‘Straight from the ovens of Baker Vetranio! Get your rolls! Get your loaves!’
‘Must he yell like that?’ said Cassius to no one in particular. ‘I mean, really?’
Indavara had hardly spoken since they’d left the tower. The bodyguard walked past the bread and all the other food on offer, gazing morosely at the ground, thick fringe hanging over his eyes. Cassius reckoned he was worrying about Patch – apparently the mule was still ill.
Seeing a trio of riders approaching from the city side, Sellic directed one assistant and one scribe towards the chair and table situated on the pavement in front of the gate. The senior man then headed back into the shady room, barking at someone to hurry up with something.
Cassius walked out into the sunshine and took up his now customary position on the right side of the road. He ignored the pair of giggling teenage girls scrubbing the pavement in front of a clothier’s and instead watched the new arrivals. Having decided that the helmet’s crest would draw too much attention, he had nonetheless attired himself in his best scarlet tunic, most martial belt of ringed steel and, of course, the eagle-head sword. The appearance of a new officer might cause a stir but his accent and manners made him a rather unconvincing legionary and he felt he might need the rank to reinforce his authority with any suspects.
Matho had briefed him on the routine so he held up his hand and the riders came to a halt. They were clearly together; well dressed and riding fine horses – local landowners perhaps.
One of them wearily addressed Sellic’s assistant; he obviously knew the routine too. ‘Archestratidas and party, no trade goods purchased or sold, no taxable transactions made.’
Leaving the scribe sitting at the table, the junior tax collector wished the gentlemen good day then walked all the way around them, inspecting their saddles. The bags were not even full – perhaps just some clothes for an overnight stay. He returned to the front and gestured towards the arch. ‘Thank you, sirs. Good day.’
Cassius wasn’t interested in the trio either. As they rode on, he watched the next arrival; a long cart yoked to a pair of horses. Sitting next to the driver was a stocky man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Cassius didn’t need to see inside the barrels upon the cart to establish their contents; he could already smell the fish. As the driver reined in and the other man spoke to the assistant, Cassius peered over the side. The barrels were packed tightly together and secured by ropes. While he walked around to the other side, the assistant began counting the barrels. The merchant already had a money bag open, ready to pay his due.
Cassius pointed at the cart. ‘I want to see to the bottom of one of those barrels. I’ll climb up, you show me.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t make me ask twice, citizen.’
The merchant got up and stepped into the back of the cart. Cassius clambered up quickly, conscious that there were more vehicles approaching.
‘Any in particular?’ asked the merchant sarcastically.
‘Yes,’ replied Cassius, pointing at one. The plump, grey-scaled fish were packed in salt and some type of leaf.
‘You want me to take it all out?’
‘Just enough so I can see the bottom.’
The merchant took his money bag and threw it on to the seat by the driver. ‘Pay them, would you? Or they’ll be fining us for holding up the line.’
Cassius let him unload two-thirds of the fish before accepting that there was nothing hidden underneath. He then jumped down and told the assistant to wave the merchant through. As the cart rumbled away, Indavara wandered out of the shadows.
‘Ah, nice of you to join me at last.’
The next cart belonged to another merchant whose cart turned out to be empty – he had delivered a dozen amphoras of olive oil and was heading home. Cassius had a quick look under the cart then waved him through. Next came a husband and wife, each towing a mule laden with freshly dyed fleeces. They hadn’t any space in which to secrete anything.
And so it went on. Over the next hour, they examined jars of stinking animal fat, rummaged under cowhides and cotton sheets, tipped dates and figs out of amphoras, opened endless saddlebags and found nothing illicit other than ten flasks of cinnamon wine that one unfortunate tried to smuggle out under a pile of rugs.
By the fifth hour, traffic was beginning to die down. Cassius paced around beneath the arch, wondering if he should visit the other gates or go in search of Cosmas. The sergeant was supposed to come straight to him after the inspections were concluded.
‘Perhaps they found something,’ he said to Indavara. ‘Perhaps that’s where he is.’
The bodyguard was still acting strangely. When unoccupied, he invariably located a rag and some water and started cleaning his sword or his dagger or his belt. But again he was just standing in the shadows, arms crossed, staring at the ground. Suddenly he spoke.
‘Did you know that people take unwanted babies to dumps and leave them there?’
‘What?’
Of all the things Cassius might have expected Indavara to concern himself with, this was not high on the list.
‘Did you know – that people do that?’
‘Here, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it is done, yes. Not as much as in the past, I believe.’
‘Why would someone throw away a child? Their son or their daughter?’
‘Er … why are you asking about this?’
‘I – I didn’t know about it. That it was done.’
Cassius looked towards the city; there was no one approaching.
‘I imagine there are a number of reasons. Money – the woman or the parents can’t afford it. Or if the child is ill – some disease or deformity. It is the father’s right to decide if a child is to be accepted and raised by the family. If not …’
‘But to throw such a helpless little thing away?’
‘It can be for the best – if it would starve, or suffer, or grow up unwanted. Better a quick death.’
Indavara thought about this for a moment. ‘Sometimes they are taken in by others.’
‘As foundlings, yes. Though often not to their benefit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They are sometimes raised as slaves – to be worked or … you know.’
Indavara reached behind his belt and took out his figurine. He slumped back against the wall and shook his head.
‘This troubles you.’
The bodyguard turned the figurine’s face towards him.
Cassius added, ‘They say the Carthaginians used to sacrifice their children to the gods.’
‘Does that make you Romans better?’
‘Still insisting you’re not Roman, I note. Listen, disposing of these babies is not done out of malice; more often than not it is a simple practicality.’
‘Life is cruel; there’s nothing to be done about it.’
‘You’re spending too much time talking to Simo. Too much time worrying about others.’
‘You’d prefer that I worry only about you.’
Cassius thought it wise to respond swiftly to that one. ‘And yourself. Life is too short to bear the woes of the world upon your shoulders. You’ve had enough of your own to contend with.’
Indavara watched the two Egyptians. Sellic now had them cleaning furniture.
‘In the arena I was used to entertain; just like a slave is used to serve. But if you have no use, you are left to starve in some filthy alley, or thrown away with the rest of the rubbish. You can say what you want about Simo, but he doesn’t use others. He cares for them, tries to help.’
‘And I …’
‘You … are you.’
Cassius felt his throat tightening, his face reddening: he was getting angry. But he didn’t want – and could not afford – to fall out with the man. These outbursts came now and again; Cassius put it down to his amnesia and the torment of his years as a fighter.
‘Perhaps Simo is a better man than me. Perhaps you are too. I don’t recall ever claiming anything to the contrary.’