Agent of Rome: The Far Shore Page 6

The labourer came closer. ‘Sir, Astrah mentioned something even stranger. He said Master Memor was in full uniform – helmet, crest, everything.’

  ‘What?’ said Trogus.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said another of the servants. ‘Master’s metal is all with me. I cleaned and oiled it yesterday. It’s still in my cupboard.’

  ‘By the gods, it was him,’ said Cassius. ‘The old priest thought it was Memor but it was him.’ He pointed at Cimber, the man who’d spoken earlier. ‘The hooded stranger he saw yesterday. That’s what he was carrying in the sack; that’s why he had those boots on; and that’s why Ligur let him in. The bastard was dressed as a centurion.’

  Two hours after sunset, they arrived back at the way station. Following the sea wall across the harbour, they heard the songs and laughter of merry sailors. The choppy water bumped the vessels tied to the quay and the wind rattled rigging and rope. Unfortunately, the onshore breeze wasn’t quite strong enough to do away with the odour of rotting fish.

  Cassius and Indavara led the horses along a narrow alley and into the small courtyard between the way station and the stables. A bleary-eyed Optio Clemens appeared from the rear door, holding a lantern. Cassius told him he needed to speak with him at once. While the optio summoned the legionary to deal with the horses, Cassius and Indavara went in to the little parlour.

  Simo had a pan of warm wine ready. He greeted the returning pair and poured each of them a generous measure.

  ‘Nice stuff, this, sir. A local concoction – I believe there’s myrrh in it.’

  Cassius took a long sip.

  Simo examined his face. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘No, Simo, I’m not. I trust my bed’s ready?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Prepare my writing materials. Best ink and paper.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Simo hurried away.

  ‘Need me?’ asked Indavara.

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  The bodyguard took his wine with him.

  ‘Well, sir?’ asked Clemens as he returned to the parlour.

  Cassius gestured to the bench in front of the hearth. They sat down and he described what had occurred in Amyndios. Clemens looked aghast when he heard the grisly details and seemed stunned that such a thing could occur on the island.

  Cassius instructed him to send a message to the magistrate, enquiring about what action he had taken so far and suggesting that he prevent any seagoing ships from leaving the port. Clemens was also to gather every available soldier and bring them to the way station. As was his right, Cassius intended to requisition the troops for as long as he needed them. All this was to be carried out within the first hour of the day.

  ‘How many legionaries will you be able to get?’ Cassius asked.

  ‘Only my century – the Fifth – is permanently stationed in the city, sir. The barracks are close to the citadel but most of them are away rebuilding a bridge down in Camiros. Perhaps a dozen or so.’

  ‘And the magistrate? How many sergeants does he have?’

  ‘Quite a few, but I wouldn’t rely on too much cooperation from that quarter.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The magistrate is elected by the people; a sop to the Rhodian Assembly. His name is Nariad. Well connected but rather ineffectual, and he’s not known for considering demands from the army a priority.’

  ‘We’re talking about the murder of the Service’s second in command. He is bound by imperial law to assist me.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir. It’s just that the locals think a little differently here. They’re very fond of reminding us that Rhodes was a naval power before we knew one end of a ship from the other. I’ve had half a dozen different postings in my time and, believe me, it’s not your typical province.’

  ‘Well, as long as I can depend on you and your men. I shall give detailed instructions in the morning.’

  ‘Sir.’ Clemens laid his hands across his ample gut and stared into the burning coals of the fire. ‘Beheaded. By Mars.’

  ‘You’ve not heard of any disputes involving Memor?’

  ‘Not one. As I said, we hardly ever saw him unless he was leaving or returning. He used to send one of his men to collect the post. He always seemed a decent enough sort to me.’

  ‘Even for a “grain man”?’

  Clemens glanced anxiously at his superior.

  Cassius continued: ‘How were relations between Memor and the other officers here?’

  ‘I don’t know if Master Memor ever even visited the barracks. He certainly didn’t advertise his presence. I think he said to me once that’s why he liked it here – he was left alone to get on with his job.’

