by Nick Brown
XXVII
Running through the forest in the middle of the pack, spear heavy in his hand. They reach the edge of the trees, close to the precipice. Below, the river snakes across the valley. The village lies within one of the bends. Smoke drifts up from the houses.
Open ground. The red target is mounted on a tree. He fires all his arrows, collects them then starts again. He stops for a while, sits upon a log and chews through a hunk of bread. A few birds return. He picks up the bow and continues. He fires until his fingers bleed.
The town is noisy. They stop the cart and unload the timber, placing it in neat piles between the dwellings. Next stop is the merchant’s by the well. He watches the girls come and go with their pails. Long hair; slim, graceful bodies. Laughter.
Indavara was surprised to still be dreaming of what he now knew to be the place where he had grown up and worked and lived. Before Abascantius and Corbulo and Simo. Before the arena. Before everything.
Surgeon hadn’t come again and they hadn’t taken blood from him for three days. He’d been convinced that the letting was connected to the dreams, as if somehow the loss of blood released the memories. But still they came. The town – the girls – that was new. He had not seen the house again for some time but each fresh vision amazed him.
Many times in the past few years he had experienced what he believed to be memories only to realise they were imaginings based on what he’d lived through since leaving the arena. But there was something inescapably solid about these dreams. He could almost make out the sounds, the smells of these places. He had no doubt that he had visited them many times, spent much of his early life there. Even so, he still had no idea where they were.
Sitting up in the bed, he was astonished to find himself smiling. More than ever he wanted Simo and Corbulo there – just to tell them. He had even begun to hope that he might actually get out of this alive. He had eaten three meals and his body felt warmer. His skin had coloured a little. Surely every day that Surgeon didn’t come, his chances improved. If the old man did recover, might he be true to his word?
They arrived around the second hour. As soon as he saw their faces, Indavara knew something was wrong. Warty and Narrow Eyes had seemed almost relieved not to have to assist with the bloodletting over the last few days. They had even spoken to him, made a couple of jokes. But not today.
Indavara watched Surgeon walk through the door.
‘No.’
‘Sorry,’ said Slab without even pretending to mean it. ‘He’s taken a turn for the worse.’
‘Might only be temporary,’ said Narrow Eyes, earning himself glares from the others.
‘Let me go.’ Hands bunched into fists, Indavara could feel his entire body shaking. ‘Let me go!’ Before he knew it, tears were pouring down his face. Unable to wipe them away, he could soon see almost nothing.
‘Now, young man, try to stay calm or it will be worse for you.’ Surgeon leaned over him and ran a cloth across his face. ‘You’ve done it before. You can do it again.’
XXVIII
A fierce northerly wind was blowing down the straits, whipping up waves and providing plenty of work for the sailors. Those vessels on the move were doing so at some speed, the crewmen constantly adjusting sails and lines and yards. The mariners on land, meanwhile, had to secure their craft against the pressure of wind and water. Cassius looked on as a procession of small boat owners walked along the wooden pontoon where he was standing to check their vessels.
After the events of the morning and the increasingly tight knots that had formed in his stomach, he hadn’t been able to eat anything and was now waiting for the others to finish lunch. There would be no time for anything later. He had spent his time making enquiries with the locals, dispensing coins when necessary. It had been difficult to discover the precise history of The House of Screams but an elderly fisherman had finally been able to tell him the whole tale.
Cassius closed his eyes, enjoying the refreshing breeze on his face. He could not help reflecting on the irony of his situation. Having disobeyed and rejected Abascantius, he now found himself employing exactly the type of direct, underhand tactics the agent favoured. If his superiors ever found out what he had done, his career would be over. The army would not be interested in the cause of a Syrian nomad; only in the harm done to one of their own by another (while absent without leave). And now it seemed he would have to take on two fellow officers; and whoever else they were associated with.
Simo came out first, carrying a cloak for his master. Cassius refused it but took a long slug of wine.
Kabir arrived slightly ahead of the others. He looked out at the straits for a time before speaking. ‘You are risking much for us.’
‘Let’s put it this way,’ said Cassius. ‘I don’t plan on returning to Byzantium anytime soon.’
‘I am grateful.’
‘I know.’
Another galley sped past: sails full; lines taut.
‘I consulted the signs again yesterday.’ The nomad paused, running his fingers across his forehead. ‘They say that one of the girls is already dead. I do not know which.’
‘And you believe that to be true?’
‘Ever since Katia was taken, the signs have told me the truth. They told me that you would help, that we would have to travel far, and that our enemies would be powerful men.’
‘With respect, those notions are rather vague. I can see no reason why the girls shouldn’t still be alive. But I warn you that they will have been affected by what has happened. You should prepare yourself for that.’
‘And that they might not even be there.’
‘It’s a possibility.’
