Two Praetorians waited for them as they rowed ashore. The captain of the marble cargo ship had promised to return in three days, and they had better be ready and waiting or he would sail straight on. Time was money, after all.
They jumped out into the surf, pulled their boat up onto the beach and lifted out their packs. Once Issa was sure she was well clear of the sea, she leapt over the side, ran in excited circles for a minute, then stopped abruptly to defecate.
‘I am centurion Tuccius. This island is restricted,’ said one of the Praetorians abruptly. ‘State your names and business.’
‘Welcome to Lipari,’ commented Atius. ‘May I recommend the food in our fine taverns, and the views from walks along the cliffs are spectacular.’
Silus discreetly kicked his friend in the shin.
‘Gaius Sergius Silus. Centurion of the Arcani. This is Lucius Atius, also of the Arcani.’
‘And this is Issa,’ said Atius. ‘She is a war dog on detachment from the front lines.’
Silus sighed. ‘Centurion Tuccius, we are here with the knowledge and permission of Oclatinius Adventus, head of the Arcani. I bear the seal of the Emperor.’ He showed the centurion the signet ring which displayed Caracalla’s likeness that Oclatinius had given him.
‘Very well,’ said Tuccius grudgingly. ‘But you still haven’t stated your purpose here.’
‘We are here to see the prisoner.’
The Praetorians exchanged meaningful looks.
‘What prisoner?’
Silus let out a humourless bark of laughter. ‘Really, centurion. Even if we didn’t know about her existence, might we not get suspicious about the presence of a detachment of Praetorians on this tiny, insignificant island? We are here to see Tituria. Take us to her.’
‘Why do you need to see her?’
‘Your rank is way too low to need to know that, soldier.’
The Praetorian bristled, but Silus’ face stayed neutral, matter-of-fact.
‘Fine,’ growled Tuccius. ‘I’ll take you to her. She is being tutored by her guardian, Myrtis. But I suppose she can be disturbed.’
The Praetorians took their weapons from them, searched their packs, then escorted them up a long stone staircase to the villa at the top of the cliffs. The building showed clear signs of neglect, with overgrown gardens, bushes once finely topiaried run wild and stone paths with weeds sprouting through cracks. The entablature on the columns facing them was discoloured with lichen, and there was moss on the roof.
Silus had been here before of course, with Daya. The thought of the late Arcana, and the mission they had carried out here, caused a sudden painful cramp in his guts. He clenched his teeth and put the memories to the back of his mind.
They were led through an atrium, whose impluvium was green with algae and pondweed, and into an open room. Seated cross-legged on the floor, looking up at a round-bodied, middle-aged woman, her back towards him, was Tituria. He watched teacher and pupil for a moment, heart jumping at the thought of seeing her, stomach clenching with anxiety at her reaction to seeing him. He felt paralysed, desperate to call to her, give her a hug, terrified of her response.
Issa took the matter out of his hands and went scampering across the floor to jump into Tituria’s lap. The tutor screamed and jumped backwards.
‘It’s a rat!’ she screeched.
Issa put her paws on Tituria’s shoulders and started licking her face furiously.
‘Eww, stop, stop,’ giggled Tituria. ‘I know where you put that tongue, Issa.’ She picked the dog up, her arms around her chest, twirled her around, then saw Silus standing in the doorway and stopped dead.
They looked at each other for a long moment, and Silus thought his heart would jump out of his chest, it was racing so hard. Hesitantly, he held out his arms. She left him like that, feeling increasingly foolish, increasingly hopeless. Then she ran forward and threw her arms around him. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and his strong arms hugged her tight, and suddenly they were both crying uncontrollably. Silus was aware that Atius was a short distance behind him, and didn’t know whether he was shuffling uncomfortably, grinning stupidly or laughing at him. And he didn’t care.
Eventually they parted, and Silus wiped his eyes and his runny nose. Tituria did the same and smiled up at him.
‘You came to visit.’
Silus nodded. ‘I said I would.’
The lady who had been tutoring Tituria finally regained enough composure to approach.
