The experience of days on a boat, rolling, yawing and pitching, was no more pleasant for Silus than his last time travelling in this way. If he wasn’t actually vomiting, then he was feeling nauseous and inappetent. Most of the legionaries that accompanied them seemed to be in a similar situation. Atius by contrast was quite happy, drinking with the sailors and sharing their biscuit and salted fish while exchanging tall stories.
Marcellus had a set expression on his face which suggested he felt no better than Silus, but was damned if he was going to show it. Soaemias, on the other hand, if she had any symptoms of seasickness, went about her day as if she was strolling through the Forum Romanum. Waves breaking over the side of the boat showering her in spray, sudden lurches of the deck to one side or another, a downpour of freezing rain – these she treated as minor inconveniences.
Silus had been invited to worship with Marcellus’ family, and having no particularly strong allegiance to any god, he was happy to attend the ceremony. Atius, on the other hand, politely declined. Although he was not the most obedient of followers, his faith in the Christos forbade him from worshipping other gods. So Silus had sat respectfully and watched and listened to the ceremony that revolved around the strangely shaped black stone the slaves had lugged aboard with much grumbling. He had witnessed the singing and dancing and sacrifice of a young lamb, and the young boy Avitus dressed in his fine priest’s robes, acting like the role of Elagabal’s representative on earth was his by right.
After the ceremony, he leaned against the rail on the port side of the ship, cuddling Issa and watching the Italian coast in the distance slowly slide by. Soaemias joined him and stood beside him in silence for a few moments. A fishing vessel sailed past going the opposite direction, and the captain waved as he past. Silus waved back, then felt foolish when Soaemias gave him an amused look.
‘Do you know what that mountain is over there?’ she asked him, pointing to a peak just visible through the spray and haze.
‘I’ve been this way before,’ said Silus. ‘That is Mons Vesuvius.’
Soaemias nodded. ‘And you know its history?’
‘Everyone knows. Even when I was a child in Britannia, my father told me of the death of Pompeii and Herculaneum.’
‘Mountains hold power. They keep it chained within themselves, and men walk over them, farm and build on them, not respecting what these ancient beings can do to them. Until something angers them, and they destroy the mortals that have offended them.’
Silus didn’t want to picture the panic and suffering of those buried by the volcano’s eruption. He had had enough of misery, and hoped that this trip would be an escape from all of that, even if it proved to be a temporary respite. He smoothed his little dog’s head, taking comfort from the repetitive motion, and her affectionate response.
‘The name Elagabal means god of the mountains in the Aramaic language. My god was worshipped as a mountain god long before he was linked to the sun.’
Silus nodded, not sure what she expected from him.
‘Elagabal is a mighty god, Silus. And my son will become his high priest.’
‘I’m sure he will be a very good at it,’ he said, hoping that was the right thing to say.
‘He will have power. Supreme power.’
‘As a high priest?’
She gave him a sideways glance, then turned her back to the rail, and looked at the deck. Avitus was sitting cross-legged, eyes closed and humming to himself, drawing odd looks from the sailors, some of whom made signs to ward off evil. Gannys kept a watchful eye on him from a short distance away.
‘Tell me, Silus, who does he remind you of?’
Silus looked at the boy, with his smooth skin, pre-pubescent and not yet roughened by acne or the first whiskers. His first thought was of Julia Domna, which was not surprising, since she was his great aunt. Then he looked again. His nose was delicate, not broad and flat. His eyes were gentle, not angry. His mouth was soft.
But then a stray wave sprayed him, and his broad, prominent brow furrowed in a frown, and Silus’ mouth opened in surprise.
‘Are you saying that he is… that his father is…?’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
Soaemias smiled conspiratorially. ‘You are here to serve Marcellus. But one day, my son may have need of your help. Will you give it?’
Silus remembered Oclatinius’ words about promises being chains. But the beautiful Syrian mother, looking into his eyes with a commanding, penetrating stare, bewitched him.
‘Yes, mistress. I will offer him whatever help is in my power, should he one day need it.’
Soaemias gave a self-satisfied nod.
‘We are going too slowly,’ said Aziz to the captain, Tamas, for at least the tenth time.
‘As I keep telling you,’ said Tamas, not bothering to conceal his irritation ‘we are making full use of the wind, and the rowers are pulling at maximum cruising speed. Yes, we can go faster, but only for a short distance before they begin to fatigue, and we will end up losing time overall.’
