The Far Shore (21 page)

‘I recall a friend going to hear Porphyry in Rome several years ago,’ said Cassius. ‘A follower of Plotinus, as I understand it.’

‘So I believe.’

Cassius was somewhat taken aback. A young lady interested in philosophy! It wouldn’t do to offend the girl, but he decided to assess the extent of her knowledge.

‘Plotinus certainly examined some fascinating concepts. The idea of “the one”, for example. An all-encompassing entity: not any one thing, yet the sum of all things. Interesting to compare it with standard Platonist thinking.’

Annia gave a little smile.

Cassius knew he had gone too far; he had embarrassed the poor girl.

‘And?’ she said.

‘And?’

‘How
would
you compare the two, Officer?’

‘Er …’

Other than the fact that some of Plotinus’s views were contrary to Plato’s, Cassius knew only a few sketchy details. ‘Well, this concept of “oneness” for example.’

‘Yes?’

Clara was looking at him now too.

‘Er … the relationship between “the one” and humanity.’

‘Yes?’

How typical of her to press him. Cassius reached deep into the recesses of his memory and pulled out a few key phrases. He was far from sure, but he had to say something. ‘Well, it’s been a while, of course, but if memory serves, the argument centres on such fundamentals as the act of creation, the stages of perfection and the concepts of the demiurge and the dyad. Though that would be little more than a starting point for the discussion of course.’

Annia frowned. Cassius knew he’d made a fool of himself. Even if the girl had paid the slightest bit of attention to the speech she’d heard, she probably knew more than him.

‘I can’t remember much of the detail to be honest,’ she said. ‘It is all very confusing at times.’

‘True, true,’ Cassius replied, trying not to sigh with relief. ‘Well, of course, oratory was my main area of study.’

‘Ah,’ said Annia. ‘Now I
can
imagine you as an orator.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh certainly. You seem highly skilled in the art of saying a lot without answering the question.’

Clara’s eyes grew wide and she looked away. Cassius was too surprised to even measure his own reaction and certainly not capable of an immediate reply.

‘Just a jest, Officer,’ Annia said with a placatory smile. ‘Please don’t take offence.’

‘You are quick, miss,’ Cassius said sourly. ‘Very quick.’

‘Please.’ She placed a hand lightly on his arm. ‘I apologise if I insulted you.’

Cassius’s cheeks glowed. Looking down at those rather lovely green eyes, he felt himself relenting. But the rebuke still stung.

‘How is it that you found yourself a soldier, sir?’

Cassius pulled his arm away.

‘Officer!’ Asdribar was on his way back from the bow.

‘Perhaps you will tell me later,’ said Annia.

‘I think not,’ Cassius shot back. ‘It’s a pity your maid couldn’t find anything to distract you from your grief, miss, as you seem to have concocted your own form of entertainment. I suggest that for both our benefits you stick to needlework from now on.’

Cassius turned away from her as Asdribar approached.

‘Do you have any documentation with you?’ asked the captain. ‘An authorisation, that sort of thing?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘There’s a Roman warship ahead, coming up from the south. We first spotted her earlier this morning.’

‘Right. And?’

‘She’s just altered course. To intercept us.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?’

‘Shouldn’t be. No.’

Cassius found himself rather concerned by the doubt in the Carthaginian’s voice. He was about to press him further when something heavy hit the deck. Looking over Asdribar’s shoulder, he saw Indavara wiping water from his face and looking down at the sodden sheet in his hand. Korinth was standing over him, next to the bucket he’d just dropped by Indavara’s feet.

‘Oh. Sorry,’ said the big sailor with a provocative grin.

Cassius half expected Indavara to fly at him but the bodyguard got up slowly, eyes fixed on the taller man.

Korinth scratched at the burnt section of his face, then waved him forward. ‘Got no stave this time, have you? Unless you want to stick me with that blade, it’ll have to be fists.’