  ‘Yes. I think he’d come to feel very safe here. Too safe, in fact.’

  Cassius stood up, took a last swig of wine and left the mug on the table. ‘Get some sleep, Clemens. I want you up before the sun.’

  He walked out of the parlour and turned left. There were four small bedrooms in the way station. Indavara was sleeping in the one closest to the parlour, Cassius and Simo in the second. There was only one bed, so – not for the first time – Simo would have to make do with a pile of blankets on the floor.

  The Gaul was sitting on the bed with a wooden writing board on his lap, mixing some ink. Beside him were two sheets of paper and Cassius’s best silver pen – a gift from his father for his sixteenth birthday. Cassius undid the clasp that held his cloak together, took it off and threw it on to a chair – the only other piece of furniture in the room. To this he added his sword belt, then his main belt.

  He slumped down next to Simo. Stretching out his legs he tried to lie back on the bed but it was too narrow to get comfortable. Simo placed a pillow under his master’s head.

  ‘Indavara told me what happened, sir. That poor family. It’s beyond belief.’

  ‘Quite horrible. But applying a little cold logic to the situation, the event itself is actually not that incredible. Can you imagine the number of people someone in Memor’s position might have accused, imprisoned, exiled or had killed over the years?’

  The Gaul looked shocked.

  ‘Come on, Simo. I think you’ve heard enough from me to know that the Service rarely attracts the most wholesome of characters. No, what’s beyond belief is that I should arrive here on Rhodes the day after the murder is committed, thereby ensuring I have to deal with the whole ghastly mess.’

  Cassius blew out his cheeks and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘Perhaps this letter can wait until morning, sir.’

  ‘Letters, actually. No. I shall be busy enough tomorrow. In any case, they’re both finished.’ Cassius tapped his head. ‘I did them on the way back. Only about two hundred words each. We shall be done in an hour.’

  ‘I take it you’d like me to write, then, sir.’

  ‘Your handwriting’s better than mine anyway. Ready?’

  Simo tested the nib on the writing block. A spot of ink came out. He placed the first of the sheets on the block and raised the pen.

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  IV

  Less than an hour after dawn, the Great Harbour was alive with activity. Fishing boats cast off from the quay, stores opened their doors and the locals converged on another freighter that had arrived late the previous evening. Several hours of rain during the night had left puddles on the streets and a clammy cold in the air.

  Cassius jumped up on to the sea wall. He looked to the north, towards the Little Harbour, and saw the masts of at least twenty seagoing vessels. Simo was over there somewhere, trying to find ships heading in the right direction. It was unlikely the letters to Abascantius and Chief Pulcher would follow a direct route but – for a fee – a willing captain would deliver them to an army way station and the imperial post would do the rest. Simo had already tried the Great Harbour but of the dozen ships there, eight were now ensconced for the winter, two were undergoing repairs and two were heading in the wrong direction.

  Cassius glanced up at the
tightly packed buildings on the terraced hillside below the citadel. Clemens was up there somewhere, fetching men from the barracks, and Cassius was impatiently awaiting his return. The optio had sent the message to the magistrate’s office but there was still no reply.

  Dropping to the ground, Cassius picked his way through a group of women cleaning up the remnants of yesterday’s market – mostly stinking fish remains and clumps of straw. He found Indavara in the way-station parlour, tearing a corner off a loaf. The still unseen maid had left out some breakfast on the table.

  ‘Morning,’ said the bodyguard.

  ‘Unlikely to be a good one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’re off round the ships, then?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Cassius half filled a mug with wine then topped it up with water.

  ‘You said there won’t be many on the move this time of year,’ added Indavara. ‘Shouldn’t be that hard.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not just the big ships. There are these coasters that make runs to the nearby islands or the mainland – it’s only fifty miles or so to Lycia or Asia Minor. Then there are the other ports on the island – Lindos, for example.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But there should be a harbour master around who can help us find out which ships have left and which are about to leave. Hopefully, Simo’s already tracked him down.’

