There was also a smaller sheet: a receipt with space for Cassius to mark his name. It stated that the heavy bag at the bottom of the satchel contained one hundred silver denarii. Cassius took it out and weighed it in his hand. The money would certainly prove useful but he was worried about carrying it around the wastes of southern Syria with only Simo for company.
The big Gaul didn’t lack courage, but — like Cassius — he simply wasn’t the warrior type. There wasn’t an animal or human alive he wouldn’t help if he saw them in distress. Cassius had even noticed his depressed mood on the days he’d had to kill a chicken for dinner.
He replaced the money and the papers in the satchel and put it to one side. Smiling at the ducklings as they paddled around the boat after their mother, he rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. After a while he heard voices from the courtyard: Shostra and the innkeeper, then Simo, then Abascantius. He listened. He listened until he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t just listening: he was hiding, and this thought propelled him to his feet. He had hidden long enough.
Abascantius was taking breakfast with the innkeeper. They were sitting on a low bench, picking at plates of fruit, idly observing the stable-lad cleaning a saddle. A line running across the courtyard split shade and sun.
Cassius had sent Simo up to pack. He handed the signed receipt to Abascantius, who tucked it into a small purse at his belt.
‘Sir, I’ve a couple more questions.’
Abascantius touched the innkeeper’s arm and nodded towards the stables. The Syrian obediently wandered away.
‘Well?’
‘Where was the flag was being kept before Gregorius took charge of it?’
‘It had been hidden in a crypt under an abandoned temple. Apparently some centurion found it.’
‘And this cart. .’ Cassius chose his words carefully, even though the innkeeper was out of earshot. ‘Its. . contents. . would be unusually heavy. You’re sure he planned to use only the one vehicle?’
‘Yes, just the one. But you’re right — it would have to be on the large side. You might be able to use that.’
‘And if I pressed you for an opinion, sir? Who do you believe might be responsible?’
Abascantius had been about to eat a date but he now put it down and leaned back against the inn wall.
‘I have some thoughts, but I shall not share them with you now. I do not wish to prejudice your work. A good investigator must approach these things with an open mind. Anything else?’
‘Not at the moment, sir.’
Abascantius stood and went inside. Hooves clattered against the courtyard flagstones as the lad led a horse from the stable. Simo then exited the inn, both arms laden down with saddlebags.
‘Sir, I’ve also arranged some food and water for the road.’ He nodded at the satchel. ‘Shall I take that?’
‘No, I’ll keep hold of this.’ Cassius slipped the thick leather strap over his shoulder. ‘Have you settled up?’
‘No need,’ said the innkeeper as he passed them, ‘Master Abascantius has taken care of it.’
‘Ah. Can you have a look at this for me?’
The innkeeper dutifully followed Cassius to a sun-soaked corner of the courtyard. Cassius pulled the map from the satchel and held it up against the wall.
‘Where exactly are we?’
The innkeeper pointed to the northern edge of a large, unnamed lake. ‘Here.’
Cassius moved aside to avoid close contact with the man’s protruding stomach.
‘Best route to Palmyra?’
‘Keep to the lake track for two miles then bear north-east and you’ll soon pick up the main road again. Should pass the boundary line about midday.’
‘Boundary of what?’
‘The territories of Emesa and Palmyra. It’s just a line of stones running north to south. Good marker though. There are milestones too.’
‘Might we make it before sundown?’
The innkeeper bobbed his head from side to side. ‘Not much rain recently. You’ve two good horses there. Might do it, I suppose.’
‘Accommodation?’
‘There are a few inns. Army way-stations too. Not sure if they’re back up and running though.’
Cassius and Simo had passed several of the way-stations since leaving Antioch. They were typically converted houses or inns with stables, manned by a few legionaries and slaves. Their main function was to facilitate the imperial post but some had lodgings for officers and men passing through. Cassius had seen a few burned to the ground, others had been damaged and defaced. Only a few had been reoccupied.
Despite Zenobia’s defeat, Roman control of the province was far from complete. The large cities were once more at heel, but it would take months to fully restore order, transport, trade and communications.
‘Anything else?’ asked the innkeeper.
‘No.’
Shostra and the stable-lad had two horses saddled and ready to leave. It wasn’t difficult to see which was Abascantius’s animaclass="underline" the stallion was tall and stout, with a glossy black coat.
Its owner returned. He and the innkeeper stared admiringly at the horse and exchanged comments in Aramaic. Abascantius now wore a light, hooded robe over his tunic; and there was something rather disconcerting about the way the hood framed his broad, puffy face.
‘Last chance then: any more queries?’ he asked Cassius as Shostra attached the last of their saddlebags and the lad opened the gate.
‘Just the one, sir. What if I don’t get anywhere? What if I find out nothing?’
‘Have a little self-belief, Corbulo. You’re the hero of Alauran. Start acting like it.’
With an ironic grin, Abascantius took his reins from the lad and mounted up with surprising agility. He gestured for Shostra to ride out first, then caught Cassius’s eye again.
‘If you need an added incentive, I should perhaps remind you that the Service is also responsible for running military prisons. I understand there’s a vacancy at a quarry outside Thessalonica. Two and a half thousand Goths live and work there, guarded by a garrison of just three centuries. The last governor was killed in a riot. Chief Pulcher’s after a young, thrusting type to replace him. Feeling more inspired now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Only eighteen days until the handover now. Don’t waste a moment.’
With a warm smile for the innkeeper, Abascantius tapped down on his horse’s flank and rode out of the courtyard.
The track that ran along the lake was of smooth, compacted earth, and Cassius and Simo made swift progress. Insects hovered over the reeds and the water, and occasionally swept by or followed the horses for a while. The temperature was perfect for riding: the two men wore only tunics, their skin cooled by a thin morning mist.
The horses seemed well refreshed after their night’s rest. They were both fine animals, hired at considerable expense. Cassius’s was the larger of the two, a rangy grey; Simo’s a stockier chestnut. They were both mares, and seemed to get on well, occasionally nudging each other as they walked along side by side.
Cassius glanced across at Simo. Though he worked all day long and never seemed to eat much, the Gaul was a heavy man, and he’d added several pounds during their time in Cyzicus. Cassius was convinced he’d lost a few of those already, just as he had during their last trip to the Syrian interior. He wondered how much of it was down to exertion, how much to anxiety.
Like all slaves, Simo was expert at concealing his feelings. Since their departure, he hadn’t given a single inkling of what Cassius felt sure must be profound disappointment at having to leave their settled life in Cyzicus, or betrayed his fears about what this sudden change in their fortunes might bring.