Thunder of the Gods (18 page)

‘Rode south.’

‘And you believe he came here?’

‘What do you think?’

The trader shrugged.

‘Why would I care?’

Sanga reached into his purse, pulling out a freshly minted gold aureus and dropping it into the trader’s open hand. The Arab looked at the coin, frowning at the head depicted in profile.

‘Which emperor is this?’

Sanga shrugged.

‘Who gives a fuck? I’ve got four more like that, if you help me to find the man in question. I believe his name was Abbas. Here’s his description.’

The trader thought for a moment.

‘It does seem logical for a man seeking to hide from vengeful people like you – and the gods know that your empire has a solid reputation for taking revenge on those who betray it – would seek shelter among the teeming masses of the city. But how do you propose that I might find this man?’

Sanga gave him a pitying look.

‘For five gold pieces I’d say you can do your own thinking. But I’d have thought that if anyone can persuade a man like that to come out of hiding, a trader who routinely uses the roads between here and the east to make his money would be the favourite.’

The Arab looked at him appraisingly, lifting the coin to the tavern’s lamplight.

‘Four more of these?’

The soldier nodded.

‘Five in gold for this man Abbas – that and a night with the pick of the girls upstairs for the two of us. And wine.’ He winked at the bodyguard. ‘Plenty of wine.’

It was dark when Scaurus’s clerk ushered an unexpected visitor into the legatus’s office, taking the man’s travel-stained cloak and helmet.

‘Prefect. I wasn’t expecting to see you again quite this quickly.’

Scaurus shook the Phrygian officer’s hand, calling for cold drinks and directing him to a chair, taking his own seat.

‘Am I to presume from your rather dusty appearance that you’ve ridden here from Hama?’

The younger man nodded, gratefully taking a long drink from the jug of cold water offered to him by the legatus’s German slave.

‘You presume correctly. I left yesterday at dawn and reached the city late in the day, to discover that your man Corvus has not been seen, at least not by the military authorities.’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow.

‘Which is most unlikely. The arrival of a senior officer would have been noted by the men on duty, at whichever gate he entered, for a start.’

The Phrygian nodded with an unhappy expression.

‘Which can only lead me to conclude that he didn’t actually ride for Hama in the first place.’

Scaurus looked back at him, his face expressionless.

‘Those were his orders. But who knows what lengths a man unjustly accused of murder will go to if he fears a show trial and prompt execution, solely to satisfy the spite of a man who should know better?’

The uncomfortable silence was broken by the prefect, who picked up his helmet and stood up.

‘Legatus, you realise that I have no choice but to take this news to the governor?’

Scaurus nodded equably.

‘It was good of you to bring it to me first. Of course, you must report back to your superior, who will in turn doubtless summon me to his palace for a discussion without wine. That is the way of things.’

‘Legatus …’

‘I know. The governor’s most likely reaction will be to assume that I’ve sent Tribune Corvus away to somewhere very far from Hama. Not only will he rail at me for this assumed act of defiance, but he will almost certainly declare that I am to be held responsible for Quinctius Flamininus’s murder in Corvus’s place. He will have me arrested and conduct a quickly convened trial, declare my guilt and oversee my execution which, if I am fortunate, will be conducted in a swift and merciful manner to avoid any stain on his character.’

The prefect shook his head unhappily.

‘And I can see no way to avoid bringing this fate about. I cannot fail to report my findings to the Governor, and when I do …’

‘The summons will be immediate.’

The prefect leaned forward, lowering his voice.

‘I cannot fail to report to the governor. But I can fail to report
tonight
.’

Scaurus inclined his head.

‘That would be generous of you, Prefect.’

‘What will you do?’

The legatus smiled wanly.

‘Leave the city, obviously. What other choice do I have?’

Timon drove the mules that he had collected from his business partner earlier in the day up the road from Antioch to the barracks’ gates, where a weary-looking sentry took one look and hooked a thumb at the nervous salesman.