‘Calm yourself, lad!’ yelled Squint. A couple of the other men bawled encouragement as Asdribar hurried over to intervene.

Indavara crossed his arms. ‘I’m not going to break my fingers on your ugly snout.’

Korinth looked all set to go for him but by then Asdribar was between them.

‘What did I tell you?’ demanded the captain. ‘Any more of that and your cut on this run drops from a sixth to a nothing. Got it?’

Korinth continued to glare at Indavara, who was wiping water off the sheet.

‘Korinth!’

At last the sailor looked at his captain. Asdribar pointed towards the bow. With a final poisonous glare at Indavara, Korinth walked away.

The air of tension created by the incident was amplified by the approach of the warship. Not long after the vessel changed course, a sparkling light – apparently a sun-mirror – signalled a brief code that all the crewmen seemed to understand: ‘Slow, and prepare for boarding.’

As the sailors furled the mainsail, Cassius joined the others on the starboard side to watch the warship approach.

‘It’s the
Armata
!’ shouted young Tarkel as he coiled a line.

‘Keep at your work,’ ordered Squint, who was overseeing operations at the mast.

‘What does it mean –
armata
?’ asked Indavara.

‘Armed,’ said Cassius. ‘As in ready for war.’

‘Hopefully not with us,’ Asdribar said ruefully as he passed by.

Cassius had been ruminating on what the harbour master’s clerk had disclosed about the Carthaginian’s reputation. He hurried after him.

‘Captain?’

‘Yes?’

‘Should I be concerned? What would the navy want with the
Fortuna
?’

‘Probably just a shakedown.’

‘A what?’

‘Officers looking to grab a few extras before heading home. Happens all the time.’

‘Extras? Such as?’

‘Whatever they can find. And taxes invented on the spot if they can’t.’

‘I presume there’s nothing on board that shouldn’t be?’

‘That’s what I’ll be telling them.’

‘Is it true?’

‘That’s what I’ll be telling them.’

The blue eyes stared implacably back at Cassius, bright and clear in that bronzed face. Cassius decided it was probably best he didn’t know.

‘The authorisation,’ Asdribar added. ‘Might be wise to get it now.’

Cassius waved Simo over. ‘Cloak, helmet and spearhead. My letters too. And be careful – I don’t want them blowing over the side.’

As Simo made his way below, Tarkel scurried after him.

Korinth and a couple of the men lowered the foresail and the
Fortuna
drifted to a stop. Without any forward motion and the stabilising effect of full sails, the ship began to roll, an effect exacerbated by the yardarms projecting over each side.

Having taken some long, deep breaths, Cassius forced himself to focus on the warship. He had only ever seen such a vessel in dock, and never one this size. The sight of it reminded him of the first time he’d set eyes on a full legion camp in the field – that of the Fourth Legion stationed at Palmyra, Syria. Just like then, pride surged within him, and the warm glow of it seemed to burn the nausea away.

Cassius had been born just four years after the thousandth anniversary of the founding of Rome. At moments like this, and with a man like Aurelian now in command of the Empire, it was possible to forget the troubles in Gaul, the raiding Goths and rebels like Queen Zenobia. At moments like this, Cassius felt sure that what his father had told him all his life was true: Rome would endure another thousand years.

‘And another thousand after that.’

‘What?’ said Indavara.

Cassius realised he had spoken aloud.

‘Forget your giant creatures, Indavara,’ he said, pointing at the warship. ‘There’s nothing in the sea mightier than that.’

As the
Armata
cut towards them, one big, oval eye stared out from above the metal ramming spike. There was no sense of grace or elegance about the warship’s lines, just an angular, brutal efficiency. She seemed to lie low in the water, yet somehow glide across it. The hull was an ominous black, the deck the same bright red as the huge square standard hanging from the comparatively short mast. Sail power was strictly a secondary form of propulsion; for the watchers aboard the
Fortuna
, it was hard to concentrate on anything other than the scores of closely packed oars dipping in and out of the water with synchronised precision.

