by Nick Brown
They both drank their wine. Now there was the possibility of ‘a small difficulty’. Cassius didn’t need to be a soothsayer to predict that the small difficulty might become a major one if he didn’t get anywhere with this Sallustius character.
Diadromes raised his glass. ‘To the gods. May they favour us both.’
At first the cook seemed annoyed by the rough-looking man cluttering up his kitchen. But when the maid explained that Indavara was a guest of the deputy magistrate, he offered to prepare whatever he wanted. Indavara eventually settled on a large bowl of sweetened milk filled with roasted nuts and blanched fruit. As the eatery was extremely hot and the other two obviously wanted some privacy, he took his dessert out to the rear courtyard. It was a walled square lit by two lanterns, each one attracting a cloud of insects. Only when he had emptied the bowl and licked the spoon clean did he give any thought to the events of the day.
Indavara admitted to himself that Corbulo’s ‘victory’ had riled him but he’d been planning the ‘attack’ for some time. The man had to realise that sometimes you just had to act. He was so confident of Indavara; too reliant on him. Indavara knew it would take only one mistake; he had seen it often enough in the arena. Even though he trained every day, worshipped his Fortuna and tried his best to stay sharp, his luck would run out some time.
He was about to return inside when he heard shouting. A young man came flying out of the kitchen then slipped and fell, groaning as he landed. An older man was right behind him, already pulling his belt from around his waist.
‘You little turd. How dare you embarrass me in front of my friends. You speak only when you’re spoken to.’
Indavara had seen such things many times. Before being recruited by Abascantius he had worked as a bodyguard for several rich men, which meant a lot of standing around at side doors and back doors. Most masters waited until they were away from their companions before confronting their servants.
The young man knew what was coming; he already had his hands up. Master was a squat individual in a bright orange tunic. He lifted the belt high. Indavara was glad to see that at least he wasn’t using the buckle end.
‘What did he do?’
The Syrian was more surprised than alarmed. ‘None of your bloody business.’
He spun around and lashed at Servant. Even though the belt striped his arm red, Servant kept his defences up. Master thrashed him three times more and – when the arms finally came down – struck a heavy blow across his head.
Whimpering, Servant scrambled back to the courtyard’s rear wall.
‘Please, sir. I – I apologise for my rudeness. It will never happen again.’
Master marched across the courtyard and lifted the belt once more.
‘I reckon that’s enough,’ said Indavara.
‘Who in Hades are you to tell me what to do? Why don’t you piss off?’
Indavara put the bowl down on a nearby windowsill. He was about ready to walk over and strangle this arsehole with his own belt.
To begin with, seeing such things had not concerned him. He had endured far worse, after all, and spared not a thought for anyone else. During those six long years in the arena he had expended every last ounce of energy on his survival. Nothing else mattered.
But the world outside was a complicated place. A place of friends and enemies, powerful and powerless, masters and servants. Corbulo always said the world was cruel and there was no sense in trying to change it. He also said that Indavara and Simo should mind their own business; especially as they worked for him and the Service. But, as time passed, Indavara found it harder and harder to ignore things like this. It seemed to him that Corbulo wasn’t quite right. Life was hard; but some men chose to be cruel.
And now, if he so wished, he could do something about it.
Master swung again, though the belt caught more stone than flesh.
‘What’s the rule, slave?’
‘I must only speak when I am spoken to. I must only speak when I am spoken to.’
Master was breathing heavily. He turned round and put his belt back on, then looked across the courtyard.
Indavara stood below the lantern, glaring at him.
Master glared back; and Indavara wondered whether the man might have decided to take him on. But then the eyes dropped lower, taking in Indavara’s body, and his scars, and the two blades at his belt.
Master summoned a final look of disdain then hurried inside.
Servant checked the welts on his arms then stood up.
‘You all right?’ asked Indavara.
Without a word or a glance, Servant followed Master.
XIII
Lying across the bed wearing only a loincloth, Cassius dictated a letter. He guessed Abascantius might still be in Bostra and it seemed advisable to report his arrival in Berytus, if only to reassure his superior that he was moving forward despite the difficulties in Tripolis. Cassius actually winced as he thought of the agent and Marcellinus reading about the disastrous trip to Megakreon’s villa and the ensuing chaos. Most embarrassing of all was the amateurish way in which he had all but accused a law-abiding citizen of being a counterfeiter because of nothing more than uncorroborated, circumstantial evidence.
‘Take that to the way station yourself, Simo,’ he said as the attendant finished writing. ‘And make sure the duty officer marks it correctly – most secret.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Once he had rolled up the letter and sealed it with gum, Simo looked out of the inn window and began rubbing his neck.
‘Spit it out,’ said Cassius, who could always tell when the Gaul had something to confess. They were alone; Indavara was at the stables, visiting Patch.
‘Sir, I spoke to one of the innkeeper’s men yesterday. His father is active in the Faith and attends a church-house not far from here. If there is a meeting, might I be permitted to—’
‘What do I always say, Simo? Of course you may, once all your duties are complete. But make absolutely no mention of my name whatsoever or what we are doing in Berytus.’
