In front of the bridge were two large inns, one on each side of the road, busy with travellers seeking lodgings for the night. Simo hurried away to see about a room while Cassius and Indavara stayed with the horses.
They watched a man traverse the bridge, lighting lanterns. On the western shore, a group of fishermen packed up their gear and walked back across the river bed. Beyond them was a line of tall cedars, swaying gently.
‘Not far now,’ Cassius said. ‘Ten miles or so to the capital.’ He turned and looked at his horse. It was standing with its head bowed, eyes half-closed: a picture of misery. ‘Poor thing. Looks just like I feel.’
Indavara nodded wearily.
‘Yours seems a little happier though,’ Cassius continued. ‘Now that you’re not pulling its mouth to pieces. You’ve improved. I see it.’
Simo returned quickly.
‘One is full, sir, but the other has three small singles free on the top floor. It is rather expensive though.’
‘No matter,’ said Cassius. He left his horse for Simo and passed him on his way down the hill. ‘A room each it is, gentlemen; courtesy of Master Abascantius and the Imperial Security Service.’
Once the horses had been stabled, Simo and Indavara took the gear up to the rooms. Cassius made straight for the front parlour, which opened up on to a grassy slope facing the river. He sat down at the only spare table — a solid looking structure with benches attached — and caught the eye of a middle-aged serving wench. The woman had to negotiate her way through a crowd of well-attired men, all carrying personalised wooden mugs. As she approached, Cassius tried not to look at her enormous, sagging bosom.
‘Busy, eh?’ he said in Greek.
The woman tutted. ‘Guild of goat-skin bag makers. It’ll be a long night. What can I get you, sir?’
‘A bottle of something expensive. And some water. And three glasses.’
‘Glasses?’
‘You do have some, don’t you?’
‘We do, sir. Won’t be a moment.’
When the woman returned with the wine, Cassius poured himself a full glass before she’d even taken the jug of water from her tray. And by the time Indavara and Simo came down, he was on to his second glass and feeling better than he had in weeks.
Surely the worst of the job was over. Abascantius would probably find something for him to do in Antioch but responsibility rested with the senior man now.
Simo looked aghast when Cassius poured wine for him and Indavara.
‘It’s all right, Simo, I can lift a bottle you know. Let us drink to small mercies: we have made it across the Syrian desert unscathed.’
The other two raised their glasses.
‘And to great Fortuna, of course,’ Cassius added, with a nod to Indavara.
‘Lovely wine, sir. Thank you very much.’ Simo grinned, and looked out across the river.
‘You’ll want to visit your father, I suppose,’ said Cassius.
‘If you could spare me for an hour or two, sir, I would be most grateful. Most grateful.’
‘Of course. And not just for an hour or two.’
Simo put down his wine and bowed his head.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Indavara, glancing curiously at Simo, whose eyes were now wet.
‘The poor fellow’s not seen his family in two years,’ explained Cassius, ‘largely on my account. He’s entitled to shed a tear or two.’
Indavara continued to stare at Simo. His expression was — as ever — hard to read, but it certainly wasn’t sympathetic.
‘What, you don’t miss your kin?’ asked Cassius. ‘You never think of your mother and father?’
Indavara looked away, across the river. ‘Just let me drink, would you?’
‘Happy to,’ replied Cassius, determined not to let anything ruin his mood. ‘I shall do the same. And then — food.’
They dined well, starting with fresh bread, olive oil and goat’s cheese, followed by thick black sausages served with an imaginative array of vegetables. By the time an unnecessarily large platter of fruit arrived, Cassius and Simo were so full that they contented themselves with a few dates, safe in the knowledge that Indavara would plough through the rest. He duly did so.
While emptying the second bottle of wine, Cassius and Simo began an extended session of ‘Guess the Emperor’. Despite their assurances, Indavara insisted that none of the outlandish acts could possibly be true, though he did think the seal-skin coat Augustus had worn to protect him from lightning was ‘probably not a bad idea’.
From the game they moved on to poetry and Cassius began by reciting a few lines of Varrius Rufus he thought apt. Simo — who could never be tempted into a recitation when sober — responded with an entire three verses of Valerius Flaccus. Though he rarely indulged, the big man took his drink well, and as usual didn’t make a single mistake. Cassius continued with some Statius but quickly realised he’d overreached himself and cut the second verse short, hoping Simo hadn’t noticed.
As it grew dark, lanterns were brought out to each table and the guildsmen struck up a song. Unable to keep pace with Cassius and Simo, Indavara switched to water and watched sullenly as they worked their way through a third bottle. With his arm round the Gaul’s shoulder, Cassius tried to sing along with the guildsmen. One man staggered over to them, then thumped down on to the bench next to Indavara, opposite Cassius.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ asked Cassius in Greek.
The red-faced guildsman raised his mug.
‘The goat-skin bag trade must be in good health,’ continued Cassius. ‘I’m surprised the inn still has any wine left.’
‘We come here every September. Rain or shine. War or peace.’
It took the guildsman three attempts to open the purse on his belt. He took out a handful of silver coins and counted them.
‘Good. I’ve got something left for next week.’
‘What’s happening next week?’
‘The hippodrome and the arena are reopening.’
‘Ah, I see. What’s your team?’
‘The Greens, of course.’
A man standing close by heard this. ‘The Greens! The Greens!’ he cried before tottering away.
The guildsman and Cassius laughed.
‘I mean, they’re not what they were — best charioteer was killed during the revolt — but they’ve still got a chance at the title.’
‘And what of the games?’
The guildsman’s eyes lit up. ‘The governor’s promising a hundred men on the first day alone — Palmyran prisoners of war. The crowd will love it. And then our local champion’s taking on some big Nubian.’
‘Really?’ Cassius nodded at Indavara. ‘My man here was a gladiator. Killed a seven-foot German and a-’
Indavara stood up, knocking the table and tipping over the bottle of wine. As Simo righted it, the bodyguard walked away towards the inn.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Cassius.
Indavara stopped, and spoke without turning around. ‘To bed. It’s late.’
‘No, no. We’re celebrating. Sit down.’
Indavara went on his way.
‘I said sit down!’
As he disappeared inside, Cassius shrugged.
‘Doesn’t know how to have fun — that’s his problem.’
The Greens’ supporter returned and grabbed his fellow by the arm. ‘Come on, we’re off down to the river.’
The guildsman took his drink and got up. With all the weight now on one side, the table tipped backward, dumping Cassius, Simo, several plates, the bottle and the glasses on to the grass.
‘Oh dear,’ said Cassius as he lay there.
‘Time for bed, sir?’ said Simo, removing a plate from his master’s chest.
‘Time for bed.’
XVIII
‘Now that’s what a proper city wall looks like.’
Ignoring the mass of people in front of him, Cassius gazed at the northern side of Antioch. The wall was twenty-five feet high, built of gargantuan limestone blocks, some of which were faced with triangular pieces of brick. Left of the Beroea Gate, the walls ran for half a mile then gave way to the tents and improvised housing that covered the lower slopes of Mount Silpius, the fifteen-hundred-foot peak that overshadowed the city. To the right of the gatehouse, the walls extended two hundred yards before meeting the Orontes. Here the river divided, running around the island connected to the rest of the city by five bridges.