by Nick Brown
The gate was open. They found Simo sweeping the path.
‘Welcome, sir.’
The Gaul shook his head as he followed Cassius inside. ‘There’s so much to do. I shall have to get firewood, some cooking utensils, there’s no water coming in; oh and—’
‘Relax, Simo. You’ve the rest of the day to attend to all that. At least we have somewhere habitable to base ourselves.’
Inside the villa were a few basic bits of furniture but no decoration of any kind.
‘It’s terribly bare, sir.’
‘Less for you to clean then. Where are the horses?’
‘Stabled just down the road. Shostra said the man there is reliable. We may come and go as we please.’
Leading off from the atrium were four rooms, including three bedrooms. Cassius took the largest of them and told Indavara to take the room closest to the front door. Simo asked the bodyguard to help him with a few chores, and he seemed happy to lend a hand.
Cassius’s saddlebags were already in his room, on top of a low but wide wooden bed. The only other furniture was a large set of shelves. Cassius pushed the saddlebags across the bed and lay down beside them. On the way to the villa, he had heard a slave announcing the start of the ninth hour, so decided there was time for a short nap. He was tired and hung over and couldn’t possibly face the demands of civilised company without taking a rest. He listened to Simo ask Indavara to go and buy some water. Before he left, the bodyguard asked Simo about the rock carving.
‘That’s the Charonion,’ the Gaul explained. ‘It’s more than four hundred years old. Built on the orders of Antiochus himself – the ancient king who gave the city its name. During his time a plague struck; a seer advised him that he should create a great image of Charon, the god of the underworld, to appease him and prevent further pestilence striking the city.’
‘Did it work?’ asked Indavara.
Cassius didn’t hear the reply. He was already asleep.
XIX
Cassius arrived at Hadrian’s Bridge before Abascantius, which gave him a few welcome moments to gather his thoughts. Two hours of sleep seemed only to have depleted his strength and he was troubled by the prospect of the evening ahead. He wasn’t sure how one gained admittance to a dinner party without being known to the host; and he wondered what the agent wanted him to do.
Arms crossed, he leaned back against the rough wall of the bridge, a wide, arched structure that stretched a hundred feet over the Orontes. There didn’t seem much need for a bodyguard at a dinner party, so he’d told Indavara to stay and help Simo.
It was strange – unnerving in fact – to be among crowds of people after all those days in the desert. He gazed at the thronging mass of pedestrians and carts moving in both directions. There was clearly some substantial building work going on somewhere; most of those returning from the island seemed to be labourers. More of the municipal magistrate’s men were on duty, ensuring that pedestrians kept to the side of the road and clearing any dawdlers with a harsh word and the odd poke with their clubs.
Cassius turned round and looked down at the river, where a multitude of punts and skiffs vied for space with larger boats upon the calm, dark water. Some of the bigger vessels were manned by six or eight slaves pulling hard at their oars while their masters and mistresses lounged at the rear. Several of these boats were converging on a dock at the south-west corner of the island. Already moored there was a big, sea-going galley. Two lads were working at the top of the mast while the remainder of the crew scrubbed sails laid across the deck.
Beyond the dock was a huge, sprawling villa set in its own gardens, complete with several fountains, a stable and a bathhouse. There looked to be some other private residences close by, but most of the island was taken up by public buildings: theatres, baths, civic offices, and – on the far side – the oval bulk of the hippodrome and the looming walls of the imperial palace.
‘Don’t turn. We should avoid being seen together.’
Abascantius and Shostra were suddenly by the wall to his right.
‘Guests already arriving,’ said the agent. ‘We must be quick.’
Cassius nodded towards the big villa. ‘I’m going there?’
‘You are. The House of the Dolphins. But first I shall show you the council. Their meeting at the forum has just broken up so they’ll be along soon. On the other side of the bridge turn right; there’s a theatre next to the villa. Go inside and wait. I’ll have someone fetch you. Go now.’
