by Nick Brown
‘Come on.’
They passed through the open doorway into the hot room. Back home there would usually have been an adjoining exercise area, but Cassius knew from his time in Cyzicus that the eastern provincials did things their own way. He wasn’t overly concerned, having never particularly embraced the habit of exercising before a bath anyway. He did, however, hope the cold pool was big enough for a good swim.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, enjoying the soothing heat rising up from the floor and out from the hollow walls. Dead ahead was a high, round basin full of steaming water. From here, the chamber led to their left, down a set of wide steps to the hot pool. Sitting on the steps was a slight, middle-aged fellow missing both legs below the knee. His slave, a powerfully built young man with the colouring of an Egyptian, sat beside him.
As Cassius made his way past them down into the water, another man came into the chamber. He had a wild head of hair and was clad in the roughly cut tunic of a slave. The invalid called to him but he disappeared towards the cold room.
‘Useless. Bloody useless.’
Cassius acknowledged this with a brief nod, then lowered himself into the water up to his neck. He didn’t want to get involved in a conversation but couldn’t resist the pool. He closed his eyes as the heat enveloped him, then dunked his head under. As he re-emerged and ran his hands through his hair, the man was already talking.
‘. . . thirteen functioning bathhouses in Antioch. The eight best are on the island and of the remaining five, only one is worse than this place. I use it because it’s close.’ The man nodded down at the stumps of his legs. ‘I have to consider these things now.’
As there seemed little chance of avoiding talking to him, Cassius replied.
‘It happened recently?’
‘Last year. I was out at Daphne. A snake startled my horse, we fell into a ditch and the damned thing landed on top of me. They both had to come off. At least I have my wealth. A poor man couldn’t afford a slave to carry him around all day.’ He offered his hand. Cassius swam around his big attendant and shook it.
‘Titus Plotius Otho.’
‘Cassius Oranius Crispian. Are you a local man, Otho?’
‘Well, I came here as a youth but that was nigh on forty years ago now, so yes, I suppose I qualify.’
Indavara was still back at the basin, washing his face. Cassius splashed water on to his shoulders. He decided the conversation need not be a complete waste of time.
‘So you know a little of city society?’
‘Not as much as I used to,’ Otho said sadly. ‘But yes, a bit.’
‘This may seem rather forward, but I am in need of advice. I’m new here. It would be useful to hear the view of a longtime resident. A rather sensitive matter.’
‘Speak, friend.’ Otho nodded at the slave, who was gazing thoughtfully down at the water. ‘My lad knows not to repeat a word of what he hears.’
‘I am in the army, attached to the governor’s staff. It’s been communicated to me – via several sources – that if I wish to advance myself while here in Antioch, it would be to my advantage to join one of the local Mithran sects.’
‘Indeed? Well, these sources might be right. Do you object to such a prospect?’
‘Not at all. It has always seemed to me to be a most worthy religion.’
‘You are pledged to other gods, then?’
‘No, it’s not that either. It’s just that this particular sect seem very secretive. They almost seem to enjoy creating an air of mystery around themselves.’
Otho nodded gently, then glanced at Indavara, who had just sat down on the far side of the steps, with only his feet in the water. ‘This fellow is trustworthy too?’
‘Absolutely.’
Otho glanced over his shoulder to check they were still alone. ‘You are talking about the Sons of Antioch.’
Cassius nodded. ‘Do you think it would be worth joining?’
‘Oh, I should say so. From what I’ve heard, the ceremonies get shorter every year, and the trade talk gets longer. Perhaps that’s what comes of pretending to be no more than a guild – a self-fulfilling prophesy. There’s certainly no shortage of esteemed members. You know who their leader is?’
‘I do.’
‘Not a young man.’ Otho smiled. ‘When he steps down, they may do away with the religious stuff entirely.’
‘He is – for want of a better expression – a true believer then?’
‘From what I’ve heard, yes. It may be that he has enjoyed the benefits of such an organisation over the years, but I think he was the founder, or at least one of them.’
