VI
The mosaic that took up most of one wall was a simple geometric pattern: hundreds of red and white triangles. After a while, Cassius’s eyes began to swim. He looked away and shook his head.
‘Hangover, sir?’ asked Simo, who was standing beside the only window.
‘No.’ He was angry with himself for breaking his three-mug rule – by some distance.
The servant standing outside the waiting room drew back the curtain and a new man walked in. Cassius had so far been through three of them and was starting to get annoyed. Even so, he stood and offered his hand; it usually paid to be polite at first – other tactics could be deployed if necessary.
‘Good day.’ This fellow was about thirty; well built but with the pasty, unmarked skin of a career bureaucrat.
They shook forearms; Cassius was purposefully forceful. ‘Officer Crispian, Imperial Security.’
‘Assistant Procurator Dominicus.’ He looked down at the table. Lying across it was Cassius’s ceremonial spearhead.
‘At last, a man of standing. I do hope you can help me.’
‘What is it exactly you need from us? My subordinates didn’t seem entirely clear.’
‘Good,’ said Cassius. ‘It is important that as few people know about this issue as possible.’
‘I see.’ Dominicus sat down and adjusted his toga until he was comfortable.
Knowing his uniform would get him a long way at the basilica, Cassius was in a scarlet tunic and wearing the widest and most martial of his belts. He also had his sword belt over his shoulder, though he had left the helmet at the inn – it was far too hot. He held up the sword as he sat to avoid scraping the floor.
‘You are aware of the ongoing investigation into counterfeiting?’
‘Isn’t the treasury in charge of that?’
‘It is. But Marshal Marcellinus has also asked the Service to get involved.’
Though he masked it reasonably well, the mere mention of Marcellinus caused a change in Dominicus’ expression. Cassius held the equivalent rank of a centurion and the spearhead marked him out as a specialist officer but in normal circumstances a soldier wouldn’t dare make demands of a senior city official. Being a ‘grain man’ wasn’t all bad; especially when one was acting on behalf of the Emperor’s second-in-command.
‘I need some information regarding recent significant land purchases in Tripolis and the surrounding area. Would you have that type of information here?’
‘Yes. Any change in ownership has to be reported. That information would appear on the land register, including the value – for tax purposes.’
‘I’m interested in purchases from the last two months.’
Dominicus put a finger on his chin to check what looked like a shaving cut. ‘What would you consider “significant”?’
‘It depends. What’s the going rate for a square mile of decent farmland around here?’
‘Anything between one and two thousand denarii.’
‘It would probably be a large plot.’
‘If memory serves the register is divided up. The roll for the largest purchases deals with values of above ten thousand denarii.’
‘Could you provide me with that immediately?’
‘Certainly within an hour, I should say. I would need some sort of authorisation from the magistrate’s office.’
‘I don’t have time for that. Marshal Marcellinus considers this an urgent matter.’
Cassius was prepared to take out his letter but the second mention of Marcellinus was enough to persuade Dominicus.
‘Very well.’ He stood. ‘Will you wait here or should I have the information copied out and sent to you?’
‘I shall go for lunch then return.’
Dominicus checked the shaving cut again then left.
Cassius put the spearhead in his satchel. It was two feet long and didn’t quite fit so he put the sharp end (protected by a cork) in first, leaving the shaft sticking out of the top. He gave the satchel to Simo.
‘Let’s go and fetch Indavara; I expect he’s ready for some lunch.’
Behind the basilica was a walled garden where the bodyguard had taken refuge from the heat beneath a tall pine. Spotting Cassius and Simo, he ambled over.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Simo.
‘A bit.’
‘Pitiful effort,’ said Cassius. ‘I doubt you had more than four or five mugs. I can do that and still recite a dozen different poems.’
One of the soldiers on duty opened the gate at the rear of the garden. Cassius nodded to the legionary and his compatriot as they walked out on to the street.
‘Still a good night,’ said Indavara.
‘Maybe for you,’ said Cassius. ‘That bloody Neokles spoiled my fun. You didn’t waste much time, though.’
Indavara blushed and smothered a grin.
‘Lucky swine,’ said Cassius. ‘You’re fortunate I let you have Kitra.’
‘Let me? It’s not my fault if she knows a real man when she sees one.’
Cassius unleashed a roar of laughter at that. He would allow the bodyguard this victory; relations with women were one of the areas where Cassius was so unquestionably superior that there was no real element of competition. Come to think of it, apart from perhaps running, there were very few areas where they were close enough to compete. All things considered, Cassius reckoned that was a good thing.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘where are we going for lunch? We’ve got an hour to kill so we might as well sit down.’
‘The soldiers said there’s a decent place by the statue of Marcus Aurelius. Plenty of choice, apparently.’ Indavara nodded along the broad avenue that ran west from the basilica towards the coast.
‘Let’s give it a try,’ said Cassius, leading the way. The avenue was busy with folk of all kinds, and they also had to get past a line of six plush litters, the occupants of which remained completely hidden. Emerging from under a portico, the trio passed a series of street entertainers who had attracted quite a crowd. There was a troupe of mimes, a juggler (who they stopped to watch for a couple of minutes), a pair of adult acrobats no taller than four feet, and – least popular of all – an elderly woman playing a flute.
Seeing the impressive bronze statue of Marcus Aurelius high above the multitude ahead, Cassius began looking for the tavern.
‘What was it called, this place?’
Receiving no answer, he turned round.
Only Simo was behind him. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Where’s Indavara gone?’
He looked back through the endless stream of pedestrians. The bodyguard was standing in front of the flautist, staring at her.
Cassius tutted. ‘Fetch him, would you, Simo.’
The Gaul navigated his way back through the crowd. Cassius moved closer to a nearby stall to avoid the worst of the foul-smelling throng. He watched Simo speak to Indavara but the bodyguard didn’t move. Simo spoke again and gripped his arm but Indavara completely ignored him.
‘By the gods.’ Cassius hurried back, cursing at a pair of young girls who seemed unable or unwilling to get out of his way.
‘What are you doing?’
The flautist seemed rather disturbed by Indavara’s stare. She stopped playing, lowered her instrument and looked curiously back at him.
‘Indavara.’
He was standing completely still, arms by his sides. ‘That tune … I know it.’
‘So what?’
‘I know it,’ he repeated, now staring at the ground.
Simo said, ‘Do you mean …’
Cassius said, ‘From before?’
‘I … I think so.’
Cassius inspected the woman. Her clothes were thin and dirty, the flute roughly carved. The cloth hat between her bare feet contained only a few brass coins.
‘Keep playing.’
The woman’s only response was to adjust the headscarf that covered most of her grey hair. Cassius tried Greek but again got no reply. Simo spoke in Aramaic. The woman smiled and started playing again. It was a simple, repetitive tune, no more than a dozen notes in all.
Indavara gazed at her.