‘Up the road to the corner of the wall and turn right. You’ll find the stables easy enough, just head for the sound of your mates and all
their
mules. Not to mention the fucking smell.’

Making his way round the perimeter of the legion’s base, it didn’t take him long to realise that he wasn’t the only vendor on whom the soldiers had called the previous day. Recognising the faces of several of his competitors from across the city, he exchanged mutually wary greetings with the man he considered to be his closest rival.

‘Three soldiers, one with a cross carved into his cheek and going by the blasphemous name of “Jesus”?’

Timon nodded unhappily.

‘And not that either of us will admit as much to another living soul, but a large number of mules to be delivered in only a day, at a price which despite its keenness left a fair profit for yourself? Such a large number that I have made undertakings to certain people in order to find the money required to procure the animals, procurement that may well not have been of a legal nature. And undertakings that will prove painful to me should I fail to repay them. And now I discover that I am not supplying these mules to retired soldiers, but to the army itself.’

He nodded again, and his competitor sighed in apparent relief.

‘You cannot know how pleased I am to see you here. I was thinking that you had been spared the ignominy of having been deceived by these …’

The other mule dealer fell silent, as the soldier who had conducted negotiations the previous day stepped onto a box to address them.

‘Greetings gentlemen! My name is Morban, as most of you probably remember! I see you’re all here, with the mules you promised to supply!’

A hard-faced officer and a pair of cavalrymen stood beside him, while a legion clerk known to all of the dealers had taken a seat at a desk behind them, and was fussing with his abacus and writing materials.

‘Well done my friends! You’re all busy men, so we’re going to get you all sorted out and paid as quickly as we can. When your name is called, bring your mules forward. They will be examined by my colleague Silus here and his men, passed as fit and entered into the record as having been purchased from you. When all your beasts have been either passed into the stables or rejected as inadequate for service, then the clerk here will record the details …’

He paused to clear his throat, and Timon’s fellow vendor muttered a curse.

‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

‘Will record the details in the legion’s records and then write you a syngrapha.’

Half a dozen angry voices were immediately raised in protest, and the soldier waited with a patient expression until they gradually ran out of steam.

‘The sooner we get on with this the sooner you’ll be able to get away and start planning how to spend the money!’

The man standing next to Timon waved his clenched fist in the air.

‘A fucking syngrapha? A piece of paper promising to pay us at some point in the future? You promised me payment in gold!’

The soldier shrugged.

‘You didn’t ask. You just took the gold I offered for what you had in your stables, and then assumed that we’d pay the same way for the rest of the beasts.’

‘This is robbery!’

He turned to the new protester.

‘There’s nothing making you do business with us. Just take your mules and leave, if you’re that unhappy.’

Silence fell, as each man present reflected on the risks they had each taken in pursuit of the profit they had expected. Theft, loans, and in Timon’s case not only the questionable means by which he had acquired his mules, but also a formidable wife who was yet to be told exactly how their savings had been reinvested and who, he fervently hoped, would never find out.

‘And besides, these syngraphas will be dated for tomorrow. All you have to do is go down to the governor’s palace first thing and the provincial treasury will honour them on the spot. After all, you can’t expect the legion to have that sort of money lying around, can you? A syngrapha with the legatus’s official stamp on it is as good as gold, my friends. You’ll all be paid, you’ll just have to wait a few hours.’

He looked at each of them in turn, and Timon realised with a sinking heart that neither he nor any of his competitors could afford to walk away from the deal.

‘Excellent! Let’s get started then, shall we?’