‘I am Myrtis, Tituria’s guardian. Who might you be?’
‘I am Gaius Sergius Silus. This is Lucius Atius.’ He gestured vaguely behind him.
‘And what business do you have here?’ Her tone was brusque, nervous, but she was trying to assert her authority.
‘That is none of your concern. Now, Tituria and I are going for a walk. Atius will want wine and food, and I will also want some sustenance when we return. See to it.’
He put an arm around Tituria’s shoulders and guided her away. Issa followed at their ankles.
Once they were out of earshot, Tituria said, ‘Thank you for putting her in her place, Silus. She isn’t a nice tutor.’
‘Does she treat you badly? I can put a stop to that easily enough…’
‘No, no. She just clearly doesn’t want to be here. Any more than I do. So she is grumpy most of the time, and it makes me miserable.’
They walked out of the villa and along a clifftop path. Tituria pointed south.
‘That island is called Vulcano. The god Vulcan visits sometimes and stirs up the fires beneath the earth. That northernmost tip is called Vulcanello. It came up out of the seas only three hundred years ago.’
‘Your tutor is doing some good then.’
‘She prefers to teach me sewing, weaving and cooking. I have to beg her to teach me the things that interest me. Rhetoric, Greek, philosophy, history.’
‘You have an active mind, little one.’ It was her curiosity that had led her and her family into disaster, ending in their deaths and her exile. But as he was responsible for their deaths, he was not about to remind her of that, even if he could be so cruel as to point out the consequences of her actions.
‘I’m so bored, Silus. And lonely. Myrtis hates me because I am the reason she is stuck here. The guards hate me for the same reason. I am allowed no other visitors – even when I see ships dock or boats come ashore, the guards keep them away. Will I be here forever?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Silus truthfully. ‘I hope not.’ He wondered if there was something he could do to shorten her exile. The recall of the exiles that Caracalla announced had not been extended to Tituria. The Emperor was clearly prepared to forgive those who had sinned against his father, but still considered Tituria a threat. Maybe if he was of sufficient value to the Emperor, he could make some bargain with him. Or one day, when Tituria had been long forgotten, he could just spirit her away. For now, though, he would not give her false hope. What he would give her was the only thing he could.
He sat down on a rock and patted his knees so that Issa jumped onto him, overjoyed to be given attention as always. He hugged the little bitch, inhaling her doggy smell, feeling the texture of her fur on his cheek. Memories flooded over him, of his home in the vicus in Britannia, arguments with his wife about the dog, his daughter playing obsessively with her to the delight of them both. Then he sighed and passed her to Tituria.
‘She is yours.’
Issa cuddled up to Tituria, who looked at Silus with wide eyes. It had been to Issa that Tituria had first responded after the loss of her family. The dog was obviously still dear to her.
‘Do you mean it?’
‘She is an old lady. Too old to be accompanying me on adventures across the Empire. She needs someone to look after her in her retirement.’
‘Me? You trust me with her?’
‘I can think of no one I trust more to take care of her.’
Tears filled Tituria’s eyes as she pulled Issa to her face and cuddled her like a doll.
They sat together and watched the sea in companionable silence until the breeze started to chill them, and their bellies began to rumble.
When they returned to the villa, Myrtis had prepared a simple meal of bread, cheese, olives and dates. Silus wondered if she was being deliberately insolent in offering them such poor fare, but she had forgotten that she was feeding soldiers, and as long as it was not rotten and it was of sufficient volume to fill an empty stomach, they were unlikely to complain.
They sat together, Atius, Silus and Tituria, and talked about trivia – weather, clothes, what Issa liked to eat and how much exercise she needed. In the afternoon they played games – ludus latrunculorum, knucklebones, fetch with Issa. A game of hide and seek became uncomfortable for Silus when he found himself alone in the room in which he and Daya had assassinated Caracalla’s wife Plautilla and Plautilla’s young daughter. He looked around the small bedroom and felt a chill. Had the bodies been properly put to rest? Or were their shades still there, standing behind him, breathing cold wind down his back?
