The Far Shore (32 page)

Darnis’s harbour was even smaller than it looked from the sea and was enclosed by two breakwaters, each about a hundred yards long. They were in the shape of a broken bow, with five straight sections within the curve. The breakwaters were built of grey marine concrete striped with weed and scarred by cracks and holes. There were no other large ships docked, just a couple of small fishing boats. Running along the edge of the harbour was a row of brick-built warehouses, one of which had lost its roof. Between them and the town was a strip of marsh perhaps a quarter-mile wide that could be traversed via a stone causeway.

The
Fortuna
’s sails had been taken down half an hour earlier and the freighter passed through the narrow entrance with only a few feet to spare on either side of the oars. Asdribar ordered Squint to steer the ship towards the east side of the harbour and one of the more solid-looking sections of the breakwater, which was at least equipped with a few mooring rings.

Cassius stood with Indavara and Simo close to the mast, surveying the town – or what was left of it. Evidently Cyrene hadn’t been the only settlement in the area to suffer from the earthquake; hardly anything higher than two storeys had been left standing and there were as many ruined buildings as intact ones. The only remaining structures of any height were the thick columns of a roofless temple on the eastern side of the town.

Like all Roman settlements, Darnis had been constructed around a central crossroads. Between the two wide avenues running north–south and east–west was a paved square. Several hundred people had gathered there.

‘Wonder what’s going on,’ said Indavara.

‘Who knows?’ replied Cassius. ‘But with that crowd, news of our arrival will travel fast.’

Cassius had concocted a simple cover story: he and Annia were cousins who had chartered the
Fortuna
for a journey to Cyrene, where they were to attend his sister’s marriage the following month. The ship had run into difficulties and put into Darnis for repairs. Cassius had asked Asdribar to explain to the crew the importance of maintaining this pretence. He had also asked Annia to stay aboard, at least for the moment. To his surprise, she had agreed.

‘So who am I supposed to be?’ Indavara enquired as Asdribar shouted instructions down to Opilio and the oarsmen. ‘Why would a man on his way to a wedding have a bodyguard?’

‘I am clearly a gentleman,’ replied Cassius. ‘Gentlemen are usually rich. Rich men usually have bodyguards.’

‘So if I’m a bodyguard, why can’t I carry a sword?’

‘Were you listening? Because I want to draw as little attention to us as possible. Come, you two, we’re not going to wait for the gangplank.’

Cassius had opted for his anonymous brown cloak and plain tunic and, like Indavara, was armed only with his dagger.

As they neared the breakwater, the crew tied fenders to the port side of the ship to protect the hull from the concrete. With a few more shouts from Asdribar, the oars were retracted and the
Fortuna
drifted gently to a stop. Desenna was first off with the bow line, closely followed by Cassius and Indavara. The top of the breakwater was two yards above the side-rail and, without a helping hand from Indavara, Simo would have struggled to make it up, especially as he was weighed down with Cassius’s satchel.

Once they’d taken a moment to let their unsteady legs adjust, Cassius set off and found considerable concentration was required to avoid the fissures and hollows underfoot. The quite remarkable volume of black-and-white gull shit didn’t help matters; scores of the birds flapped into the sky as the interlopers leapt and stumbled their way towards the shore.

The impression of neglect and decay was reinforced by the rest of the harbour. The western side seemed to have silted up completely and a wooden dock that had once joined the two breakwaters had partially collapsed into the water. Behind the dock was a section of gravelled road that broke up the row of warehouses. The door of the closest building was swinging back and forth in the breeze.

As they crunched across the gravel, Cassius looked inside the shadowy interior and saw nothing but a pile of sand. ‘Something tells me we’re not going to find a harbour master here.’

They reached the causeway. It was built upon a sloping platform of pebbles, constructed of hardy hexagonal flagstones and wide enough for two carts to pass. The strip of marsh was a collage of muddy soil, dark puddles and clumps of high, green reeds. A sweet, fetid smell hung in the air.

‘I thought Africa would be dry,’ said Indavara.

‘Me too,’ replied Cassius. ‘Notably warmer than Rhodes, though.’

As they walked on, he looked at the distant crowd. They were congregating on the western side of the square, facing some kind of platform on which several figures had appeared.

At the end of the causeway, what had once been a grand arch marked the official boundary of the town. Only the left side of the arch remained – a column perhaps twelve feet high. Cassius perused the still-visible inscriptions. The arch was just twenty years old and listed below the date were the names of the wealthy patrons who had funded the structure. Cassius wondered how many of those families remained.

Running along the northern edge of Darnis on either side of the arch was an old wall composed of huge, deeply weathered blocks of stone. There were several gaps, and no more than two blocks placed on top of each other at any point. Cassius knew that many of the settlements on the North African coast were originally Phoenician and reckoned the wall might even date back that far.

The road continued on through the middle of a sprawling, abandoned dye works. To the right of the road were scores of wide clay bowls sunk into the earth. Here and there were traces of opulent dyes, now diluted by stagnant rainwater. To the left was a large courtyard filled with countless amphorae, some still standing in neat rows.

The townspeople were gathered to the right of a marketplace made up of wooden stalls and stone-built booths for municipal officials. Cassius’s sense of foreboding grew as they approached the crowd. He estimated there were about four hundred people gazing at the platform, which was located on the corner of the avenues leading south and west. Now he was closer, Cassius realised what the platform had once been: the pyramidal front section of Darnis’s forum. It had inverted during the collapse of the building and now lay atop a pile of rubble and the remains of several columns. Close to the rear of the platform was a dented silver statue of the she-wolf nursing Romulus and Remus.

Standing in front of it were four legionaries clad in full armour with their swords drawn. On his knees between them was a man wearing only a torn tunic. His wrists had been tied together behind him and his head was bowed. The soldiers seemed to be waiting for something.

Some of the townspeople had by now noticed the three new arrivals. They alerted their friends and soon half the crowd were gazing at Cassius, Indavara and Simo, or beyond them – at the
Fortuna
’s mast. But the curiosity faded quickly, and in moments all but a few had turned back towards the platform.

Now Cassius examined them. A broader mix was hard to imagine, and they had gathered in distinct groups amongst the throng. There were the poor; brown-skinned and barefoot, some of the children clad in animal skins. Then there were the richer locals, who wore long, baggy-sleeved tunics of red, purple and yellow edged with exotic patterns. The men wore their wealth on their fingers and some of the women were very striking with their long, curly black hair and gleaming bangles on their wrists. And of course the proud Romans, who – even though their families might have been in the region for centuries – made no concession to local fashion. With their leather sandals, well-cut tunics and pale capes and cloaks, they would have looked entirely at home on the streets of the capital. Worryingly, there wasn’t a single man in a toga – no one who looked like a local politician or administrator.

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.