Gutha licked a gravy-stained finger. ‘Bowl of dates for my room.’
Alome cast a speculative look at Qattif.
‘The usual,’ he said, looking around the parlour as Alome withdrew to the kitchen. ‘Lot of new men coming in. I heard even Chief Uruwat is with us now.’
‘Apparently.’
‘Exciting times.’
Gutha snorted as he washed the stew down with a mouthful of wine. ‘Well? You have what I asked for?’
‘I do.’
‘Took you long enough.’
‘Wasn’t easy. Almost got caught twice.’
Qattif reached into his tunic and retrieved a small leather bag tied with twine. Gutha took it and tucked it behind his belt.
‘And that other matter?’
Qattif flicked sand out of his cavernous nostrils. ‘That was even harder. I had to tread carefully. People don’t like to talk about him, even the warriors that have fought with him for years.’
‘And?’
Qattif waited for Alome to put down his wine and walk away. No one else was within earshot.
‘There’s a fellow called Gallani who was born in the same village — little place about a day’s ride from Emesa. Said he remembers the old woman. Said Ilaha lived with her in a house there — small place out on its own. Apparently, she looked just like she does now. She can’t be his mother, just doesn’t add up.’
‘Did this Gallani mention any other family?’
‘Just the old woman. She was quite well known in the area. The locals were all petrified of her. They called her “the queen”.’
‘Who says peasants don’t understand irony?’
‘It seems she told the villagers she really had been a queen. One woman mocked her for it and the old bitch attacked her — clawed out one of her eyes. Her husband and her sons went to the house to have their revenge. Never came back.’
‘That has the ring of an old wives’ tale.’
‘Sorry. All I could get.’
‘Could you find this village?’
‘You know me. I can find anything.’
‘I want you to go there, dig up whatever you can and come straight back. I need to know the truth about her. And him.’
Qattif exhaled loudly.
‘Your usual rate — and a half,’ said Gutha.
‘Very generous. I will leave-’
‘At dawn.’
‘I will leave at dawn.’ Qattif swigged some wine, then wiped his mouth. ‘If there’s nothing else, may I go? This place is rather quiet for my liking.’
‘You may.’ Gutha reached out and clamped his hand over Qattif’s arm. ‘But do not breathe a word of this to anyone.’
‘You know you can trust me.’
‘I hope so. Because if I ever find out otherwise I will tear your spine out of you and use it as a backscratcher.’
Qattif seemed rather impressed by the threat. Even so, he made sure he met Gutha’s gaze. ‘Understood.’
Qattif had nerve. Gutha had always liked that about him. He let him go.
VIII
When it came to worship, Cassius preferred to keep things simple. He couldn’t see much point in dividing his efforts amongst the lesser gods so had recently decided to devote himself to Jupiter and never ask for too much. As countless others would be seeking the favour of the god of gods, he considered it wise to limit one’s expectations.
He had long been aware that requests for a quiet, easy life were unlikely to elicit results. Upon being told by his father that he was to join the army he had embarked on a frenzied — if brief — period of worship; all to no avail. And considering how things had gone since that point, it seemed the denizens of the heavens were intent on putting him through trial after trial until he succumbed. Since arriving in Syria three years ago, he’d often felt like a bottle tossed around on a sea; and eventually he’d been tempted to forgo worship entirely.
But he had survived. And he knew that in many ways the gods had been kind. They had given him a rich, powerful family; a healthy, handsome body; and a mind that invariably outperformed those around him. He wasn’t perfect — swordplay and other martial skills didn’t come naturally, and he had a damaging tendency to lose all sense where women were concerned — but the latter was a common affliction and he was trying to address his other weaknesses.
This new-found sense of clarity had led Cassius to ruminate on the words of Marcus Aurelius: Nothing happens to anybody that he is not fitted by nature to bear.
Had the gods placed him in these situations to serve Rome? Set him these challenges precisely because he was well equipped to deal with them?
An appealing concept, but one that rather fell down in the face of logical appraisal. His own poor judgement had twice set in motion events leading him to face danger and death; that and the demands of Abascantius and Chief Pulcher. On the other hand, his arrival on Rhodes at precisely the right time to take up the Memor investigation had suggested a divine hand.
As he queued in front of the Temple of Jupiter, waiting to buy a libation, Cassius tried to put such questions aside and concentrate on the here and now. Whatever the gods’ intentions, they seemed determined to place him in harm’s way again. So be it; but Cassius reckoned he was owed something in return for his previous accomplishments and was prepared to spare an hour of his evening to make one important request.
He handed over a coin and took the clay cup of wine, then hurried up the steps and between the two gargantuan columns on either side of the entrance. The wooden doors were each a foot thick and studded with massive iron bolts. Two young priests whispered prayers as every worshipper entered.
Cassius liked the cool air of temples; the quiet, too. He’d remembered to change into his soft walking boots and he strode swiftly across the immaculate marble floor, past the interior colonnades to the podium at the rear.
Another pair of priests flanked the platform, silently watching over a dozen of the kneeling faithful. Cassius didn’t enjoy having to mix with commoners but there was nowhere else to go if one wished to commune with Jupiter. The altars here were not intended for sacrifice, merely to accommodate the hundreds of libations offered daily. Cassius found a space for his cup, then a space below the podium for himself.
Lifting his scabbard to make sure it didn’t scrape on the floor, he knelt on one knee. He didn’t want to look up at the statue until he was ready to speak but it was hard to ignore the whispered entreaties filling the air:
‘God of gods, let Aurelia be freed. We have waited so long.’
‘A son, a son, a son.’
‘Not bronze, silver. Mighty Jupiter, let it be silver.’
‘Father of the gods, I beg you to cure him.’
To Cassius’s dismay, more worshippers arrived and surrounded him. One man was clad in little more than rags, his sandals held together with rotting lengths of twine. He immediately embarked on a swift and remarkably articulate request for nothing more than enlightenment. More distracting still was a legionary. This man offered a cordial nod to Cassius, then bowed his head and whispered his prayers. His right arm was a stump that ended six inches below his shoulder. It was heavily bandaged and spotted with yellow and red.
Admonishing himself for wasting time, Cassius gazed up at the statue. It was a fine rendering, perhaps twice life size, composed of pale grey marble. The heavily bearded god was sitting, eyes no more than hollows in the stone, bronze sceptre held in his left hand. Cassius extended his arms upwards and whispered the words.
Father Jupiter, revered god of gods, I come with an offering, one of many I have given in recent times. I pledge to come again to your dwelling-place whenever I can and give for the rest of my days. In return I ask only for one thing. Do not let me face this journey alone.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Indavara as Cassius walked into the atrium.