The Emperor's Silver: Agent of Rome 5 (31 page)

Cassius didn’t particularly relish the prospect but the sergeant was right; if not for the need for secrecy, he would have already presented himself to the city’s senior military commander.

‘Very well.’ He pointed at his satchel, which Simo passed to him. Sticking out of one end was the spearhead.

Nemetorius had handed his helmet to the legionary watching his horse and was brushing something off his cloak. He looked up as Cosmas and Cassius approached.

‘Centurion, this is Officer Crispian.’

Cassius offered his forearm. ‘Imperial Security.’

Nemetorius waited a long time to reach out and greet him, which he did with unnecessary – but not unexpected – force. ‘A grain man in Berytus, eh? I was not informed.’

‘Apologies for not coming to see you sooner. I am working on a covert investigation for Marshal Marcellinus involving a counterfeiting gang. We believe they may be operating within the city.’

As Cosmas withdrew, Cassius pulled aside the top of his satchel so that the centurion could see the spearhead.

Nemetorius didn’t seem interested. ‘So how long have you been creeping around the city without my knowledge?’

Cassius decided not to use ‘sir’. Technically, Nemetorius did outrank him, but the older man wasn’t working directly on behalf of the Emperor’s deputy. Also, Cassius didn’t want to immediately give ground; he seemed like the type who would exploit it.

‘Several days.’

A smile played across Nemetorius’ face as he examined Cassius’s outfit. ‘What are you supposed to be?’

‘A merchant. I do not wish to advertise my presence here.’

‘Clearly. So I presume that you now need something from me?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Cassius briefly outlined the plan. ‘I myself would like to pose as one of your officers and man the east gate.’

Nemetorius had been looking up at the cloudless sky while Cassius spoke. ‘Counterfeiters in Berytus? I don’t see it.’ Now he stared at the younger man. ‘Sure this isn’t all an elaborate ruse so that you can pretend to be a real soldier for a day?’

Cassius held the gaze of the dark-eyed centurion, though it was not easy. ‘I can assure you that Marshal Marcellinus and my superior Aulus Celatus Abascantius do not consider this a laughing matter.’

‘Pitface, eh? I should have known you were one of his.’

Cassius was surprised at how he bristled at the insult. Had he not been dependent on the centurion’s cooperation he might have reminded him of his place in the grand scheme of things. That was always the trouble with the leaders of these provincial cities – they forgot there was a world beyond their walls.

‘I imagine Diadromes will communicate with you later. I simply thought it polite to introduce myself.’

‘Play your games if you wish. But remember that the collection of tax at that gate is the army’s responsibility. If the numbers don’t add up at the end of the day, you will have me to deal with.’

Cassius wanted to end the conversation as rapidly as he could. ‘If we do make any progress, and I remain here in Berytus, I may have to ask for your help again – a few men perhaps.’

They both knew that – armed with the spearhead – he was perfectly entitled to requisition any troops he needed; but Cassius doubted Nemetorius would make it that easy.

The chief centurion raised his chin, and again chose not to look at his fellow officer. ‘To be frank, I have more urgent matters to concern me – law and order for one.’ He pointed across the street at four city sergeants who were escorting a captive towards the headquarters. ‘But if Marcellinus himself needs my assistance, I shall of course provide it.’

Nemetorius took his helmet from the legionary and put it on. ‘Cosmas there knows how to contact me. What was the name again, grain man?’

‘Officer Crispian.’

‘Officer. Never understood that rank. Not really a proper title at all, is it?’

Nemetorius walked back to his horse and retrieved his whip, then set off across the road. Cassius returned to the others and looked on.

‘This him?’ asked Nemetorius.

The four sergeants seemed almost as taken aback by the sight of the advancing centurion as their prisoner.

‘Yes, sir,’ said one. ‘Sestius Ravilla. He’s a weaver.’

‘Of course he is.’ Nemetorius seemed oblivious to other road-users who had also stopped to see what was going on. ‘Put him on his knees.’

‘
Is
that him?’ asked Indavara.

‘Right build,’ said Cassius. ‘Yes, see the colour of the tunic. The dolt didn’t even get changed.’

Nemetorius raised the whip back over his left shoulder and bellowed. ‘Throw stones at a gentleman and his wife and children, would you? A friend of the magistrate’s? A friend of mine?’

Ravilla knew what was coming. His hands were bound behind him so all he could do was dig his chin into his chest and close his eyes. Nemetorius cracked the whip across his head, then brought it straight back across his cheek. One of the sergeants winced and a woman cried out. Nemetorius stood over the weaver, crest ruffled by a breeze, tapping the whip on the ground, watching as blood dripped from torn skin on to the flagstones.

Indavara took a step towards the street.

Cassius put an arm out in front of him. ‘Don’t even think about it. Not our concern.’

Nemetorius circled around behind Ravilla and dragged him up by the rope, then led him across the street. ‘Come now, master weaver, and we will see what you can tell us about your stone-throwing compatriots.’

Nemetorius handed the rope to his nearest man. Ravilla was trying to blink away the blood seeping down into his eyes.

Cassius approached Nemetorius. ‘Centurion, we were there. I can give you details of the other men.’

‘I have what I need.’ Still holding the whip, Nemetorius mounted up and rode off, scattering onlookers.

Cassius handed his satchel back to Simo.

‘What a prick,’ said Indavara.

‘You’ll get no argument from me.’

