The Far Shore (19 page)

Being stuck in this tiny space, preparing food in bad weather, was about as appalling a job of work as Cassius could imagine.

Having filled the mug, Opilio handed it to him. ‘I’ll keep that pan warm for you, sir. In case you’d like a bit more later.’

‘Much appreciated.’

Cassius and Simo left the galley. Even though the sea was indeed calm, it was generally necessary to keep a steadying hand on something solid. As they reached the cabin, the young maid Clara came down the steps, looking pale and anxious. Clutched over her impressive chest was a leather case. ‘Master Corbulo, sir?’

‘Yes? Ah – that will be those documents.’

Before Annia had returned to Amyndios to prepare for the journey, Cassius had asked her to collect the papers from her father’s study.

The maid gave him the case.

‘Clara, isn’t it?’ asked Cassius, smiling.

‘Yes, sir.’

The ship suddenly pitched and she reached for the wall.

Cassius took hold of her arm and steadied her. ‘Careful there. Your mistress is all right?’

Clara was trying hard not to look at him. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well,’ Cassius said, ‘a difficult time for her. You too, I expect.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She pushed some strands of hair away from her face.

Despite his reservations, Cassius suddenly felt glad she was on the ship (purely from an aesthetic point of view). There was nothing worse than not having any women to look at – another occupational hazard of army life.

‘Well. You’d best get back to her.’

One more ‘Yes, sir’ and off she went.

‘Curvy little thing,’ said Opilio as Clara’s sandals disappeared up the steps.

Cassius turned round and saw that all three of the galley crew had gathered by the doorway.

‘I like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones.’

Cassius found the comment rather distasteful but couldn’t help laughing as Opilio gleefully rubbed his hands together then led the others back to work.

Noting the disapproval on Simo’s face, Cassius entered the cabin and sat down on the bed. He didn’t know a lot about Christian beliefs regarding sexual relations but – without ever saying a word – Simo had made it clear to him that base talk and casual assignations were not looked on favourably.

Cassius looked at the leather case in his hands. ‘I expect all Memor’s papers will go to Chief Pulcher eventually. We can at least see if there’s anything useful here.’

He had to stretch his hand wide to hold the whole sheaf of paper inside the case. He gave approximately a quarter to Simo and took a similar amount for himself.

‘What exactly are we looking for, sir?’

‘Names. Anyone involved in the cases and issues Memor was handling with a reason to want him dead. If something looks relevant, put it to one side.’

An hour later, Cassius had learnt more about the Imperial Security Service than he had from a dozen conversations with Abascantius. His commanding officer was, to all intents and purposes, a spy, with one eye on Rome’s enemies and another on its ruling elite – the military in particular. That was how he did things, and that was what he thought was expected of him. But Cassius also knew that other agents were involved in field operations, intelligence work, tax collection, even running prisons. And some still fulfilled the traditional role of procuring and distributing supplies to the legions, though this was invariably a cover for other intrigues.

So Cassius had expected to find lots of orders. Orders
for
Memor, from Chief Pulcher in Rome; and orders
from
Memor to his numerous subordinates in Africa and the East.

There were such letters. And reports too, information received from those same subordinates: legion troop numbers, enemy fleet-size estimations, budget summaries, intelligence reports, even a few maps.

But most of the sheets – two-thirds by Cassius’s reckoning – were letters from individuals
outside
the Service. Some were military personnel, some members of the governor’s staff, others ordinary citizens, in provinces ranging from Mauretania to Arabia, Galatia to Egypt. And the majority of these letter-writers had one clear aim in mind: to get other people into trouble.

Many of the missives were so similar that Cassius began to skim-read, and variations of the same sentiment appeared again and again.

I feel this disgraceful conduct must be brought to your attention.

He has undermined our authority with the local populace.

He takes money from someone every hour of every day.

He is considered by his peers to be a liability.

My recommendation is that he be removed from his post.

This scandal could damage the reputation of the governor.

I can provide further evidence if necessary.

I am sure you will take appropriate action.

‘There do seem to be a lot of complaints, sir,’ observed Simo.

‘I’ll say. I’ve not seen this much tale-telling since I was at school. He seems to have ignored most of it.’

Memor had employed a simple procedure. He would write either ‘No Action’ or a brief note to himself at the bottom of each letter. On a number of occasions he had written an abbreviation that Cassius soon realised stood for ‘Retain For Possible Later Use’.

He knew Abascantius employed a similar technique in Syria: accumulating potentially damaging information on as many people as he could, in case he needed leverage over them in the future.

‘Well, we can probably discount anything where Memor took no action. And we can ignore anything very recent. The assassin and his employers would have needed some time to plan the killing.’Cassius glanced at the smaller pile of papers Simo had made. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Several arrest orders, sir, from Chief Pulcher in Rome. And some copies of requests by Master Memor – asking for information about certain individuals.’

‘I’ve much the same kind of thing. We shall start on the list of names tomorrow. In the event that we can’t track this Dio, we’ll at least have other avenues to follow.’

Cassius dropped his papers and the case on to Simo’s blanket. As the Gaul set about tidying them up, he lay back against the wall and put his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers.

