by Nick Brown
‘Where you from?’
‘Syria,’ said Cassius. ‘Moving on tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ He was a short man but quite wide, with a double chin and a fleshy mouth. Hanging from a string around his neck was a large bronze pendant. Cassius couldn’t quite make out the inscription but the design was familiar: it showed Jupiter, greatest of all Roman gods.
Kabir and the others looked up as two more came to join him.
Cassius turned away and whispered to Simo. ‘Fetch my bag – you know the one.’
Simo slipped off the bench and out of the parlour.
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Cassius said. ‘Allow me to buy a drink for you and your friends.’
‘Very kind, sir. You seem a proper gentleman. But it’s your mates here. You see, we don’t want any trouble either. We’re good Roman folk and the gods have looked after us. You’ll find none of the diseased here.’
The innkeeper spoke up but was rapidly quietened by another of his patrons. The other five stalked over to join the leader, who clearly liked to talk.
‘Then we see this lot on their knees praying to the sun. There’s no surer way to make the great gods – the true gods – angry.’
‘If I were you,’ said Kabir, ‘I would avoid mentioning the sun again.’
‘And if I were travelling through, I’d be more respectful to the people who live here.’
A big, bearded man came forward and stood only a couple of inches from Idan, who was staring up at the loudmouth.
Another of the locals spoke up: ‘You best stop staring at my mate like that or your face is going to end up even uglier than it is now.’
Idan and Kabir calmly exchanged comments in Aramaic.
Cassius saw Kammath’s hand drifting towards his dagger.
‘We have finished our meal,’ said Cassius. ‘We shall leave the parlour to you. All right?’
The loudmouth wasn’t finished. ‘I expect this lot will be out there again at sunrise.’
‘We’re not having it,’ said the bearded man. ‘Not here.’ Cassius wasn’t sure if they were simply bored brutes looking for a scrap or genuinely in fear of offending the gods; possibly a mixture of the two.
Even though the Syrians didn’t appear to be in the mood for a tactical retreat, Cassius caught Kabir’s eye and held up an appeasing hand. Simo reappeared, now carrying the long bag.
When the bearded man passed his mug to a friend and smacked a fist into a palm, Idan and Kabir sprang to their feet, closely followed by Kammath and Yablus.
Cassius stood, snatched the bag from Simo, and threw it on to the table, smashing several pieces of crockery. The Syrians and the locals all stared down at it.
‘My name is Corbulo. Yours?’
The loudmouth looked around at his cohorts, who seemed just as taken aback as him. ‘Aniketos.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Aniketos. I assume you are a farmhand of some kind?’
‘Er … yes.’
‘Perhaps you would like to open that bag. It will give you a clue as to my profession.
‘Enough games,’ spat the bearded man.
‘No game,’ said Cassius. ‘If you still want to fight with us you can – but I would suggest checking that bag first.’
Aniketos undid the ropes at one end and pulled out Cassius’s sword. Eagle-head hilts were synonymous with soldiers: officers, in particular.
‘I am a centurion, travelling incognito. These men are auxiliaries. If you harm so much as a single hair on one of their heads, I’ll make it my business to ensure you are all flayed unconscious in whatever passes for a square in this shithole you call home. Now, I suggest you piss off back over there and keep quiet.’
‘You could have got that sword anywhere,’ said a voice from the back.
‘True,’ said Cassius. ‘So let’s fight. In the unlikely event that you win, you’ll probably want to get something for your efforts. When you go through my bags you’ll turn up a letter from Marshal Marcellinus, on whose orders I’m in this province. Name ring any bells? Surely even a mob like you have heard of him.’
In truth, the fight had already gone out of them long before a red-faced Aniketos and the bearded man followed the others back to the counter.
Cassius finished his wine. ‘Simo – grab the sword, would you? And tell the innkeeper to add the breakages to our bill.’ He then addressed the Syrians. ‘Might I suggest we retire upstairs?’