When Tituria found him and let out a shriek of joy, he physically jumped, then put his hand to his suddenly racing heart. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then gave her a weak smile and tousled her hair.
‘My turn to hide,’ she cried, and raced off.
That night Atius and Silus shared a bedroom that Myrtis had begrudgingly prepared for them. Atius was soon asleep, snoring loudly. Silus lay on his back, eyes shut but sleep evading him. Pale images of Plautilla and her daughter floated just behind his eyelids, and merged with the dead, bloodied visages of his own wife and daughter.
He gave up on sleep, walked out of the villa, past Myrtis’ room, from which sounds of creaking bed furniture and guttural groans were emerging, out through the atrium and along the cliffs. He sat on the edge, legs dangling into open air. Beneath him waves whipped up by winter winds crashed against the rocks, throwing spray up to the height of several men standing on each other’s shoulders. He marvelled at the power of the sea, so far beyond the might of man. Even the Emperor with all his legions was as nothing if the sea decided to turn on him, sink a fleet, flood a city. It could take the life of a man without the slightest interruption to its ebb and flow. A wave would not pause if a human body was thrown in its path. The tide would not alter its rhythm. He could cast himself off this cliff now and it would inconvenience no one, nothing. He stared into the darkness and a tear welled up in his eye, fell, joined its kin. One drop in an ocean.
He shook himself. Maybe the world didn’t need him. Maybe he didn’t need the world. But he wasn’t ready to leave it yet. Certainly not of his own accord. And if anyone else wanted to try to make him go, they would be in for a fuck of a fight.
He might not be happy now. He might not be quite sure what he was fighting for.
But one day, things might be different. And until then, he would carry on.
The god of the mountain and the sun, the great god Elagabal, had blessed him, he was sure. He had prayed and sacrificed that morning to the success of his mission, and the sun had broken through an overcast sky, shining down on him and suffusing him in warmth. Aziz was a man of few doubts, but whatever misgivings he ever had about a mission were always dispelled after worship, giving him a certainty that was almost ecstatic.
That Elagabal was with him was confirmed when he spied his target walking with his family out of the governor’s residence and into the city. The great god had guided him here. Together with a little inside information, of course.
Four legionaries escorted them. Marcellus was not completely stupid or reckless, and the failed attack on his ship had obviously made him more cautious than usual. Aziz knew he had generally walked Rome with only a solitary slave as a bodyguard.
It would make no difference. Aziz was well prepared. Some of his pirate crew, the ones who had survived, had quit when they reached Syracuse, but half a dozen remained, and he had hired half a dozen more thugs from a Syrian gang leader who ruled a run-down district near the docks.
He had waited patiently for the moment, but knew it would come. He had been informed that Soaemias would tell her husband she was not prepared to stay cooped up in the governor’s palace for the entire length of their stay in Syracuse without at least a trip to the market and to see the sights, and Marcellus was too much under his wife’s thumb to refuse her.
He trailed them at a discreet distance through the ancient streets of this Greek-founded city, almost as old as Rome itself. Although it was nowhere near as crowded, noisy or overwhelming as the capital city, it still buzzed, and anyone navigating its cobweb of alleys and thoroughfares had to jostle past a bustling throng of citizens and visitors, as well as the carts and wagons that were banned in Rome during daylight hours.
Aziz followed near enough that he could hear them arguing. Marcellus was uneasy, and was begging his wife that they return to the safety of the governor’s residence. She dismissed his concerns with an imperious wave of her hands as she made a beeline for a stall in the market square selling fine silk dresses, imported at great expense from the East. The young boy and his tutor, Gannys, joined her, stroking the material and praising its quality.
It was time. They were sufficiently far from the residence, sufficiently distracted. He nudged the lad he had hired as a runner and sent him scurrying to where his men waited nearby. Now he had to rely on the obedience and competence of others, something he was never comfortable with. His breathing tightened as he waited.
