At least they were fallible. The watcher had panicked, alerted them, drawn attention to himself. Cassius just had to stay one step ahead; until he escaped them for good or decided to pursue Indavara’s tactic to its ultimate conclusion – hunter was an infinitely more favourable role than prey.
‘We’re clear,’ said the bodyguard confidently. ‘No way anyone followed us this far.’
‘Shall I pack up, sir?’ asked Simo.
Cassius looked back at the road. ‘No. Take your time. We’ll use the dark, enter Berytus after sundown.’
‘Sir, you do remember the warning we were given when we passed through the city before? The thieves that operate from the coves?’
‘Thieves do not concern me, Simo.’
Even so, he was just as relieved as the attendant when they reached the welcome glow of the torches at Berytus’s northern gate. Standing beneath the high, ornate arch, they waited for one of the legionaries on duty to fetch his superior, a guard officer. When he appeared, Cassius showed him the spearhead, gave him a denarius and explained what he needed. The soldier fetched some keys, then escorted them along the walls to a small side gate. He agreed to tell no one of their arrival and let them into the city. Cassius asked for directions for a quiet inn nearby; within an hour the horses were stabled and the trio in bed.
As Simo drew back the shutters, sunlight flooded the room.
‘Gods.’ Cassius turned away and shut his eyes.
‘Uh,’ was all Indavara could manage.
‘Sorry, sir, you did give me instructions to wake you at the second hour.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Cassius yawned and stretched, then hauled himself off the bed. ‘Caesar’s balls, this place looks even smaller in daylight.’
The two beds – Indavara and Simo had shared the double – were pushed up against the window and there was barely five feet between them and the door. Most of this space was now occupied by saddlebags.
‘At least it’s out of the way, sir.’
‘True. I’d rather suffer this than be at some big, well-known place where we’re easily found.’
Cassius glanced at a nearby pile of clothes. ‘No uniform in public. We’re going to keep our heads down while we’re here, which will probably aid the investigation too. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Indavara?’
He was already snoring again.
‘Shall I wake him, sir?’
‘Ah, let him sleep – I’m not leaving here until I have my appointment with the magistrate. Fetch me my writing materials.’
While Simo dragged a saddlebag over and unbuckled it, Cassius lifted his sleeping tunic and relieved himself into the chamber pot.
‘Urgh! What’s that?’
Someone had already used the pot and there seemed to be as much blood as urine.
‘From Indavara, sir. Less every day apparently.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘You would like a separate room, I suppose, sir?’
Having finished, Cassius lowered his tunic. ‘I would. But for the moment I intend to keep as close to our big friend as possible – for obvious reasons.’
When Simo later returned from the basilica, Cassius was dismayed to learn that the magistrate could not offer an appointment until the ninth hour. They had a meal brought to the room around midday, after which Cassius and Indavara visited the nearest baths. While lounging in the warm room, Cassius spent half an hour considering what he had discussed of the case with Quentin and formulating his enquiries for the magistrate. Once they had finished bathing, both men put on clean tunics and returned to the inn.
Simo had tidied the room and was ready with Cassius’s satchel, in which the spearhead was safely secured. Hoping he looked like a merchant accompanied by bodyguard and assistant, Cassius asked the innkeeper for directions and they set off for the magistrate’s residence – a more private location for the meeting than the basilica.
It was now late afternoon, and even though most of the day’s business would have been concluded, the streets of Berytus seemed unnaturally quiet. They passed a marketplace populated only by a few cleaners and at the Temple of Aphrodite saw only a handful of worshippers.
‘Damned strange,’ said Cassius. ‘Innkeeper didn’t mention any festivals today, did he?’
‘No, sir. Might have been an outbreak of something.’
‘Don’t say things like that, Simo. Makes my skin crawl. By the way, you did give him the money?’
‘Yes, sir. He won’t be telling anyone about us.’
Their route skirted the north side of the city centre, towards the affluent residential district where the magistrate lived. Passing one end of a broad, colonnaded avenue, they found a dozen people staring south. Curious, Cassius stopped and joined them. What looked like a crowd of several hundred was marching towards the forum. He could also hear a chant and see sunlight sparking off the weapons and equipment of legionaries lining the avenue.
Cassius picked out a respectable-looking fellow accompanied by a servant holding a parasol over his head. ‘Excuse me, what’s going on there?’
The man looked him up and down before answering wearily.
‘Another protest.’
‘By whom?’
‘Bloody weavers. Who else?’
A tall man standing in front of them turned round. ‘Watch yourself – my brother’s a weaver.’
‘Why don’t you go and join them, then?’ said the gentleman.
‘Don’t much fancy catching a sword in the neck – got three children to provide for.’
A few others in the crowd were listening to the exchange.
‘Nobody knows who killed that young man,’ replied the gentleman. ‘The weavers have been telling everyone it was a legionary because that’s what they want you to believe.’
‘Maybe that’s what Pomponianus wants us to believe,’ said the other citizen, ‘to keep people away from the protests.’
Cassius was also listening: Pomponianus – the man he was on his way to meet.
The tall man nodded up the avenue. ‘Not that brave bunch, though. Perhaps I will join them after all.’ With a defiant scowl, he stalked away.
The Syrian rolled his eyes. ‘What can you do? The ignorance of the lower classes never ceases to amaze me.’
‘What’s at issue?’
‘It started with the corn dole, I suppose. It was withdrawn last month – the governor needs the food for the soldiers.’
‘Same across Syria, though, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’ Even though the others were no longer paying much attention to him, the gentleman kept his voice down. ‘But here we have over a thousand weavers employed in a dozen factories. When times are tough they take on other work outside hours. The old governor used to let it go but Pomponianus is fining anyone found to be doing extra.’
‘Why bother?’
‘A lot of people in Berytus – myself included – think the weavers are getting too big for their boots. Pomponianus has had trouble with them before and he wants to make sure they understand who’s in charge. The factory owners are all friends of his and there’s an election in September.’
‘I see. And the young man that other fellow spoke of?’
‘There was another protest last week. Usually there’s a few speeches, a bit of chanting and everyone goes home. But on this occasion there was a scuffle. The weavers are saying a legionary stabbed the young man because he was a ringleader. The army are denying it.’ The gentleman ran a finger along one of his bushy eyebrows. ‘Frankly, I hope they grab a dozen of the bastards and burn them in the arena. That would put an end to all this nonsense. Good day.’
With that he strode away, his servant struggling to keep the parasol over his head.
Indavara cast a disparaging glance at him. ‘This Pomp …’
‘Pomponianus.’
‘Yes, him – sounds like a bit of an arsehole.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Cassius. ‘Can’t have a bunch of rowdy labourers running a city. People need to know their place.’