Aziz ground his teeth. He had been given so little time to prepare. Festus had come to him and told him that he had just a day to find a fast ship that could take him south, together with a crew of armed criminals dangerous enough to take on a detachment of legionaries. He had scurried around the docks and warehouses, pulling in favours, bribing gladiators, homeless veterans and burly criminals to make a small crew of pirate marines. He had found the Cilician captain of a fast merchant vessel that was used for transporting the more perishable of trade goods, and paid him handsomely for his time. Tamas had almost backed out when he saw the motley crew of beggars and criminals that he would be required to transport, but when Aziz increased the reward, greed won out over caution. Festus had said money was no object on this mission, and Aziz had taken him at his word.
Cilicians had a fine history of piracy, Aziz had reflected, so this job should be second nature to the captain, though he had refrained from telling him the truth of his orders. But the tide and wind had not been in their favour, and they had set sail half a day later than he had hoped. So now he clenched his fists and paced the deck and prayed for an optimum wind.
‘Mons Vesuvius,’ said Tamas, pointing to a peak in the distance.
Aziz reached inside his cloak and fingered the small, conical black stone that always he wore on a leather necklace, close to his chest.
God of the mountains, help me now.
Silus managed to keep down some bread and stew, then went to the back rail to keep his eyes on the horizon. One of the sailors had taught him this trick to reduce nausea, and it seemed to work. He wasn’t sure why. Somehow it seemed to fool his body into thinking he wasn’t actually being thrown all over the place by the vicissitudes of the sea. They were around half a day’s sail from the straits of Messana now, and once they had passed through that it wasn’t far to Syracuse. Then he could leave Marcellus to his Sicilian business, and fulfil his promise to visit Tituria. Issa sat at his feet, licking her arse with avid strokes of her tongue. The presence of the little dog, the last remnant of his murdered family, gave him great comfort, and he was glad he was on the sort of mission where he could bring her with him.
A ship in the middle distance caught his eye. His gaze had drifted over it before, when it had been on the horizon, but now it seemed to be gaining on them fast. Obviously in a hurry to be somewhere. Maybe an Imperial messenger, heading around the toe of the Italian peninsula to take orders to some provincial governor in the east or the south? But as he watched, it seemed to bear directly towards them, and a sense of unease grew in the pit of his stomach.
He found the captain and pointed the vessel out.
‘What sort of ship is that?’
The captain used his hand to shield his eyes from the midday sun, which was still fairly low on the horizon given the time of year. He squinted and frowned.
‘It looks like a fast merchant ship. But it has a fair turn of speed. Their captain is really pushing the oarsmen.’
‘Why would he be doing that?’
‘Beats me. At that speed they will tire soon, and he will have gained nothing.’
‘So maybe his destination is nearby?’
‘There are no major trading ports near enough to be worth that speed.’
‘What else is around here then?’
The captain shrugged. ‘Just us.’
Silus watched the ship for a moment longer. He understood enough about sailing to know that the fastest route between two ports was not a straight line, as the ship tacked with the wind. But it seemed to him that all the ship’s manoeuvres brought it closer and closer to them.
‘Do me a favour,’ he said to a nearby sailor. ‘Can you shut my dog below decks? I need to talk to Marcellus.’ The sailor grumbled as he took her, holding the smelly dog at arm’s length as she tried to lick his face.
When Silus explained his concern, Marcellus joined him and the captain at the stern to look at the ship for himself.
‘Are they chasing us?’ asked Marcellus.
‘It’s possible,’ conceded the captain.
‘How far to the nearest safe port?’
‘Far enough that they will catch us before we reach it. If that is their intention.’
‘Captain, do me a favour,’ said Marcellus. ‘Get my wife and son below decks and shut them safely away. Gannys too, I suppose.’
The captain rolled his eyes, and walked off to do Marcellus’ bidding, muttering that he was no one’s slave.
‘Pirates?’ Silus asked Marcellus.
‘It’s possible. Strange though, so near to Rome. Bold pirates.’
‘Something else then. Someone coming for you?’
‘That seems more likely. I’ll tell the legionaries to ready themselves for a fight.’
‘I’ll go and sober up Atius.’
