by Nick Brown
Indavara stopped, and spoke without turning around. ‘To bed. It’s late.’
‘No, no. We’re celebrating. Sit down.’
Indavara went on his way.
‘I said sit down!’
As he disappeared inside, Cassius shrugged.
‘Doesn’t know how to have fun – that’s his problem.’
The Greens’ supporter returned and grabbed his fellow by the arm. ‘Come on, we’re off down to the river.’
The guildsman took his drink and got up. With all the weight now on one side, the table tipped backward, dumping Cassius, Simo, several plates, the bottle and the glasses on to the grass.
‘Oh dear,’ said Cassius as he lay there.
‘Time for bed, sir?’ said Simo, removing a plate from his master’s chest.
‘Time for bed.’
XVIII
‘Now that’s what a proper city wall looks like.’
Ignoring the mass of people in front of him, Cassius gazed at the northern side of Antioch. The wall was twenty-five feet high, built of gargantuan limestone blocks, some of which were faced with triangular pieces of brick. Left of the Beroea Gate, the walls ran for half a mile then gave way to the tents and improvised housing that covered the lower slopes of Mount Silpius, the fifteen-hundred-foot peak that overshadowed the city. To the right of the gatehouse, the walls extended two hundred yards before meeting the Orontes. Here the river divided, running around the island connected to the rest of the city by five bridges.
‘If only the walls were in such good repair all the way round, sir,’ observed Simo.
‘You can thank the Persians for that. They will insist on invading every few years.’
Cassius’s role in an assignment that might help avoid future incursions from the east was too much for his wine-addled mind to deal with, so he instead admonished the two slaves manning the cart ahead of them. Their vehicle was full of manure, and they didn’t seem to mind that every movement of their horses caused more of it to seep on to the road. Simo, meanwhile, had already pledged not to let his master ply him with wine ever again. Cassius had heard that before.
‘Twenty at least,’ said Indavara. ‘Twenty carts between us and the gate.’
‘Not for long,’ replied Cassius. ‘Follow me.’
The approach road sat atop a robust causeway that crossed the marshy, flood-prone plain to the east of the city. Cassius guided his horse down a short slope on to the soggy ground and set off along the right side of the road. Many of the waiting multitude cast annoyed looks but not one dared say anything. They were commoners in the main; it was midday, and most of the merchants or farmers with anything to sell would have arrived in the city hours ago. Cassius did however see two heavy carts carrying chunks of marble, and one loaded with big lidded barrels. Had another such vehicle passed the gates in the last few days? Had its precious cargo entered the city unseen?
The road narrowed to fifteen feet as it passed under the great arch of the gatehouse. Planted on the roof was a stone rendering of Romulus and Remus being nursed by the she-wolf. The gate itself – a monstrous spiked iron grid – hung from foot-wide chains high above the ground. Mounted on each of the gatehouse’s two towers was a life-sized silver statue of the Tyche: the local goddess who, for the Antiochenes, symbolised both fortune and their city. Clad in long robes and a high crown, she held a bunch of grapes in one hand, a sheaf of wheat in the other.
Cassius dismounted close to the western tower. While waiting for Simo and Indavara to catch up, he put on his helmet and retrieved the spear-head. The waiting crowd were remarkably quiet and orderly; largely because of the dozen burly men patrolling back and forth in front of them. Cassius noted their weapons: clubs formed from tightly wrapped lengths of wood. These were the municipal magistrate’s sergeants, responsible for enforcing the law and maintaining order. Beyond them, eight clerks sat at tables, interviewing entrants and collecting taxes. There were legionaries there too. One of them spotted Cassius and pushed some locals aside.
‘This way, sir.’
‘My men must pass also.’
Simo and Indavara – looking faintly embarrassed – led the horses up the side of the road past the crowd. An aged centurion strode out of the gatehouse. His left arm was withered and hung limply by his side.
‘Morning,’ said Cassius.
‘Afternoon, I’d say. Turpo. I’m in charge here.’
‘Corbulo, governor’s staff.’
‘I can see that. Come, you must sign in. Your men can go straight through. Sanga!’
