by Nick Brown
‘You’ve only known the Faith, I suppose? Because of your father.’
‘Yes.’
Indavara glanced out of the window. ‘We’d better change the subject.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s coming.’
Corbulo was being escorted across the square by Cosmas, who came inside and thanked Indavara for his help with the interrogation before departing.
‘Let me guess,’ said Indavara as Corbulo sat beside Simo. ‘Gorgos told you about something, but not the counterfeiting.’
‘Precisely. How did you know?’
‘Because Cosmas was smiling and you’re not.’
‘Well, your persuasive approach certainly worked. He did tell us everything: about the smuggling operation he, his brother and this Egyptian are running. You name it, they’re bringing it in – best fortified wine hidden in cheap amphoras, luxury soap hidden in jars of fat. The list went on and on and on.’
‘But nothing about fake coins?’
‘Not a word.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘I do. Apart from the fact that you gave him the fright of his life, he is not bright enough to lie that convincingly. Cosmas is going to inform Diadromes now – at least we’ve done another favour for the magistrate.’
Corbulo took Simo’s mug and drank from it.
Indavara turned to him. ‘If I didn’t say so before, thank you. For what you did at the aqueduct.’
‘Think nothing of it. Just remember what I said about benefit versus risk. Girl!’ Corbulo grabbed the maid’s sleeve as she bustled past. ‘Bring a jug of wine and a mug for me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Indavara could tell Corbulo was preoccupied: he didn’t give a second look at the maid, who was young and pretty. He dropped a fist on the table. ‘This damned investigation. Nothing but guesswork and dead ends. And I thought it was going to be easy.’
‘There’s time yet, sir.’
‘Not a lot, Simo. Not a lot.’
Back at the tower, a sheet of paper had been slipped under the door and its contents raised Cassius’s spirits a little. It was a list, at the bottom of which was a note from Diadromes. No one at the basilica had a reason to keep records on which concerns made use of bronze, but he knew a retired metal-smith who was able to compile the list from memory. The deputy magistrate couldn’t guarantee that it was completely up to date, but to Cassius it seemed fairly comprehensive.
He could have done with a trip to the baths but didn’t want to go out again, so he stripped down to his loincloth, lay on his bed and perused the list. The variety of industries and other outfits that dealt in bronze was remarkable: blacksmiths, metal-smiths, shipbuilders, cart-builders, window-makers, furniture-makers, lamp-makers, vessel-makers, statue-makers; and so it went on.
Cassius wiped sweat off his chin. Though the tower was comparatively cool, it was another hot day. He drank some water and forced himself to think about other avenues to explore; other ways to find the gang. A minute later he fell asleep.
When he awoke, the only light was the orange glow coming from beyond the windows. He heard feet on the stairs and the door opened.
‘All right?’ said Indavara, his face invisible in the gloom.
‘Gods, it’s dark. How long have I slept?’
‘Didn’t know you were sleeping – we thought you were up here working on some brilliant new plan.’
‘I was, but I …’
‘Listen, Patch isn’t very well. Simo and I are going to take him out for a walk, see if a trot through a stream will rouse him. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’
‘Alone?’
‘Just lock the door – no one can get to you in here.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Can’t keep you with me every hour of the day.’
‘Simo says he’ll prepare some supper when we get back.’
‘Very well.’ Cassius got up and followed Indavara back down the stairs to the door.
‘There are fresh jugs of wine and water, sir,’ said Simo as the two of them walked out into the darkness.
‘Yes, yes, as long as your bloody mule’s all right – that’s the important thing.’
Cassius pushed the heavy door shut then secured the bolts at the top and bottom. The tower suddenly seemed very quiet. He walked over to the table and poured himself a large mug of wine.
The structure ahead was almost unrecognisable as a building. Only half of one wall remained, a lonely stack of blocks that looked as if it might topple at any moment. The makeshift dwellings were alarmingly close: low, narrow shelters of reused brick with roofs of driftwood and branches. Outside one was a small fire, a beacon of warmth among all the emptiness and ruined stone.