Silus was being a little unfair on his friend given the time of day, and in fact, Atius had just had one well-watered cup of wine, which meant he had his wits fully about him. When Silus told him of the possible threat, he was instantly alert, and strapped on a breastplate and short sword. Silus armed and armoured himself similarly, and they went to the back of the ship to monitor the progress of the pursuing vessel while the legionaries rushed around readying themselves for battle.
When the ship came within hailing range, a short number of yards behind them and to their port side, the captain called to them across the water.
‘You have chased us hard. What is your business with us?’
The captain of the other ship, standing in the prow, called back, ‘Drop your sails. We are just here for your cargo. No one needs to get hurt.’
‘You have made a mistake. This ship is on the business of the Emperor. We carry only messages, no cargo of value to pirates.’
‘I’m sure you won’t mind if we don’t take your word for it, and check for ourselves?’
‘That won’t be possible. We are carrying documents relating to the security of the Empire, and they cannot fall into the hands of anyone else. You may trade them to the Emperor’s enemies.’
‘I wasn’t asking. Drop your sails or we will board you.’
Marcellus spoke up now.
‘Hear me,’ he yelled across the rapidly closing gap between the ships. ‘I am Sextus Varius Marcellus, propraetor, new Governor of Numidia. If you cease your pursuit of us now, this matter will be closed. But if you continue, we are well able to defend ourselves and I will ensure every man of you is crucified. Just think about hanging on the cross with no water while the rats chew your toes and the crows peck out your eyes!’
The captain of the other ship laughed, and pulled level so that for the first time they got a clear view of the men lined up along the side, ready to board. Although they were not equipped to the standards of the legionaries, they greatly outnumbered them, around thirty tough-looking men to the ten legionaries of the Second Parthica, together with Marcellus, Silus and Atius.
Silus and Atius exchanged looks. This was going to be a real fight.
The other ship abruptly swung in towards them, and their captain reacted too slowly to avoid it. The legionaries let out a hail of javelins, two of which hit home, one grizzled pirate tumbling backwards, the other falling between the ships just as they crashed together with a huge spout of water and the crack and groan of stressed, fracturing timbers.
A dozen pirates leapt across with a roar before the ships parted and the gap became temporarily too wide to cross. Immediately a flurry of desperate hand-to-hand fighting broke out. The legionaries locked shields and stabbed out with swords, and two more pirates fell back with a cry. But there were too few legionaries to block the entire length of the deck, and pirates rounded the sides of their shield wall and began to hack at the unfortunate legionaries at either end. As those men turned to face the threats on their flanks, the cohesion of the wall began to break apart.
Marcellus stood with Silus and Atius behind the legionaries, biting his lip. He saw a gap in the line appear as a legionary’s helmet was caved in by an axe, and drew his sword, preparing to step into the breach. Silus put a hand out to prevent him, and Atius moved forward, quickly grabbing the fallen legionary’s shield and furiously shoving and hacking the pirate who had felled him.
The numbers of combatants were roughly equal at that moment, but the pirates had a gang of reinforcements itching to get into the fray once the ships moved close enough again. The captain of Marcellus’ ship was trying to keep them apart, but the pirate ship was faster, and they began to close again.
‘Sir,’ said Silus urgently. ‘We need to get rid of this lot before more of the buggers arrive.’
‘I know that, but what do you suggest?’
Silus had been on the front lines, had been eye to eye with barbarians trying to kill him. He suspected that for all Marcellus’ experience in government and in the field over the years, this was the first time he had been so close to the bloody violence of battle.
‘Advance,’ said Silus.
Marcellus frowned for a moment, then understood. The line of locked shields still held, just, and the pirates were fighting on the edge of the deck. If they were forced two paces backwards, they would be overboard. Rather than holding position, as was the textbook tactic for defence against superior numbers, they needed to push.
‘Legionaries, on the count of three, one step at a time, you will advance,’ yelled Marcellus.
The desperately fighting legionaries managed to let out a chorus of grunts in acknowledgement.
‘One. Two. Three. Advance!’
Silus threw his weight into Atius’ back, and Marcellus pushed another legionary near the middle. The pirates slid backwards, slipping on wooden planks that were becoming slick with blood.
‘Again, advance!’ yelled Marcellus, and with a cry the legionaries pushed forward. Now the pirates teetered on the edge of the deck, the churning foam behind them. Suddenly their focus shifted from fighting to keeping their balance. One of the legionaries thrust his gladius into an off-balance pirate who tumbled backwards with a scream and then a splash.