‘Of course. Thank you, sir.’
Cassius sat up and pointed at a pile of clothes resting on one of the saddlebags. ‘When I get back I’ll need my best red tunic, my helmet and a freshly polished belt.’
‘This trip to the university, sir?’
‘Indeed. I’d prefer not to parade around with all that on but I need to make a strong impression.’
‘Leave it to me, Master Cassius.’
‘Before you go – where’s my water?’
Simo pulled a bowl out from under the bed. ‘Here, sir, probably only warm now. I can get—’
‘It’ll do.’
Simo carefully put the letter inside a cloth bag which he then hung from his shoulder. ‘I suppose I should take one of the badges, sir.’
‘Yes, you’ll need that.’
Simo retrieved it from another saddlebag and pinned it to his tunic.
Cassius was about to dunk his hands in the water but found himself looking at the attendant. ‘What’s so special about these church-houses, Simo? I mean, I appreciate that it’s your version of a temple but I remember that place in Antioch – just an average house, no finery, nothing to impress. It hardly glorifies your Christ, does it? There aren’t even any statues or pictures of him – does anyone know what he looked like?’
‘The church-house gives us a chance to be together, sir. To study, to pray, to sing. And to honour our Lord through good deeds. I have heard that much help is given to those in need here in Berytus.’
‘And Christ?’
Simo smiled and put a hand against his chest. ‘We do not need pictures or statues, sir. He is within all of us.’
The Gaul left, gently shutting the door behind him.
Cassius shrugged. As he began washing his hands, he noticed his hardwood box on another saddlebag. Simo hadn’t had time to put the figurines out but the top was open and the gods seemed to be giving Cassius another reproachful stare.
‘Just asking.’
‘Ah, I should have joined the army,’ said Diadromes. ‘With your height as well – very impressive.’
‘Can we get this over with?’ replied Cassius as he buckled the helmet strap. ‘I don’t want to keep all this on any longer than I have to. You were going to give me some more information, I believe?’
They were standing behind one of the four vast columns at the front of the university, accompanied by Indavara, Simo and Diadromes’s clerk.
‘Yes, indeed.’ The Syrian took a step closer and spoke quietly. ‘If all else fails, it might be worth mentioning the scandal I spoke of. It involved Sallustius’ brother – also a notable professor here – and a student who has now left. It was claimed that the young man received extra tuition, favourable reports and a good deal of … let us call it personal attention. There was much speculation at the time but Sallustius moved quickly to limit the damage and was able to keep his brother in his post. But rumour has it that this man now has another favourite. If such talk were to reach Rome …’
‘Understood, but I’d like to avoid that kind of tactic if possible.’
Diadromes frowned. ‘You’re a grain man. I would have thought that was precisely your type of tactic.’
‘I am an officer of the Imperial Army,’ said Cassius as he straightened his sword belt. ‘Putting the reputation of the Service aside for a moment, please credit me with some understanding of the concept of honour.’
Diadromes reddened slightly. ‘Of course.’
His clerk subtly approached and whispered in his ear.
‘We are very close to the fifth hour, Officer. Sallustius is not one to tolerate tardiness. Best of luck. My clerk will wait outside for you and let me know how it went. I’ll send Cosmas over to you later.’
Cassius nodded and made a last adjustment to his chin strap. As Diadromes walked swiftly away across the forum, his clerk handed Cassius a piece of paper. It listed the time of his appointment and the room number for the meeting.
Cassius gestured to himself. ‘Well?’
Simo tugged down on the middle of the scarlet tunic and made an adjustment to his left cuff. ‘Perfect, sir.’
Indavara was leaning against the pillar, arms crossed. ‘You remind me of that peacock we saw in Tripolis.’
‘Oh, sorry, sir. I almost forgot.’ Simo took the spearhead badge from his own tunic and carefully pinned it onto Cassius’s.
‘Careful, Simo, you know how much that linen cost. You two wait here.’ Cassius couldn’t imagine he’d be in any danger inside the university and wanted Sallustius’ attention to be solely on him. He strode up to the entrance and received a polite greeting from the two city sergeants on duty. Inside was a high, broad corridor with a gleaming floor.
An elderly man sat at a desk with nothing on it. ‘Good day, sir.’
‘Good day. Room thirty-two?’
‘Down to the end then right, sir. Third door on your left.’
Halfway along the corridor, he passed six students. They had been chattering but quietened as they passed him. Cassius felt a warm surge of manly confidence as the students cast concerned glances at his sword; a long blade with a bronze eagle at the base of the hilt. Most of the young men would arrive at the university in their late teens to embark on five years of study, so some would be Cassius’s age or older. When he considered what he had seen and done since arriving in Syria three years ago, the thought of coming here seemed almost ridiculous. Sometimes – very occasionally – Cassius felt proud that he was a successful army officer instead of a fledgling orator.
He passed a room with the door ajar and heard a loud professor lustily outlining the intricacies of liability law as applied to offender and accomplice.
Cassius reached thirty-two and knocked on what looked like mahogany. Another elderly servant opened it and gestured for him to enter. The vice-chancellor certainly didn’t stint on attendants; another man was standing by a table well stocked with food and drink while another was wafting a large fan.
