Appearances aside, the individuals gathered in front of the ruined forum had two things in common: none were talking loud enough to draw attention to themselves and none looked particularly happy.
‘What’s going on here?’ Indavara murmured.
‘Nothing good,’ Cassius replied. ‘But keep your eyes open. You too, Simo. I know the description’s vague but our man might be here.’
Milling around the edge of the crowd in pairs and threes were two dozen more legionaries. They also appeared ready for action and several were brandishing long wooden coshes.
Another soldier made his way up the pile of rubble and on to the platform. He was older than the others, forty at least, with a bowl-shaped head of sandy hair and a drawn face matched by his spare frame. He was wearing no armour, just a tunic split by the diagonal stripe of his bright red sword belt. In his hand was a tatty sheet of paper.
‘I think most of you know me. If you don’t, I’m Optio Procyon. This here’s Optio Mutilus.’
A paunchy soldier of about the same age followed Procyon on to the platform and stood beside him. He too was wearing a red sword belt and a patch over his left eye. Procyon continued, speaking with the low-born accent and weary delivery of a street vendor.
‘By order of the Administration, this man …’
The optio’s voice tailed off as he consulted the others about the prisoner’s name. The soldiers all shook their heads. Procyon shrugged.
‘… this man has been found guilty of both withholding taxable income and slandering officers of the Roman Army. For the first he shall lose a finger, for the second he shall lose his tongue. Let all those present observe the cost of such criminal behaviour and disloyalty to the Empire.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ whispered Simo.
‘Nice,’ added Indavara.
Cassius had suspected something of the sort. He could see the hostility towards the soldiers in the eyes of the townspeople, yet no one dared speak. Two local women, hand in hand, tried to leave but one of the legionaries barred their way with his cosh. The women silently retreated. Some of the men glanced warily at the soldiers, who were in turn watching them, studying their charges for any overt sign of disapproval.
Up on the platform, Optio Mutilus untied the captive’s hands and shoved him in the back, sending him sprawling on to the grimy white stone. On the edge of the market was a small pen with a dozen goats inside. Apparently sensing the crowd’s disquiet, they herded together and circled the pen, knocking against the wicker fence.
Cassius looked beyond the animals. An army officer of about thirty — identifiable by his red tunic and wide belt — was leaning against one of the market stalls, observing proceedings, unnoticed by most of the crowd. He was tall and remarkably well built, with the colouring and tightly curled black hair of a local.
‘Wonder why he’s just watching?’ Cassius said. ‘Looks like a native himself.’
‘How can you tell from here?’ asked Indavara.
‘Look at-’
Cassius then realised they were talking about two different people. Beyond the forum, some way up the avenue running south, a single horseman had appeared. He had brought his mount to a halt in the shadow of a building but the silhouette of his crested helmet was clear. He was slouched back in his saddle, watching.
Some of the crowd had noticed the horseman too but attention swiftly returned to the platform. The captive had begun to plead quietly in Latin. Mutilus came forward and planted a boot on the man’s wrist, then knelt down beside him.
Simo turned away and walked towards the market. One of the soldiers watched him but did nothing.
‘You’re just going to let this happen?’ Indavara asked Cassius.
‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘You outrank those two. It’s not right.’
‘Think for once in your life,’ Cassius whispered. ‘You want me to announce to what looks like most of the town that I’m with the army? If he’s here, I think our friend Dio might just be able to put two and two together, don’t you?’
‘Talk to one of the officers then.’
Optio Mutilus drew his dagger. The other soldiers held the captive.
‘We are here to find a murderer,’ said Cassius, ‘not stick our noses in where they don’t belong. We don’t know the situation here. Sometimes it’s necessary to make an example of someone.’
Indavara shook his head. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy the show then.’
He took himself off to join Simo, who was facing away from the crowd, standing behind a stall not far from the big officer. Cassius saw one of the soldiers attempt to eyeball Indavara. He tried his luck for a couple of moments then gave up, relieved his fellow legionaries hadn’t noticed.
Optio Mutilus wielded the long army-issue dagger like a cleaver. As it struck the stone with a metallic whine, many of the people looked away. Others put their hands to their mouths. One man vomited noisily.
The captive didn’t cry out. He simply gripped his mutilated hand with the good one, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Cassius felt something cold twist in his gut. It was all horribly reminiscent of one particularly gruesome evening in Palmyra, but he repeated to himself what he’d told Indavara: there could be no question of intervening.
With a level of organisation that suggested this was not their first time, Optio Mutilus and the men then set about taking off the captive’s tongue. Cassius spied one young man in the crowd barely able to contain his rage and two women pleading with him to calm down. Thankfully, none of the soldiers noticed.
One of their compatriots took up a position behind the captive and gripped both sides of his head to keep it straight. Two others stationed on either side hooked their fingers into the man’s mouth to keep it open. One flicked some spittle off his hand, pulled a face, then replaced his fingers.
The goats were charging around the pen now, the noise of their hooves drowned out by their high, desperate bleats.
As Mutilus reached for his face, the captive somehow shut his mouth. One of the men pinched his nose but Mutilus waved the effort away. His solution was to jab his dagger handle between the captive’s eyes. As the man’s head lolled backwards, Mutilus reached inside his mouth and pulled out the tongue, gripping it between finger and thumb. He took aim, then slashed downward, hacking off a good two inches.
Cassius had already looked away but the garbled scream crackled icily down his spine. He glanced back in time to see Mutilus holding the bloodied piece of flesh up to the crowd.
‘Think on it, all of you,’ said Procyon. ‘Speak ill of us, or the centurion, and you might never speak again.’
Mutilus threw the tongue to the ground in front of the platform. To the soldiers’ amusement, a dog appeared from somewhere, snatched it up in its jaws and ran off with it. Mutilus took his canteen from his belt and used the water to clean his blade and hands. He then sheathed his dagger and walked down the pile of rubble with Procyon. By now the soldiers had gathered around them. The optios gave a few orders then sauntered along the avenue that led west.
Just in front of Cassius, two young boys came running through the crowd. One was chopping his hand down in the motion of a knife. The other was covering his mouth. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. The captive lay on his side on the platform, motionless. Once the soldiers were gone, several people went to help him. As the crowd began to break up, Cassius looked to the south, at the mounted officer. He turned his horse round and rode away.
Indavara was also on the move, pursuing the other officer, who was heading across the square to the east. Cassius jogged after them and caught up with Indavara just as he spoke.