The Emperor's Silver: Agent of Rome 5 (33 page)

‘Get your rolls! Get your loaves!’ bellowed a vendor. The gatehouse was a prime spot and the traders had set up outside well before dawn. A lot of their custom came from the farmers bringing in produce for the city’s markets. Plenty had already come through but Cassius had left them to Sellic and his men; he was interested only in traffic
leaving
Berytus.

‘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.’

This caught Indavara by surprise. ‘I meant no insult.’

‘I know. And I can see how such a thing would shock you; it is only two years that you have been … out in the world.’

Indavara came closer. ‘You always tell Simo that it is not Satan or the demons who make men harm others. You say it is men themselves. Why?’

‘I don’t know. Gods, it’s a bit early in the day for all this. Listen, look around you. Evil and suffering are not
everywhere
.’ Cassius pointed across at Sellic’s assistants; all three were examining a single waxed tablet. ‘Look at this lot – not the most popular job but they’ve taken it to get on – decent lads trying to make their way.’

Cassius put a hand on Indavara’s arm and took him out from under the arch towards the road.

‘Look here.’ He pointed at one of the vendors, who was showing his young son how to use a pair of scales.

‘Or there.’ Farther along the road, a girl was helping an elderly woman fill a bag with vegetables.

‘People going about their business, looking out for themselves and others where they can. The world is not only death and destruction, though I concede we’ve observed our fair share.’

Indavara looked out across the fields, where the shadows of a few small clouds drifted across the swaying wheat. Cassius thought it rather beautiful.

‘But behind us,’ said Indavara. ‘In every corner of this city …’

Cassius sighed. ‘Even the gods cannot stop it. And it seems to me that they don’t even try.’

Cosmas arrived around midday to report that the inspections were finished. He hadn’t had time to hear from all the sergeants but they were convening at the ninth hour and he would pass on anything of use. So far, nothing notable had been discovered.

‘What about the other gates?’ asked Cassius.

‘The legionaries are supposed to— ah, that might be them.’

Two soldiers had appeared from an alley and strode swiftly up to the gate. ‘Officer Crispian, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘We were told to report to you.’

‘Yes. Anything from the northern and southern gates?’

‘No, sir. Just a few bags of salt hidden in some hay.’

‘Ah shit.’ Cassius kicked the ground. Sellic peered out from the shadows, then disappeared back inside. An abacus rattled as his assistants continued totting up the morning’s takings.

‘Something might turn up later,’ said Indavara.

‘Optimism? From you?’

Cosmas walked over to a bucket one of the slaves had just brought out. He cupped water in his hands and threw it on his face, then wiped some on his neck to cool down.

The other slave trotted over to Cassius, mop in hand. ‘Sir?’

‘What?’

‘You’re looking for something in a cart, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Why?’

The slave was an old fellow, whip thin with straggly, greying hair. He pointed towards the city. ‘Two carts just turned on to the street from the right. When they saw you soldiers they went back.’

Cassius looked. There were no vehicles visible any more.

‘Indavara! You two, come with me. Cosmas, watch the gate.’

Cassius set off up the middle of the road, as fast as he could with the heavy sword slapping around. Ahead, half a dozen water-carriers with amphoras balanced on their heads were crossing the street but they divided to let Cassius and the other three through.

Fifty or so paces took him to the corner. He stopped and peered around the stall of a spice-seller who insisted on quoting prices even when one of the legionaries told him to shut up. Cassius glimpsed the tail end of a cart turning left about thirty yards along the street.

‘Come on.’

A group of craftsmen chipping away at stone blocks outside a townhouse stopped their work as they raced by. Cassius slowed a little to ensure the others were with him as he rounded the next corner. The street was narrow and the two cart drivers were drawing complaints from pedestrians having to squash themselves against walls and storefronts.

Cassius waved the legionaries past him. ‘Get in front of them.’

He and Indavara waited until the soldiers had darted along one side and blocked the path of the first cart.

‘Halt!’ yelled Cassius.

The two legionaries put up their hands and the drivers reined in. Cassius peered over the top of the second cart; the cargo was large bundles of dried reeds. He went to check the first vehicle – also reeds. The driver of the second cart was trying to calm his horse.

‘You – why did you turn round?’

The driver was a wiry little man, arms decorated with some badly rendered tattoos.

‘Turn round, sir?’ he said, avoiding Cassius’s gaze.

‘You approached the gate, then went back. Why?’

The driver of the first cart – a younger man – spoke up. ‘We got a bit lost, sir, but we know where we’re going now. Let us on our way, would you? We’re already late.’

‘Not until I’ve checked your cargo properly. Get down and steady your horses.’