covered a respectable ten miles. Much of the terrain was flat, arable land though they passed close to a smaller range of mountains to the east. As dusk neared, they reached a hamlet and asked a local about accommodation, discovering that there was only one inn. Following his directions, they rode along a dusty trail and came to a large but rather decrepit building. The substantial hole in the roof seemed to have been plugged with sticks and straw.
Cassius had given up worrying about their lodgings; he just hoped for a decent bed and palatable food. There was at least a young lad on duty, who hurried out of the adjoining yard.
‘Staying the night, sirs?’
‘We are,’ said Cassius. ‘What rooms do you have?’
Instead of replying, the lad turned towards the inn and shouted something in Aramaic.
Cassius slid down off his saddle and cursed as his first steps revealed the true extent of the soreness across his backside and thighs. Simo seemed similarly weary – Kabir too – but the others looked remarkably fresh. Cassius could never understand how; the nomads rode without a saddle – just a folded blanket and sometimes not even that.
The lad was already at work, detaching Patch’s
rope from Simo’s saddle. When he pulled the donkey into the yard, the tired animal lost its footing in a hollow and stumbled. Cursing in his own language, the lad jerked the donkey forward and cuffed its ear. Unused to such treatment, Patch brayed his disapproval.
The lad received admonishing shouts from two of the Syrians but the loudest came from Simo.
‘Leave him alone!’ The Gaul snatched the rope and shoved the youngster towards his horse.
By now, a woman had emerged from the inn. Wiping her hands on a greasy apron, she counted the visitors. ‘Six, is it? All staying?’
‘Indeed,’ said Cassius.
‘We’ve just the one room left,’ said the woman. ‘There’s space for you all but only the one bed.’
They had encountered such situations before. The nomads carried their own bedding and seemed happy to sleep anywhere. Simo was well used to the floor.
‘That’s fine,’ said Cassius.
‘That’ll be seven denarii, two sesterces for the night, meal included. Three more for the mounts.’
‘A little high. I hope dinner will make up for it.’
‘I’ve enough lamb for you all, sir.’
‘Mmm,’ said Cassius. He did not particularly like lamb.
‘We have been lucky, sir,’ said Simo as he rolled his master’s blankets on to the bed.
‘Really? It seems a long time since I last felt lucky.’
‘Sir, I know there have been many obstacles but we have received help too: the centurion and that man Tarchon in Tyana.’
‘A fair point, I suppose. Interesting character, wasn’t he? Wonder what he’s up to in Cappadocia.’
‘Do you think Abacantius will send someone after you, sir?’
‘I doubt it. If he so desires, he’ll certainly pick up enough of our trail to know I’ve headed north. But I can’t see him wasting manpower actually following me; and definitely not where we’re headed. Simo, where’s my facecloth, I can’t find—’
Cassius had noted that there might be a more pressing situation unfolding outside. The room was on the first floor and the window overlooked the yard. As was their habit, the Syrians had gone outside to complete their daily ritual while the sun set. Once they had knelt, one man would lead a chant and then they would bow as low as possible, faces touching the ground. The whole thing lasted about five minutes and was repeated at sunrise. Worship of solar deities was not uncommon, but the sight of such an overt display by the strange-looking foursome had attracted some interest along the way. Now it had attracted some more.
‘Balls,’ said Cassius. A group of six workers – some of whom were carrying vicious-looking scythes – were walking along the track towards the main road and one had just spotted the Syrians through the gate. He waved the others over and they looked on.
Kabir and the others realised they were being watched but continued with their chant. Cassius had expected the labourers to perhaps laugh and mock them but instead they seemed angry. One man rattled the gate, which disturbed the horses more than the nomads.
Cassius leaned against the window ledge, looking on. He knew the Syrians would not halt the ritual. Another of the locals shouted something that sounded offensive but then two moved off and before long they had all drifted away. Kabir and the others finished and got to their feet.
‘Something happening, sir?’ said Simo as he continued searching for Cassius’s facecloth.
‘Thankfully, no.’
To be fair to the innkeeper’s wife, the lamb stew was better – if only slightly – than Cassius had expected. He and the others ate from bowls, squeezed around the largest table in the parlour. It was a low, dark room that reeked of smoke and stale sweat. The other guests – four seedy-looking merchants – were clearly well known to the owners; they ate their dinner at the counter and conversed in a mix of Greek and Aramaic.
‘Bread, sir?’ said Simo, offering a wooden platter with a few slices left.
‘One bit was enough – I’d prefer to keep my teeth if you don’t mind.’
Cassius watched his companions, who had each taken a large helping of stew. Though all – Idan and Yablus included – could speak enough Latin for a conversation, they rarely said much. Cassius could understand their grim mood, but he preferred to try and distract himself from wider concerns from time to time, especially after a hard day’s ride.