‘Clever – doing it now. The ports will close up for the winter. Most of the roads are already mud, and soon there’ll be snow and ice. By the gods, this might be part of an attack on the Service itself. What if Pulcher and the other senior officers have been targeted too?’

‘Is that really possible, sir?’

‘Consider history, Simo. How many emperors have been knocked off before their time? Don’t recall many slipping merrily into retirement, do you? Perhaps someone somewhere decided the Service has held sway for too long. By Jupiter, for once I wish Abascantius were here. He’d know what to do.’

‘Knowing what to do has never been a problem for you before, sir. I don’t suppose it will be now.’

Cassius felt rather heartened by this comment, even if it was only from Simo. Generally compliant though he was, the Gaul never toadied. If he gave a compliment, he meant it.

‘I remember the fort, sir,’ Simo continued. ‘Alauran.’

‘I don’t think either of us is ever likely to forget it.’

Simo put the papers down for a moment. ‘That first day or two, sir. I kept thinking you would give up. Perhaps even run away. But you just kept going and going and going. Until it was over.’

Cassius could think of no reply to that.

‘Why don’t you wear your silver medal, sir? I could clean it up for you.’

Cassius felt his spirits drop instantly. ‘Do you know how many times I actually used my blade in that fort, Simo?’

‘No.’

‘Once. Against a wounded man lying at my feet. And I couldn’t even despatch
him
. I told you before. If it wasn’t for the others – Strabo, Avso, Serenus, all of them – I would never have accepted that medal. It is theirs. Not mine.’

Cassius stood. ‘I shall go and get a little air before bed. Put another blanket on for me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The sky had cleared, leaving only thin banks of cloud far away to the east, and the half-moon cast a shimmering glow across the sea. The wind had lessened, but there was still enough to fill the sails, driving the
Fortuna Redux
along the western coast of Rhodes. The dark bulk of the island could be felt as much as seen. Almost directly opposite the ship was a group of lights.

‘Where’s that?’ Cassius asked Asdribar, turning from the side-rail. The captain was sitting on a chair that had somehow been attached to the deck just ahead of the steering position. Behind him stood Korinth, one hand on each tiller, eyes fixed on the bow.

‘Camiros,’ answered the Carthaginian without looking. He was slumped back in the chair, which came complete with several cushions. On the deck by his bare feet was a wooden plate with the remains of his dinner. ‘I can hear your corner flapping, Nigrinus! Bring it in a bit.’

Cassius could just about see the crewman sitting to the left of the mast, hands gripping the foresail line.

‘That’ll do you!’ the captain added when the flapping ceased.

Squint was also on deck, inspecting the mainsail. Cassius had been below when they’d raised the yard but looking at the sprawling rig now, it was hard to believe the reduced crew had accomplished it.

‘Where might we be by morning?’ Cassius asked.

Asdribar ran a hand across his brown dome of a head. ‘I’ll be happy if Rhodes is well behind us when the sun comes up.’

‘Oh.’

‘Big island,’ Asdribar explained.

Apparently happy with the rig, Squint bade the others goodnight and disappeared down the steps.

‘Will you be retiring soon, Captain?’ asked Cassius.

‘Not the first night. I always stay up the first night. Maybe the second, third and fourth too on this trip.’

‘Why? Because it’s so late in the season?’

‘It’s not late in the season, Officer. It’s
after
the season. Long after. This is what old salts call the Dark Time – when a storm can come out of nowhere, knock your mast down and leave you drifting in fog for days on end. Weeks even.’

Cassius knew such talk wouldn’t help him sleep but he couldn’t curtail his curiosity. ‘But you’ve been out in November before?’

‘I have. Three times.’

‘Only three? How long have you been sailing?’

‘Not sure exactly. But I think Maximinus Thrax was emperor. How long’s that?’

‘About thirty-five years.’

‘There you go then.’

‘And how were the other trips?’ Cassius asked, preferring not to dwell on the implications of what Asdribar had told him.

‘Two of them were fine – well, eventually. We got home safe at least.’

‘And the other?’

‘Now that
was
a long time ago. I was a deckhand on the
Alka
– old grain ship out of Tingi. The army needed us to transport auxiliaries across the straits from Mauretania to Calpe. We started in clear skies, with barely enough to make two or three knots. A mile off the Spanish coast, a squall hit us. Whole sky turned black. Couldn’t keep your eyes open for the rain. We couldn’t get the yard down quick enough. The port arm snapped off and spliced us through the foredeck. The hold filled up like that.’ Asdribar clicked his fingers. ‘And the
Alka
, she went down quicker than an alley girl with the rent due. I found myself a cork float and jumped off the stern. Got picked up by a fishing boat two hours later. Back on dry land in three.’

‘And the other men?’

‘Eight of the crew made it too. One of them – nasty old Greek – he thought he’d try and take my float off me, but I put him off that idea pretty quick.’

‘The auxiliaries?’

‘Not one. Didn’t have a chance weighed down with all their fighting gear. All went straight to the god of the deep. But I reckon he didn’t want them because pretty soon they started popping up all over. Hundreds of them there was. Pop – one here. Pop – one there. One of them came up right next to me with his big old white face. Nearly went under myself when I saw that.’

Cassius took a long breath, and wished he hadn’t started the conversation.