There was a crash at the far end of the square and raised voices. He looked over to where a wooden trestle table had been upturned by an angry customer, spilling bronze and silver jewellery over the street. The stallholder screamed at the man while passers-by scrabbled around to pocket expensive rings and necklaces that had rolled into gutters and the cracks between cobblestones.
The legionaries accompanying Marcellus and his family looked nervously towards the disturbance, which was rapidly dissolving into a mini-riot. Two of them advanced forward to attempt to assert some control over the situation, while the other two fingered the hilts of their weapons and scanned the crowd for threats.
The two advancing legionaries were quickly swallowed up by the jostling crowd, which included several of Aziz’s men, making sure they got behind the soldiers and cut off their retreat. At the same time, behind the Marcellus party, the rest of his men advanced from several directions.
They weren’t actors or spies, and although some of the thugs tried to disguise their direction of travel and target, the legionaries quickly picked up on at least two of the men advancing towards them. They shouted a warning to Marcellus and drew their weapons.
All of Aziz’s men rushed forward at once. Innocent bystanders attempted to scatter, but some got pushed to the ground or clubbed with the hilts of swords and axes if they were too slow to move.
The two sides clashed with a roar that reverberated around the square. Eight of Aziz’s men, who had not been involved with creating the disturbance to lure away half of Marcellus’ guards, fought against just three – Marcellus and the remaining two guards. Aziz hung back and watched.
The square was still crowded as people screamed and attempted to flee, or to get to loved ones or prized possessions. This worked in favour of the defenders, who didn’t have to face all of their attackers at once, and were able to use bystanders as distractions and human shields. The quality of the replacements that Aziz had recruited in Syracuse was not up to the standard of the gladiators and veterans from Rome. They were untrained, unfit, and overconfident. So despite their numbers, they made little initial impression against Marcellus and his men.
Furthermore, the two legionaries at the far end of the square had seen the attack and were forcing their way back through the crowd to lend their assistance. They were slowed by the fleeing shoppers and merchants, but made steady progress towards their commander and his family.
Still Aziz hung back and watched. Waiting for the moment.
Marcellus and his two legionaries had formed a protective semi-circle around Ganny and his wife and child, who hugged each other, wide-eyed and terrified at the battle raging scant feet away. Aziz watched them intently as he began to slip through the crowd, edging a respectful distance to the right of the battle.
One of his men fell to a sword thrust through the side of his neck and he dropped to the ground, hand clamped in vain to the rent gushing blood. A legionary took a wound to his upper sword arm. He swapped the sword to his other hand and continued to defend, but less effectively. The two distant legionaries approaching suddenly found themselves beset from behind, as those of Aziz’s men who had started the disturbance caught up with them. But they had made sufficient ground to join up with their comrades, so Marcellus now had four legionaries by his side, albeit against a swollen number of foes.
Training and stamina began to tell. Aziz’s men started to flag, breathing heavily. When another of their number was taken down by a slice to his head, a double-handed blow from a furious Marcellus that cleaved open the bone, their morale wavered.
Marcellus saw the turning point in the battle, and urged his men to advance, to break the attackers’ hearts and rout them. The legionaries stepped forward, one step, another, thrusting and slashing hard. Aziz’s men dropped back.
It was time.
Unheard above the screams of the crowd, the clash of the weapons, the roars and cries of the combatants, Aziz sneaked in behind Marcellus and his men.
Gannys saw him first, from the corner of his eye. He turned, opened his mouth.
Aziz elbowed him in the side of the head and he crumpled to the floor without a sound.
Soaemias stared at the attacker, and he gave the woman a hefty shove, sending her stumbling backwards, tripping over the hem of her stola and landing on her backside.
The boy looked up at him now, penetrating blue eyes fixed on his, and for the briefest of moments, he felt paralysed, bewitched by the simple power.
‘Elagabal strengthen me now,’ he whispered. And he dropped a large sack over the boy’s head. He pulled it all the way down to his feet in one smooth motion, then hoisted him onto his shoulder, turned and ran.
