The Imperial Banner (39 page)

Enquiries in the rest of the apartment block yielded nothing else of note.

‘To this inn then, sir? The Wheel?’ asked Simo as they left the dank shadows of the stairwell and strode into the warmth of the early morning sun.

‘Not just yet,’ Cassius said, cradling his helmet under one arm. ‘Nabor had nothing to cook with, kept no food in the apartment, and hadn’t been to the inn for a while. But he had to eat somewhere.’

Cassius gestured down the street – there were five or six vendors in sight. The first had set himself up with a marble counter on which he served food cooked on a charcoal-fired grill. His four male customers sat on stools, eating sausages.

‘I heard about it, yes,’ said the vendor, when asked if he knew of the murder.

‘Did you know him?’

‘Not really. Never said much. I suppose he got bored of my grub – he hadn’t bought anything off me in months. He preferred Marta’s fritters.’

The vendor wiped coal dust off his hands and nodded down the street.

The trio negotiated a gaggle of children playing with sticks and a ball and came to the next vendor. The set-up was almost identical, but run by a plump woman with a mass of grey curls tied above her head. Marta’s customers – ten of them – took their breakfast on tables and chairs. She scooped a fritter out of a blackened pan and on to a plate.

‘Cheese and herbs,’ she announced.

A man grabbed the plate and returned to his seat.

Marta looked surprised when she saw who her next customer was. ‘Oh. Good-day, sir. Are you hungry?’

‘No.’

‘I am,’ said Indavara.

Ignoring him, Cassius spoke in a low voice: ‘Did you know Nabor, the man who was killed yesterday?’

‘I did. Poor boy.’

‘Do you know of any family or—’

Simo tapped Cassius on the shoulder and pointed towards the street. Standing there alone was a young woman, anxiously fondling the big beaded necklace she wore over her tatty tunic. She was pale and alarmingly thin.

‘Are you the man asking about Nabor, sir?’

‘I am,’ Cassius replied, walking over to her.

‘I knew him. I knew him quite well.’

Cassius looked around for somewhere with a little privacy but the street was busy. There was, however, a shadowy room behind Marta’s stall. He placed two sesterces on the counter.

‘May I use your room there for a moment?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Indavara put down another sesterce.

‘And I’ll have a cheese fritter.’

Still ignoring him, Cassius gave the girl an encouraging smile.

‘We can talk in there.’

The ‘room’ was barely five feet square but there were at least a couple of stools. Cassius proffered one to the girl. She sat down, then rearranged her tunic over her knees.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, sitting down beside her.

‘Bacara.’

Cassius took care not to get too close. There were wide pink sores along her forearms, smaller ones on her fingers.

‘Well, Bacara, it’s my job to find out who killed Nabor. I hope you’ll be able to help me.’

‘I wonder if his family even know.’

‘They’re local?’

She shook her head. ‘From the desert.’

‘Do you know anything about them?’

‘Only that. I hadn’t actually seen him in months. He really was nice. He used to sing to me and we would take walks down by the river. He said that one day he might have enough money to buy my freedom.’

Cassius imagined this was a promise more often given than fulfilled.

‘What about his friends? Men he worked with?’

She shrugged. ‘It was usually just us. Mistress would tell me the days when I could have a break. There was his brother though.’

‘Do you remember the name?’

‘Silus. He wasn’t as nice-looking.’

Cassius watched Indavara attack his freshly served fritter. The bodyguard burned his mouth twice before deciding to wait.

‘Do you remember anything about him?’

‘He worked with Nabor before he went to the glass factory. They were guards for a tax collector – in case there was ever any trouble. He was strong and tough, Nabor. He didn’t look it, but he was.’

‘This tax collector. You don’t remember
his
name?’

Bacara shook her head.

‘How did he die?’ she asked suddenly.

‘He was stabbed.’

Bacara began fiddling with the necklace again.

‘You’ve not seen this Silus recently?’ asked Cassius.

‘Now and again. But I’ve no idea how to find him. I wish I could. He needs to know what’s happened.’

‘Did you ever actually see this tax collector? Do you know what he looks like?’

‘No. He was good to Nabor and Silus though. He paid them well; said they were reliable lads. Mistress says
I’m
reliable.’

Cassius stood up. ‘Well, thank you, Bacara.’

He made sure Simo wasn’t watching, then retrieved a denarius from his money bag and handed it to her. Bacara stared at the coin in disbelief for a moment, then took it.

‘Thank you, sir, thank you. I did see his house once, by the way.’

‘Whose?’

‘The tax collector. Nabor showed it to me on one of our walks. It was a nice place, just by the old walls. Big oak tree in the garden.’

‘Could you find it again?’

Bacara thought about this for an excruciatingly long time.

‘I think so, yes.’

After two hours of traipsing around the maze of streets south of the Avenue of Herod and Tiberius, Cassius finally lost his patience.

‘Caesar’s balls!’ he yelled, lashing a boot against a wall as Bacara decided – for at least the tenth time – that they were not in fact on the right street. Cassius felt like slapping her and reclaiming his denarius. He thought about abandoning the search and returning to the Jewish Quarter. Perhaps someone in this inn – the Wheel – might know something more.

Bacara didn’t dare look at him; she simply gazed down at the ground, her lank hair covering her face. Simo went over and spoke to her. Indavara – who was staring at some colourful graffiti on the pavement – yawned loudly. Cassius looked up at the high, crumbling walls that overshadowed the street. According to Simo, they’d been built on the orders of Seleucus I, one of Alexander the Great’s generals and the son of Antiochus himself; that made them over six hundred years old.

