‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius ate the fig and washed it down with wine. ‘Bring those, would you?’
Indavara picked up a pile of small squares of paper from the table. Cassius pulled on his helmet, then checked his belt and straightened his cloak. He motioned for Indavara to go outside first, then stationed himself on the parlour doorstep while the legionaries filed into the courtyard. With a few swift orders, Clemens got the men into line.
Cassius stood with his feet well apart, hands on his belt, his chin high; the stance he always used when addressing troops. He counted eleven of them. There was no need for helmets or armour but their other equipment seemed in good repair; always an encouraging sign. There was no long hair, no bushy beards, and no evidence of drunkenness.
‘Good morning, men. I am Officer Cassius Quintius Corbulo, Imperial Security.’
To their credit, not one of the legionaries’ faces betrayed what Cassius imagined would be a colourful array of mental retorts.
‘You know now of the death of Master Augustus Marius Memor. This murder was carried out the night before last, and I believe the assassin left — or will be intending to leave — Rhodes as soon as possible. We must find out whatever we can about this man. We have at least established the following: he is probably left-handed, probably short, and he was seen wearing a hooded cloak and good-quality boots. He was also carrying a sack, and inside was what he used to disguise himself and carry out the killing — a centurion’s outfit. It’s likely he is a stranger here and that he arrived recently. You men know the city — you must scour the harbour, the inns, the taverns, the stores. Talk to captains, sailors, innkeepers — anyone and everyone. The main details of his appearance are written here, so there’s no excuse for forgetting them.’
While Indavara handed out the scraps of paper, some of the less subtle legionaries inspected his disfigured ear.
‘Remember,’ said Cassius. ‘Short, left-handed, hooded cloak, fine leather boots, carrying a sack. Can everyone read?’
‘Not me, sir,’ volunteered one of the men. ‘But I can remember it well enough,’ he added, before repeating the description verbatim.
‘Excellent.’
Though cooperative, the men didn’t seem particularly enamoured with their task, not that soldiers ever did, unless women, drink or treasure were involved.
‘An additional incentive for you,’ Cassius announced, ‘courtesy of Imperial Security. Ten denarii to any man who gives me information I can use. And tell the people on the streets they’ll get half as much for the same. If this man’s still here I want him found, and I want him found today. Clemens will divide you up and tell you which areas you are to cover. We shall reconvene later. Any questions? No? On your way then.’
The legionaries followed Clemens out of the courtyard, rather too slowly for Cassius’s liking. He clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s get to it then! A little more urgency, gentlemen!’
Clemens led the way with a trot, which the soldiers reluctantly matched.
‘We should be off too,’ Cassius told Indavara as they hurried back to their rooms. ‘See how Simo’s getting on.’
While Indavara went to fetch his weapons, Cassius grabbed the leather satchel Abascantius had given him in Syria. It was very well made (deer-hide according to Simo) and ideal for carrying papers and other essentials. Cassius insisted that Simo always kept a few key items inside: some paper and charcoal for making notes, a small fire-starting kit, a couple of candles and a miniature sundial. He’d also had the Gaul stitch in a secret pocket that contained five gold aurei, commenting, ‘You never know when you might need a good bribe.’ The satchel was also just about big enough to accommodate the spearhead, though the tip stuck out of one end. Cassius placed it inside and slung the satchel over his shoulder.
He sighed. One of the worst things about army life was constantly being weighed down with equipment, as if the helmet and sword belt weren’t uncomfortable enough. Riding helped ease the load but was impractical for the day ahead. Cassius sighed again. Thoughts of temples and libraries and works of art were but a distant memory now.
They met Simo a hundred yards up the road. Despite the stiff breeze, the Gaul was sweating, carrying his cloak in one hand as he hurried along the sea wall.
‘Well?’ asked Cassius, handing over the satchel.
‘Apologies, sir, I was unable to find a suitable ship there either. Most of them are staying in port too.’
‘Wonderful. What about the harbour master?’
‘I did find his office, sir, but there was only a clerk there. Apparently, because things are very quiet at this time of year, the harbour master takes every fourth day off. This is one of them. I found him at a tavern called The Anchor, but he refused to speak to me. Sir, I am sorry.’
‘He’ll be the sorry one. Take me to this tavern at once.’
The trio walked on along the wall and it soon became obvious that the names of the harbours were even more misleading than they first appeared. The Little Harbour was indeed about the same size as the Great Harbour — and also enclosed by long breakwaters running out to the west and north — but it was far busier and more developed. Almost every space on the high concrete wharves was occupied by large vessels of a hundred feet or more. Squeezed in between them were smaller skiffs and tenders, often tied up two or three abreast.
They left the road and cut across one of the wharves, between a stack of barrels and a massive wooden wheel. Next to it were a pile of long timbers, coiled lengths of thick rope and four huge pulleys.
‘What’s that thing?’ asked Indavara.
‘A crane,’ said Cassius. ‘The wheel is mounted on a stand and connected to a rope that runs up an arm and down to the load. Slaves stand inside the wheel and walk; the wheel turns and the crane lifts the load. Quite ingenious.’
‘Just like mice in a cage,’ said Indavara, more to Simo than to Cassius.
‘I can think of worse jobs,’ said Cassius. ‘On days like this I’d be quite happy to do nothing but walk.’
Indavara snorted. ‘Oh yes, it’s so easy — the life of a slave.’
‘I don’t say it’s easy, but in some ways it’s easier. Less responsibility, for one.’
Indavara shook his head. ‘What do you reckon, Simo?’
Simo glanced warily at Cassius, who shrugged.
‘Answer if you wish.’
‘Whatever one’s station in life, one will have problems, I suppose,’ Simo said eventually. ‘The Lord Jesus taught us that we should think first of others, those in suffering, the poor-’
‘Well done, Indavara,’ said Cassius, ‘you’ve got him started now.’
The bodyguard moved closer to Simo. ‘You Christians believe that everyone is equal, yes?’
‘We believe God values us all equally, and that we will all face the final judgement if we wish to reach the kingdom.’
Indavara jabbed a finger at Cassius. ‘But how can you be equal if you belong to him?’
‘One’s station in life is not as important as how one conducts oneself,’ Simo explained.
‘What?’
Cassius held up a hand. ‘Indavara, not now. We have enough to occupy us today. Leave the religion and philosophy for another occasion — you’ll give yourself a headache.’
They passed several moored ships — including a flat-hulled dredging barge — and reached the far side of the Little Harbour. Most of the buildings were high, red-brick warehouses, but clustered around a crossroads were some low structures more like the houses that faced the Great Harbour. The road that ran along the north side of the port continued into the heart of the city, then up, zigzagging across the terraced slopes before reaching the citadel.
‘That’s the harbour master’s office, sir,’ said Simo, pointing to what looked like a storefront. ‘Two doors down is the tavern.’
They negotiated a long queue outside a money changer’s, waited for a well-laden cart to rumble past, then crossed the road to the tavern. Were it not for the people outside, Cassius would have assumed The Anchor was closed. Several of the windows were boarded up and the roof had a quarter of its tiles missing. A painted sign had been stripped of all colour by the elements, though there was a rusty iron anchor by the door. Of the two tables outside, one was in fact a converted half of a rowing boat. Sitting inside were three lads throwing pebbles at a gull. The other table was occupied by four men playing some kind of board game. They were a rough-looking bunch: bearded, grizzled and tanned.