The trio had been riding for seven days. It had taken four to reach the coast at Tyre, where they’d turned north, bound for Tripolis. Cassius was not in any great hurry; he’d sent a letter ahead to a man named Quentin, the treasury agent in charge of the counterfeiting investigation.
He never have imagined being glad to be back in Syria. Arabia – Bostra in particular – held dark associations for him now; he had left behind Abascantius, Governor Calvinus, the pressures of the troubling situation with the Tanukh and – most importantly of all – whomever had tried to capture him.
As suggested by Abascantius, Cassius had taken a series of precautions to remain undetected: they had left Bostra before first light, used a roundabout route out of the city, and been escorted by four cavalrymen for the first day. Though clearly bemused by such a duty, the soldiers had taken their responsibilities seriously, doubling back regularly to check the road behind them and leaving only when their charges found safe accommodation for the night.
Cassius was not in uniform and had used a false name at the inns where they stayed. As the days passed, he had grown more relaxed and was looking forward to what would surely be a comparatively leisurely and safe assignment. It was now mid-afternoon and – according to the milestones – there were only five miles left to Tripolis. They would arrive well before dusk with plenty of time to meet Quentin and arrange their lodgings.
Indavara – who was riding to Cassius’s left, closest to the sea – unleashed an almighty yawn. ‘Hot again.’
‘You ate too much lunch. Again.’
Indavara ignored him and pawed at an insect that had settled on his bulging right bicep. Though clearly happy to be on the move, the bodyguard never liked disruption to his conditioning regime and had to improvise exercises on the road. He’d spent half of the previous evening doing hundreds of push-ups and lifting a barrel above his head. His recovery had been remarkably speedy and he’d spent only two days languishing in the cart. Even so, he was inflicting daily progress reports on his companions – apparently the pain was now negligible but the purple bruising had turned black.
Indavara looked over his shoulder. ‘All right there, Simo?’
Cassius turned round. The attendant, who was driving the horse and cart, had set up a makeshift awning to protect himself from the sun.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Patch?’
‘Seems fine.’
The hardy donkey who had been with them since their journey into the Arabian desert was tied to the rear of the cart. Indavara and Simo didn’t even bother to pretend that they actually needed the beast for their luggage any more. Cassius allowed them this indulgence but was constantly amazed by how much care and attention they lavished on the creature.
‘Can you think of any more?’ asked Indavara. The game of ‘guess the emperor’ had been going on for some time.
‘I believe we’ve exhausted our entire supply,’ replied Simo. ‘Perhaps another game?’
‘I don’t think you’ve heard this one,’ said Cassius, looking down at the white sandy beach where four fishermen were bringing in a net.
‘I once had a special collapsible boat constructed then used it to try and drown my mother.’
‘Mmm.’ Simo seemed perplexed.
‘Let me,’ said Indavara. ‘Was it Caligula?’
‘No,’ said Cassius.
‘Tiberius?’
‘No. Last guess.’
‘Nero.’
‘Very good.’
‘Ha.’ Indavara slapped his thigh. ‘Did it work?’
‘The boat? Yes. But she managed to swim back to shore – that must have been an awkward conversation.’
Indavara shook his head. ‘Emperors – mad buggers every one.’
Cassius pointed at him. ‘Don’t say that in company. And remember you’ve taken an oath to Aurelian. We should all consider ourselves lucky; we’ve not had such a capable character in the purple for quite a while.’
‘Do you think he’s seen the black stone yet?’ asked Indavara.
‘Probably.’
‘Perhaps he’ll see the god Elagabal like we did.’
Cassius didn’t reply. He’d tried to forget the vision he’d had that day in the canyon and wished he’d never told Indavara about it.
‘You saw him too,’ said the bodyguard. ‘I dream of it sometimes. I dream of him fighting with my Fortuna.’
‘It was our minds playing tricks, that’s all.’
‘Of course,’ said Indavara, rolling his eyes. ‘You know everything. About everything.’
‘As I said at the time: no – just more than you.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Move over.’
They were heading up a slight slope and Cassius had just spotted a cavalryman coming over the rise. The rider carried a scarlet and gold standard and was leading a squad of ten. They seemed to be well equipped for a long journey: the saddles were loaded with fodder, water skins and equipment which thumped and jangled as they trotted past. Each man also had a yellow oval shield with the same pattern of black swirls surrounding the bronze boss.
These were not the first soldiers they had seen; there had been two more units of cavalry and a century heading south. Cassius didn’t like ignoring them; he enjoyed the camaraderie of greeting fellow soldiers on the road – seeing his crest, they generally assumed he was a centurion. But for the moment it seemed wise to draw as little attention as possible so he had forgone anything that identified him as a military man. He would have to wear his uniform in Tripolis while undertaking the investigation but (again at the suggestion of Abascantius) would continue to operate under an assumed name.
As the last of the cavalrymen passed them, they reached the top of the slope. Ahead, the road cut through thick scrub and olive groves, following the gentle curve of the coast before reaching Tripolis, most of which seemed to be crammed on to a promontory jutting out into the sea. It was a medium-sized city, not as large as some of those they had passed through like Sidon and Berytus. Cassius had no idea why the Emperor had decided to commission a new imperial mint there.
‘Four to go,’ said Indavara, spying another milestone. ‘Hope there’s some good eating round here. I’m starving.’
After obtaining some directions from a pair of legionaries patrolling the road, they headed straight for the nearest army way station. It was currently occupied by a party of surveyors, so while Simo went to find alternative accommodation, Cassius and Indavara were assigned a young lad to escort them to the mint. It was less than a mile away, on the eastern edge of the town in an area of factories and workshops. Unlike the other buildings, the mint was surrounded by a twelve-foot brick wall topped by spikes and guarded by a squad of legionaries. Confident he could find his way back, Cassius dismissed the lad and they waited outside the entrance for Quentin.
‘Looks just like the one in Antioch,’ said Indavara, examining the walls.
‘Of course – you were with Abascantius when he thought Governor Gordio was mixed up in the theft of the Persian flag. Gods, what a mess he made of that. Fortunately, I was around to pick up the pieces.’
‘By getting yourself captured?’
‘All part of the plan,’ said Cassius with a grin.
He let out a long breath and wished he’d brought his hat with him. He was wearing a thin, sleeveless tunic and his lightest boots but was still sweating. ‘Hope Simo’s found somewhere close to the coast, bit of sea air would be nice.’
One of the eight legionaries on duty opened the small iron gate next to the main entrance and a slight man of about forty appeared. Cassius’s skin was on the fair side, but this fellow’s was even paler and he grimaced as he was struck by the full power of the sun. His long-sleeved tunic was of good quality but the sleeves were marked with ink blots.