Legionary Sanga escorted Simo and Indavara past the sergeants while Cassius ducked in to the gatehouse. Inside the cramped room was a desk piled high with papyrus and leather-bound books. One such book had been left open. A reed-pen sat in a bronze holder next to it.
‘Name, rank, date and purpose of visit,’ said Turpo. ‘Oh, and time. It’s the seventh hour.’
As Cassius filled out the book, a clerk came in from another door and began what swiftly became a fraught debate with Turpo about the tax rate for prostitutes being brought into the city. Cassius left the ‘purpose of visit’ section blank and waited for Turpo to dismiss the clerk.
‘Centurion, do you record all the traffic that comes in and out – carts and such like?’
‘Just for those bringing in goods. There’s a flat fee for traders – per horse, cart or whatever.’ He aimed a thumb at the gate. ‘But this is all because the council want to keep everyone on the straight and narrow until things settle down. The Palmyrans changed all the rates and tolls but we’re slowly getting back to normal.’
‘You don’t keep track of particular loads then?’
‘Not usually. Just the money taken. Unless it’s something unusual, or suspicious.’
‘Would I be allowed to check through the records of the last few weeks? I’m interested in a particular cart that may have entered the city.’
‘You would. If you had the right authorisation.’
‘And who would I get that from?’
‘Tribune Bonafatius.’
‘Bonafatius. And what about other routes into the city?’
‘There’s the Bridge Gate and the Daphne Gate to the south. And a few tracks in over the mountain, but a heavy cart couldn’t use those.’
‘Much obliged.’
On the other side of the gatehouse, Cassius found himself at one end of the Avenue of Herod and Tiberius, the impressive colonnaded street that ran north-east to south-west through the heart of Antioch. The imposing double line of columns supported porticos on each side that covered a walkway almost as wide as the street.
If not for the crew of slaves hammering away at a plinth, the street would have been fairly quiet. The busiest part of the day had passed, and many of the city’s inhabitants would be at home, eating and resting after a hard morning’s work. A second gang of dark-skinned slaves appeared from a side street. Escorted by four armed overseers, they marched swiftly past Cassius and under the gatehouse. Indavara and Simo emerged out of the shadows behind them, the Gaul with a set of reins in each hand. He was smiling. Cassius took off his helmet as he wandered over to them.
‘Glad to be back, I see.’
‘Oh yes, sir. Yes indeed.’
‘Lead on then.’
Cassius had aimed to arrive in the city around the middle of the day, hoping they might find Abascantius at home. He had already given Simo the agent’s address; the Gaul had lived in the city all his life before working for Cassius and didn’t take a single wrong turn. They headed east – towards Mount Silpius – and passed warehouses and granaries, bakeries and inns. Here, those without the luxury of an afternoon break laboured on.
The streets widened and acquired pavements as they moved into a residential area. They saw a large fountain with an ornamental pool and carved spouts for public use. But there was no water running and only a little in the pool; it would be several weeks before the aqueducts that fed the city were in full flow.
Abascantius’s villa wa
s a one-storey, stone-built townhouse, narrow-fronted but extending back a long way. It was surrounded by a cordon of high poplars and a six-foot wall. The entrance was secured by an iron gate. Next to it was a bronze bell hanging from a rope. Cassius told Simo to ring it.
As they waited, Indavara gazed at the quiet, well-maintained villas and the steep slopes above. Cassius put his hands on the bars of the gate and peered along the path that led to the villa. He could see no one; and the door was obscured by voluminous, purple-flowered bushes. The whole arrangement was very strange; he’d expected Abascantius to maintain a large staff – certainly enough people to man his own gate.
They heard a door creak open, then footsteps. Cassius instantly recognised the squat frame and grim visage of Shostra.
‘Ah. We’ve got the right place at least.’
With not a word of greeting, Shostra perused each of the three men through the gate, taking a particularly long time over Indavara. He then turned on his heels and walked back to the house.
‘Hey!’ Cassius shouted after him. He turned to Simo. ‘I really don’t like that man.’