Indavara and Simo followed Elder Cobon through the rubble. Faces turned from the fire. Two men stood, each holding iron spears. Cobon – who was carrying a torch – held up his other hand in greeting and spoke to one of the men, who swiftly lowered his weapon. Indavara listened and realised they were speaking in Aramaic (Simo knew a little but he did not). After a time, Cobon gestured to the sacks he and Simo were carrying. Indavara had only his stave.
The leader called out to his people. Men, women and children began to appear; some from the shelters, some from the shadows. By the time they were all gathered around the fire, Indavara had counted twenty-eight. Cobon and Simo handed over the sacks, then watched as the leader distributed the bread. He was scrupulously fair, giving larger loaves to adults, smaller ones to the children. His compatriot took the last few and began dividing them.
One of the women came forward. Indavara was surprised to see she was clad in a fine cloak, though it had clearly seen better days. She knelt in front of Elder Cobon and offered her hand. He took it and helped her back up. As she returned to her family, Indavara saw that she was weeping.
While Cobon continued speaking to the men, another family sent forth a child; a little girl of no more than three or four with some ribbons in her hair and a sweet smile. In her hand was a bracelet; colourful beads strung on thread. She offered it to Cobon, who put a kind hand on her head but refused the gift. Simo smiled to her and spoke to her in Aramaic but he wouldn’t take the bracelet either.
Indavara thought the little girl would be scared of him but she offered it to him too. He didn’t know what to do. The girl turned back towards her family; they seemed to be encouraging her to hand it over. Her face began to tremble. Indavara didn’t want to upset her so he took it. The girl ran back to her parents.
‘Why did you refuse it?’ he asked Simo.
‘We must not take anything in return. The food is a gift.’
‘But—’
‘You can take it,’ said Simo. ‘You’re not of the Faith.’
He recovered the empty sacks. The children – except the little girl – were all eating. Most of the adults were proud enough to wait until the visitors had gone.
After a final word with the leader and a shake of hands, Cobon led them back to the street. He was a tiny man – barely five foot and with a rather crooked back but had marched down to the docks at quite a pace. He explained that two other groups had been delivering bread and that they would meet back at the church-house. Simo replied that he and Indavara would have to leave soon; they had already been out for an hour and a half.
As they walked back through an area where most of the warehouses were still standing, Indavara asked Simo about those they’d helped.
‘Palmyran refugees. Apparently they’ve been there for months. Before that they were in an apartment block but the other residents complained and the magistrates had them evicted.’
‘Why?’
‘Palmyra was the enemy of Rome for almost a decade. People don’t want them here. But neither does anyone else in Syria and their city has been destroyed. They had money but most of it went on bribes to get jobs which they then lost anyway. Now they are barely able to survive.’
‘The children are thin but with fat stomachs. It means they
don’t have enough to eat. I’ve seen it before.’
Somewhere a bell was tolling, marking the turn of the hour.
‘We will be late,’ said Simo.
‘We could tell him,’ replied Indavara. ‘If we told him what you’ve just told me, he might understand.’
‘No. No, he would not.’
The church-house was in fact no more than a large room at the rear of Cobon’s dwelling. He was by trade a grocer and – according to Simo – spent his afternoons gathering spare food from sympathetic townspeople and other Christians. Indavara found it hard to think of it as a holy place – it looked like any other room and was equipped only with half a dozen chairs and a single table, on top of which were several scrolls and books. The other groups had returned first so Cobon apologised to them and let everyone in.
Indavara leaned against a wall, looking on as the Christians gathered to discuss their evening’s work. All three groups had avoided the area where there had previously been trouble and – apart from some inquisitive city sergeants – met with no further problems.