Cassius nodded. ‘Interesting. You never considered it?’
‘No. My mother was a Jew – she would never have forgiven me. And frankly, I’m not sure I would have got through the initiation. But you must make up your own mind, young man. Did I help at all?’
‘Indeed. Thank you.’
In fact, Otho’s information had done little to clarify things. The general was thought to be truly devout, yet the Sons of Antioch had become more like a guild under his leadership. Had someone exploited their contacts within the organisation to carry out the theft? Ulpian himself? Quarto? Both of them? Someone else? And was the fact that these men associated in this way even significant? Abascantius clearly didn’t think so.
Cassius was occupied by these questions while he exchanged small talk with Otho. As they spoke, he began a leisurely breast stroke that took him in circles around the pool. The old man came into the hot room and joined them. Otho knew him and introduced to him to Cassius: Tiburs was his name, and the two Antiochenes soon launched into a long-winded conversation about the respective merits of the city’s chariot-racing teams.
Despite Cassius’s entreaties, Indavara refused to put anything above knee height in the pool. Cassius could never understand people who didn’t like the water, but he knew it was common among the lower classes. He left the pool and went to stand in the middle of the room, directly over the furnace; he wanted to build up a good sweat before finishing off in the cold room.
When Tiburs announced he was moving on to the last chamber, Cassius and Indavara joined him. Otho said he’d be along presently. Just as they left, a powerfully built, square-jawed man with a head of thinning black hair strode in. With a cursory glance at the others, he went to the basin.
Cassius cursed Simo for forgetting to pack his sandals. His feet – wet with water and sweat – slipped on the stone floor as he walked through a short passageway into the cold room. They had come around in a circle, or rather a square, and to their left was the door leading to the dressing room.
The cold room was three times larger than the other chambers, and far more impressive. Octagonal in shape, it was well lit by four glassed windows in the high roof. The far wall was lined with wooden shutters to help regulate the temperature and today these were open. Outside was a dense line of trees.
The circular pool dominated the space: it was twenty feet wide, with steps all the way around. The water was slightly cloudy, but considering the season, Cassius was just relieved there was enough to fill it.
Tiburs hesitantly negotiated the steps.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Indavara.
‘You’re always hungry. We’re too early for the vendors.’
‘It’s cold.’
‘Any more complaints, Grandma? It’s supposed to be cold. If it wasn’t, then one couldn’t do this.’
Cassius took two steps forward and dived into the pool. He felt himself smile as the icy shock lit up his skin. He stayed under and a few long strokes propelled him to the other side. He surfaced, pushed off the cool stone and paddled around in the centre. The sides of the pool sloped steeply; he couldn’t touch the bottom.
Indavara sat down on the highest step. He dipped his toe into the water, then swiftly removed it. Cassius grinned, and began swimming back and forth across the pool. Though he could barely get up to a good speed before having to turn around, he felt calmer
than he had in days. The last few weeks aside, he generally enjoyed riding (running too, in the right circumstances) but swimming was his preferred form of exercise. It always seemed to clear his mind; and he hoped he might gain some some fresh insight on the investigation.
After ten swift widths, he stopped and noted two new arrivals in the room. The square-jawed man was just stepping down into the pool and the wild-haired slave had returned too; he was standing by the door to the dressing room, hands behind his back.
Tiburs, standing waist-deep on one of the steps, yelled at him. ‘Hey! Master Otho called out to you and you ignored him. Get in there and see if he requires some assistance.’
The slave hurried into the hot room.
Square Jaw dived gracefully into the water.
‘You know him?’ Cassius asked Tiburs while the stranger was still under water.
‘Never seen him before. Strapping fellow.’
‘Indeed.’
Indavara stood up. ‘I’m going to get changed.’
Cassius gestured for him to wait a moment. He lowered his voice. ‘Just keep me in sight. Understand?’
Indavara nodded and walked away towards the dressing room. Now Tiburs climbed up out of the pool.