They heard voices. Shostra returned a few moments later. He produced a key from his belt and unlocked the gate.
‘Master wants me and your man to go on to where you’re staying – get the horses stabled and the house ready. You can go in.’
‘Thank you so much,’ replied Cassius. ‘Go ahead, Simo.’
Once Indavara had removed his weapons from his saddle, Shostra led Simo and the horses away down the street. Cassius and Indavara walked up to the villa. Unsurprisingly, there was no one to meet them at the door. As they stepped inside the hallway, Cassius looked down at the multicoloured mosaic set into the tiled floor beneath their feet: WELCOME. He nudged Indavara and nodded down at it.
‘Not so far.’
Indavara frowned.
‘Can you read?’ Cassius asked him.
‘Ah, there you are! Come, come in.’
Abascantius had appeared at the end of the hallway. ‘You two look stiff,’ he remarked as they walked towards him. ‘Not surprised with all that riding. Don’t tell me you’ve been strolling around the city with that in your hand, Corbulo.’
Cassius looked down at the spear-head; he’d been holding it since the gate.
‘Gods, you’ll not be much use to me here if everyone knows who you are. Thank Jupiter it’s late. Nobody important will have seen you at least.’
Cassius didn’t particularly like the sound of that; it seemed Abascantius already had more work in mind for him.
They were standing in a large atrium with an air of faded grandeur. Under the rectangular opening in the middle of the room was a circular basin half full with rainwater. The sides of the basin had turned green. The few items of furniture looked new but the frescoes on two of the walls were in dire need of repainting and an extravagant mosaic – a trio of peacocks – had lost many of its pieces.
Abascantius looked Indavara up and down. ‘And how was our monosyllabic friend here?’
‘Monosyllabic,’ said Cassius. ‘We’re having to educate him in the finer points of riding, eating and conversation but he’s done his job well enough.’
‘Good, good,’ said Abascantius. ‘We shall keep him on for the moment then.’ He turned to Indavara. ‘We shall sort out your money later. Wait here for now. Come, Corbulo.’
Abascantius looked even fatter than Cassius remembered him. As he followed him around the basin to the other side of the atrium, he looked at the rolls of flesh hanging over his belt, and his hairy, mole-covered calves. He really was a singularly unattractive man.
They passed along a corridor with a number of smaller rooms on either side then emerged into a spacious courtyard. Beyond was a neat orchard of apple trees and the rear gate. In the middle of the courtyard was a large, waterless fountain and – rising from its centre – a bronze statue of a bearded, contemplative god.
‘Hermes or Dionysus?’ queried Cassius.
‘Palmyran,’ Abascantius sneered. ‘I keep meaning to knock it down.’
‘You’ve not been here long then?’
‘A month or so. The previous resident was a man who did rather well out of the occupation. Gave up two of my best operatives to the Palmyrans. I had him . . . evicted.’
‘I see.’
In front of the fountain was a marble table and two wooden benches. Abascantius picked up a bottle of wine, topped up his own glass and poured a full one for Cassius.
‘So the Emperor’s policy of clemency has its limits,’ Cassius said as he sat down.
Abascantius pushed the glass over to him. ‘Exceptions can always be made.’
One end of the bench was next to the wall of the fountain, with two cushions propped up against it. Abascantius sat there, glass in hand.
‘What about Gregorius?’ he asked. ‘Do you know anything?’
Cassius found he couldn’t keep his eyes on the older man.
‘Yes, sir. Not good news, I’m afraid.’
Now Abascantius looked away. He took a long swig of wine.
‘You may start. Leave nothing out.’
It took Cassius almost an hour to relate the events of the last nine days. He did leave something out: the incident with the Celts at Palmyra, and he made a mental note to tell Indavara to keep quiet about it too. Abascantius listened carefully, sometimes pressing Cassius for details. His wide, ravaged face remained largely impassive until Cassius described what they’d found at the mine. Cursing, he sprang up and kicked out at a chair. It skidded away across the tiles and on to the grass. He stood still for a time, then leaned over the fountain with his hands on the surround.