  Cassius took a dried fig from a plate.

  ‘Sir!’

  He looked along the corridor to see Clemens waving at him from the road. Behind him were some legionaries.

  ‘Bring them round to the courtyard!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cassius ate the fig and washed it down with wine. ‘Bring those, would you?’

  Indavara picked up a pile of small squares of paper from the table. Cassius pulled on his helmet, then checked his belt and straightened his cloak. He motioned for Indavara to go outside first, then stationed himself on the parlour doorstep while the legionaries filed into the courtyard. With a few swift orders, Clemens got the men into line.

  Cassius stood with his feet well apart, hands on his belt, his chin high; the stance he always used when addressing troops. He counted eleven of them. There was no need for helmets or armour but their other equipment seemed in good repair; always an encouraging sign. There was no long hair, no bushy beards, and no evidence of drunkenness.

  ‘Good morning, men. I am Officer Cassius Quintius Corbulo, Imperial Security.’

  To their credit, not one of the legionaries’ faces betrayed what Cassius imagined would be a colourful array of mental retorts.

  ‘You know now of the death of Master Augustus Marius Memor. This murder was carried out the night before last, and I believe the assassin left – or will be intending to leave – Rhodes as soon as possible. We must find out whatever we can about this man. We have at least established the following: he is probably left-handed, probably short, and he was seen wearing a hooded cloak and good-quality boots. He was also carrying a sack, and inside was what he used to disguise himself and carry out the killing – a centurion’s outfit. It’s likely he is a stranger here and that he arrived recently. You men know the city – you must scour the harbour, the inns, the taverns, the stores. Talk to captains, sailors, innkeepers – anyone and everyone. The main details of his appearance are written here, so there’s no excuse for forgetting them.’

  While Indavara handed out the scraps of paper, some of the less subtle legionaries inspected his disfigured ear.

  ‘Remember,’ said Cassius. ‘Short, left-handed, hooded cloak, fine leather boots, carrying a sack. Can everyone read?’

  ‘Not me, sir,’ volunteered one of the men. ‘But I can remember it well enough,’ he added, before repeating the description verbatim.

  ‘Excellent.’

  Though cooperative, the men didn’t seem particularly enamoured with their task, not that soldiers ever did, unless women, drink or treasure were involved.

  ‘An additional incentive for you,’ Cassius announced, ‘courtesy of Imperial Security. Ten denarii to any man who gives me information I can use. And tell the people on the streets they’ll get half as much for the same. If this man’s still here I want him found, and I want him found today. Clemens will divide you up and tell you which areas you are to cover. We shall reconvene later. Any questions? No? On your way then.’

  The legionaries followed Clemens out of the courtyard, rather too slowly for Cassius’s liking. He clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s get to it then! A little more urgency, gentlemen!’

  Clemens led the way with a trot, which the soldiers reluctantly matched.

  ‘We should be off too,’ Cassius told Indavara as they hurried back to their rooms. ‘See how Simo’s getting on.’

  While Indavara went to fetch his weapons, Cassius grabbed the leather satchel Abascantius had given him in Syria. It was very well made (deer-hide according to Simo) and ideal for carrying papers and other essentials. Cassius insisted that Simo always kept a few key items inside: some paper and charcoal for making notes, a small fire-starting kit, a couple of candles and a miniature sundial. He’d also had the Gaul stitch in a secret pocket that contained five gold aurei, commenting, ‘You never know when you might need a good bribe.’ The satchel was also just about big enough to accommodate the spearhead, though the tip stuck out of one end. Cassius placed it inside and slung the satchel over his shoulder.

  He sighed. One of the worst things about army life was constantly being weighed down with equipment, as if the helmet and sword belt weren’t uncomfortable enough. Riding helped ease the load but was impractical for the day ahead. Cassius sighed again. Thoughts of temples and libraries and works of art were but a distant memory now.

  They met Simo a hundred yards up the road. Despite the stiff breeze, the Gaul was sweating, carrying his cloak in one hand as he hurried along the sea wall.

