Cassius stopped as the man passed within a yard of him and noted his thick belt and well-maintained scabbard. The others were similarly attired. Cassius looked down at their hobnailed boots. There was not a trace of blood, nor the grey mud of the tunnel. The squad of legionaries continued on their way.
He turned in every direction, searching desperately for some tell-tale sign. How long had it been since he’d seen the men leave the tunnel? Were they already past him? Could they have got through the crowd even before he’d arrived?
Then he saw the staves — three of them. He couldn’t see the men holding them but he followed anyway. His way was soon barred by a group of twenty or more standing in a circle. In the middle was a drummer. The others had linked their arms and were kicking their legs up in time with the beat.
Cassius tapped one of the men on the shoulder. ‘I need to get through!’
The reveller shook his head. Cassius tried to force his way through anyway. The man shoved him in the shoulder.
‘Go around, fool!’
Cassius got up on his tiptoes. The staves were moving to his left, away from the river. He ducked down, and tried to burrow between two of the men. He thought he was through but then felt himself being hauled backwards by his belt. He twisted round and saw the same man staring at him. The Syrian was short but well-built; and he suddenly looked very, very drunk. He grabbed Cassius by the tunic with his left hand, then drove his right fist into his stomach. Winded, Cassius staggered backward. He couldn’t catch his breath. He fell on to his backside.
Then he felt hands under his arms.
‘I’ve got you, sir.’
Simo helped him to his feet and held him up while he recovered himself. Major appeared too, which was enough to drive the drunk swiftly away through the crowd. The bodyguard cleared a path as Simo helped Cassius towards the river. There was a little space at the edge of the square, by the wall above the jetty. Simo helped Cassius sit down on a wide stone bollard.
‘Stay here a moment, sir.’
‘Those men with staves-’
‘Wait to catch your breath, sir.’
Cassius tried to stand, at least to try and point, but Simo put two hands on his shoulders.
‘No — Simo — They could be — ’ Cassius bent forward, wincing at the pain as he took deep breaths.
‘That’s it, sir.’
After a moment, Cassius raised his head and looked down at the jetty. Moored against a pontoon twenty yards away was a long rowing boat. At the end of the pontoon, three lanterns had been hooked on to a wooden post. Below it, four men were kneeling, washing their hands in the river. They were identically attired in black loose-fitting trousers and sleeveless tunics.
‘That’s it, sir,’ said Simo. ‘Slow, deep breaths.’
One of the men had taken off his boots. He dunked them in the water, wiped the soles with his hand, then put them on again. He stood up and joined the others as they clambered down into the rowing boat. All had heavy sacks across their shoulders which they deposited in the bottom of the boat before grabbing an oar.
Cassius stood up.
‘Sir? What is it?’
Ignoring Simo — and with his hand pressed against his aching gut — Cassius hurried along the wall towards the pontoon.
Two of the men had taken lanterns with them into the boat. The last was lifted off the post by a fifth figure, who waited for the others to get settled, then climbed down into the stern. The men untied the mooring ropes and pushed off. They then took up their oars and gently propelled the boat away from the jetty.
The fifth man was holding the lantern on his lap, and even as the boat neared the main stream of the river, Cassius could still see his face quite clearly.
‘Kaeso Scaurus.’
XXXI
The covered cart was stuffy and hot. The legionary sitting to Indavara’s right was dozing, the man to his left drinking noisily from his canteen. Abascantius’s men sat in a row opposite him. They had barely stopped talking since leaving the mint.
‘Ten years I’ve worked in this province. And this is my reward?’
‘I reckon old Pitface has lost it this time. I told you we were looking in the wrong place. Octobrianus doesn’t have the balls for something like this.’
‘Enough, you two,’ said Salvian, who as well as being the largest of the three, was also the oldest. ‘This isn’t over yet by a long way. Gordio’s overstepped the mark.’
‘I’m not so sure. Aba used up all his favours a long time ago. Marcellinus and the rest will be more than happy to see him disgraced. And where does that leave us?’
Salvian spoke up again: ‘I’ve known him a lot longer than you. He’s come through worse than this. I reckon he’ll have us back on the streets by dawn. Now shut it.’
Indavara took heart from this last comment, but when the cart stopped and they were manhandled outside, he realised he was back at the tower where Simo’s father was being kept. As they were escorted up the stairs with spears at their backs, he felt a rising sense of panic. And when he smelled the foul stench of the prisoners and came close to the iron bars, he was suddenly sure that if he let himself be put inside that cell, he would not get out.
Herminius was on duty again. With a curious glance at Indavara — the last in line — he unlocked the door and opened it wide. The others went in quietly. A push in the back from one of the legionaries sent Indavara to within a foot of the cell. He turned round.
‘I’m not going in there.’
‘Don’t tell me: you’re an innocent man,’ said Herminius with a sneer.
‘I can’t.’ Indavara wiped away the sweat running down his forehead. ‘I can’t go in there.’
The guards laughed.
‘It’s funny, you don’t look the craven type,’ added Herminius. ‘Get in.’
‘I tell you I can’t.’
Another of the guards jabbed his spear towards his face. ‘You heard the man.’
Herminius shoved Indavara in the shoulder. He didn’t move an inch.
‘I’ll take pity on you and assume that because you’ve only the one ear, you don’t hear so well. Last chance. Inside!’
Herminius lashed out again. This time Indavara grabbed his hand, or, more precisely, two of his fingers. With a single flick of his wrist, he bent the fingers back on themselves, snapping them just below the knuckle.
Herminius loosed an agonised screech and staggered away, staring down at his hand.
Two of the guards struck out with their spears. Indavara had nowhere else to go but back. He tripped over the bottom of the gate, and fell into the cell. One of the guards swung the door. As it clanged shut, another man came forward and locked it.
‘You one-eared whore-son,’ Herminius spat. ‘You’ll pay for that. By the wrath of the gods you’ll pay!’
Indavara got to his feet. He barely noticed the other prisoners as he retreated across the cell to the window. He turned and looked out at the black sky.
‘Caesar’s balls,’ said Cassius. ‘Then we’ll just have to steal one.’
Having dispatched Simo with orders to find Abascantius and tell him everything they’d seen, Cassius and Major had spent the last few moments scouring the jetty for a manned boat, but to no avail.
Alongside the last pontoon was a rowing tender about twelve feet long. Cassius ran over to it and knelt down, searching for oars. He found a pair stowed under the middle of the three seats.
‘No rowlocks but it’ll do. Major, untie that rope.’
Cassius climbed down and pulled out the oars from under the seat. The bodyguard threw in the rope then clambered in after it. Cassius pushed off and passed an oar back to Major.
‘We shall have to paddle — you take the right.’
The little boat lurched alarmingly as the two men got settled, Cassius on the forward seat, Major to the rear. Realising his sword belt would hinder him, Cassius wrenched it off over his head.
Then he took up his oar and dug deep, propelling the boat out into the river. He was relieved to see the tide was ebbing; it would have been a struggle to row against the water and keep pace with Scaurus’s craft. Cassius reckoned the boat was about a hundred yards away but with the lanterns still alight it wouldn’t be difficult to follow.