‘They’ll pay,’ he whispered through clenched teeth. ‘By Jupiter they’ll pay.’
‘Why do you think they kept him alive, sir?’
Abascantius backed away from the fountain. ‘Sounds like the legionaries fought on to a man, but Gregorius knew how important it was that he live – wait for a chance to escape, get word to me. He was crafty. Resourceful.’
‘He may yet have helped us, sir.’
‘Indeed.’
‘He had a wife?’
‘No. And no children, thank the gods. But he lived with a woman. I shall have to tell her.’ Abascantius looked down at Cassius and ran a thumb across his chin. ‘You have done well, Corbulo, all things considered.’
Cassius agreed; but did his best to appear magnanimous.
‘If I may, sir, I do have some ideas about how to proceed. This two-fingered man, obviously. And the gatehouse – they sometimes keep records of incoming traffic. Or the silver and gold markets. We might see if—’
Abascantius held up his hands. ‘Wait. Wait a moment. Those matters should be followed up, I agree. But you’re forgetting the council: the only men who knew of Gregorius’s mission.’
‘The only men apart from Venator, Lollius and this character Tarquinius.’
‘Who probably took his share – whatever he could carry and safely keep quiet.’ Abascantius shrugged. ‘Good luck to him. Lollius too, if he did likewise. There’s not a chance Venator’s involved: he’s been chasing a seat in the senate for ten years, and his family are the eighth or ninth richest in all the Empire.’
‘Sir, I don’t believe for a moment that Venator had anything to do with it, nor Lollius if I’m honest. But the man who sniffed out the treasure in the first place . . .’
‘Assuming for a moment that a Roman officer would allow ten of his fellow soldiers to be killed, how would he organise such a thing?’
‘I have no idea. But a haul like that would provide a powerful incentive. And attract a good deal of help.’
Abascantius didn’t look convinced. ‘If this Tarquinius was behind the raid he’d be long gone by now, and Venator himself told you he was back in Zeugma. I’m afraid you’re missing the point, Corbulo. It’s not about the trinkets or the silver or the gold. It’s about the flag. What we must focus on is who’s pulling the strings. I’ve only been
back a few days and my resources aren’t what they were, but I’ve made a little progress. We’ll follow the council members day and night if need be, leave no stone unturned.’
‘Who exactly is on this council?’
Instead of answering, Abascantius stared thoughtfully down at Cassius. ‘Do you have a good toga with you?’
‘Yes, sir. Why?’
‘You can see the council first-hand. Act as my eyes and ears. Don’t look so worried, Corbulo. After all those days in the desert I’m sure you’ll enjoy a cultured evening with the great and the good of Antioch.’
‘Sir?’
‘You’re going to a dinner party.’
The villa they were to stay in was another of those liberated from one of Abascantius’s ‘evictees’. Cassius knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to hear the agent talk of such a thing in so dispassionate a manner, but it disturbed him to think what the man might truly be capable of.
Before he and Indavara left, Abascantius summoned three messengers and dispatched them to various locations. He told Cassius to meet him at the eleventh hour by Hadrian’s Bridge, and that he should make himself as presentable as possible.
The villa was located half a mile south of Abascantius, closer to the centre of the city, in a similarly anonymous area. As Cassius and Indavara walked through the streets, Antioch seemed to reawaken after the quiet of noon. Glancing to the right, they caught glimpses of crowds and the grand buildings at the city’s heart.
‘Where’s this big face then?’ said Cassius.
According to Abascantius’s directions, when they were level with a distinctive carving on the side of Mount Silpius, the villa would be dead ahead. As they emerged on to a wide road running down to the Avenue of Herod and Tiberius, Cassius’s question was answered.
‘Ah. Quite impressive.’
Carved into grey rock high above the city was a large male face with a smaller figure on one shoulder. The sculpture looked damaged or unfinished.
‘So that must be it,’ said Indavara, pointing forward.
The villa was smaller than Abascantius’s but again well protected by a high wall and a sturdy gate. Running along the southern side of the house was a smaller river – the Parmenios – that flowed down from Mount Silpius into the Orontes.