XIII
Indavara knew he must truly be without hope when he realised there wasn’t even an easy way to die. With no blade or so much as a sharpened nail, he could not open up his wrists or his neck. There were alternatives: he could try to block his throat or hang himself though neither method was reliable. He could also fight his captors but – whatever Surgeon said – Indavara was sure Slab would follow through on his threat to remove his fingers.
He thought of his friends: Simo and Cassius. He tried to see them in his mind: where they were, what they were doing. He imagined them upon a ship, sailing towards wherever he was. Corbulo did not like being outwitted and he was as intelligent a man as Indavara had known; surely there was a chance they might find him. He held on to that flicker of hope but wondered if it was enough to keep him alive.
More powerful was the force that had sustained him his whole life, which to him was the eight years he could remember: rage. There was no better reason to stay alive than to defy his tormentors.
He could not understand why it was that once again his fate was to be the plaything of others: even now that he was a freedman; even though he had fought and killed for years to escape the arena.
This was another fight. If he could survive it, he would avenge himself upon every last one of his captors. He was already looking forward to it.
They came not long after dawn.
Indavara – who had been unable to eat the previous day – felt a gnawing pain in his stomach as the door opened and he got to his feet. Slab entered first, dagger already drawn. Then came Warty, Narrow Eyes (who was carrying a wooden chest) and Surgeon.
A new bed had arrived the previous day. It was wide, high and very well made, with an iron pole attached to each side. Indavara had slept on the floor, where he had heard the mouse moving around close by. It had given him a little comfort, as had the gulls wheeling and crying outside. He had always loved the open spaces of the world and to see the animals that dwelt there. They were not always safe but they were at least free; free of the endless evils invented by men.
Slab had clearly oiled and polished the blade of his dagger, which he now aimed at the bed. ‘On there.’
Indavara was still staring at the wooden chest, which Narrow Eyes had placed on the floor at Surgeon’s feet.
The old man tutted. ‘I can smell that latrine. I told you we need to keep this place clean.’
Slab nodded at Narrow Eyes, who walked outside.
‘I’m not going to tell you again. On the bed.’
‘Come,’ said Surgeon. ‘It won’t be all that bad.’
Indavara hobbled over to the bed and sat upon it. He was suddenly struck by the feeling that if he gave into them now his life was already over.
Slab seemed to see it in his eyes. He moved close and held the dagger against his neck. ‘Now lie down. Like he said, it’s not going to be that bad.’
‘Did you eat anything today?’ asked Surgeon.
Indavara shook his head.
‘Lie back,’ said Slab.
Indavara looked at Surgeon, who had opened the chest and taken out several wooden bowls. ‘What are you going to do to me?’
‘Try not to worry. It’s actually often prescribed as a cure.’
Narrow Eyes came in with a pail full of earth to deposit in the latrine.
‘What?’ said Indavara.
‘Enough,’ snapped Slab, grabbing the collar of his tunic and pushing him back. He held Indavara there, the cold blade against his skin. ‘Undo the iron.’
Warty took out the key to t
he wrist manacles.
‘Don’t you move an inch,’ hissed Slab.
Warty undid the manacles and took them off Indavara’s wrists. Surgeon gripped his left arm and tutted again as he inspected the sores. He then retrieved four short leather straps from the chest and held one of them up. ‘We will need to tie your—’
Slab yelled, ‘You don’t have to explain, just do it!’
Indavara wondered if he could get his hands up quickly enough to take the knife off Slab. But Warty and Narrow Eyes were now looking on and his legs were still manacled. Slab was so close he could feel his breath on his face. There was no chance.
Surgeon placed his left arm on the outside of the metal pole and strapped it on just above the elbow. The second strap was affixed above the wrist. He repeated the process with the right arm, during which time Slab pressed the dagger blade hard enough into Indavara’s neck for him to feel it pierce the skin.
‘By the gods, man,’ said Surgeon when he saw the blood. ‘He can’t do anything now.’