‘A pleasure, sir. Enjoy the rest of your swim.’
‘You’re leaving already?’
‘I can’t take too much cold at my age. Good-day to you.’
‘Good-day.’
Cassius looked over the lip of the pool at the dressing room. Indavara was standing in the doorway, drying his hair with a towel. Cassius turned round. Square Jaw was powering smoothly around the pool. The wild-haired slave reappeared. He had a net in his hands and started fishing out the leaves that had blown into the pool from the trees outside.
Cassius leaned back against the steps and stared down into the water. He tried to gather his thoughts but found he still couldn’t concentrate. Square Jaw had stopped opposite him. He flexed his shoulders, then pushed off and glided across the pool, his dark eyes just above the water, fixed on Cassius.
Cassius raised one foot on to a higher step, ready to move if he had to.
With a flick of his feet, Square Jaw altered direction. He waited until his fingers struck the edge of the pool, then climbed up the steps.
‘Good-day,’ he said cordially.
‘Good-day,’ Cassius replied, watching him walk away. Indavara was still at the doorway. Cassius shook his head. He was letting his imagination run riot; he needed to keep swimming.
Circling the pool, he concentrated on keeping his movements fluid, his breathing even. The slave was now reaching one-handed with the net to retrieve the leaves in the middle of the pool but he made sure he kept out of the way.
Cassius decided he would complete ten circuits; and with that established he went over the events that had occurred since their arrival in Antioch, starting with that busy first day. He was so busy recalling every incident that he barely noticed the net until he almost swam into it. He slowed, then stopped, treading water.
The slave just stood there at the edge of the pool. He was a strange-looking man; as well as the straggly thatch of hair, he had a heavily lined face that didn’t fit with his athletic frame. And now he was smiling. Cassius was about to ask him what in Hades was so funny when his gaze dropped to the pole. The right hand gripping it was missing a thumb and two fingers.
Before Cassius could shout or move, the man flicked the net over his head. He was dragged forward, then momentarily driven under the water. When he surfaced, Two Fingers pulled in the loose material of the net and twisted the pole, tightening the rough ropes of the net around Cassius’s face and neck. Then he drove the pole down again.
Cassius tried to grab a breath, but he took in more water than air as his head was forced under. Flailing at the pole, he shut his mouth and scrabbled desperately with his feet. His toes scraped against the bottom of the pool. He kicked out and managed to break the surface for long enough to snatch another breath. Two Fingers pushed him under again.
Where is Indavara?
Cassius finally got hold of the pole, but his foe was keeping him out in the middle, and without purchase for his feet he could bring no force to bear. He thrashed his legs, trying to move back and pull the man off balance. Through the foaming water he saw Two Fingers come down another step. His arms were taut with the strain, his face set in a pitiless grimace.
Cassius clawed at the rope itself, trying to free his neck.
Where is Indavara?
Two Fingers shook the pole. Cassius didn’t know if he was trying to throttle him or force his mouth open. He clamped his mouth tighter and bit into his lip. Tasting blood, he tried to touch the bottom again but if anything he was further out now.
He was just floating. Struggling. Dying.
Indavara!
The assassin came down another step; pushed Cassius further out, further under. He shook the pole again. The rope was crushing Cassius’s nose and snagging on his bottom lip. Icy water rushed into his mouth. He tried not to swallow but his entire body was being wrenched from side to side. The water was bitter in his throat. Suddenly he had to get it out. Though he was a foot below the surface, and he knew what it meant, all he could think of was getting it out.
Don’t open your mouth! Don’t open your mouth!
He stopped thrashing around. The shimmering light from the windows above the pool had merged into a single yellow glow. It looked warm. Inviting.
Indavara – who had taken only moments to change into his tunic and pull on his belt – returned to the doorway just as Otho’s Egyptian slave slammed into the wild-haired man holding the net. He dropped the pole and was knocked flying, landing a full ten feet away before sliding across the floor and into one of the shutters.