‘Again, advance!’ And with this next step, half a dozen pirates disappeared over the side, just as the ships came level again. If any of the pirates could swim, it was of no help to them as the sides of the ships crashed together again, crushing heads and bodies like a boot squashes an ant.
Now it was the legionaries who were off balance, the weight they were pushing against suddenly gone, and they were near the treacherous edge of the deck.
‘Legionaries, two steps back on my command,’ yelled Marcellus without prompting, to Silus’ approval. ‘One. Two.’
The legionaries retreated to a more secure and stable position and prepared to meet the next wave. Two pirates who had not been directly in front of the legionaries in the last attack still fought, but as Silus watched, a legionary thrust his gladius through the throat of one. The other, though, skirted the end of the line and charged at Marcellus, sword raised high. Marcellus was watching a dozen more pirates leap across from the pirate ship and did not notice as the sword descended towards his head.
Silus’ blade deflected the blow to one side, so it crashed into a mast behind them. Marcellus flinched and looked around in alarm, but Silus had already advanced, taking the attacker away from the governor, as it was his job to protect.
The pirate had a long scar from brow to cheek, one eye grey and watery. His rough beard was flecked with grey, and his breath smelt of strong wine and fish sauce. He fought like a gladiator, cautious now his surprise attack on Marcellus had failed, holding his sword before him, ready to thrust if the opportunity arose.
Silus would rather have faced a veteran. They were trained to fight in groups and generally had no experience with single combat. For gladiators, one-on-one fights were the be-all and end-all of their training and their experience, and their very lives depended on learning all the tricks, honourable or otherwise, that would keep them alive in the arena.
Silus circled the gladiator in a clear space on the deck behind the line of legionaries, who were now bracing as another wave of pirates leapt across from their ship. He watched his opponent’s eyes carefully, looking for any signs of a move. The sword was in his peripheral vision, but it was the eyes that moved before the weapon, even if it was just a little tightening around the corners, a widening of the pupil.
But of course the gladiator knew the same, and when Silus feinted, the gladiator fended it away easily, then followed up with a thrust of his own. Silus parried, realising that they were evenly matched.
Abruptly the gladiator lunged at Silus with a flurry of slashes from left to right and back again. Silus retreated, one step, another, towards the rail on the far side of the ship behind him. Across the deck he could see the legionaries being pushed backwards by the new wave. Marcellus had now joined the line, and was fighting hard alongside Atius, who was doing his best to keep him safe while fending off the pirate who opposed him. Almost all the armed pirates had now crossed onto their ship. The sailors remained on board the pirate ship, most unarmed, some carrying knives, hammers or other tools, but looking like they had no intention of joining the fight unless they were personally threatened. Similarly, the sailors on Silus’ ship hung back, looking anxious but not prepared to commit to combat.
He stepped forward, sending his own flurry of cuts and thrusts at his enemy. The gladiator grunted, retreated a short way then stood fast. They traded blows and Silus felt his arms become heavier. He wondered how his endurance would compare to a man who spent all day every day training.
To his right, near the prow, something caught Silus’ attention. He glanced across and nearly missed a thrust aimed at his midriff. He jumped back just in time, pressed forward, then took a step back to give himself breathing space.
Young Avitus had emerged from below decks. Under one arm he carried a small black stone, and in his hand he held a short knife. Under the other arm was Issa, tongue lolling, tail wagging as she looked around at the chaos with interest.
What in the name of all the gods of the underworld was he doing?
As Silus watched in horror, the boy knelt before the stone, praying loudly in a foreign, eastern language, the knife held to the trusting little dog’s throat.
Silus let out a roar of anger and charged forward. The gladiator was taken aback by the sudden onslaught, and finally Silus managed to find a chink in his defences, a thrust slicing through the vessels and nerves in the pirate’s armpit, making him drop his sword. He grimaced, clutched the wound, held up his other hand in an attempt to surrender, but Silus had not time to accept as he saw the boy lift his knife.
He thrust his sword deep into the gladiator’s chest, letting out a guttural cry.
‘Avitus! No!’
He did not arrive in time.
But another did.
A hooded figure leapt from the prow of the pirate boat and landed lightly with bent knees on the pitching deck. Taking barely a heartbeat to regain his balance, he ran at Avitus, and just as the blade began its descent towards the little dog, he grabbed the boy around the waist and swept him away.