She is wearing only metal: a thin chain at her neck and a thick one around her waist. The candlelight pools on her dark, smooth skin as she crosses the room. She pulls the ribbon from her hair, black tresses falling over her shoulders. She eases herself on to the bed and slides on to him, nipples hard against his chest. She kisses his neck then whispers to him.

‘What do you want this night?’

‘Master Cassius, Master Cassius.’

‘What?’ he snapped, rolling on to his side.

‘A letter from Tripolis has arrived, sir. Also a note from Master Diadromes.’

Cassius yawned and stretched, irritated to be woken from such a delightful dream. In fact, it was more memory than dream. He thought often of Delkash. Surely the Persian bar girl was the only possible reason he might ever return to Bostra.

‘What’s the hour?’ he asked as he got off the bed.

‘Third, sir,’ came the reply from downstairs.

He had told Simo to let him sleep. The factory inspections would go ahead the following day and he planned to remain at the tower; there was no sense taking unnecessary risks or getting mixed up in another incident like yesterday’s.

Cassius pulled a tunic on over his head and glanced at his little shrine, where a candle and a libation now sat in front of the great gods. He’d spent almost half an hour at prayer the previous night. Some of his appeals to Jupiter had involved the investigation; most had concerned his survival. He opened the door and negotiated the stairs slowly, still half asleep.

‘Good morning, Master Cassius.’ Simo was already pouring him some milk. ‘Fresh today. I’ve found a wonderful little farm shop just up the road. Some lovely rolls too – that’s if Indavara hasn’t eaten them all already.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone for a run.’

Simo pointed at the note and the letter on the corner of the table. Cassius sat down on a stool and drank some of his milk before investigating them.

‘Cold water for your wash, sir?’

‘In this temperature? Of course.’

‘We’re well shaded here at least.’

‘You seem cheerful. And no more minor sabotage. You are sticking to what we agreed?’

Simo kept his back to him as he filled a jug from the water barrel and poured it into a bowl. ‘Of course, sir.’

Cassius checked the note first – just a few lines from the deputy magistrate. Diadromes had obtained the appropriate authorisations from Pomponianus, Nemetorius and Berytus’s procurator (who, like Nemetorius, was concerned that the daily functions of tax collection not be disrupted). Twenty-four sergeants were to carry out the search for the fictional Egyptian spy; each pair had been assigned three or four premises. Under Cosmas’s supervision, they would aim to complete the operation by the fourth hour. Cassius was to contact Diadromes before the evening if he had any remaining queries. He did not.

Cassius drank the rest of the milk then looked across the tower and realised the door was open. ‘Er, Simo.’

The Gaul turned round. Cassius pointed at the door.

‘Sorry, sir, I wanted to get some air in.’ He trotted over and bolted it.

‘With no Indavara here? Gods’ blood. Think, man.’

‘Yes, Master Cassius. Apologies.’

Cassius looked again at Diadromes’s letter: a black scrawl on fine paper.

He imagined the gang skulking in the corner of some factory; hearing of the sergeants’ arrival, then hastily packing their tools and coins on to carts and speeding towards the eastern gate. He tapped his fingers against the table. It might work; a lot of effort for nothing if it didn’t.

Having scraped the wax seal away with a spoon, he unrolled Quentin’s letter. The treasury agent had continued collating his ‘coin sightings’ and now had the majority of replies. His findings confirmed that the fake denarii were now in widespread use across Syria and the adjacent provinces. Cassius thought about the coins themselves; could he somehow trace their origins, again without drawing too much attention? Quentin had little else to report and seemed more interested in Cassius’s progress. (He too had received an impatient missive from Marcellinus – or his adviser Glycia, to be precise.)

‘Something to eat, sir?’

‘Roll. Any cheese?’

‘Goat’s.’

‘That’ll do. And a few of those pickled onions – I won’t be breathing on any ladies today, more’s the pity.’

Cassius watched Simo putting his breakfast together, his thoughts drifting back to Delkash. After he’d given him the plate, Simo poured more milk into his master’s mug then leaned against the table.

‘That weaver, sir – the one the centurion took away. What do you think happened to him?’

‘Nothing pleasant.’

‘Berytus does seem to have its share of problems.’

‘We are interested only in one of them. I do wish you and Indavara would remember that.’

Cassius put down the onion in his hand and looked up at the Gaul. ‘If you had the eyes of a god – any god – you would see arguments and fighting and cruelty and death in every part of the world. From the deserts of Arabia to the Pillars of Hercules. You two think only of what you see in front of you, as if to help one man is to help every man.’

‘That is precisely what the Faith teaches us, sir.’

Cassius picked up the onion, then dropped it again. ‘Do you or Indavara ever think about what
I
have done? In Arabia or here in Syria with the Persian flag –
I helped to avert a war
. What better way is there to prevent suffering and death? You could spend half a century throwing brass at beggars and you would never match that.’

Simo – though clearly surprised – nodded.

‘I’m proud of it,’ added Cassius. ‘And considering how you both helped me, you should be proud too.’

‘I suppose he has a point,’ said Indavara. ‘But you must always remember, Simo – Corbulo doesn’t know what it is to go hungry, or be beaten, or imprisoned. He is not the worst of his kind, not by a long way. But he thinks only of himself.’

Simo stopped in the middle of the darkened street. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t.’

‘Come on. Corbulo is safe in that tower and we’ll only be a couple of hours. Why would he suspect anything?’

Simo waited for a gang of labourers to pass. They were lugging huge amphoras full of something and muttering complaints and oaths with every step.