The Egyptian was all set to chase after him when his master – lying prostrate on the floor – yelled at him and pointed at the pool.
The wild-haired man struggled to his feet, then stumbled away – through the open shutters and between two trees.
Indavara ran across the cold room as the Egyptian splashed down the steps and into the pool.
Darkness faded from Cassius’s eyes, and he found himself staring at square, red tiles. Sharp pain surged through his chest as he coughed up what felt like a barrel full of water. The ropes of the net were pulled from his face. Two strong hands gripped him under the arms and hauled him out of the water. His chest burned again as he was lowered face down on to the steps.
‘Hit him. Hit his back!’ shouted a voice. One of the hands struck him. More pain. But not from the hand; from the water that continued to pour out of him. It felt like his entire throat and chest had been cut with glass.
Finally he looked up; and saw Otho lying at the side of the pool. Behind him - standing still and staring open-mouthed at Cassius - was Indavara.
XXVIII
Cassius awoke. He was lying in his bed at the villa, propped up on two pillows, covered by a single sheet. The room was empty, the villa quiet. He gazed at the opposite wall, determined to stay awake and dispel the images that had forced themselves upon him as he lay there, slipping in and out of consciousness.
The grim face of the two-fingered man as he went about his deadly work.
Water bubbling around him, pouring into him.
The tempting light above.
The moments. That’s how Cassius thought of them.
These were the new ones; the ones he was condemned to relive and live with. There were others, and he knew they would never truly be gone, though these days they returned with less frequency.
A lone legionary hacked to pieces by a dark warrior in a purple cloak. That same warrior marching towards Cassius, cloak billowing behind him as he raised his sword . . .
Stay awake!
Cassius sat up. He coughed, and felt a stab of pain in his throat. He touched his neck, and the bandage wrapped around it. He remembered Simo putting it on just after he had fallen through the door and into the Gaul’s arms
.
It had taken quite some time to recover himself at the baths. He had thanked Otho, refused his offer to send for the city sergeants, then returned to the dressing room. Indavara had trailed after him, apologising again and again for his error. Cassius had ignored him as he’d hurried back to the villa, coughing and retching every step of the way.
‘How are you feeling now, sir?’ asked Simo as he walked in.
‘Are the doors all locked? Did you check outside?’
‘Indavara is out there, sir.’
Cassius snorted dismissively.
Simo continued: ‘He asked me to tell him when you woke up, sir. He—’
‘Simo, I told you already. I don’t want to see him. Keep him away. What about Abascantius?’
‘No reply yet, sir.’
‘How long’s it been since I got back?’
‘About four hours, sir.’
‘He obviously has more pressing matters to attend to.’
Simo checked the bandage. ‘Is this too tight, sir?’
‘It’s fine. How bad?’
‘The skin was still tender from what happened at Palmyra and there’s a couple of nasty cuts, but nothing too serious.’
Simo sat on the side of the bed, and put his hand on Cassius’s arm.
‘You’ve had a terrible shock though.’
‘The latest in an increasingly long line.’ Cassius felt tears forming in his eyes. He coughed again and pulled his arm away.
‘A drink perhaps, sir,’ suggested Simo. ‘Water?’
Cassius glared at him.
‘Ah. Sorry, sir.’
‘Do we have any milk? It might be easier on my throat.’
‘We do, sir. I shall fetch it at once.’
Simo rose and headed for the door. He stopped when Cassius called out to him.
‘Wait. Pass me my figurines. They’re in that little hardwood box.’ Cassius nodded at the shelf where Simo had placed his belongings. The Gaul gave him the box then went for the milk. Cassius opened the lid and pulled it closer so he could look at the twelve tiny models mounted on two racks inside. Each represented one of the Olympians, the great gods: Jupiter, Juno, Mars, Venus, Apollo, Diane, Ceres, Vesta, Mercury, Neptune, Minerva and Vulcan. Dust had somehow got inside the box. Cassius brushed it off the faces.