This time, the sack precluded biting or scratching. And there was no chance of rescue. No Arcani lurking nearby, ready to play saviours. He knew they were away.
He glanced over his shoulder. Marcellus and their men hadn’t even noticed what had happened just at their backs, so transported by battle rage were they. Soaemias stared, slack-jawed, seemingly paralysed for precious moments, before she began to scream and shout for help. Her cries were lost in the din of the melee in any case.
Aziz reached an alley at the edge of the square and gave one last look behind him. His men were turning to flee, some dead, some wounded, most insufficiently committed to the fight and the cause to have taken significant damage. It didn’t matter. Killing Marcellus would have been a bonus. But his mission was accomplished.
He tarried just long enough to see Marcellus step back from the fight, turn to see his wife in a heap on the floor, his son gone, to look frantically look around him, shouting his son’s name. Then Aziz hurried away down the alleyway, clutching his prize tight, and headed in the direction of the docks.
‘Silus, you piece of shit! Where have you been? You were supposed to be protecting me!’
Silus stopped in his tracks. After he had disembarked at the Syracuse docks, he had gone straight to the governor’s residence to report to Marcellus.
Saying goodbye on Lipari had been hard. He had promised to return, and to do all he could to secure her release. He had tried to navigate a path between the Scylla of false hope and the Charybdis of despair, but had not managed to take away the look of overwhelming sadness in Tituria’s eyes that must have channelled what was in her heart. It had been hard to get her to break the final hug before he got into his boat to row out to rendezvous with the cargo ship.
He took comfort, difficult as it was for him personally, in seeing her hugging Issa tight as they rowed away. The little dog watched her master leave in some confusion, but he had left her many times before, and she did not appreciate that this time was different. She wagged her tail, and intermittently sneaked a lick of the tears running down Tituria’s face.
So his emotions were dark and fragile and he bridled at Marcellus’ tone.
‘You knew I would be gone for a few days. Oclatinius approved it.’
‘I don’t give a fuck if the Emperor himself gave you permission! You weren’t here when I needed you!’
Silus now took in the frantic look in Marcellus’ eyes, the bruises, grazes and cuts on his face and forearms. He looked to Soaemias, who was sitting uncharacteristically quiet, and Gannys, who was nursing a hen’s egg-sized lump that protruded from his temple.
‘What happened, sir?’ he asked, damping down his own raw feelings.
Marcellus slumped down in his chair now, his hand on his forehead.
‘They took my boy, Silus. They took my son.’
Silus stared in shock. Atius had grown very still beside him. No quips or attempts at humour from him this time.
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Sir, tell me everything.’
Marcellus hid his face in his hands and his shoulders heaved once, twice. Then he rubbed his face roughly with his palms, and looked up at Silus with glistening eyes. His voice catching, he outlined the ambush, how they had fought off the attackers, but that when the battle was won, he had found his Gannys stuporous, his wife hysterical and his son vanished.
When he had finished talking, there were a few heartbeats of silence.
Then Soaemias spoke in an eerily flat voice.
‘Have him executed.’
They all looked at her in confusion.
‘What?’ asked Marcellus. ‘Who?’
‘Silus. Have him executed. He failed you, and now our son is gone, maybe dead. He must die.’
Silus gaped.
‘Sir, this is not my fault. You know that.’
‘I do not know that, Silus!’ shouted Marcellus abruptly. ‘All I know is my little boy is gone, and you weren’t here to do your job!’
Silus took a step back, wondering if he should be considering flight. Behind him, at the door of the chamber, two legionaries stepped closer together, blocking the exit.
Marcellus shook his head. ‘Bring him back to me, Silus, or I will have your head.’
Fear and anger warred inside Silus, and Marcellus’ unjust words felt like salt rubbed into the raw wound of his heartache. He took a step forward and grabbed Marcellus by the collar of his tunic with both hands.
The legionaries took a step forward, but Atius barred their way, his sword half drawn.
