‘Why did you refuse it?’ he asked Simo.
‘We must not take anything in return. The food is a gift.’
‘But-’
‘You can take it,’ said Simo. ‘You’re not of the Faith.’
He recovered the empty sacks. The children – except the little girl – were all eating. Most of the adults were proud enough to wait until the visitors had gone.
After a final word with the leader and a shake of hands, Cobon led them back to the street. He was a tiny man – barely five foot and with a rather crooked back but had marched down to the docks at quite a pace. He explained that two other groups had been delivering bread and that they would meet back at the church-house. Simo replied that he and Indavara would have to leave soon; they had already been out for an hour and a half.
As they walked back through an area where most of the warehouses were still standing, Indavara asked Simo about those they’d helped.
‘Palmyran refugees. Apparently they’ve been there for months. Before that they were in an apartment block but the other residents complained and the magistrates had them evicted.’
‘Why?’
‘Palmyra was the enemy of Rome for almost a decade. People don’t want them here. But neither does anyone else in Syria and their city has been destroyed. They had money but most of it went on bribes to get jobs which they then lost anyway. Now they are barely able to survive.’
‘The children are thin but with fat stomachs. It means they don’t have enough to eat. I’ve seen it before.’
Somewhere a bell was tolling, marking the turn of the hour.
‘We will be late,’ said Simo.
‘We could tell him,’ replied Indavara. ‘If we told him what you’ve just told me, he might understand.’
‘No. No, he would not.’
The church-house was in fact no more than a large room at the rear of Cobon’s dwelling. He was by trade a grocer and – according to Simo – spent his afternoons gathering spare food from sympathetic townspeople and other Christians. Indavara found it hard to think of it as a holy place – it looked like any other room and was equipped only with half a dozen chairs and a single table, on top of which were several scrolls and books. The other groups had returned first so Cobon apologised to them and let everyone in.
Indavara leaned against a wall, looking on as the Christians gathered to discuss their evening’s work. All three groups had avoided the area where there had previously been trouble and – apart from some inquisitive city sergeants – met with no further problems.
Cobon announced that he would fetch everyone some wine, at which point Simo told him they had to leave. Farewells were exchanged; and Indavara was glad to hear the others address him by name. He had felt rather out of place, standing there with his scars and his stave among these quiet, peaceful folk.
There were as many women as men in the group and one of them came to the door with him and Simo. She was the youngest there but put her hood up so fast that Indavara saw little of her face.
‘Will you be all right on the streets on your own?’ asked Simo as he opened the door. The young woman offered the briefest of nods then hurried away. As she disappeared around a corner, the pair headed off in the opposite direction.
‘That’s not safe,’ said Indavara.
‘I know. But she cannot stay like the others. She does what she can then leaves.’
‘I wonder why.’
‘I expect she has to get back,’ said Simo. ‘I expect she is like me.’
XX
The courtyard was littered with them. Some were missing hands, arms, legs, even heads. The oldest cripples had been thrown on top of each other, limbs and bodies grotesquely intertwined. Closer to the building were the new ones; clean, polished and ready for mounting. The largest of them was ten feet tall; a bearded god holding a staff.
‘They obviously do well,’ said Cassius. ‘I’ve already counted twenty workers.’ He pointed at a broad chimney which was puffing out thick, black smoke. ‘Forge over there.’
He ran his eyes across the rest of the statue-makers: one of the largest factories he’d seen. ‘They’ve got everything the gang would need: a legitimate cover, transportation’ – he gestured at the three large carts and the stables beside the courtyard – ‘and inside the requisite ovens and metals. All it would take is a hidden room and a few men with dies and hammers. The trouble is, I could say the same for the other places we’ve seen this morning.’
Cosmas was tugging his beard, which he seemed to do whenever he was required to think. ‘All told, I reckon there are only about forty outfits with ovens or full foundries like this. Why not just check them all? I’m sure we could come up with some excuse.’
‘Forty? That would take a while.’
‘It depends on how much help Master Diadromes could provide.’
‘But if we don’t strike lucky early on, word will get round quickly. Once they know we’re here and looking they might halt production or move out.’
Indavara stepped forward. Like the others, he was standing in the shadow cast by a temple wall. It was situated beside a road that wound up a hill overlooking the statue-makers.
‘Might be two places. They might make the coins somewhere with an oven, then use the dies somewhere else.’
‘Possibly, though that doubles the risk.’ Cassius leaned back against the wall, tapping his boot against the stone. ‘We need another way to come at this, a method that doesn’t betray our real interest.’
A paunchy, middle-aged man strode around the corner of the temple.
‘Excuse me, this is private property, you can’t just-’
‘City sergeants. Move along,’ said Cosmas. This and a glance at Indavara persuaded the interloper to desist.
Cassius glanced up the hill, the top of which was largely undeveloped and covered by cedar trees. Coming down the road was a man with a bow over one shoulder and a pair of dead birds on the other. Kicking a stone along behind him were three lads each carrying sticks.
‘Beaters,’ said Cassius.
‘Sir?’
‘Do much hunting, Cosmas?’
‘Only for law-breakers,’ said the sergeant with a grin.
‘The function of the beaters is to make a load of noise, panic the prey and drive it into the open for the hunter to pick off.’
‘Sir?’
‘I think I need to speak to Diadromes.’
The fourth hour was one of the busiest of the day. The markets were beginning to slow down but cityfolk of all types were pounding the streets, keen to conclude their day’s tasks before the July heat reached its full intensity.
Cassius, Indavara and Simo let Cosmas lead the way; he had already proved himself highly adept at avoiding crowds, hold-ups and bottlenecks. Twice they passed someone who called out to the sergeant, but Cosmas pressed on. Cassius stayed close, with Indavara right behind him. It would have been pointless to bring the horses but he felt even more vulnerable down on the street. His eyes flitted from one individual or group to another until he almost made himself dizzy. Mopping his brow with his sleeve, he kept his hand close to his sword, ready to draw if need be.
Spying a long queue outside a temple up ahead, Cosmas cut left along a side street. Because of his merchant’s outfit, Cassius attracted some interest from a line of hawkers with wicker baskets of assorted tat strapped to their chests. Cosmas waved them away but some were insistent and Indavara moved up to dissuade any who got too close.
Just as they passed the last of them, a young man sprinted by. He took a second glance at Cosmas then stopped. ‘Sir?’
‘Arpagius. You all right?’
‘Thank the gods.’ He pointed along an adjacent street. ‘Sir, some men – I don’t know who they are – they’ve cornered Norbanus Celer and his family. I’m not even on duty but I tried to warn them off.’ He turned his palms skyward. ‘They just laughed at me.’