Cassius waited for a gap in the traffic, then darted through it and strode away across the bridge.
The high wooden doors at the front of the theatre were open. Cassius went inside and found himself in a spacious reception area lined by benches. Opposite the entrance was another set of doors, presumably to the auditorium and stage. On either side of the room were staircases leading upward. Two women were on their knees, cleaning the floor.
Cassius sat down on one of the benches. He hadn’t been there long when a young boy – no more than eight or nine – came running down the staircase to the right. He took a momentary curious glance at Cassius, gestured for him to follow, then ran back the way he’d come.
The staircase spiralled up to a high second floor, and a gallery with an excellent view of the stage, currently obscured by scarlet curtains. The boy pointed to a room on the left side of the gallery then trotted away. Shostra was in the doorway, handing a few coins to an elderly, well-dressed man. Shostra ushered the man away and nodded inside the room. It was packed full of tables, benches and chairs.
‘Over here,’ said Abascantius, popping his head up above the jungle of furniture.
Cassius squeezed his way through, trying not to get his toga dirty. Abascantius was sitting on a chair in front of a small, iron-grilled window. There was a spare stool next to him. As Cassius sat down, the agent looked him over.
‘Very smart.’
It was a hot afternoon, and though the toga was thin, the wool irritated Cassius’s skin. He hadn’t worn it since leaving Cyzicus, and felt rather self-conscious. Simo had also given him a wash and shave, then cut his nails and attended to his hair.
Abascantius grimaced. ‘You are rather good-looking though. Tall too. Not ideal.’
‘My mother would take issue with you on that,’ said Cassius with a grin.
‘You don’t work for your mother.’
Abascantius pointed down at the street. Beneath them was the House of the Dolphins. Guests were arriving at the wide set of steps that splayed out from the main door. Cassius dragged his stool closer to the window to take in the full scale of the structure. It was truly enormous, with four atria and three separate courtyards.
‘Your host is Kaeso Scaurus, one of the richest men in Antioch. His first party since the liberation of the city. Not that he and his kind particularly suffered, but most of them are relieved to be rid of the Palmyrans. His parties are infamous – more than a few of the city folk will be looking for an excuse to cut loose. Should be quite a night.’
‘Were you invited?’
Abascantius laughed bitterly. ‘Me? No. My presence would spoil the festival spirit – put the guests off their food. Ah, the man himself.’
Cassius peered down through the grille. A plump individual in an ostentatious purple and gold cloak was jogging down the steps. He had a round, ruddy face and a voluminous head of curly black hair. As two particularly decorous ladies disembarked from an open carriage, Scaurus bowed low, then kissed each hand in turn. He turned his attention to their menfolk, smiling broadly and gripping their forearms with overt enthusiasm.
‘Still trying too hard, I see,’ said Abascantius. ‘Will he never learn?’
‘Something of an aspirant?’
‘The very definition. Mother was a Jew, father a legionary. Made his fortune in slaves and money-lending. He’s been trying to buy his way into the provincial assembly for years. Doesn’t seem to understand that unless he marries into one of a handful of families or wins the favo
ur of Marcellinus, those doors will remain for ever closed.’
‘The same people hold power now? Even after the occupation?’
‘Most were sensible enough to keep their heads down and their mouths shut – wait until the storm passed. Antiochenes are rather adept at that. A few ran into trouble with the Palmyrans of course, but I doubt today’s guest list will be that different from a couple of years ago.’
Three ranks of spear-carrying cavalrymen had just arrived in front of the villa. Between them was a diminutive figure on a pale grey horse.
‘Ah. The first of our council members. General Julius Ulpian, commander of the Antioch garrison.’
A swift boot from Scaurus sent a slave boy scurrying towards the general with a little box to help him dismount. As another slave held his horse’s reins, Ulpian descended. Scaurus offered a hand but the general waved it away. As he made his way up the steps, a huge African legionary fell into step behind him. Ulpian removed his helmet to reveal a sparse head of grey hair and a lined, leathery face.