‘I will find your son, sir,’ Silus hissed into Marcellus’ face, specks of spittle hitting the governor’s cheeks. ‘It is not my fault you lost him. But it is my duty to return him to you. And I will do that in spite of, not because of, your threats. And you,’ he said, pushing Marcellus back into his seat, and whirling on Soaemias. ‘You had better think very carefully before you threaten violence against an Arcanus in the future.’
Soaemias shrank back from his vehement words.
‘Marcellus,’ she whispered in a shocked voice. ‘Are you going to allow this outrage?’
But Marcellus looked like a man already defeated.
‘Silus. Forgive me. He is all I have. I know that you understand what it is like to lose a child. Don’t let me go through the same. Please, find my boy.’
Silus took four long deep breaths though his nose, letting his temper recede like an ebbing tide with each wave of breath. When he felt he was sufficiently in control, he spoke.
‘I will do everything I can, sir. Atius, with me.’
Not trusting himself to say more, he turned and walked to the exit.
The two legionaries barred his way uncertainly, looking to Marcellus for orders. But Marcellus once more had his face in his hands, and was now weeping openly.
‘Get. The fuck. Out of my way.’ Silus pronounced each word carefully. His hand was off his sword, but the threat in his voice could not be mistaken.
The legionaries exchanged glances and stepped back. As he passed them, one of them whispered to him, ‘Bring him back. He’s not a bad kid.’
Silus paused and nodded, then strode out.
The obvious first step was talking to the survivors of the fight. The legionaries could tell them nothing of use about their attackers, except that they were mainly amateurs, but they had managed to capture one. He was a Syracusan native, and he had taken a lacerated hamstring from a legionary gladius as he had turned to flee.
He spoke Greek, a language that fortunately Silus had had some exposure to. Although far from fluent, his father had ensured that he knew the basics, since a large part of the Roman Empire including the elites spoke Greek instead of Latin, and during his time in Rome, he had encountered many Greek speakers. Although he preferred to talk in Latin, it was sometimes easier to chat in the native language of another. Atius too knew some Greek from his religious instruction with his mother as a child – the tales and words of the Christos were written in Greek, as was the Septuaguint, the Jewish holy writings that followers of the Christos also read.
So they were able to converse without too much difficulty with the Syracusan thug, and even interject some curses.
‘Who hired you, you cocksucker?’ asked Silus without preamble.
The Syracusan looked up at him from the reed mattress he was lying on with a resentful expression. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
Silus knelt beside him and inspected the deep slash on the back of his calf.
‘Looks a bit tender,’ he commented, then thrust his finger into the wound. The Syracusan screamed and convulsed, but Atius held him down. Silus twisted his finger, then took it out and inspected it. It was covered in sticky clots, scabs, and bits of flesh. He wiped it on the Syracusan’s tunic, then tried again.
‘Who hired you?’
The Syracusan breathed heavily through clenched teeth, then muttered. ‘I don’t know his name. Hurt me if you like, but…’
Silus took him at his word and shoved his finger once more into the hole in his leg. The Syracusan screamed and cursed.
‘Wait, wait…’ he groaned. ‘I’ll tell you what I can. I don’t know his name. But he spoke Greek with an eastern accent. Sounded like the Syrians who work in the warehouses.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘He always wore a hood. He was a small fellow, but he looked tough despite that.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That we were going to kill an important Roman and kidnap his son.’
Silus raised his eyebrows and looked at Atius. So it wasn’t just an assassination attempt. Avitus had been a target all along. And the kidnapper sounded like the man Silus had fought on the ship. So that was no opportunistic piracy either.
‘We’ve got enough from this one,’ said Silus to the legionary guarding the Syracusan, in Latin. ‘Do you have any others?’
‘Only corpses.’
‘What are you going to do with this one?’
‘I can’t imagine it will be less a punishment than crucifixion.’
The Syracusan looked at them, uncomprehending.
Poor bastard, thought Silus. But there could be no other realistic outcome after the crime he had committed.
They went next to the market where the fight and abduction had taken place. There was no sign that there had ever been a disturbance. It was once more thronged with people, and the stallholders were advertising their wares in loud voices, while shoppers milled about, looking for a bargain, or haggling to create one.
