Chapter IV

 

 

 

He must fear many, whom many fear – Publilius Syrus, Maxims

 

Smyrna

 

Decimus Malorix savours the caress of the Mediterranean breeze on his face as he loiters in an alley facing the entrance to the Tavern of Elias. Gulls hovering overhead cast wisps of shadows over the cobblestones. Satisfied that the street is empty he crosses over, pauses inside sand-weathered doors and lets his eyes adjust to the shaded interior. To his left, clusters of tables and wicker chairs. In a sunlit corner an orange cat lies curled in a stupor of delicious warmth sheltered by a bucket and a broom with a broken handle. An impassive ear pivots in his direction as it has done three days in succession. He selects a table under the portico open to the sea.

The tavern overlooks the bustling quays of Smyrna harbour. Summer trade winds called Etesians have lingered this year and, although late in the season, the port is still crowded with ships from distant cities unloading freight. A vessel hunkers nearby, gunnels low in the water. Bleached, sun-roasted sailors mechanically dispatch its cargo of amphorae and baskets of iron ingots to the shore across a dodgy network of planks. Further down the line a trader discharges copper ore. Flanked by stacks of timber, she’s a typical merchantman, big-bellied with a single enormous square mainsail. From her shape and the cut of her crew this one is a Macedonian, identical to the freighter that only a week earlier ferried Malorix here from Byzantium across the waters of Propontis and the Aegean.

Having endured weeks on horseback in the cold and driving rains of Moesia and Thrace, the voyage was needed respite. Stretched idly on a pile of ropes and gear in the bow of the trader Malorix had done little but soak in the sun, ears glorying in the gentle ripple of the prow through cerulean waters. The transition from the severe climate of the Danube to this land of lucent warmth could not be more marked. And now gazing out across the glistening bay of Smyrna, the frontier is beginning to seem a distant companion.

Easy perhaps to shrug off the inclement grip of the river god Danubius like some frozen cloak. Less so his malign spirit, a presence that clings to Malorix like a revenant voyager. Companion of his day and night, it waits, omnipresent. A darkness in his soul when he closes his eyes, to sleep. Intrinsic. Even now it loiters beyond the horizon of his vision, loath to be compelled into the light.

Suffused by demons? Malorix knows the legends well enough. Tales of creatures that frequent the River God’s kingdom of great northern forests. The Celts tell of their deceits. Gerontius gives careful heed to the forest god Cernunnos, the shape-changer who conjures demons when unappeased. Likewise, he speaks of the ones who lurk in the same stands of tall pines where the ancients once gave blood sacrifice to different gods, and from where they prey still on the unwary. Travellers, like Malorix, isolated, separated from tribe and clan, from family—these face the utmost peril. For they are alone, and as any second-rate street philosopher can tell you, to live alone is to live against nature.

Willing his thoughts back to the circumstance of the moment, Malorix concentrates anew on the bustling activity in the harbour. At the first opportunity he will visit a soothsayer.

Smyrna is a shining port city situated at the head of a broad curving horseshoe coast, bordered on the north and south by high sloping hills and long headlands. It lies astride the convergence of three great passes leading inland and eastward toward the interior of Asia and beyond. Trade naturally follows these routes, making Smyrna wealthy.

The city boasts a vast and thriving slave market. From the little information Claudius provided, Malorix knows he is expected to play the role of slave merchant. To this end he bought gold jewellery and rings to look the part and has passed his time in the company of the slavers. They have an easy candour, full of false confidences as they size one another up with their eye on the main chance. Malorix inspects their merchandise and talks price, avoiding purchases with the claim that he is travelling to recover his health after a long illness. Pledges to return another day cost nothing. Meanwhile he gains useful insights and hones a Greek tongue long neglected.

Malorix spies Elias the innkeeper, a fat man with oily hair and a close-cropped beard. He keeps late hours, drinking and gambling. His wife runs the tavern. She cooks twice a day, her meals renowned along the harbour front. Today Malorix has arrived early to take the midday sitting ahead of the locals and crowds of seamen. The scent of garlic and sweet stewing fish is heavy in the air. The innkeeper has an endless supply of daughters to work the tavern. One of them brings him a flask of wine, a jug of water and an earthenware cup. She claps them on his table with an unnecessary swing of the hips and an impudent smile. Perhaps, he thinks, he will call on this one. Malorix carefully observes her lithe retreat to the kitchen as he samples the wine. Locally made, when mixed with a little water it is nicely refreshing.