When the others appeared, Cassius gathered them close. ‘Our enemies are clearly not stupid. The House of Screams is an old villa close to the coast on the southern side of Byzantium. It was built about three decades ago by some rich merchant who bought the land cheaply. It was cheap because local legend holds that when Darius of Persia levelled the city eight hundred years ago, a force of defenders was wiped out on that site. It’s said that the cries of man and beast can be heard and apparitions seen. This merchant paid no attention to the stories but lasted only two years there. Apparently, he and his wife were sent mad. None of the locals will go near the place. All of which makes it an ideal location for The Earthly Gods – that and the fact that there’s only one gate and a very high wall.’
‘You know how to get there?’ asked Kabir.
‘I do. We shall move as close as we can before nightfall, then try to get inside. Even if Barba has a change of heart, we have a decent chance of finding the girls; or at least finding out more. Yablus, you are clearly quite a climber. I suggest the purchase of grappling hooks and a rope ladder. Judging by the look on Simo’s face, he will be glad to hear I have another task for him. We will use our remaining funds to hire a boat for the night and a man who won’t ask too many questions.’
‘A boat?’ said Kammath.
‘If we find the girls, we must leave Byzantium tonight. I also found out a little about the three men named by Barba. The deputy magistrate, Nereus, is known as a heavy drinker and man who makes outrageous demands of those who require his cooperation. No particular surprise there – I could say the same of half those in his position. As for the tribune, Phaedrus, he is young, well connected and thought by some in the city to be rather lazy. He has had numerous affairs and has only been saved from scandal by his contacts. The centurion – Octavius – is the man I believe we must be most concerned by. He is around fifty, a veteran of numerous campaigns against the Persians and the Goths. In his youth he was a champion athlete and – if the locals are to be believed – he is still the best sword-hand in Byzantium, despite the fact that he has only one eye. If at all possible, we shall avoid him.’
Simo had to ask the way several times and eventually found himself on a wide road that led down to the water. He sighed with relief when he spied the pale stone of the curved moles that protected Byzantiu
m’s Great Harbour. According to his master’s instructions, he would have to hire a boat of at least fifteen feet. They would head west, half a mile along the coast to an area known as Philo’s Point. Close by was the small quay where he would wait for Cassius and the Syrians.
Though glad not to be accompanying them, Simo could not remain entirely focused on his task. Thoughts of the harm he had seen his master and the nomads inflict on the men they had caught were never far away. Simo realised that they would do anything in their power to find the girls, but he was disturbed by how easily his master now turned to violence, where previously he would have used almost any other means. Simo could not imagine what would happen now, with the Syrians facing the men who had kept the girls captive. Blood would be spilled, of that much he was sure.
He was worried for Cassius. The young man seemed to have given up some part of himself; as if he had decided the only way to defeat evil-doers was to emulate them. Simo understood the logic of this – and that neither they nor the Syrians had time to waste – but he was alarmed by the speed and scale of the change. Master Cassius had put on his armour and sword alone and in silence. Little of the usual fear could be seen in his eyes; only resolve.
Simo had to be careful with the heavily laden handcart as he descended the slope. Packed upon it were the belongings of his master and the Syrians. He stopped halfway down for a rest and looked out at the expanse of black water. Assuming he could hire someone and get to this place, how long would they have to wait? And how many would come? He shook his head to dispel the notion that if his master did not return, he would be a free man.
He was so ashamed by the thought that he braced the cart against a wall and knelt down. He clasped his hands and begged for the Lord’s forgiveness.
Cassius knew that three broad avenues led in from the western city walls towards Byzantium’s centre and that they had to follow the southernmost. He did not wish to enquire about The House of Screams when close to it, so stopped at a water-seller’s to make enquiries. The man was closing up but was able to give precise directions in return for a denarius. In Cassius’s experience, few tradesmen had better knowledge of urban geography.
But once they turned off the avenue and followed a dark, winding road past luxurious townhouses, they hardly seemed to be in the city at all. Some of the villas had sentries on the gates but the only noise came from the occasional guard dog. Cassius had a story ready but they were questioned by no one.
With all weapons other than their daggers hidden in their bags, he and the four Syrians pressed silently onwards, twice stopping when the meandering road reached a point where they could make out the sea below. The bright moon would help, giving enough light to see their way without exposing them.
At the second stop, Cassius was relieved to find the steep but well-established trail that led down to Philo’s Point. He could see the headland itself but not the quay. He estimated it to be about half a mile away.
They had not gone much further when they spied lights up ahead.
‘Any idea?’ asked Kabir as they approached.
‘There is a temple around here somewhere – remember, the water-seller mentioned it? – but I wouldn’t have expected it to be occupied after dark.’
The road ran along the side of the temple, which was surprisingly large, with broad columns and high steps running around the entire perimeter. Even more surprising were the dozens of blazing torches mounted on slender iron stands. At the front was a group of six priests clad in white robes. Two younger men in capes seemed to be responsible for keeping all the torches alight, which was quite a job. The priests and the helpers were so preoccupied that they didn’t notice the five men pass by.
Cassius observed the figure upon a plinth behind the priests: a naked male with a torch in one hand. Rendered in pale marble, it was twice the size of the men below.
‘Apollo.’
‘A god of hunting,’ said Kabir.