They talked to several artisans and merchants before they found one that had any useful knowledge that he was prepared to share. His stall was at the far end of the square from where the fighting had taken place, but he had seen the boy being grabbed and carried away in a sack by a small, hooded man. For the price of a copper coin, he showed them the alley that the abductor had taken, and Silus and Atius explored it.
The alley was narrow and dirty, mainly residential but with a few shop fronts on the ground floor of blocks of apartments. They knocked on several doors and interrogated several shop owners before they got lucky. A cobbler had seen the man with his struggling load run past, and out of curiosity he had sent his apprentice to follow at a safe distance. He summoned his apprentice, who told them nervously that he had tailed the man as far as the docks, where he had lost sight of him.
The docks were busy as always, gangs of slave labourers sweating over their tasks, despite the mildness of the winter weather. The dock workers and sailors were a reticent group, and none were prepared to talk until Silus became more free with his bribery. Even then, it took them some hours before they finally tracked down someone prepared to speak who also had anything useful to say.
The help came from a Cretan ship captain called Iason, who had been supervising the loading of his ship when he had seen the hooded man with his wriggling sack embark on the boat next to him and disappear below decks. The captain of that boat was an acquaintance of Iason, familiar enough to greet each other and discuss the weather and any new shipping hazards they had heard of. Sometimes they would talk about their cargoes, their jobs and their lives in general; Iason was not on good enough terms to quiz him on the unusual cargo he had just taken on board, but he knew the man’s itinerary well enough.
‘He trades incense and spices between Alexandria and Syracuse,’ said Iason. ‘It’s his regular run, and he finds it very profitable.’
‘You sail the same route?’ asked Silus.
‘Not me. I take wine from Crete to Ostia, stopping at Syracuse for provisions.’
‘Could he have been sailing to a different destination this time?’
‘I doubt it. He seems to be a man very set in his ways. Only ever travels to and from Alexandria. If you wanted a different destination, you would choose a different ship.’
‘When did they set sail?’
‘With the tide this morning.’
Silus cursed. If Marcellus had been a bit more proactive the previous day, before Silus’ return, rather than wallowing in misery, he might have managed to catch up with his son before they left Sicily. But it was no use regretting what might have been.
‘When is the next ship to Alexandria?’
‘I don’t know any that are docked here now that are going in that direction. There will probably be one coming in tomorrow or the day after that will stay a few days then head that way.’
Silus shook his head. They had to get moving before the trail went too cold.
‘Will you take us there?’
‘Me?’ asked Iason in surprise. ‘I’m not going to Alexandria. I have a hold full of the finest Cretan wine bound for Ostia.’
‘Will it spoil?’
‘Well… no, it improves with age, but that’s not the point.’
‘We will pay you handsomely. It will more than make up for any losses.’
‘But I have a woman in Ostia, waiting for me.’
‘Aren’t there women in Alexandria?’ asked Atius.
‘Of course.’
Silus named the sum they were prepared to offer.
‘That would pay for a lot of women,’ commented Atius.
Iason swallowed, then stuck out his hand. Silus shook it.
‘When do we leave?’
‘If we wait until tomorrow…’
‘I want to leave now.’
Iason thought for a moment, the large payment clearly running through his mind, and the risk that he could lose it to another captain if he delayed.
‘Give me two hours to re-provision.’
‘Perfect. We’ll return then.’
When he reported back to Marcellus, the governor-to-be gave a small smile.
‘Thank you, Silus. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
‘I haven’t found him yet. May I ask why you didn’t start looking for your son yesterday?’
Marcellus frowned. ‘Soaemias was so distraught, I couldn’t leave her. And I did ask the Sicilian governor to start a search for the thugs who escaped, but they had vanished completely.’
Silus didn’t pursue it any further. He felt Marcellus should have done more, but for all the man’s braveness, and his abilities in some areas, Silus wasn’t sure he always had much common sense or initiative. He suspected that Marcellus had actually been waiting for his return, hoping the Arcanus would make everything right.
