The Far Shore (3 page)

‘Clear a space at the table there! The king will eat with our Roman friends.’

The crowd answered with a roar.

It was in fact more than an hour before Cassius and Indavara actually got to eat something. They were seated on either side of the king, who apologised for his conduct during the journey, raised a brief but heartfelt toast to them, then left. The mood in the hall became considerably more rowdy and people began to queue up to thank Cassius and Indavara personally. Some of the ladies present also offered enthusiastic kisses.

Only when this duty was complete were they free to fill their plates. Cassius found he had rather lost his appetite after all the excitement. He managed a bit of cheese and a few little cakes, then settled for supping his wine. The local concoction was unusual – sweet and fortified with spices – but he swiftly acquired a taste for it. Indavara used the wine only to slosh down his food; he was already on to his second plateful.

Speaker Argunt sidled up and knelt by Cassius’s chair. ‘Word is spreading across the city. The people will bring gifts and flowers for you in the morning.’

‘That’s very kind.’

Argunt leaned in closer. ‘You not only saved the king, but also made him appear a hero.’

‘The gods have smiled upon us this night.’

‘Indeed. Though not on First Minister Vyedra, I fear. The king has had him arrested and appointed me in his stead.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘He was in charge of security.’

With a wink, Argunt stood up and walked away. Before Cassius could take another sip of wine, a rather voluptuous woman of about forty hurried over. She was wearing a fox fur around her neck and sweating profusely.

‘Centurion, I am the Countess Sifke. May I too offer my profound thanks for your heroic actions.’

Cassius’s actual title was ‘officer’ but he often chose not to correct the error.

‘Thank you, Countess.’

She looked past Cassius at Indavara, who was stripping a greasy chicken leg with his teeth.

‘You too, of course, young man.’

Indavara answered with a grunt.

‘What a throw, sir,’ the countess continued. ‘Worthy of an Olympiad.’

‘You should see me with a javelin, madam.’

Indavara grunted a different kind of grunt.

‘I wonder, sir,’ said the countess, ‘would you like to come and join my party? I’m here with my four daughters. They would be enchanted to meet you.’

Cassius glanced over at the girls: three black heads of hair and one red, and fair faces too, watching coyly from a corner.

‘Likewise, I’m sure. We will be over presently.’

The countess smiled and wobbled her way back to her table.

Indavara put down the chicken leg and stood up to inspect the rest of the food.

Cassius gave him a napkin. ‘Clean yourself up.’

‘Why?’ asked Indavara, wiping his chin.

Cassius aimed a thumb towards the corner.

The bodyguard grinned when he saw the girls.

‘Come,’ said Cassius, grabbing his wine as he stood. ‘Time to enjoy the warm embrace of a grateful nation.’

Even as the ship finally slid alongside the quay, as the yelling sailors tied off the mooring ropes and fixed the gangplank, the dozen passengers remained by the side-rail. They stood in a line, gazing across the harbour, though the object of their fascination had been visible for hours, soon after the island’s high mountains materialised out of the morning mist.

‘Half the bronze in the world, they say.’

‘Two hundred feet high it was.’

‘I heard three hundred.’

‘You could get a thousand men inside it.’

‘Probably more.’

‘And to think it’s just lain there like that for five hundred years.’

‘Five hundred and fifty, actually,’ said Cassius.

It was a remarkable sight, but he was struggling not to be slightly underwhelmed. Hadn’t someone told him the statue once stood astride the port; that high-masted ships sailed between the sun-god Helios’s legs? Looking back at the narrow breakwaters that enclosed the harbour, he now saw how ridiculous this notion was.

The statue was in fact about a mile back from the water, built upon an enormous stone platform. The god appeared to have been cut off at the knees. The body had fallen to the left and now lay face down on the ground. The right arm – originally held up, supposedly shielding the god’s eyes from the sun – now seemed to cover the face, as if protecting it from further assault. In the centuries since an earthquake had toppled the statue, numerous buildings had sprung up around it.

‘Men
made
that?’ Indavara enquired, his hands resting on the side-rail.