Cobon announced that he would fetch everyone some wine, at which point Simo told him they had to leave. Farewells were exchanged; and Indavara was glad to hear the others address him by name. He had felt rather out of place, standing there with his scars and his stave among these quiet, peaceful folk.
There were as many women as men in the group and one of them came to the door with him and Simo. She was the youngest there but put her hood up so fast that Indavara saw little of her face.
‘Will you be all right on the streets on your own?’ asked Simo as he opened the door. The young woman offered the briefest of nods then hurried away. As she disappeared around a corner, the pair headed off in the opposite direction.
‘That’s not safe,’ said Indavara.
‘I know. But she cannot stay like the others. She does what she can then leaves.’
‘I wonder why.’
‘I expect she has to get back,’ said Simo. ‘I expect she is like me.’
XX
The courtyard was littered with them. Some were missing hands, arms, legs, even heads. The oldest cripples had been thrown on top of each other, limbs and bodies grotesquely intertwined. Closer to the building were the new ones; clean, polished and ready for mounting. The largest of them was ten feet tall; a bearded god holding a staff.
‘They obviously do well,’ said Cassius. ‘I’ve already counted twenty workers.’ He pointed at a broad chimney which was puffing out thick, black smoke. ‘Forge over there.’
He ran his eyes across the rest of the statue-makers: one of the largest factories he’d seen. ‘They’ve got everything the gang would need: a legitimate cover, transportation’ – he gestured at the three large carts and the stables beside the courtyard – ‘and inside the requisite ovens and metals. All it would take is a hidden room and a few men with dies and hammers. The trouble is, I could say the same for the other places we’ve seen this morning.’
Cosmas was tugging his beard, which he seemed to do whenever he was required to think. ‘All told, I reckon there are only about forty outfits with ovens or full foundries like this. Why not just check them all? I’m sure we could come up with some excuse.’
‘Forty? That would take a while.’
‘It depends on how much help Master Diadromes could provide.’
‘But if we don’t strike lucky early on, word will get round quickly. Once they know we’re here and looking they might halt production or move out.’
Indavara stepped forward. Like the others, he was standing in the shadow cast by a temple wall. It was situated beside a road that wound up a hill overlooking the statue-makers.
‘Might be two places. They might make the coins somewhere with an oven, then use the dies somewhere else.’
‘Possibly, though that doubles the risk.’ Cassius leaned back against the wall, tapping his boot against the stone. ‘We need another way to come at this, a method that doesn’t betray our real interest.’
A paunchy, middle-aged man strode around the corner of the temple.
‘Excuse me, this is private property, you can’t just—’
‘City sergeants. Move along,’ said Cosmas. This and a glance at Indavara persuaded the interloper to desist.
Cassius glanced up the hill, the top of which was largely undeveloped and covered by cedar trees. Coming down the road was a man with a bow over one shoulder and a pair of dead birds on the other. Kicking a stone along behind him were three lads each carrying sticks.
‘Beaters,’ said Cassius.
‘Sir?’
‘Do much hunting, Cosmas?’
‘Only for law-breakers,’ said the sergeant with a grin.
‘The function of the beaters is to make a load of noise, panic the prey and drive it into the open for the hunter to pick off.’
‘Sir?’
‘I think I need to speak to Diadromes.’
The fourth hour was one of the busiest of the day. The markets were beginning to slow down but cityfolk of all types were pounding the streets, keen to conclude their day’s tasks before the July heat reached its full intensity.
Cassius, Indavara and Simo let Cosmas lead the way; he had already proved himself highly adept at avoiding crowds, hold-ups and bottlenecks. Twice they passed someone who called out to the sergeant, but Cosmas pressed on. Cassius stayed close, with Indavara right behind him. It would have been pointless to bring the horses but he felt even more vulnerable down on the street. His eyes flitted from one individual or group to another until he almost made himself dizzy. Mopping his brow with his sleeve, he kept his hand close to his sword, ready to draw if need be.