Simo led Bacara over to Cassius.

‘She says she will know it when she sees it. If it means helping you find the men who killed Nabor, she’s happy to keep looking. If you are, sir.’

Cassius cleared his throat. ‘Of course.’

To retain his own sanity and the girl’s safety, Cassius decided to stay in the shade while the Gaul led her into the next street. This was an area of medium-sized villas; housing for professionals like teachers, doctors or engineers.

Indavara was looking at a poster nailed to a tree. Cassius tried to imagine what it was like – not being able to read. The bodyguard just saw lines of ink; he didn’t know it was a notice about a lost cat. Cassius suddenly thought of those last moments at the church-house.

‘You didn’t seem too keen to stay with Simo’s friends last night.’

Indavara kept looking at the poster as Cassius continued.

‘It’s rather clever, I suppose – all that stuff about the kingdom and seeing the dead again. Everybody’s lost someone, after all. I mean, one can see the appeal.’

Indavara turned to him. Before he could say anything, Simo called out to them. Cassius and Indavara jogged up the street. The Gaul was pointing over a low wall.

‘The oak, sir.’

At the rear of the property was a luxuriant tree with thick, sprawling limbs.

‘You’re sure of it?’ Cassius asked.

Bacara nodded her head rapidly up and down like a child.

Simo leaned over the wall. ‘Excuse me.’

Cassius joined him and saw there was an elderly slave watering flowers. The slave put down his bucket and ambled over to them at what looked like his maximum speed.

‘Yes?’ he croaked.

‘Who lives here?’ asked Cassius.

‘Master Gratus Celsus, sir.’

‘What is his occupation?’

‘He is an architect.’

Cassius looked at Bacara, who was frowning.

‘Has he ever worked as a tax collector?’

‘No, though my last master did. I come with the house, you see.’

‘And his name?’

‘You will know it. He has gone on to great things: Gallio Novius Octobrianus.’

Abascantius smiling was a rather alarming sight, all yellow teeth and gleeful eyes.

‘So, our esteemed procurator has connections to a murdered man seen with this stolen necklace. By the gods – if he really is in league with the Palmyrans . . . good work, Corbulo. Good, good work.’

Shostra had shown them through to the kitchen, where Abascantius sat at a large table. A middle-aged serving woman had just brought him a bowl of foul-smelling soup. The agent took a pinch of pepper and sprinkled it on to the thick, green liquid.

‘Cabbage. My doctor says I must have it as my main meal for two weeks. To clean out my innards, apparently. Want some?’

‘No thank you, sir.’

‘You?’

Indavara shrugged, then nodded.

Abascantius caught the woman’s eye and waved at Indavara. ‘Soup for this one.’ He turned back to Cassius. ‘Did you get anything else out of the girl?’

‘No. But I told her how to reach me if need be.’

Abascantius frowned as he took the first taste of soup. ‘Needs garum.’

As Abascantius opened a nearby jar, Cassius braced himself. The smell of cabbage was nothing compared to garum, a condiment made up largely of decomposing fish intestines. He had never been able to understand why people ate it.

There was a knock on the kitchen door. Shostra was there with two men behind him: the bodyguard Major and another man.

‘Wait outside. Be with you shortly,’ said Abascantius. As the trio withdrew, he continued: ‘Taken with what Antonia found out about his nocturnal habits, it seems evident we need to keep a close eye on Octobrianus.’

Cassius cast a look towards the woman. Surely Abascantius was far too trusting of his staff.

‘Don’t worry about her,’ said the agent. ‘She’s deaf.’

‘Ah.’

Cassius resisted the temptation to hold his nose as the smell of garum wafted towards him. He sat back in his chair.

‘My other men are busy shadowing Gordio,’ said Abascantius. ‘You two can find out what exactly Octobrianus is up to with these night-time forays. I’ll give you his address, you watch from a distance, and follow him if he goes out. Just don’t get too close. Understood?’

‘Sir.’

‘Perhaps a rest this afternoon. I need you fit and alert – could be a long night.’

‘No such luck,’ said Cassius. He told Abascantius about Simo’s father. The agent’s curious expression turned to one of amusement when he heard about Nura’s defence of Paul of Samosata. Cassius was intrigued by this man. He had engendered such hatred from the rest of the Church, yet such loyalty from his followers; he knew Abascantius would have a view on the matter.

‘Even before he enjoyed the queen’s favour during the occupation, there was talk of his ties with Palmyra. I was never particularly concerned by it, but I recall I did have someone look into his affairs. Certainly not what one might think of as a typical Christian man.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ whispered Simo as he left the kitchen.

Abascantius took a sip of soup and nodded at the departing Gaul. ‘They’re a sensitive lot, like the Jews. I saw Paul a few times around the city myself. He was always surrounded by a gaggle of maids and hangers-on. He’d have the girls sing his praises before he gave a speech. Some of them lived with him. Virgins, apparently.’ Abascantius smirked. ‘I wanted to dig up something on him, just in case I might need it later. My man tried to get one or two of these tarts to tell what really went on in that big villa but they wouldn’t spill a thing.’

‘He sounds like quite a character.’

‘Handsome bastard too. Dressed like a prince. One wonders what the simple man from Nazareth might have thought of it all.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Well, you best get going. The bridges will be heaving. There are races this afternoon.’