Over the rim of his cup he contemplates the patrons filtering in for lunch. None looks likely to be his contact. A derelict fishmonger attends the kitchen door with a basket of squid to sell, while his competitor slouches nearby with dozens of small silvery sprats that flop in tepid desperation. Two tables away a pair of grizzled sailors have materialized. On the long end of a drinking bout, one stares vacantly out to sea while the other is quite unable to lift his head from the beaker upon which it has come to rest. They merit disapproving looks from the family of five seated adjacent, who from their dress look to be Italian tourists, wealthy enough to be attended by a trio of servants.

Malorix glances up as the door swings open. A young man enters and casually surveys the patrons. Perhaps twenty years old, he sports breeches and a rough woven tunic. Removing a Phrygian cap from his head he swipes it across his brow and ambles close to where Malorix is seated. He spreads his hands along the rough stone wall at the edge of the porch and takes a long look along the quayside in both directions, then turns and half-leans and half-sits on the wall. Arms wide, hands resting on the stone surface, he looks upward and lets the full light of the sun fall upon his face. He holds this pose for several minutes and until he turns once again to peer out toward the nearest ships. "Macedonians," he says to no one in particular. "Look at the bloody rigging on that ship. It’s a disgrace."

None but Malorix is within earshot of this unsolicited declaration. He regards the visitor with interest but says nothing.

"Mind you," the young man continues, "they aren’t sea-faring folk. They claim to be soldiers too, but probably haven’t had any fight in them since Alexander’s day. They are a nation of actors."

"Yes," Malorix agrees, trying to sound casual, "but laugh and they’ll out laugh you." He scowls as he reflects on the inanity of the signals they have been asked to recite. The man in the Phrygian cap says simply, "Wait here," and strolls out the door, cap in hand, the study of a young man with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Malorix keeps his eyes fixed on the door. Instinctively his fingers grope for the comfort of the daggers in the corselet beneath his tunic.

Minutes later another man enters the tavern. He briefly surveys the scene, then proceeds directly toward Malorix and places his hands on the stool opposite.

"May I sit?"

Malorix nods.

Seated, he gently folds his hands and rests them on the table offering Malorix a penetrating look. "Adiutrix," he says.

Malorix studies his contact carefully. The only thing he knows about Adiutrix is that he is a Syrian, a native of a country called Commagene. At a glance he can tell that this is no working man or tradesman. Nor is he a fighter. This man is thin almost to the point of frailty. He is in his late thirties or early forties with a high brow, neatly coiffed beard and hair of thinning, sun-bleached brown. His eyes are green and laughing. Adiutrix wears one gold earring and copper and gold bands on the wrist of his right hand, suggesting to Malorix that this man pays attention to fashion. By appearance he is of good birth and education. He is of "society."

"Rapax." Malorix replies with his code name.

"Perhaps we can drop the monikers now. I find them rather silly. My name is Loukianos. At least that’s what my Greek friends call me."

"What do your Roman friends call you?"

"As a general rule I find there are two kinds of Romans—those who like Greeks, and those who don’t. Having a name for both groups permits me to avoid discomfiting either. And so, to Greekophiles I am Loukianos, to less the enlightened of the sons of Aeneas I am Gaius Lucianus. For friends in either camp, Lucian suffices."

"Decimus Malorix."

"So you are. I’m afraid I have you at an advantage as I know a great deal about you and you know next to nothing about me." He leans forward, examining the Sarmatian’s costume. Malorix put away his slaver finery for this encounter. "I see you are no longer in character. You have been studying the slave market. An admirable initiative."

"You’ve had me under surveillance."

"A sensible precaution I’m sure you’ll agree. Our enemies lie both within and without, so we take care. Besides, you are in Asia now. No one does anything quickly here."

Despite Lucian’s explanation Malorix feels inexplicably vexed. He pulls at his wine and stares out to sea.

"Claudius speaks most highly of you," Lucian ventures.

"How is Claudius?"

"Thriving, thriving. At least so I’m told. I don’t get to Rome often. Early to bed, early to rise, that’s his motto. Duty before pleasure. Stoic service to the great Marcus, and terror to the enemies of Rome."

"Who is your friend?"

"Timon, my cousin."

"Phrygian?"