Spying a long queue outside a temple up ahead, Cosmas cut left along a side street. Because of his merchant’s outfit, Cassius attracted some interest from a line of hawkers with wicker baskets of assorted tat strapped to their chests. Cosmas waved them away but some were insistent and Indavara moved up to dissuade any who got too close.
Just as they passed the last of them, a young man sprinted by. He took a second glance at Cosmas then stopped. ‘Sir?’
‘Arpagius. You all right?’
‘Thank the gods.’ He pointed along an adjacent street. ‘Sir, some men – I don’t know who they are – they’ve cornered Norbanus Celer and his family. I’m not even on duty but I tried to warn them off.’ He turned his palms skyward. ‘They just laughed at me.’
Cosmas glanced back at Cassius, who realised this was not something the sergeant could simply ignore.
‘Do what you have to.’
‘There are a lot of them,’ continued Arpagius. ‘And they’ve been drinking.’
Cassius reckoned he might well regret this decision but it didn’t seem fair to leave the helpful Cosmas to it. ‘We’ll come along too.’
‘Thank you.’
With that they set off after Arpagius and soon saw the commotion up ahead. About a dozen men had gathered around a cart and were throwing stones at a smaller group cowering in front of a dwelling.
‘Who’s this Celer, anyway?’ asked Cassius, holding his sword hilt as he ran.
‘Owns one of the factories,’ explained Cosmas. ‘Not a particularly popular man.’
As the five of them slowed down, the men by the cart all turned.
Cassius almost laughed. Every one of them was wearing an identical actor’s mask, each painted brown with an oversize nose and a surprised expression. Some were holding wineskins, others handfuls of stones which had obviously come from the wooden boxes in the cart.
On the other side of the street, a well-dressed gentleman, his wife and two young boys were huddled in a doorway. Each child was gripping one of their mother’s legs. She was a good deal younger than her husband; an overweight fellow, whose eyes were wide with fear and rage. Slumped against the wall close by was a tall man nursing a bleeding nose; presumably the bodyguard.
One of the more inebriated ‘actors’ bellowed something indecipherable at the
new arrivals.
‘Oh, look, the young un’s back with some help,’ said another.
Cosmas walked straight up to the men. ‘City sergeant. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll disperse.’
‘I know what’s good for me, thanks, shorty,’ replied one of them, slurping down wine and earning a few laughs from his mates.
‘They are very, very drunk,’ said Simo.
‘I know,’ replied Cassius.
But not all of them. One man dropped his handful of stones and squared up to Cosmas. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to protect this arsehole? He’s the most hated man in Berytus.’
Celer tried to move away from the doorway. A stone thrown by one of the men pinged off the plaster above him. One of the little boys squealed.
‘Animals!’ screeched the mother.
Celer retreated and pulled his family towards him.
The man who’d thrown the stone was still laughing when the end of Indavara’s stave tapped the nose of his mask. He turned to look at the bodyguard, eyes bloodshot and glassy.
‘Don’t do that again.’
The man backed away but another wasn’t so easily dissuaded. He held the handle of his sheathed dagger and moved in front of his friend.
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll give you such a beating you’ll need that mask to hide your tears.’
‘Easy,’ said Cassius quietly, walking past Indavara to stand by Cosmas. As Arpagius joined them, he noticed that quite a crowd was gathering to their right.
‘Fun’s over, lads,’ said Cosmas. ‘Disperse now and we’ll say no more about it. Don’t make it worse for yourselves.’
The leader pointed at Celer. ‘That greedy pig gets richer every day while our families starve. There’s no justice to be had in Berytus. The sergeants and the courts and the likes of him are all in it together.’
‘Starving, eh?’ said Cassius. ‘But clearly not thirsty.’
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend of the sergeant here. I suggest you move along or this matter will be in the hands of the magistrate before midday.’
‘Twelve actors causing trouble?’ said the leader. ‘Magistrate’s not going to get far with his investigation, is he?’