  ‘Well?’ asked Cassius, handing over the satchel.

  ‘Apologies, sir, I was unable to find a suitable ship there either. Most of them are staying in port too.’

  ‘Wonderful. What about the harbour master?’

  ‘I did find his office, sir, but there was only a clerk there. Apparently, because things are very quiet at this time of year, the harbour master takes every fourth day off. This is one of them. I found him at a tavern called The Anchor, but he refused to speak to me. Sir, I am sorry.’

  ‘He’ll be the sorry one. Take me to this tavern at once.’

  The trio walked on along the wall and it soon became obvious that the names of the harbours were even more misleading than they first appeared. The Little Harbour was indeed about the same size as the Great Harbour – and also enclosed by long breakwaters running out to the west and north – but it was far busier and more developed. Almost every space on the high concrete wharves was occupied by large vessels of a hundred feet or more. Squeezed in between them were smaller skiffs and tenders, often tied up two or three abreast.

  They left the road and cut across one of the wharves, between a stack of barrels and a massive wooden wheel. Next to it were a pile of long timbers, coiled lengths of thick rope and four huge pulleys.

  ‘What’s that thing?’ asked Indavara.

  ‘A crane,’ said Cassius. ‘The wheel is mounted on a stand and connected to a rope that runs up an arm and down to the load. Slaves stand inside the wheel and walk; the wheel turns and the crane lifts the load. Quite ingenious.’

  ‘Just like mice in a cage,’ said Indavara, more to Simo than to Cassius.

  ‘I can think of worse jobs,’ said Cassius. ‘On days like this I’d be quite happy to do nothing but walk.’

  Indavara snorted. ‘Oh yes, it’s so easy – the life of a slave.’

  ‘I don’t say it’s easy, but in some ways it’s easier. Less responsibility, for one.’

  Indavara shook his head. ‘What do you reckon, Simo?’

  Simo glanced warily at Cassius, who shrugged.

  ‘Answer if you wish.’

  ‘Whatever
one’s station in life, one will have problems, I suppose,’ Simo said eventually. ‘The Lord Jesus taught us that we should think first of others, those in suffering, the poor—’

  ‘Well done, Indavara,’ said Cassius, ‘you’ve got him started now.’

  The bodyguard moved closer to Simo. ‘You Christians believe that everyone is equal, yes?’

  ‘We believe God values us all equally, and that we will all face the final judgement if we wish to reach the kingdom.’

  Indavara jabbed a finger at Cassius. ‘But how can you be equal if you belong to him?’

  ‘One’s station in life is not as important as how one conducts oneself,’ Simo explained.

  ‘What?’

  Cassius held up a hand. ‘Indavara, not now. We have enough to occupy us today. Leave the religion and philosophy for another occasion – you’ll give yourself a headache.’

  They passed several moored ships – including a flat-hulled dredging barge – and reached the far side of the Little Harbour. Most of the buildings were high, red-brick warehouses, but clustered around a crossroads were some low structures more like the houses that faced the Great Harbour. The road that ran along the north side of the port continued into the heart of the city, then up, zigzagging across the terraced slopes before reaching the citadel.

  ‘That’s the harbour master’s office, sir,’ said Simo, pointing to what looked like a storefront. ‘Two doors down is the tavern.’

  They negotiated a long queue outside a money changer’s, waited for a well-laden cart to rumble past, then crossed the road to the tavern. Were it not for the people outside, Cassius would have assumed The Anchor was closed. Several of the windows were boarded up and the roof had a quarter of its tiles missing. A painted sign had been stripped of all colour by the elements, though there was a rusty iron anchor by the door. Of the two tables outside, one was in fact a converted half of a rowing boat. Sitting inside were three lads throwing pebbles at a gull. The other table was occupied by four men playing some kind of board game. They were a rough-looking bunch: bearded, grizzled and tanned.

  ‘Which one’s the harbour master?’ Cassius asked Simo.