"No, he’s a Syrian like me. He just likes the hat." Lucian pauses as if waiting for a rejoinder. When it fails to arrive he says, "Let’s get some food." He beckons to one of Elias’ ubiquitous daughters and she brings over two bowls of fish stew, a loaf of bread, and another cup for wine. Lucian tops up the two cups and raises his own. "To good fortune."

"Good fortune." Malorix takes a sip.

"Your name is not a Sarmatian name."

"No," Malorix agrees.

"And?"

"It is Frisian."

"Ahh …" Lucian takes another drink, anticipating an explanation. He is disappointed. "Claudius mentioned you weren’t much of a conversationalist."

Malorix considers this. "In Germania, there are few people I want to talk to."

"What a pity. I live for words."

"You wouldn’t like Germans then."

"And you like Germans?"

"In Germania they are unavoidable. Duty to the Emperor requires I live among them."

"Duty," Lucian repeats without conviction. "Talking to you is a lot like talking to Claudius."

Malorix fixes his eyes on the Syrian. "I know my duty."

"I’m pleased to hear it," Lucian says, with a certain impatience. "Where you are going promises to be duty indeed."

"Tell me about it. While you’re at it, you might explain why I travelled half-way around the world in the middle of an operation. Surely the Frumentarii are not so short of agents in Asia?"

"What did Claudius tell you?"

"Urgent change of plans, go to Smyrna, meet Adiutrix."

"That’s it?"

"Now you know what I know."

Lucian purses his lips. "He’s a devious one, our Claudius, so we must assume he has his devious reasons for what he asks of us. As for the situation, there I can help you. The Parthian Empire is marching. They have invaded Armenia and placed a usurper on the Armenian throne. Rome is at war, but Parthia is not just a collection of tribesmen blowing farts across the Danube. Parthia will be a real test and Rome knows it. There seems to be a lot of pressure building in the city on the seven hills. The Senate whispers. What they whisper is that the Emperor doesn’t have what it takes."

"Idiots," Malorix spits a fish bone over the wall.

"You are acquainted with the Emperor?"

"I warn you," he says, thinking of Cocconas, "not a word against Marcus Aurelius."

"None is forthcoming, you may rest assured. Rome has never defeated the Parthians, not really. Trajan won many battles, dispersed them, and even occupied their capital, but he never defeated them. And then his successor, dear old Hadrian, gave away most of what Trajan won anyway."

"Why?"

"Because Hadrian knew that while Trajan’s conquests were glorious, they were indefensible. Any frontier can be defended, at a cost. But armies cost money. Rome cannot afford to defend itself if its assets are spread out all over the map. If you ever get a look at Mesopotamia you’ll understand what I mean. It is as flat as unleavened bread, and about as interesting. Hadrian probably guessed that Parthia or its successor would eventually spring back to challenge Rome. An oracle it would seem.

"Speaking of which, the great high-born of Rome are in a bit of a funk because the auguries are all amiss. Some of the most prominent oracles of the day promise both doom and gloom. Against the laws of natural design, ravens are seen to fly backwards. Entrails smell poorly," he says acidly. "Asia, meanwhile, braces for invasion. Even on the streets of Rome people ask if Marcus Aurelius is strong enough to deal with the challenge."

"Nonsense. Marcus ran things for years as heir apparent!"

"We know that, but there are many who do not. Remember Malorix, in our world most people do not understand or believe things unless they are shown them. Only a handful can read. If Rome does not show the world its strength, the world will conclude that Rome is lacking in that commodity.

"Also, the Parthians seem to have destroyed an entire Roman legion at a place called Elegia, in Cappadocia. We are at war. The outstanding question now is whether the current Emperor, or Emperors, if you believe in that other fellow, will still be in charge when they close the doors to the Temple of Janus."

Malorix isn’t quite certain how to respond to this torrent of words. People do not go around suggesting that emperors can be overthrown. It isn’t done, at least not by Romans. Lucian’s words are strange, almost disloyal, and yet … not. He decides to move to more familiar ground. "This legion was led by the Legate himself?"

"A silly Celt by the name of Severianus. Good service record though. That’s what makes it all a bit odd."

"What does?"

"It all seems to have happened rather in a hurry. Severianus had three legions, but he went on campaign with only one."

"Overconfidence?"

"Certainly."

"Deceived?"

"Perhaps. We hope your mission will provide answers. The unit in question has a long history and gained something of a reputation for bad-luck. Haunted, some say."