Cassius counted them. ‘Twenty-two ranks of three. Must be a flagship. I wonder which fleet?’

‘Alexandrian,’ answered Tarkel as he knelt by the side-rail. In one hand was a sheet of paper held against a writing block, in the other a piece of charcoal. The lad gazed out at the
Armata
as he continued speaking. ‘One hundred and fifty feet long, thirty wide. Full complement of crew: two hundred and five, including one hundred and thirty-two oarsmen and forty marines. Armed with ram, boarding bridge and grappling hooks, with capability for battle towers, ballistae and artillery. Normally escorts grain shipments. Wonder what she’s doing out here.’

‘Me too,’ said Cassius quietly.

They could hear the ship now; the beating of the timing drums, the churning splashes of the oars. Gradually the beat slowed and the dip of the oars slowed with it until the warship eased to a stop about a hundred yards away.

Despite what Tarkel had said about the numbers aboard, Cassius could see little of the crew: not a trace of the oarsmen of course, and perhaps only a dozen men on deck, barely visible behind the high wooden barricades painted to resemble a line of shields. There was, however, activity at the rear: the ship’s two tenders had been drawn up to the stern and men were climbing down rope ladders.

Cassius looked at Asdribar. The captain was standing close to Korinth, deep in discussion.

Annia came over to the side-rail. ‘What could they want?’

Cassius studiously ignored her.

‘Officer?’

‘No idea.’

‘I hope they won’t keep us long,’ Annia said. ‘Perhaps they might even help us.’

Simo came up through the hatch with Cassius’s gear. Cassius threw his cloak over his shoulders, then pulled on his helmet, tying the chinstrap tight. Leaving the spearhead with Simo for now, he took a little leather folder from him and tucked it carefully into his belt.

There were three letters inside. One was the authorisation issued several months earlier by Chief Pulcher, permitting him to join the governor’s staff in Syria. The other two he had obtained before leaving Antioch for Cilicia. The first was from Abascantius, identifying Cassius as an officer of the Imperial Security Service and reminding the reader of the authority and privileges this afforded him. The second was from Prefect Oppius Julius Venator, commander of the Fourth Legion.

Venator had good cause to be glad that Cassius had brought the Persian banner affair to a successful conclusion and had readily acceded to his two requests: firstly that Cassius be officially assigned to the Fourth; secondly that the prefect write him a letter of recommendation. The former was largely a formality but the latter was – to Cassius – nothing short of invaluable.

It was a short note, just a few lines declaring that Venator knew Cassius to be a capable officer of good character and concluding with a request that the reader grant him favour and lend him assistance if required. The letter also happened to be the single most exciting piece of post Cassius had ever received; he had read it at least ten times before spending an indulgent night out to celebrate.

As well as being a prefect in charge of five and a half thousand men, Venator came from an extremely influential family thought to be the sixth or seventh richest in the Empire. He had uncles and brothers in the Senate and contacts in dozens of provinces. A written, formal association with such a man could secure influence, financial assistance and (most crucial of all) protection. Along with his mail shirt and the spearhead, the letter was one of Cassius’s most prized possessions. His father had always told him a man is judged by four things: his words, his coins, his clothes and his letters.

As he watched the two tenders cast off from the
Armata
, Cassius hoped he wouldn’t have to invoke either the letters or the spearhead. He’d never dealt with the navy before.

‘What you sketching that bloody monstrosity for, boy?’ asked Squint.

Tarkel ignored him.

‘Let him draw,’ said Opilio, who’d also come up on deck to see the warship.

When they were about fifty feet away, the tenders split up. The first continued slowly towards the starboard side of the
Fortuna
, while the other rounded the bow. The eight oarsmen in the first tender were sculling gently, just enough to keep the boat moving. In front of them were six marines clad in green tunics, wearing light leather armour with muscled chest plates. They also wore helmets, and three were armed with bows.