Issa dropped to the deck with a disgruntled yelp, then, deciding that maybe it was time to make herself scarce, she trotted off to hide behind a group of barrels.
The hooded figure dragged Avitus towards the rail, but the boy was not a limp weight in his arms, but a wriggling, biting, scratching wild cat. His resistance gave Silus time to reach the hooded man. He grasped his arm and wrenched. The assailant grappled for Avitus, but the boy twisted away, then kicked him hard in the shin. The hooded man cried out, and Silus followed up Avitus’ attack with a punch of his own aimed at the man’s throat.
But he was quick. He ducked, twisted away and came back into a fighter’s stance with a knife held in his hand.
Silus thrust the boy behind him and held out his sword. His new opponent was slight and short but well-toned. His features were hidden by the hood, but Silus could still make out intently burning eyes within. He saw anger, but also calculation. The eyes flicked right to where the battle raging was starting to swing in favour of the defending legionaries. The soldiers were using the same tactic, again advancing on the pirates, forcing them backwards. Some, who had seen their comrades fall in the previous wave, broke off and leapt back onto their own ship. Once that happened, the fight was over. The attack disintegrated, some skewered by thrusting gladiators, some tipped over into the sea, a few making it back across the gap, though more than one of these missed their targets and fell screaming into the surf.
The hooded figure hissed his frustration. Then he took two quick steps back to open a safe gap between himself and Silus, turned and leapt from off the prow, back to his own ship. Silus pursued him to the deck rail, but made no move to chase him onto his own territory. The figure shouted at his captain to break contact.
Oars dipped into the waters, pulled hard, and within moments the two ships had parted. The pirate ship turned hard to port, and rowed fast away in a direction perpendicular to Silus’ ship’s vector.
Silus stared after it for a moment, then turned angrily on Avitus.
‘What the fuck were you doing with my dog?’
Avitus returned his look with equanimity.
‘The battle looked to be going badly. I decided to invoke the help of the great Elagabal. And I needed a sacrifice.’
‘You were going to kill my dog for your weird eastern god?’ His voice rose, and without conscious thought, he raised his arm, ready to strike the precocious little bastard.
A firm hand caught his wrist, and he whirled in fury to find himself looking into Marcellus’ face, exhausted, drenched in splashes and spurts of blood, but calm and resolute.
‘Silus. What are you doing?’
Before Silus could reply, a woman’s voice screeched at him, ‘Get away from my son, you thug.’
Soaemias stepped between them and gave Silus a hard shove backwards, then knelt and threw her arms around Avitus, who accepted the hug with a bemused expression.
Silus shook his hand free from Marcellus, then flicked his fingers. Issa came running over and jumped into his arms, licked his face, little tail wagging frantically. He fussed her behind the ears, but his cuddle was broken short by Soaemias stepping up to him, her face inches from his.
‘How dare you? You, who should be protecting my husband, and my son. Yet you threaten to strike him. Marcellus, this brute should be executed.’
‘Quite so,’ said Gannys, who had emerged from below decks with Soaemias once the fighting was done. ‘Completely unacceptable. Have him crucified.’
The last resistance of the pirates had been mopped up, all dead or fled except for two prisoners, one of whom was so mortally injured he didn’t look like he would live more than a few minutes. The legionaries began to attend to their own wounds, and those of their comrades, but some noticed the commotion near the prow and gathered around to spectate.
Silus took a step forward. Gannys backed away but Soaemias stood her ground, and he put his face so close to hers that their noses almost touched.
‘Understand this,’ he said. ‘This dog is my family, as much as your son is to you. He attempted to kill her. I will not allow that.’
‘Silus,’ snapped Marcellus. ‘Step away.’
‘Come on,’ said Atius. ‘The little one is fine. No harm done.’
Silus turned on Marcellus.
‘I am sworn to protect you, Marcellus, and your son too. But I warn you: if any of you threaten my dog again, I consider my oath void, and I will not be responsible for the consequences. Do you understand?’
Without waiting for an answer, he stalked off to the stern of the boat, where he stood, hugging Issa close, and wondered how he would cope if the little old girl, the last remnant of his old life, was gone.
Silus kept himself to himself for the rest of the day. He was uninjured but his muscles ached from the exertions of battle. He spent hours with Issa in his arms, staring out over the prow, eyes unfocused, memories good and bad sliding across his mind’s eye.