"Haunted?"

"Oh, the usual jibber-jabber. It wouldn’t have been the first legion to go soft after a transfer east. It happens out here." He gives Malorix an arch look. "You’ll need to watch out, Sarmatian. Our exotic delights could suck all that northern vigour right out of you."

"I won’t be here that long," Malorix replies ill-temperedly. "What else?"

"I’ll tell you." He reaches for their carafe but finds it empty. A group of rough-looking sailors sits down at the next table. Lucian wrinkles his nose. "Let’s move." He pays for the meal and they leave the tavern, walking slowly along the harbour front. Out of the shelter of the buildings the breeze picks up, and Malorix is assailed by the fresh smell of the sea. A hundred paces further on they reach the beach and Lucian continues his account.

"Severianus ignored his orders. He took IX^th Hispana east and was not heard from again."

"The Spanish Legion." Malorix whistles as the realization dawns on him.

"You’ve heard of it?"

"Who hasn’t? They’re said to be under a curse."

"Indeed. Furthermore, people who know Severianus consider his actions out of character for a soldier of his experience. We would all like to know why. That is partly why you are here."

"Partly?"

"I presume Claudius sent you because the Sarmatian people and the Parthians have a lot in common. They too love their horses and their archery contests. I understand you have some facility with languages. That will be useful if you have to carry on east of Elegia."

"If?"

"Depends on what we learn on the first leg of our journey." Lucian reaches down and cleans his hands, running them through the sand and water. Picking up a sea shell he gives it a perfunctory examination and discards it, gently shaking his hands in the air. "Being from Commagene I have encountered a smattering of Parthians in my lifetime.”

"What do you know of their language?"

"Quite distressing to listen to. In the east we speak mainly Greek or Aramaic. Fortunately, a great many Parthians also speak Greek, the interesting ones at least.

“Gelanor will be of assistance; Armenians understand Parthia. Given their geography they have no choice. His Parthian is functional."

"Who is Gelanor?"

"One of our doughty band. We would not send you into the Parthian’s den all alone. You’ll meet the others tomorrow.

"But back to Elegia. At first we thought the legion was entirely destroyed. Now we think there may have been survivors. If it comes to it, we intend for you to pose as a Sarmatian slave trader." He holds up his pouch and jingles it. "It will be excellent cover for you to track down any Romans captured at Elegia and find out what they know."

"How long ago was this battle?"

"Maybe six, seven months."

"They could all be dead by now!"

"True. We thought they were. Then an Armenian merchant in the pay of the Frumentarii returned recently from trading in the East. He reported a Parthian detachment guarding a slave train, and insisted it contained many Roman soldiers."

"I’m to track down these captives. Am I to buy them back?"

Lucian reflects. "We have no orders along those lines, although I doubt that anyone will object if you can get them back safely and cheaply. The trouble is nobody really wants them. You know the Roman way. These men are in a state of permanent disgrace. As far as Rome is concerned they should have fallen on unsurrendered swords. Still, if you do find any alive, they are not going to volunteer information out of charity. You may have to gain their cooperation by purchasing their freedom. But that is not your mission. Once you have determined what led to this debacle, you get out. And if you have made some purchases your responsibility to them ends once you have the information we seek. Is that a problem?"

"No," Malorix replies without hesitation. "But this is a straightforward matter. I fail to see why you needed to drag me all this way so late in the game. Why should the Frumentarii care about captured legionaries?"

Lucian puts a hand on his shoulder. "Tomorrow."

They pause in the partial shelter of a sea wall and observe a cacique drift soundlessly apart from the cluster of vessels in the harbour. The crew strain at the lines as the lateen sail rises in stages to the top of the mast. Across the intervening water the rustling of the sail is carried on the breeze. It billows without conviction, then catches with a snap pulling the vessel decisively seaward. Closer to shore a small merchant ship has arrived. A dark-skinned crew perform a ritual sacrifice, thanking their gods for reaching safe harbour.

"There is more that you haven’t told me?"

"Superstitious lot, sailors." Lucian smiles enigmatically. "Of course there is. With Claudius there is always more. Be outside the hotel Argo just after sunrise. Follow Timon. We will be watching to ensure you are alone."

"Where are we going?"

"East."

Malorix watches him make his way back along the beach, the steady wind pressing his robe against his body like a shroud.