‘If only the walls were in such good repair all the way round, sir,’ observed Simo.
‘You can thank the Persians for that. They will insist on invading every few years.’
Cassius’s role in an assignment that might help avoid future incursions from the east was too much for his wine-addled mind to deal with, so he instead admonished the two slaves manning the cart ahead of them. Their vehicle was full of manure, and they didn’t seem to mind that every movement of their horses caused more of it to seep on to the road. Simo, meanwhile, had already pledged not to let his master ply him with wine ever again. Cassius had heard that before.
‘Twenty at least,’ said Indavara. ‘Twenty carts between us and the gate.’
‘Not for long,’ replied Cassius. ‘Follow me.’
The approach road sat atop a robust causeway that crossed the marshy, flood-prone plain to the east of the city. Cassius guided his horse down a short slope on to the soggy ground and set off along the right side of the road. Many of the waiting multitude cast annoyed looks but not one dared say anything. They were commoners in the main; it was midday, and most of the merchants or farmers with anything to sell would have arrived in the city hours ago. Cassius did however see two heavy carts carrying chunks of marble, and one loaded with big lidded barrels. Had another such vehicle passed the gates in the last few days? Had its precious cargo entered the city unseen?
The road narrowed to fifteen feet as it passed under the great arch of the gatehouse. Planted on the roof was a stone rendering of Romulus and Remus being nursed by the she-wolf. The gate itself — a monstrous spiked iron grid — hung from foot-wide chains high above the ground. Mounted on each of the gatehouse’s two towers was a life-sized silver statue of the Tyche: the local goddess who, for the Antiochenes, symbolised both fortune and their city. Clad in long robes and a high crown, she held a bunch of grapes in one hand, a sheaf of wheat in the other.
Cassius dismounted close to the western tower. While waiting for Simo and Indavara to catch up, he put on his helmet and retrieved the spear-head. The waiting crowd were remarkably quiet and orderly; largely because of the dozen burly men patrolling back and forth in front of them. Cassius noted their weapons: clubs formed from tightly wrapped lengths of wood. These were the municipal magistrate’s sergeants, responsible for enforcing the law and maintaining order. Beyond them, eight clerks sat at tables, interviewing entrants and collecting taxes. There were legionaries there too. One of them spotted Cassius and pushed some locals aside.
‘This way, sir.’
‘My men must pass also.’
Simo and Indavara — looking faintly embarrassed — led the horses up the side of the road past the crowd. An aged centurion strode out of the gatehouse. His left arm was withered and hung limply by his side.
‘Morning,’ said Cassius.
‘Afternoon, I’d say. Turpo. I’m in charge here.’
‘Corbulo, governor’s staff.’
‘I can see that. Come, you must sign in. Your men can go straight through. Sanga!’
Legionary Sanga escorted Simo and Indavara past the sergeants while Cassius ducked in to the gatehouse. Inside the cramped room was a desk piled high with papyrus and leather-bound books. One such book had been left open. A reed-pen sat in a bronze holder next to it.
‘Name, rank, date and purpose of visit,’ said Turpo. ‘Oh, and time. It’s the seventh hour.’
As Cassius filled out the book, a clerk came in from another door and began what swiftly became a fraught debate with Turpo about the tax rate for prostitutes being brought into the city. Cassius left the ‘purpose of visit’ section blank and waited for Turpo to dismiss the clerk.
‘Centurion, do you record all the traffic that comes in and out — carts and such like?’
‘Just for those bringing in goods. There’s a flat fee for traders — per horse, cart or whatever.’ He aimed a thumb at the gate. ‘But this is all because the council want to keep everyone on the straight and narrow until things settle down. The Palmyrans changed all the rates and tolls but we’re slowly getting back to normal.’
‘You don’t keep track of particular loads then?’
‘Not usually. Just the money taken. Unless it’s something unusual, or suspicious.’
‘Would I be allowed to check through the records of the last few weeks? I’m interested in a particular cart that may have entered the city.’
‘You would. If you had the right authorisation.’
‘And who would I get that from?’
‘Tribune Bonafatius.’
‘Bonafatius. And what about other routes into the city?’
‘There’s the Bridge Gate and the Daphne Gate to the south. And a few tracks in over the mountain, but a heavy cart couldn’t use those.’
‘Much obliged.’
On the other side of the gatehouse, Cassius found himself at one end of the Avenue of Herod and Tiberius, the impressive colonnaded street that ran north-east to south-west through the heart of Antioch. The imposing double line of columns supported porticos on each side that covered a walkway almost as wide as the street.
If not for the crew of slaves hammering away at a plinth, the street would have been fairly quiet. The busiest part of the day had passed, and many of the city’s inhabitants would be at home, eating and resting after a hard morning’s work. A second gang of dark-skinned slaves appeared from a side street. Escorted by four armed overseers, they marched swiftly past Cassius and under the gatehouse. Indavara and Simo emerged out of the shadows behind them, the Gaul with a set of reins in each hand. He was smiling. Cassius took off his helmet as he wandered over to them.
‘Glad to be back, I see.’
‘Oh yes, sir. Yes indeed.’
‘Lead on then.’
Cassius had aimed to arrive in the city around the middle of the day, hoping they might find Abascantius at home. He had already given Simo the agent’s address; the Gaul had lived in the city all his life before working for Cassius and didn’t take a single wrong turn. They headed east — towards Mount Silpius — and passed warehouses and granaries, bakeries and inns. Here, those without the luxury of an afternoon break laboured on.
The streets widened and acquired pavements as they moved into a residential area. They saw a large fountain with an ornamental pool and carved spouts for public use. But there was no water running and only a little in the pool; it would be several weeks before the aqueducts that fed the city were in full flow.
Abascantius’s villa was a one-storey, stone-built townhouse, narrow-fronted but extending back a long way. It was surrounded by a cordon of high poplars and a six-foot wall. The entrance was secured by an iron gate. Next to it was a bronze bell hanging from a rope. Cassius told Simo to ring it.
As they waited, Indavara gazed at the quiet, well-maintained villas and the steep slopes above. Cassius put his hands on the bars of the gate and peered along the path that led to the villa. He could see no one; and the door was obscured by voluminous, purple-flowered bushes. The whole arrangement was very strange; he’d expected Abascantius to maintain a large staff — certainly enough people to man his own gate.
They heard a door creak open, then footsteps. Cassius instantly recognised the squat frame and grim visage of Shostra.
‘Ah. We’ve got the right place at least.’
With not a word of greeting, Shostra perused each of the three men through the gate, taking a particularly long time over Indavara. He then turned on his heels and walked back to the house.
‘Hey!’ Cassius shouted after him. He turned to Simo. ‘I really don’t like that man.’