‘So what’s an average meal for you fellows back home?’
He didn’t expect a reply from Idan. The chief and his son were busy chewing on the lamb.
‘We like goat,’ said Yablus.
‘Ah, requires a lot of cooking, doesn’t it?’
Yablus gestured at his bowl. ‘Still better than this. Northerners can’t cook.’
‘Well if you consider these folk northerners, what does that make us?’
Yablus shrugged.
Cassius imagined his grasp of geography was fairly rudimentary. ‘I come from Italy and Simo here is of Gaulish stock. And I’m afraid your contention doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. Simo is an excellent cook.’
‘Where is Gaul?’
‘Far to the north and west. Thousands of miles.’
Yablus’s eyes widened.
‘To get there from here you would have to cross the Great Green Sea, then traverse almost the whole of Italy before you even got close.’
‘Why would he ever want to do that?’ said Idan.
‘Never had any interest in seeing the world?’ asked Cassius. ‘You were an auxiliary – you must have travelled around a bit?’
‘We never left Syria,’ replied Kabir, having finally ingested the lamb. ‘We were recruited by a centurion who told us that the Palmyrans would enslave us. We knew it for a lie but the fighting had disrupted trade and we needed the money. We only fought in two engagements other than Alauran: one at a bridge on the Euphrates, one supporting two centuries sent to attack a Palmyran supply column. We spent most of our time walking from one fort to another or awaiting new orders. As you know, we never received the full amount we were owed.’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t blame you for disliking the Empire.’
‘Disliking?’ said Idan.
Cassius was beginning to wish he’d never started this conversation.
‘We always liked you though,’ said Kabir. ‘Well, I did at least. Isn’t that right, Idan?’
The disfigured warrior gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Kabir continued, ‘When you arrived at the fort and the Palmyrans came, we had a wager. Idan thought Alauran would fall at the first attack. I doubt if he was the only one who underestimated you.’ He turned to his old friend. ‘Actually, did you ever pay me for that?’
‘Yes,’ said Idan indignantly, drawing a chuckle from Yablus.
Kammath had finished eating but was staring down at the table, lost in thought.
The lad came in from the rear door, wiping dirt off his hands.
‘How are those mounts?’ asked Simo.
‘Well, sir. All fed and watered. Your donkey too. I gave him some roots – I think he likes me now.’
‘Good boy,’ said Cassius.
Simo took out a coin for him.
‘Come and get it while it’s hot,’ said the innkeeper’s wife. The lad ducked under the counter and grabbed himself a stool.
Yablus got up and walked across the parlour and through a door to the latrine. Cassius was not looking forward to his next visit; as with most provincials, basic plumbing and hygiene was a mystery to these people. Hearing voices outside, he looked out of the window but saw nothing other than shapes dimming the lantern until the door latch went up. In came a rough-looking fellow, followed by another, then another. By the time the door finally shut, there were no less than eight of them gathered by the counter. Greetings were exchanged and the innkeeper instantly set about filling some engraved mugs that clearly belonged to the new arrivals. As some of them strayed near to another light, Cassius recognised one of those who had earlier watched the Syrians. He chose to say nothing but
noted a few sly looks and comments when the locals realised who they were sharing the parlour with.
‘Katia is a terrible cook,’ said Kammath suddenly. ‘Mother tried with her, the aunts too – but she’s just no good at it. She almost poisoned us once – remember those mushrooms, Father?’
‘She probably did it on purpose,’ said Kabir. ‘So she’d have more time outside with you and the other boys.’
The chieftain’s faint smile soon faded.
Cassius made an attempt to distract him. ‘You remember Strabo, the guard officer at Alauran?’
‘Of course.’
‘Quite a character. I think of him often.’
Idan said something in Aramaic.
Kabir spoke for him. ‘Idan was even less fond of the man than I was. A gambler and a drinker. He did not seem to us like a professional soldier. But I must confess that, when it counted, he did very well. We have a word for such a man but it is not easy to translate: someone others look to; someone they will follow into battle. Stand beside. Die for.’
‘I understand. Yes, he had that. Like you.’
Kabir shook his head ruefully. ‘I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again – you are not a typical Roman officer.’
‘I wish I had an aureus for every time I’d heard that.’
Yablus returned. There wasn’t much space to get past the locals, who predictably didn’t make it easy for him. He was almost through when one of them flicked the Syrian’s long hair and made some comment that his friends found amusing. Yablus shot back a glare but wisely continued on to the table.
He had just sat down when one of the locals walked over, mug in hand. He stared at Idan and took a sip of his wine before speaking.
