‘Finest Massic,’ proclaimed Diadromes proudly. ‘From my cousin’s vineyard near Naples.’
‘Ah.’ Cassius hid his distaste. To him, ‘finest Massic’ was a contradiction in terms; it was a strong, unsubtle wine that his father refused to allow through the door.
As the orange glow of the oil lamps drew their faces from the darkness, Cassius looked across at Cosmas. The diminutive sergeant was a dark-skinned man with an angular nose and a striking face. His beard was as black as his hair and just as thick. Cosmas thanked his superior for the wine and drank, peering at Indavara over the rim of his glass.
He was clearly a bright fellow (certainly for a city sergeant) and had asked a dozen questions about the coins and the materials the gang would need. He planned to begin his enquiries the following day and report directly to Cassius if he made any progress. Diadromes had released him from his normal duties for as long as he was needed.
Cassius sipped a little of the Massic and swiftly ate a handful of raisins.
Simo gathered up a couple of empty bowls then spoke quietly to his master. ‘Sir, might I be excused for the rest of the evening? There is a meeting at the third hour.’
‘Now?’
‘Sir, Indavara has offered to fulfil my duties if you need anything.’
‘How long will you be?’
‘No more than two hours.’
‘And my bed is ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All your other work is done?’
Indavara tutted. ‘When have you ever known Simo not do his work? He’s barely stopped for breath today.’
Though annoyed by the bodyguard’s interjection, Cassius ignored him and took his time. ‘Very well. No more than two hours. Turn over my hourglass before you leave.’
‘Yes, Master Cassius. Thank you.’
Simo set off down the ladder.
Diadromes said nothing but Cassius felt he should explain. ‘He is a Christian – as soon as we stop anywhere for more than five minutes he goes looking for fellow believers.’
‘There is a fairly large community here,’ replied the magistrate, ‘and growing steadily too. They do like to try and spread the word.’
‘Indeed. Thankfully, Simo now knows to keep his ramblings to himself.’ Cassius looked across at Cosmas. ‘These informers of yours – you think they’ll come up with something?’
‘Hard to know. Honestly, sir, I think you may have the wrong city. It sounds like a big operation – materials, production, transportation. Would take a few bodies; hard to keep quiet and contained.’
‘Officer Crispian has his reasons for thinking they’re here,’ said Diadromes. ‘And we do have hundreds of factories and workshops. With all the traffic and material coming through the port-’
‘Hiding in plain sight, perhaps?’ said Cassius.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Diadromes. ‘As deputy magistrate, I would like to tell you that Berytus is the safest, least corrupt place in Syria, but I’m afraid it is no different to any other city. It has its share of criminals, and secrets.’
Cosmas acceded with a nod.
‘Not to mention several hundred unhappy weavers,’ said Cassius. He was still interested to know of Diadromes’s view.
‘Thankfully yesterday’s protest didn’t last all that long. Maybe they have finally accepted that Pomponianus will not change his mind about their supplementary income.’
‘You don’t agree?’ asked Cassius, noting the cynical expression on Cosmas’s dark face. The sergeant glanced warily at his superior, who drank more wine then waved at his subordinate to answer.
‘Without the corn dole, some are struggling to get food on the plate. Hungry men can get angry. Hungry men with hungry wives and hungry children can get very angry.’
‘Why not just let them do the extra work?’ asked Indavara. ‘Who loses?’
Diadromes answered: ‘Unfortunately, my friend, it is more a question of principle. For a long time, weaving was not considered a particularly worthy job for a man. Those who own the factories and occupy seats on the council come from families with land. Even though the weavers bring great wealth to the city, the rich look down upon them; they are certainly not about to give in to people they view as little better than slaves. If they know what’s good for them, the weavers will stay in the factories and off the streets. Pomponianus will not hesitate to make examples of the leaders if he has to.’
‘How would you handle it?’ asked Cassius.
Cosmas also seemed interested in his superior’s answer.
‘Given my background, I am in a delicate position, Officer Crispian. Which means that I must always carefully consider my answers and my audience. To the weavers, I would say that I understand their grievances and will do what I can. To the factory owners and the council members – whose votes I depend on – I would say that I understand their grievances and will do what I can.’
‘And to me?’ asked Cassius.
Diadromes held up his glass. ‘How do you like the Massic?’
XV
Cosmas did not return for three days; a quiet period which, to Cassius, passed pleasantly enough. Simo and Indavara continued their work and took turns to go out for provisions, while he spent the entire time inside the tower. Thoughts of his enemies were never far away and he often found himself examining the streets below for any sign of watchers skulking in the shadows.
On the third day, he threw himself into a long-neglected project: his translation of an obscure but compelling Greek tome on military strategy. He was on to his fourth page when a messenger arrived downstairs; Cosmas at last had some news and would be visiting around the twelfth hour.
By late evening, Cassius was bored with the translation and joined Indavara for a weightlifting session downstairs. The bodyguard had lashed two large stones to an old iron spear and was completing repetitions of twenty. After each set he would take a brief drink of water then start again. Simo was out; he had asked for two more hours to help the local congregation with what he’d described only as ‘the Lord’s work’.
‘Can I have a go?’ asked Cassius when Indavara finished his third set.
‘Warm your muscles up first. Shoulders and back, especially.’
While the bodyguard completed his fourth set, Cassius did some push-ups, twists and jumps. Indavara was constantly lecturing him about how he had a good basic frame but needed to put weight and muscle on. Given his current predicament, Cassius could clearly see the benefits of being bigger and stronger.
‘You sure about this?’ asked the bodyguard when he walked over and examined the spear.
‘Well, I can give it a go. How much does it weigh?’
‘Simo reckoned about seventy pounds.’
‘Seventy?’
‘I can make up another one for you. There’s a broom handle around here somewhere and some pebbles outside.’
‘Very droll. At least let me have a go.’
‘All right, but not above your head. Just try to get it off the floor.’
Cassius squatted and placed his hands at either end of the spear. He gripped hard and pulled upwards. The stones did not move.
‘Caesar’s balls.’
‘Have you ever done weights before?’
Actually, the heaviest thing Cassius had lifted were the bodies of dead soldiers, but he didn’t particularly want to think or talk about that.
He decided to try again. Just as he set his grip there was a knock at the door. While Indavara went to unbolt it, Cassius let go and moved away from the weights.
Indavara looked through the viewing hole in the door before opening up. ‘Simo, that you?’
‘Yes.’
Cassius tutted; he’d hoped it was Cosmas.
He shook his arms to loosen up, then returned to the weight and gripped the spear once more. Indavara had opened the door but Simo still hadn’t come in. Cassius looked across at them.
‘What happened to you?’ said the bodyguard.
The Gaul came in slowly, head bowed.