‘He’s old, even for a general,’ observed Cassius.
‘Sixty-five, I think. In truth, his has been a nominal title for the last few years. The Palmyrans let him stay, but every last century had already been withdrawn. He’s got a full cohort again now though.’
‘A suspect?’
‘Possible but unlikely. He’s had to watch himself ever since a nasty incident a few years back. He became obsessed with one of his tribune’s wives, and was none too subtle about it. He was warned off several times, but couldn’t help himself. Eventually he sent the tribune away on some pointless errand, then went round to his house and raped the girl.’
‘Gods.’
‘He tried to cover it up but it got back to me eventually. I told Chief Pulcher and he told the Emperor. Claudius decided that Ulpian could keep his job on condition he keep his nose clean until he retired. As far as I know, he has.’
‘He was lucky.’
‘It wasn’t just luck. He’s a war hero. Finest cavalry commander in the province in his day. Fought two wars against Shapur.’
‘Then he must hate the Persians.’ Cassius glanced at Abascantius. ‘Enough to stop us signing a treaty with them?’
‘I don’t see it. Like you said – he’s old. I doubt he has the energy for criminal intrigues. Probably more interested in getting his end away as many times as he can before he finally keels over.’
The procession of guests seemed endless. Some men came alone on horseback, their steeds swiftly removed by Scaurus’s slaves. Women, couples or groups used open carriages drawn by mules. Others emerged from litters carried by four or six slaves, and one elderly lady arrived in a luxurious carriage complete with miniature marble columns supporting a purple canopy.
A crowd was developing in front of the villa: guests watching other guests arrive. Scaurus threw up his hands in dismay and corralled them back inside the house. One of his servants alerted him to another carriage pulling up and he hurried back towards the street, lifting the folds of his cloak as he descended the steps once more.
‘This must be someone important,’ said Cassius.
Abascantius leaned forward as a tall, slender man stepped gracefully down to the ground before turning to lend his female companion a hand.
‘Our esteemed governor, no less. I give you Titus Fabius Gordio. The politician’s politician.’
‘How so?’
‘Not many men could manage to be governor before an occupation, during an occupation and after an occupation. He somehow managed to smooth the way with the Palmyrans and protect his consituents’ interests.’
‘An intelligent man, then.’
‘They don’t come much brighter. It’s said that he charmed Zenobia into no end of concessions, and that she politely bade him farewell as she fled the city. And he’s been able to hide the fact that he’s in love with his clerk from his wife for more than a decade. I’m not sure which is the more impressive achievement.’
Gordio accepted Scaurus’s low bow, then took his wife’s hand. The elegant couple ascended the steps, nodding to the other guests.
‘Could he be involved?’
‘Up until a few days ago I would have said no, but some new information has come to light.’
Abascantius was evidently reluctant to explain further.
‘But after surviving for so long,’ said Cassius, ‘what possible motive would he have to endanger the treaty?’
‘None I can think of. But what if he is being manipulated by others – with motives of their own?’
‘Blackmail?’
‘It’s all supposition at the moment.’ Abascantius sat back and let out a sigh. ‘Unless I have proof I daren’t make a single move against him. He’s close to Marcellinus, and we’ve crossed swords many times in the past.’
Abascantius nodded down at the street again. ‘Here’s number three.’
Next up the steps was a younger man in his thirties. He was alone, dressed modestly, with a pale green cloak over his tunic. He seemed somewhat out of place; bookish and reserved.
‘Looks pretty harmless.’
‘Procurator Gallio Novius Octobrianus.’
‘He’s done well to make procurator at his age. He survived the occupation too?’
