‘My family are from Ctesiphon; we are spice merchants. Being the youngest of five sons there was no place for me in the business so I was sent to pay my family’s feudal dues and serve in the army of our Great King. And here I am and shall remain. My family did a great deal of trade with the Jews of Alexandria; I would have thought that they still do.’ Ataphanes paused to catch his breath; his chest heaved irregularly. ‘There was one Jewish family in particular — they had received Roman citizenship two generations before from Julius Caesar, the man’s name was Gaius Julius Alexander. He would know where to send the money.’
Ataphanes’ breathing became increasingly sporadic.
Titus looked down at him, concern in his eyes. ‘No one of our class is allowed into Egypt without permission from the Emperor himself. How can we trace that family without going there?’
Ataphanes opened his eyes with a huge effort and whispered: ‘Write to the alabarch, he’ll know. Farewell, masters.’
He was gone. Artebudz stepped forward and closed his staring eyes.
They stood a moment in silence.
‘Get the box, Sabinus,’ Titus said after a while. ‘I’ll have Pallo get some men to deal with the body; we’ve got our other dead to cremate, the pyres are ready.’
Titus walked out, leaving the brothers looking at each other.
‘What’s an alabarch?’ Sabinus asked.
‘Fuck knows. We’ll worry about that later. Come on, get the box and then we’ll talk with Secundus after the funerals.’
Sabinus bent down and felt around under the bed. He pulled out a plain wooden box, one foot cubed; there was no lock on it, just a catch. He opened the lid. The brothers gasped; it was a quarter full of not just gold coins but also nuggets and jewellery.
‘How did he get all this?’ Sabinus asked, picking up a handful and letting it drop.
‘He saved everything your father ever gave him for his work,’ Chloe said. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Once a year he would go to Reate and buy gold.’
‘But that’s more than ten years’ worth, surely?’ Vespasian exclaimed. ‘Father’s not that generous.’
‘Baseos always gave him most of his money. He said he had no need of it; he had everything that he needed here and if he ever did go back to his home what good would so much money do him in the grasslands of Scythia? He thought it better to give it to his friend, who’d have some use for it.’
Sabinus grunted. ‘I suppose that makes some sort of sense,’ he said, heaving the heavy box up. ‘In future I’ll go out of my way to befriend Scythians.’
He walked out. Vespasian followed him, struggling with the concept that someone could have no need or desire for something that had always been very close to his heart: money.
With Titus officiating, the rest of the dead had been cremated on two pyres outside the stable-yard gates: one for the estate’s dead and the crossroads brother, Lucio, and one for the others. A coin for the ferryman had been placed in all their mouths, including, much to Vespasia’s disgust, Livilla’s men’s.
Vespasian now stood next to his father by the hastily constructed wooden platform, supported by four eight-foot poles, upon which Ataphanes had been laid. The estate’s freedmen and Artebudz were gathered behind them. Baseos, who was weeping freely, held Ataphanes’ bow, which he was keeping in memory of his friend. When Vespasian had asked him if he wanted to have any of his money back the old Scythian had said that he could get more food with Ataphanes’ bow than he could buy with all his money; he seemed very content with the transaction so Vespasian had let the subject drop.
As no one knew the Zoroastrian funeral rites Sabinus had decided to use the Mithraic, the religions being in some ways related. He said prayers to the sun for the dead man’s soul, whilst holding aloft a green ear of wheat. He then sacrificed a young bull and did some strange hand gestures above the fire before throwing the heart into it. It seemed all very weird and foreign, yet at the same time the sacrifice was familiar.
‘What was that all about?’ Vespanian asked his brother as they walked back through the stable-yard gates. It was the eighth hour of the day; the business of loading was almost complete and the mules were being harnessed to the wagons; Pallo had told them that they would be ready to leave in under an hour.
‘If I told you I’d have to kill you and then kill myself,’ Sabinus replied without a trace of irony. ‘If you want to know you have to be initiated into the lowest grade: the Ravens.’
‘How can I know if I want to be initiated if I don’t know a thing about the religion?’
‘Faith, brother.’
‘Faith in what?’
‘Faith in the Lord Mithras and the Sun God.’
‘And what am I supposed to believe about them?’
‘That they will guide your spirit and cleanse your soul in the transition from one life to the next.’
‘How?’
‘The mysteries are revealed gradually as you are initiated into the different grades.’
‘What grade are you?’
‘I’m a Soldier, the third grade. It’s not until you reach the seventh that all is revealed, then you become known as “Father”. But seriously, if you’re interested I can arrange for you to be initiated.’
Vespasian found it odd that a religion could be so hierarchical that its secrets were kept by the few from the many, who were required just to have faith and follow blindly. He guessed that it must be something to do with power and control, which was why, he surmised, that it was becoming popular within the army.
‘Thanks, but no thanks, Sabinus. I prefer the old gods whom you just have to appease in order to ask practical favours of: like bring me victory or a good harvest or death to an enemy; tangible stuff, not worrying about your spirit or your soul, whatever that may be.’
‘The old gods too have their mysteries, which, I’m led to believe, are very similar to those of Mithras.’
‘Then why have you chosen to follow this new god?’
‘All religions are essentially the same if you delve deeply into them; it’s a matter of choosing the one that best expresses the truth to your inner self about life, death and rebirth.’
‘Well, I’m very happy just worrying about life; whatever happens after, if indeed anything does happen, can look after itself.’
‘As you wish, brother.’
Their theological musings were brought to a close upon finding Clemens, who was remonstrating with a young stable lad about the tightness, or lack of it, of his saddle’s girth.
‘I’d swear that the little idiot was trying to kill me,’ he said indignantly to the brothers, having given the boy a sharp cuff around the ears and sent him to redo his work.
‘Where’s Secundus, Clemens?’ Sabinus asked. ‘We want to ask him a few questions before you take him back to Antonia.’
‘He’s in one of the storerooms. I’ll show you, but you’ll be lucky to get anything out of him. I’ve already tried.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t use the right sort of persuasion,’ Vespasian replied as Clemens led them away.
‘It seems to us,’ Vespasian said reasonably, ‘that you have a very clear choice, Secundus: talk to us and you’ll receive the Lady Antonia’s protection; or say nothing and Antonia will inform Macro that you have betrayed not only her but him, and the unpleasant death that he promised, for both you and your wife, will be forthcoming.’
‘You leave Albucilla out of this,’ Secundus snarled. His pronounced mono-brow was creased over his narrow, pale-blue eyes. His high cheekbones and square jaw showed signs of bruising.
‘I’m afraid that she’s very much a part of it,’ Vespasian replied smoothly, ‘and has been ever since you prostituted her to Livilla and Sejanus.’
‘I didn’t prostitute her. What she does is of her own volition.’
‘So it’s of her own volition, is it,’ Sabinus drawled, ‘that she repeats to you all the interesting snippets of information she could only have learnt whilst being crushed between her two new clients? Who does what to whom, I wonder?’