‘No,’ said one of the other passengers, a fat-necked merchant in a garish green tunic. ‘The locals try to claim credit for it, but it was the gods. And it was them that brought it down too.’

Cassius glanced at Indavara and shook his head.

‘How? How could men
make
that?’ asked the bodyguard.

‘I don’t know the specifics,’ Cassius replied. ‘I’m no engineer. But it was a man named Chares who designed the whole thing. I think he was a sculptor.’

‘Must have had big hands,’ scoffed the merchant. Several of the others laughed.

Cassius turned to him. ‘Tell me this then: why would the gods create such a statue of just
one
of them?’

‘Perhaps it was Helios himself – to remind the people of his power.’

‘Then why create it only to bring it down fifty years later?’

‘Perhaps that was the work of another god. A jealous god.’

Cassius gave an ironic smile, then nodded at the sparkling white columns of the ancient citadel on the hill above the city. ‘So who built that?’

The merchant shrugged.

Cassius gestured at an equally impressive temple lower down the slopes. ‘And that?’

‘Men. But those are just buildings. Look at it!’

The merchant pointed at the statue – the vast expanse of gleaming bronze that shone out among the pale buildings. ‘
That
is the work of a higher power! How could a man – or even hundreds of men – create such a thing?’

‘I don’t know
how
, but they did it. Mainly because they wanted to outdo the Athenians, as I recall. Haven’t you read Pliny?’

The merchant said nothing.

‘You must have visited Rome at least – seen the Colosseum? Why it’s ten times the size!’

‘Ah yes, of course. Rome, Rome, Rome. You must always have the biggest and best of everything.’ The merchant pointed at the statue again and smiled smugly. ‘But there’s nothing like
that
in Rome, is there?’

The conversation had been in Greek. As the merchant walked away across the deck, Cassius switched to Latin:

‘Bloody provincials.’ He turned to the others. ‘Come, you two.’

Simo already had a saddlebag over each shoulder and now picked up several empty water skins.

Indavara was still at the side-rail, staring at the statue. ‘How? How could they
build
it?’

‘By Jupiter. Listen, what about the arena you fought in? Who built that?’

Indavara looked down at the water, and the clumps of weed and driftwood that littered the harbour. ‘I never really thought about it.’

‘I daresay. Come on.’

Cassius and Indavara picked up the remainder of their gear. The three of them had to wait for a gap in the stream of porters and sailors lugging bales of wool and heavy clay pots. Cassius was first on to the gangplank.

‘I think that temple halfway up the hill is for Asclepius,’ he told Simo over his shoulder. ‘I shall have to take a look at that too.’

‘You do seem excited to be here, sir.’

‘Well why not, Simo?’ replied Cassius, stepping on to the quay. ‘This city is a seat of fine culture, philosophy and art in particular. There are some wonderful—’

He stood still, waiting for the strange feeling in his legs and the dizziness to subside. It had taken them seven long days to reach Rhodes from the Cilician port of Anemurium. Considering the season, the weather had been kind but – as ever – Cassius was glad to be back on dry land. He moved away from the sailors and sat down on a barrel on the far side of the quay.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Simo.

‘Better than Indavara, by the looks of it.’

The bodyguard dropped his bags next to Simo. He staggered, put his hands out to steady himself and took some deep breaths. It had been his longest trip on a ship. He didn’t suffer from the seasickness that usually afflicted Cassius but had made little progress in overcoming his fear of large expanses of water.

Simo, meanwhile, remained utterly unaffected. He had eaten and slept well and maintained his usual healthy glow. Though he’d little experience of sailing, he put his affinity for the sea down to his Gaulish forefathers; they’d been fishermen.

Cassius took a drink from his canteen and surveyed their bags.

‘Look at all this. I doubt we’ll get it all on three horses.’

It was a recurring problem. Simo kept his personal belongings to an absolute minimum, but Cassius needed quite a variety of clothing and there were other items – his bathing oils, pillows and collection of belt buckles for example – that he simply couldn’t do without. Other objects that took up a lot of space included his helmet and mail shirt, not to mention footwear ranging from felt slippers to hobnailed marching boots.

