Nick Brown - The Far Shore

‘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.’

Cassius only mentioned Imperial Security to civilians if he thought it to his advantage, which was rarely the case.

‘First time on Rhodes?’

‘It is.’

Vilsonius pointed at the statue. ‘What do you think of our big bronze friend?’

He spoke in perfect, accentless Latin; almost certainly raised in Rome.

‘Most impressive,’ replied Cassius.

‘Take a closer look if you have a moment. Much quieter now the tourist season’s past. There are usually a few artists over there — they’ll do a good likeness of you with the statue in the background. Rather talented some of them. What brings you here so late in the year?’

As Vilsonius and Cassius spoke, the six others with them stood in silence.

‘Just army business. Supply issues — all rather boring I’m afraid. But I hope to have a good look around the island.’

‘Oh you must, you must.’

‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for the nearest way station.’

‘You’ve not far to go.’ Vilsonius pointed west along the road. ‘Just down there. For some reason they insisted on putting it close to the fish market. Luckily there’s a bit of wind today.’