Indavara felt even more vulnerable than when he’d been manacled. As Slab moved away, he felt his stomach begin to spasm. He was going to be sick.
Noting this, Surgeon quickly located a water flask and put a calming hand on Indavara’s shoulder. Though he tasted the bitterness in his mouth, Indavara somehow didn’t throw up. Surgeon held the flask to his mouth but he didn’t open it.
‘It’s just water, young man. I’ll give you some wine in a moment too. That will help.’
Indavara drank. This water was cold and pure; far better than what he was normally given.
‘Spread these around the bed,’ instructed Surgeon, tipping what looked like dried flower petals into four bowls. Warty took them and did so. Before long, a pleasant smell filled the room.
Slab, meanwhile, had taken a length of rope from outside, thrown it to Narrow Eyes and told him to tie Indavara’s feet to the bottom of the bed. Only when this was done did he sheath his dagger.
Surgeon had poured some of the water into a bowl. He dunked a cloth into it, then began to clean Indavara’s upturned forearm.
‘Now listen carefully, young man, and I shall tell you what’s going to happen.’
Slab grunted.
Surgeon turned. ‘It’s better that he knows – then it will be less of a shock to him. Would you fetch my stool, please?’
With a shake of his head, Slab went outside and returned with a stool, which he placed beside the bed.
Surgeon sat on it and finished cleaning the arm. He then took several items out of the chest and shut it. He laid a white square of cloth over the lid and placed the items there: two small leather cases and a bronze dish with an opening on one side. Next to the chest were two empty glass flasks and a third of wine.
Surgeon removed the stopper and held the wine flask to Indavara’s mouth. ‘I’ll give you more in a moment. I know you must be very frightened; believe me when I tell you that this is your best defence against fear and pain.’
Indavara did believe him and he glugged down the wine quickly.
‘Not too much, I also need you to stay awake as long as possible.’
Surgeon put the wine down, then opened up the leather cases. Indavara couldn’t quite see over the side of the bed but he glimpsed a set of bronze scalpels.
Surgeon held his arm as he spoke. ‘We are going to take your blood. A little at first, then more. There will be some pain when I make the incision but after that it should decrease. You may feel cold but do not worry, we have blankets for you. You will see your own blood – a lot of it – but judging by the amount of scars you have, I doubt that will scare you. You will also be a man who knows just how much blood there is in a body and therefore that you will have plenty left. As long as there aren’t any … complications, we should be done in a quarter-hour.’
Surgeon plucked one of the scalpels from the case.
Narrow Eyes had gone rather pale. As he shakily turned away, Warty and Slab laughed.
‘Why?’ said Indavara. ‘Why me?’
Surgeon did not answer. He glanced back at the others.
‘Because of who you are, Indavara,’ said Slab, the first time he had used his name. ‘What you are. We know all about you – the arena, the victories, the kills. My master saw you fight and he never forgot you. He is very ill. He needs the blood and the life force of a gladiator like you. He calls you a god among men. He believes you will save him.’
XIV
The rain came just after they left the inn and barely stopped for the next three days. With a blanket of thick grey cloud overhead and regular bursts of blustery wind, the spirits of the group sank ever lower. The Syrians saw the disappearance of their beloved Glorious Fire as a bad omen and it was obvious to Cassius that only the older pair were wise enough to realise he had rescued the situation with the labourers. Kabir had even gone so far as to apologise, though he made it clear to Cassius that his people would not tolerate insults to their deity.
What they saw from the road did little to encourage them. The villages they passed through were bleak, sombre places, where the locals also seemed wary of the Syrians. The second night was spent in an inn barely deserving of the name, the third in a stinking outhouse that they were still charged too much for. Cassius drew strength from the knowledge that they were at least making good progress and that their mounts remained healthy. The indefatigable Simo did as well as he could with limited ingredients and provided his companions with a fine meal in their lowly surroundings. After dinner on that third night he recited the only song he knew in Aramaic. Even the stubborn Kammath couldn’t resist this gesture and the nomads sang a song of their own. Cassius defied their imprecations to join in and the Syrians seemed unimpressed by his offer of a poem. After Kabir explained that the song was about the Sea of Sand, they shared tales of the haboob – the blasting sandstorms that they had experienced in Arabia.