In addition, Simo always insisted on making sure they had plenty of spare cloths, blankets and towels. He had, however, judged to perfection the amount they would consume during the trip and there was nothing left but half a skin of wine.

Indavara would have been considered an exceptionally light traveller were it not for his collection of weapons and equipment. Having received a silver ingot upon the successful completion of their first assignment, he’d already spent more than a quarter of his newly acquired wealth. Only his battered wooden fighting stave remained from their last outing in Syria. He’d spent two days scouring the markets of Antioch and was now equipped with a new bow, sword and mail shirt. All three items had been purchased from suppliers used by the Roman Army.

The composite bow was five feet long, made of wood, hide and sinew. Indavara also had a quiver with sixteen arrows and numerous tools for maintenance. He kept the whole lot in a long leather bag.

The sword was standard military issue but of a rather old-fashioned design, and he’d had to look hard for one as short and light as he wanted. It reminded him of the first weapon he’d fought with in the arena. He could still move easily when wearing it and the blade was perfect for close-quarter work. He’d opted for a piece with a ridged bone handle and a solid wooden pommel – always useful for a non-lethal blow to the head. He had yet to draw the sword in anger.

The mail shirt wasn’t quite up to the standard of Cassius’s (copper alloy was incredibly expensive), but the bronze rings provided solid protection and felt relatively comfortable when worn over the accompanying padded undershirt.

Cassius took his sword belt from Simo and slipped it over his right shoulder so that the sword hung over his left hip. His weapon was also new: a long, broad blade with a brass eagle’s head on the hilt and elaborate swirls embossed on the scabbard. He winced as the strap tugged at his neck.

Indavara shook his head. ‘Have you even tried wielding that? You’d probably need to train for a month just to hold it up.’

‘I think we’ve been through this, bodyguard.’

‘Just saying, that’s all. If there’s some spare time, we shall see what you can do with it.’

‘At the earliest opportunity.’

Cassius had so far resisted Indavara’s attempts at instruction but there was no denying it made sense. In truth, he would just as soon have carried the lightest blade possible, but most officers now seemed to favour these ostentatious weapons.

‘Helmet, sir?’ asked Simo.

‘I suppose I must. Always helps get things done quicker, doesn’t it?’

Cassius took the hated helmet from Simo and pulled it on, glad that it was at least more sufferable in the cooler months of the year. Simo reached up and straightened the red horsehair bristles on the transverse crest. Leaving the chinstrap untied, Cassius checked the clasp on his cloak, an item of clothing he wasn’t wearing solely for effect; there was a brisk breeze running into the harbour.

‘Grab a porter, Simo. I can’t be seen carrying things in the city.’

As the Gaul hurried away, Cassius looked over at Indavara, now again weighed down with his bags.

‘Perhaps you could have spent some of that silver on a third tunic.’

‘Why do I need more than two?’

‘I shall not waste my breath on a reply to that.’

Simo returned with a young lad, who instantly set about grabbing saddlebags.

‘Know where the nearest army way station is?’ Cassius asked him.

‘No, sir.’

‘Wonderful. Well, shouldn’t be far away.’

Cassius set off down the side of the crowded quay. It was difficult to maintain one’s dignity on such occasions and he forced himself to move slowly, though anyone who saw him coming took care to stay out of his way. Not for the first time, he was reminded of the parallels between life as an army officer and his youthful forays into acting, not to mention his two years studying to be an orator. So much of professional life was an act. One donned the clothes, then played the part.

Once off the quay, they came to the low sea wall that ran round the harbour. The rest of the waterfront was relatively quiet; though a hundred or more had gathered to meet the freighter, there was little sailing done at this time of year. The only other cluster of people in view were at a ramshackle market squeezed between the sea wall and the road.

‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’

Cassius turned to see a man of about forty with wavy, greying hair and a practised smile. He was wearing a heavy cloak over an immaculate toga. Behind him were three male attendants.

‘Gaius Vilsonius,’ stated the man. ‘I’m a member of the city assembly, amongst other things.’

They gripped forearms.

‘Officer Cassius Quintius Corbulo.’