‘Atius and I are travelling to Alexandria shortly.’
‘We will accompany you,’ said Soaemias abruptly. She had been sitting quietly by Marcellus’ side, head bowed, showing no signs or paying any attention to the conversation.
‘My love…’ began Marcellus.
‘Mistress,’ said Silus. ‘I hear Alexandra is a dangerous city. Let Atius and me handle this.’
‘No. He is my son. I will go there. For him.’
‘We leave in two hours…’
‘We will be ready.’
Silus looked at Marcellus, who looked back at him in resignation with a small shrug. Silus sighed and nodded.
‘Very well, two hours at the docks. Don’t be late.’
They were of course late, and by the time Soaemias’ slaves had loaded up her possessions, her trunks of clothes, jewellery and make-up, as well as the black stone and other religious paraphernalia, plus the legionaries, Gannys and the household slaves, they were four hours behind schedule.
Iason protested about the weight of all the extra passengers and their luggage, but the ship seemed to Silus’ inexpert eye to still be riding high enough in the water, and with some extra payment, Iason was content to set sail, albeit with some extra prayers and sacrifices to Poseidon.
Soaemias settled herself near the prow, cross-legged, closed her eyes and chanted prayers to Elagabal. The sailors eyed her with suspicion, making signs to ward off evil when they thought that neither she nor her husband were looking.
They cast off and sailed south, skirting along the eastern Sicilian coast until they reached the open waters of the Mare Nostrum. From there, they turned east towards the Greek coast, from where they would turn south-east. The sails were set full, the oarsmen settled into their cruising stroke rate, and they headed towards Egypt and Alexandria.
A fast ship could make the journey in ten days in the best conditions, but winter winds and unfavourable currents had to be navigated, and twice they had to take shelter in safe harbours and sit out violent storms.
There were no safe harbours once they began to traverse the Mare Nostrum from its north to its south boundaries, leaving the Greek peninsula behind. Silus experienced severe and relentless seasickness from the incessant undulations and oscillations of the ship’s motion, and ate little on the journey, even less of which he actually kept down.
Once, he thought that the ship would sink, and that all would be lost. A huge storm whipped up waves as high as a house, and the winds cracked a mast, the sail swept to sea along with a screaming sailor. A legionary was washed overboard by a surge of brine from the side, and he vanished instantly from view beneath the dark water.
Iason screamed at his oarsmen to pull harder, and at the sailors to trim the sails. Beneath the decks, Soaemias, Marcellus and Gannys prayed for salvation to Elagabalus, Atius prayed for forgiveness of his sins to Christos and Maria, and Silus prayed for help to Jupiter, Mithras, Poseidon, Brigantia, the household lares, the names of his ancestors and anyone else he could think of.
Whichever deity it was that was listening, the storm eventually abated, and the crew were able to make enough repairs to keep the ship afloat and moving onwards on its journey. A few muttered that they should toss the Syrian witch overboard, and Silus was inclined to agree with them. But the voyage continued, and Soaemias regularly took her place at the prow of the boat to pray to Elagabalus, and for the rest of the time studiously ignored Silus, for which he was grateful.
It took around three weeks until the lookout spotted their destination. And what a sight it was. Although the sun had not yet breached the horizon and the skies were still a dark black-grey, the location of the harbour of Alexandria was clearly visible because of the light shining out into the pre-dawn from the lighthouse.
Silus had no idea how they accomplished it, but the light from a huge fire was projected out across the sea to guide ships into the twin harbours. It could be seen from an enormous distance. The ship navigated unerringly towards the beacon, and as they neared, the waves became less violent. The sun peaked over the horizon, throwing its beams through a gap in the clouds onto the underside of the overcast sky, turning the east into a fiery orange.
As they neared shore and the sky lightened, Silus saw the vast tower that supported the fire and the mirror that projected the light, and knew he was looking at the famous Pharos of Alexandria, one of the six remaining of the Seven Wonders of the World. Their horrendous journey was at an end. Now the real work would begin.