‘Positively flourished. He’d just been appointed deputy procurator when the revolt began. If what I’ve been told is true, he was quick to exploit the situation to his advantage. The Palmyrans compiled a list of troublemakers – those who would not accede to their authority under any circumstances. I’ve heard it said more than once that Octobrianus helped them compile it. One of the first names on the list was that of Docillus: the previous procurator. Octobrianus’s immediate superior.’
‘How convenient.’
‘Quite. Many of the other men on that list didn’t get out in time, and they were either removed from their posts or killed. Docillus was lucky. He left a week before the city was taken. A day or two before me, as I recall.’
Cassius turned to Abascantius.
The agent nodded. ‘I was on the list too. Somewhere close to the top, I imagine.’
Cassius looked back at the villa. Octobrianus had disappeared inside.
‘He may still have connections to the Palmyrans, then?’
‘Possibly.’
‘But how can such a man still be in charge of the city’s finances? I understand the Emperor’s attitude – a fresh start and all that – but if it’s true Octobrianus deserves to hang.’
‘You’ll hear no argument from me. But the key word is if. I’ve heard about him and this list from three different sources; but none of them would speak openly of it, and there’s no other proof. He covered his tracks too well. Another survivor.’
‘Assuming for a moment that he’s still in league with them, who of the Palmyran leadership remains? Zenobia is on her way to Rome and her lackeys were all executed.’
‘True. And I’ve spent a good portion of the last few months dismantling their intelligence operation, but there may be individuals I don’t know about – back in Palmyra or even here.’
‘What would they gain from disrupting the treaty?’
‘They may simply want the flag back; it gives them great power over the Persians as a bargaining tool. And in the long term, an alliance between the great powers on either side of them does little to advance their cause. The ultimate aim? Quite possibly the re-establishment of Palmyran rule. Look, I’d love to see that little shit Octobrianus on the end of a rope, believe me, but there’s nothing definitive on him yet.’ Abascantius shrugged, then gestured to the villa. ‘You must also realise it’s my job to know all their dirty little secrets. One can start to feel rather paranoid – that everyone is hiding something. But these are ambitious people. What was it Aristophanes said? Under every rock lies a politician?’
‘Sir, I apologise if I’m speaking out of turn, but shouldn’t the Emperor just get rid of these men? It seems to me they’re all guilty of collaborati
on.’
Abascantius pointed at him. ‘You are speaking out of turn, Corbulo, but I shall answer that in the interests of opening your eyes to a few political realities. You call them collaborators. But isn’t every Roman who stayed here, to a lesser or greater degree? Should we have them all driven from the city? Don’t forget the Palmyrans held sway here long before they decided to annex the province. People had to make choices; consider their families, their futures. And it’s not as if Zenobia had them raping and pillaging. One might even argue that she wished only to rule the Empire, not to eradicate it. Was she so different to any other usurper?’ Abascantius shifted in the chair. ‘In any case, despite what people may think, the Service doesn’t act solely on rumour and guesswork. We look for proof; and we must investigate every possible alternative.’ He turned back to the window. ‘Ah, there she is.’
‘Who?’
‘Your escort.’
‘My escort? Where?’
‘Wait a moment, here’s number four. Quarto – the magistrate. See him there – the big fellow.’
‘Big’ was an understatement; the magistrate made Abascantius look svelte. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man, with a huge gut that wobbled beneath his tunic as he walked. His cloak was trimmed with silver thread, and he was holding a ceremonial version of the club his sergeants carried.
‘What do you know of him?’ Cassius asked.
‘A crooked thug.’
‘And a suspect?’
‘Again, possible but unlikely. He’s new to the city. Marcellinus appointed him three months ago. No genius, but he’s sly; and a good choice to keep the commoners in order.’
‘But if he’s crooked, surely we can’t ignore him entirely?’
‘He’s crooked in the sense that all magistrates are. Skims what he can from the market taxes, helps his friends get contracts. But he’s served in three different cities without much criticism and he was a legionary for a decade before that.’