Halfway through the following morning, the clouds finally cleared. Simo draped the wettest of their clothes across Patch’s back and Cassius was finally able to rid himself of his soaking and malodorous woollen cloak.
They had learned enough in the villages to know they would soon reach the last army way station before Lake Tuz. The locals seemed certain that it was still occupied and that these men would have seen Chariton and the column. Cassius and the Syrians reckoned they were now only two days behind them, having spoken to a farmer whose land they’d used.
By noon, they had reached a section of the road that ran through woodland close to the Eskaril mountains; an isolated cluster of crags south of Lake Tuz. They encountered two men on a cart coming the other way who spoke only some local dialect but Simo and the Syrians managed to discern that the pair had been turned back at the way station. This didn’t concern Cassius; he still had his letters and it seemed clear that Chariton had been allowed through.
Around the ninth hour, they passed a trail running north towards the mountains. Just a few hundred yards beyond the junction was a grand arch that seemed rather incongruous. Beside it was the way station: a low, squat building with a stable and corral at the rear. Two carts had been left in the middle of the road as a barrier.
As the six riders neared the station, a shout went up from a man riding a horse around the corral. Within moments, two-dozen soldiers had trotted out and lined up. One of them put on a crested helmet and walked into the middle of the road.
Cassius halted the party thirty feet away and went forward on foot alone. The legionaries seemed a well-drilled bunch. They all stood still but kept their eyes on him and their hands on their sword hilts.
The centurion was clad in a fine – if rather dull – brown cloak and a well-polished pair of boots. His main belt looked expensive, as did his sword belt, which was decorated with bronze discs. He was comparatively young for a man of his rank – perhaps about thirty – a tall, muscular fellow with a stern expression upon his face.
‘Identify yourself.’
‘Officer Cassius Quinti
us Corbulo.’ The reply drew some quizzical looks from the legionaries, who had no reason to think the stranger was any more than a merchant with a strange choice of travelling companions. ‘Might I ask your name?’
‘Centurion Decimus Modius Regulus of the Fifteenth Legion. Your business here?’
Cassius approved of his accent. Regulus was clearly a man of considerable breeding. He would not present any difficulty.
‘I am following a column of prisoners headed for the salt mines of Lake Tuz. I believe the main road leads north-east from this one.’
‘It does. But I’m afraid you cannot pass this point.’
Cassius took a breath. ‘I am an officer of the Imperial Security Service and I hold letters of authorisation from both Prefect Venator of the Fourth Legion and Marshal Marcellinus himself.’
‘With respect, my orders are less than a week old and come from the governor of this province. He will not allow these fresh outbreaks of plague to infect the rest of Galatia. No one can pass in either direction until I hear otherwise.’
‘What about Optio Chariton? You spoke to him?’
‘Yes; and I told him the same thing.’
Cassius glanced at the watching legionaries – most of whom seemed determined to glare at him – then looked back at Kabir and the others.
‘Perhaps we could talk inside.’
Regulus assented with a gracious nod.
Despite the disagreement, the centurion soon confirmed Cassius’s earlier impression. He tasked a guard officer with giving the visitors a meal and a place to dry their clothes as well as use of the stable. The legionaries seemed suspicious of the nomads but it was clear that Regulus ran a tight ship: his every order was obeyed swiftly.
Assuring Kabir that this was best handled between the two of them, Cassius joined Regulus in his office. On his desk was a framed map of the province. Once the centurion had put his cloak and helmet on a hook beside the door, he pointed to several lines drawn in red ink.
‘These were distributed only a couple of weeks ago. The governor is determined not to fall back into the chaos that has afflicted the region in recent times.’