He discussed the attack with Marcellus and Atius that evening. They all had their own pet theories as to the motivation. Atius thought there was no need to look beyond simple, opportunist piracy, and to attribute it to anything more was paranoia. Silus and Marcellus had seen too much politicking in the last year or two to believe the attack could be coincidence. But the motivation was obscure. Marcellus thought it was an assassination attempt on him, either in revenge for his role in the downfall of Geta, or an attempt to weaken Caracalla by someone thinking about positioning themself for power. Silus supposed that this theory was most likely, but something about the hooded figure, his actions and manner, hadn’t sat right. Why abduct the boy? To extort co-operation from Marcellus? For money?
And he was no ordinary pirate. Silus could tell from watching him, with every movement a lesson in economy of motion, smooth, agile, that this man had some skill. Not like the gladiator, trained to fight and nothing more. This was more like an assassin. Like an Arcanus.
Silus knew that Atius and he were not the only Arcani, that Oclatinius had a network of spies and informers as well as a handful of fully trained and inducted assassins like the two of them. But he also knew that they were rare, and distributed throughout the Empire. So did this mystery man belong to Oclatinius? That made no sense; he must be a freelancer, a rogue, or else he served someone or something else. Silus had no answers, and their discussions led nowhere. Marcellus apologised for the actions of his wife and son, and Silus grudgingly shook his hand and retired for the night.
The day after the attack, Avitus approached him. He held a small piece of hard biscuit. His manner was not nervous or diffident, and he had not seemed particularly shaken by the attempted abduction.
‘I would like to give this to Issa,’ he said.
Silus looked at the tack. ‘She won’t be able to chew it. She is old and has bad teeth.’
Avitus nodded and walked away without a word. A few moments later he returned with a bowl of chicken stew, gently steaming.
‘She will be able to eat this.’
Issa smelt the food and started to wriggle in Silus’ arms. Silus nodded and put her down on the deck, and Avitus placed the bowl in front of her. It was not too hot, and the little dog lapped at it greedily, grabbing out soft pieces of meat and chewing them before returning to the tasty broth.
Silus smiled down indulgently, then looked quizzically at the boy. He returned the stare steadily.
‘It seemed the right thing to do,’ said Avitus. ‘The battle looked to be going badly. I wanted to sacrifice something to Elagabal. Something valued, something loved, to stop us all being killed. In fact, what we needed was you. You saved both my father and myself yesterday.’
Silus opened his mouth and closed it again. It was hard to argue with the logic, and he also appreciated that Issa had not been simply a convenient life to end, but one carefully chosen because Avitus had observed how much she meant to him.
Avitus knelt beside her and fussed her behind the ears. She looked at him suspiciously for a moment, clearly worried he was about to take the food away, then, deciding him well intentioned, went back to eating.
‘I will not attempt to sacrifice her again.’
‘That is good of you.’ Silus couldn’t help the sarcastic response, but he also knew the boy was attempting a reconciliation, and he appreciated it. ‘Thank you for bringing her the food. You can see she loves it.’
‘Avitus! What are you doing? Get away from that brute. You, Silus, stand away from my son.’
Silus looked up to see a red-faced Soaemias bearing down on them both. He was about to make an angry retort when Avitus stood and said smoothly, ‘Calm yourself, Mother. This is unseemly.’
Both Silus and Soaemias looked at the young boy in surprise at his adult admonition.
‘Avitus…’
‘No, Mother. Silus saved Father’s life yesterday, and prevented my abduction by those criminals. Without him, you would have lost us both.’
Soaemias looked from Silus to Avitus and back again. Silus shrugged. Issa was licking the bowl clean, so he bent down and picked her up.
‘Avitus, it’s time for worship. Come and lead us in prayer.’
Soaemias held out her hand and the young boy took it. Silus watched them walk away, swaying with the motion of the boat, looking for all the world like a mother and child. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that the dynamic between them was far from the usual maternal-filial bond. He shook his hand and looked back out to sea. In the distance, the coast of Sicily swam hazily into view.
Syracuse had once been the most powerful Greek city in the Mediterranean, with a might sufficient in its time to defeat the rival cities of Carthage and Athens. That had been before the ravages of the Punic War, and defeat by the Romans, and the city had declined greatly since its heyday. Although now just a regional capital, rather than a great power in its own right, its importance as a port for trade from east and west, as well as for the export of agricultural produce from the island of Sicily itself, meant that it was still a bustling metropolis.