‘And of light – in some areas of Greece. I believe there is an annual occasion on which they honour him and his dwelling place for ten days and nights – hence the torches.’
Beyond the temple, the state of the road worsened notably. The paving stones were so loose and unsteady that it would have been impossible for a cart and unpleasant for a mount.
‘Can it really be here?’ asked Yablus. ‘These rich men?’
‘If they want privacy, yes,’ said Cassius. ‘One can leave the avenue and get this far without being spotted at all.’
He reckoned that the fourth hour of night was close. Not wanting to run into anyone visiting The House of Screams, he had purposefully left it late.
‘The water-seller seemed to think it was no more than a mile past the temple. We will stay quiet and advance slowly.’
It seemed that the man who had built the villa on cheap ground had put the money saved into the walls. They were more suited to a fortification than a residence and were at least fifteen feet high. The gate was a similarly monstrous affair set into an arch.
Twenty yards from it, crouching with the others to the right of the road, Cassius looked for any sign of life.
‘This can’t be the right place,’ said Kammath. ‘There aren’t even any guards.’
‘Not that you can see,’ replied Cassius. ‘Idan – the trees run up almost to the wall. Can you get close – listen for me?’
Without a word, the veteran rose and padded away into the gloom.
‘What next?’ asked Kabir.
‘Let’s see what Idan finds out but if we go over, the hooks will make quite a noise on the stone. We’ll have to move a good distance away.’
While they waited, Cassius looked up at the swaying branches above. The forest was mostly oak; ancient trees with wide trunks and thick, sprawling limbs. In many places, the lower branches reached almost to the ground. As cover, they were excellent and – judging by the view over the wall – also surrounded the villa.
At a suggestion from Kabir, they took out their weapons. While the Syrians equipped themselves with long knives and slings, Cassius hung his sword belt from his right shoulder. He was wearing his mail shirt and cloak; the nomads their black outfits.
He only spotted Idan when the warrior was a few feet away.
‘You’re right. They’re there but some distance back from the gate. I heard them talking, saw the glow from a shuttered lantern.’
‘Could you see anything of the house?’
‘Nothing.’
‘By the gods, no wonder they’ve been able to keep this place quiet for so long.’
‘To the north or south?’ asked Kabir.
‘South,’ said Cassius, reasoning that they were less liable to run into anyone in the seaward direction. With Idan in the lead, they hunched low and crossed the road well back from the gate, then cut through the forest, following the circular wall. Other than the low-hanging branches, the chief danger was the acorns that littered the ground: they popped loudly when crushed underfoot. The first time this happened, Idan veered further away from the wall.
Once they were at least a quarter-mile from the gate, Cassius was no longer concerned about being heard. The wind blowing in from the sea was growing stronger and he had been struck several times by falling twigs and leaves. The surges of noise from the swaying branches undulated like waves upon a beach and the timbers emitted low, forbidding groans.
Each of the two sturdy grappling hooks was attached to thirty feet of rope. Idan and Kammath took charge but it was the young man who got the first solid hold. He and the veteran both tested it before agreeing it was safe to climb.
Cassius stood out of the way with Kabir. Since reaching the wall, the chief had said nothing. Cassius thought of the premonition from ‘the signs’ – had Kabir shared them with his compatriots?
Though determined to focus on the here and now, he was also preoccupied by two thoughts of his own. The first was that this was an inordinate and perilous waste of time if the girls weren’t here. The second was that �
� again – he had been forced to move far faster than he would have liked. He felt that they had been lucky so far, despite some reckless, careless tactics. That luck would run out sooner or later.
Yablus of course went up first, with a rope ladder over his shoulder. Once into a rhythm, he ascended with impressive speed. Cassius looked on as the black shape climbed on to the top of the wall. He could not have cared less about the talk of apparitions and ghostly cries but wondered if the superstitious Indavara would even have gone anywhere near the House of Screams. He was glad that the Syrians devotion to their deity precluded them from being concerned with any such matter unconnected to ‘The Glorious Fire’.
The rope ladder – which was equipped with hooks at both ends – was lowered a moment later. Kabir went up first, then his son, then it was Cassius’s turn. Though the wind tugged at his hair and his cloak, the climb was simple enough. They left the ladder in place and descended using the second one.
By the time Idan was down, Yablus had already scouted out the immediate area and concluded that there were no guards close by. Kabir was bent over, suffering from another attack of dizziness, but soon recovered himself. Cassius could see no trace whatsoever of buildings, paths or any other development. It was as if they had simply crossed a wall built in the middle of nowhere.
Before they set off, Cassius ensured his pack was secure. Inside was some watered wine, a little food, a candle and Simo’s fire-starting gear. It had taken him some time to decide not to bring his letters. If he was badly wounded or killed and they fell into the wrong hands, the truth of his actions would become known. The information might reach Abascantius and – ultimately – his family. On the other hand, his connection to Marcellinus might just give him some protection. But Cassius did not think he would be killed or caught – not with the determined, capable Syrians alongside him. If he was fortunate, no one would ever know what he had done in this city in the name of his friends.