Sallustius himself was at the far end of the chamber, behind a colossal, highly polished desk, also mahogany. He was facing away from the door, hands clasped behind him, looking out at a garden. Despite the folds of his toga, Cassius could tell he was quite fat.
Sallustius turned, hands still behind him. ‘Good day, Officer Crispian.’
Greek, of course – the language of learning.
‘Good day, Vice-Chancellor.’
Sallustius did not come forward to offer his arm; a first attempt to put off his guest perhaps. ‘Please have a seat. My office is rather warm but Musa here is doing his best.’
The servant – almost certainly a slave – was employing a slow, long wafting motion that did seem to be cooling the room a little. Once he had removed his helmet, Cassius patted down his hair and gestured at the desk. ‘May I?’
‘Please.’
He put the helmet down very carefully.
‘A drink?’
‘No, thank you.’ Cassius glanced at the two busts that framed the window. One he couldn’t identify, the other was definitely Ulpianus, famed jurist and graduate of the university.
Sallustius had an unusual face. Clearly the fat didn’t help, but it seemed to have no shape to it and even his greying hair was a curly, greasy mess. The eyes, however, were narrow and bright blue. Cassius doubted they missed much.
‘I don’t recall the last time an army officer requested an appointment with me. This is most unusual.’
‘But not too unpleasant, I trust?’
‘So far, no. However, I must press you to explain why you are here. As you will appreciate, I am a busy man.’
‘As I understand it, one of your areas of responsibility is enrolment.’
‘Ah. Let me guess – you are here on behalf of Aradates?’
‘No.’
‘Diadromes, then. I didn’t know he had any friends in the army.’
‘We are related.’ This was Cassius’s idea; the simplest way to explain his interest.
‘I see.’
‘As you will know, the university has not offered his son a place for the next academic year. This is causing a good deal of unhappiness in the household and the wider family.’
‘That is regrettable but we turn away hundreds of prospective students every year. We can take only fifty.’
‘I am aware of the numbers. I was once offered a place here myself.’
‘Is that right?’
‘In the end I chose the army instead.’
Sallustius glanced at the helmet. A fly was buzzing around the red horsehair crest.
‘The lad is only sixteen,’ Cassius continued. ‘Yet he passed the entrance exam with ease and has excellent references. Surely another student can make way?’
‘I do not see why another student – and another family – should be so disadvantaged. Young Master Diadromes can apply again next year.’
The fan stopped moving for a moment while the slave changed hands.
Cassius changed his approach. ‘It may be the case that my cousin did not present his arguments in a manner befitting this institution. He is not a learned man, but he is exceptionally capable and hard working. His son has inherited these attributes and possesses a plethora of his own. Vice-Chancellor, I am sure you would concur that it is in the interests of the university to extend a warm welcome to the best and brightest, regardless of breeding or background. This institution is known as “the mother of law”. No good mother favours one son over the other. Young Diadromes wishes to better himself; to serve this city, to serve Rome and – above all – to serve the law. Does he not deserve a chance?’
Sallustius put his elbows on the desk and interlocked his fingers. ‘I must say you demonstrate a delicacy of expression not commonly found among the martial class, Officer Crispian. I’m sure you would have done well here. Sadly, as far as your cousin’s son goes, my hands are tied.’
Cassius glanced at the bust. ‘Domitius Ulpianus,
is it not?’
‘It is. A remarkable man. I had the great privilege of meeting him as a boy.’
‘Remarkable indeed. I have always been fond of one maxim in particular: “to live honourably, to harm no one, to give each his own”.’
‘Once again, you have chosen your words well. It may be the case that some within the university make judgements based on what you term “breeding and background” but I am not one of them. My great-grandfather was a freedman. I and the rest of the admissions board reviewed young Diadromes’s application along with the others and the decision has been made. This is not a fortress, nor a basilica, nor a court. This is the University of Berytus; we make law here. We do not bend rules.’
Cassius had rather enjoyed coming up with his little speech, even though he’d known it was probably a waste of time. At least now nobody could say he hadn’t tried the honourable way.
‘Diadromes is willing to make a substantial contribution to the university.’
‘Is that right? Personally, I hate to talk about money, but I must always consider what’s best for this institution.’
‘I am reluctant to mention a specific number with your men present.’
‘Please, they are all my personal slaves. The most sensitive of matters are discussed in this office every day.’
‘Fifty aurei – for every year of the lad’s study.’
‘A sizeable sum.’
Clearly not sizeable enough.
Diadromes had already told Cassius his absolute maximum.
‘One hundred, then.’
‘Very generous.’ Sallustius obviously had a number in mind too, and that wasn’t it. ‘But as I said earlier, my hands are tied. I’m afraid there’s nothing more to be discussed today.’
Sallustius was about to get up but he stayed where he was when he realised his guest wasn’t leaving.
Cassius sighed, his last hope of a gentlemanly discussion gone. He had learned quickly that the world often worked this way; what was now his world at least. That didn’t make it any less depressing.