Passing unnoticed through the quiet pre-dawn streets of the city, the Arab known as Abbas slipped into the brothel by its seldom used side door. Unlike the ornate main entrance, guarded by a quartet of hard-faced former soldiers who job was to keep order and ensure that any legionary who got out of hand left the establishment with a permanent reminder of the event, the side door was used only by men known to the owner. They came not to use the services of the establishment, but simply to frequent the small and exclusive tavern he maintained for the use of men either willing to spend their money in greater amounts than the average customer, and who wanted to avoid the inevitable crowding when the legion came into town with sex on its collective mind, or to provide him with the investment opportunities to best utilise the substantial revenue that flowed in from his various business activities. After waiting for a short time, the Arab was shown into the owner’s presence, bowing deeply to show his respect for a man famed for the size and profitability of his camel trains, which routinely travelled the various routes from the Persian Sea through Parthia to the province’s borders. At such an early hour the only other men in the tavern were a pair of Romans who, having clearly used the brothel’s services well, if not wisely, were recuperating after a hard night with a cup of wine apiece, their eyes barely open as they laid back on their couches. Swiftly laying out his experience, and his desire to find employment in the near future, he was delighted when, after a moment’s thought, the trader nodded acceptance of his proposal.

‘You are well informed. I do indeed have need of experienced men such as yourself.’

‘You’ll take me as an outrider?’

The other man nodded.

‘One of my
karawan
masters will begin the journey from Antioch to the Gulf of the Persians in three days’ time, bearing enough Roman gold to purchase a two-hundred-camel load of silk and spices. I need a man with extensive knowledge of the roads through Mesopotamia, and one is not afraid to stand behind a sword in the event of attempted robbery.’

The scout nodded eagerly.

‘I have ridden the road of silk for most of my life. I know every pace of every path and goat track between Zeugma and the ocean, and I also have a nose for trouble.’

‘But you
can
fight? We carry no passengers.’

‘I can fight. As long as you do not expect to be making war on the Parthian empire.’

The merchant sat back in his cushioned chair.

‘The empire does not seek to rob us. Far from it, in fact, for they know that the tax they will take from our
karawans
over the years will far outweigh any benefit to be had from the short-term gain of theft. And you speak as if the King of Kings has declared war upon Rome, although I think we would have heard of this, were it to be true.’

The scout acknowledged the point with a respectful inclination of his head.

‘Indeed you are right. But I have seen armed men of the army of Parthia take the field against Rome in recent times.’

His potential employer regarded him levelly for a moment.

‘These are interesting times, that I will grant you. But have no fear, no Parthian king would countenance the use of violence against the men who provide the bulk of his income. So, will you join us?’

The Arab nodded.

‘I will be pleased to. I have had the unnatural smell of this city in my nostrils for long enough.’

‘Good. Then meet me at the Oriental gate, at dawn three days from now, and you will have a place in this trading expedition, and at the rate you named.’

The scout bowed deeply.

‘Thank you. In three days.’

He was halfway to the door when the trader spoke again, his question couched in a deceptively light tone, seemingly an afterthought.

‘And how shall we contact you in the event that our departure plans change?’

The Arab turned, meeting the trader’s eyes for a moment and then turned swiftly for the door, only to find himself looking down a long knife blade whose design, he noted with a sinking heart, was distinctly Roman. He reached for his own blade, only to find himself on the floor looking up as the second Roman kicked his feet from beneath him and followed up with a swift knuckle jab into his sternum, briskly relieving him of the weapon while he curled up in agony. Recovering some of his wits, he spat an imprecation at the trader.

‘I’ll make you bleed for this!’

The Syrian shrugged.

‘In truth, I expect not. Given the amount of gold that the Romans have promised to pay me for finding you, you’ll either very shortly be underground with your throat cut or going away with them for a holiday to Nisibis. And we all know that since Governor Dexter is only allowing half the legion to march north, neither they nor yourself are likely to be coming back.’

He held up his hands in a semblance of apology.

‘No offence intended, gentlemen, I have to state the facts as I see them. And now, I believe, there is a matter of payment to be completed, given you have your man?’

The older of the two Romans tapped his belt purse and shot the trader a hard grin as he knotted a fist in the protesting Arab’s hair and dragged him onto his feet.