When they disembarked at the docks, the legionaries had to clear a path for the Numidian governor-to-be and his family and entourage through workers and slaves bent over with sacks of grain on their shoulders, donkey carts laden with exotic spices, and perfumes and ox carts hauling amphorae of olive oil and wine.
The legionaries led the way to the governor’s palace where Marcellus and his family would stay while Marcellus conducted his business on the island. The two Arcani accompanied them through the city, and said their goodbyes at the Imperial gates. Marcellus did not enquire where Silus was going, just asked that he return within the week so they could continue their journey on to Numidia. Silus assured him that he would be back well before that, and shook his hand, not without warmth. Marcellus had done nothing wrong, and even his son had tried to make amends in his own way. His wife had stayed frosty towards him, but Silus paid that little regard – her opinion meant little to him.
Back at the docks Silus asked around for a ship to take him to Lipari. Although the moorings were rammed with vessels of all sizes jostling for space, it took some time before they finally found a captain going in roughly the right direction. They did not have the resources to commission a ship to make a dedicated trip just for them. Fortunately, this cheerful seaman was due to leave in the morning with a cargo of marble bound for Neapolis and it only required a small diversion to take them to Lipari. Even then, the trip did not come cheap, and the sum the captain first demanded nearly made Silus choke. Eventually they agreed on a price, and the captain told them he would be casting off at first light, with or without them.
They secured some cheap lodgings near the docks, then Atius persuaded Silus that they should find out what nocturnal pleasures the old city could offer them. After an evening of drinking, gambling on cock fights and wrestling matches, some dicing, and Atius’ inevitable acceptance of an offer from a local beauty of a turn with her for half an hour at a reasonable price, they sat at a table outside a tavern, sipping wine that they had no need or real desire for.
They were near a wharf and could watch the slaves still busy at their work at this late hour, loading and unloading various cargoes. Silus reflected that for all his misfortunes in life, all his losses and regrets, he was in a good place right then. Out of Rome, in a vibrant city, about to fulfil a promise to a child he was fond of. He stroked Issa’s head, who had been a mostly well-behaved companion to them that night, except for the time she had urinated on an off-duty legionary’s sandals. The offer of a drink had defused that situation and Silus realised that they had made it through the whole night without a fight.
The smell of cooking meat drifted towards them, and his stomach rumbled. Full as it was of liquid, he still thought there was room for a sausage or a pie. But he felt too lazy to stand. Instead he took another sip of wine, and took advantage of the relative quiet, compared to the interior of the drinking den, to chat to Atius.
‘Sorry if I was an arse on the trip.’
‘I didn’t notice,’ said Atius. ‘You are always an arse. How would I tell the difference?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Look, I know what that dog means to you, and why. But what are you going to do with her? You are hardly living a settled life, and it isn’t always easy to find somewhere safe to stow her while you are off killing people who need to be dead.’
It was true. He should really have left her behind with Apicula, but he had been feeling down, and wanted the company of someone who loved him unconditionally. Well, almost unconditionally, as long as she got hugs and food. Now he wondered if he was being selfish. And an idea occurred to him. One that was a little hard to consider, but which at the same time was very right. He decided he was too drunk to think about it then, so he changed the subject.
‘What do you make of this religion that Marcellus’ family follow? This Elagabal god.’
Atius spat. ‘There is only one god.’
‘Sure, sure.’ Silus didn’t really know what to believe when it came to religion. He had an inclination to Mithras, a respect for the old Olympian pantheon, a scepticism for newer eastern gods like Serapis and Christos, and an absolute belief in ghosts and magic. ‘Well, I guess worshipping a black rock is no stranger than worshipping a man who was crucified like a common criminal.’
‘Careful,’ warned Atius in a growl.
Silus held up his hands. ‘I’m not trying to start an argument. No offence intended. I know you hold your faith close to your heart. But you don’t always seem to believe in the way the priests of Christos say you should.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Atius, looking genuinely confused.
Silus looked at the wine stains down his tunic, the lipstick smeared across his cheeks, the bruises, cuts and scars on his bare arms that were evidence of his violent profession and violent tendencies.
‘It doesn’t matter. Shall we turn in for the night?’
Atius drained his cup and stood, reaching a hand out to the table to steady himself. Silus picked up Issa, whose eyes kept involuntarily closing. He would miss her badly.