The Flames of Cyzicus: A Cassius Corbulo short story Page 4

his helmet. ‘If he does light another fire tonight, and someone dies, it won’t be me who gets the blame.’

  ‘You’ve made your point, centurion,’ replied Stolo without looking at him. ‘Good day.’

  Tuccius was on patrol at the basilica and popped his head in twice to see how Cassius was getting on. Though the numbers definitely added up, the tribune wanted him to double-check. Cassius grudgingly complied but also asked the tribune to keep up the pressure on Stolo. But now that the warehouses were being guarded, Tuccius didn’t seem to think this was a priority.

  ‘Usually gone by the ninth, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marcus through the mouthful of seeds he had just taken from a bowl.

  Cassius looked at the office hourglass. The tenth hour had already begun. Though his most recent set of calculations wasn’t complete, he couldn’t bear the thought of doing nothing before darkness fell; spending another anxious night waiting to find out what - or who - had been incinerated.

  Investigator Stolo clearly enjoyed the luxury of operating without concern for his conscience; Cassius did not.

  He tightened his bootlaces and his belt, then grabbed his cloak and helmet. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Marcus’s reply was rendered incomprehensible by another mouthful of seeds.

  Cassius decided to take another look at the warehouses. At the first, a work crew had already torn down the damaged section and were clearing up, ready to begin repairs. He walked around the building and checked the interior but saw nothing significant.

  Two sentries were present; two more at the second site. Cassius thought it unlikely that the arsonist would try to burn the same targets down again but there was the remaining stock to consider.

  Also at the second warehouse was Eusthathios’s elderly clerk. The man had placed a waxed tablet and a stylus on an unburnt basket. He inspected some amphoras that had been placed in rows then returned to the basket and made a note.

  ‘I thought the losses had already been calculated,’ said Cassius.

  The clerk peered at him before answering. ‘The grain has, sir. I’m checking the quality of the other stock. Some of the containers survived but the contents are smoke-damaged. Master Eusthatios is very exact.’

  Cassius walked over to what seemed to have been the centre of the fire. He picked up a slender piece of timber and poked around in the thick layer of ash. Apart from iron fittings and the occasional piece of amphora, he again found nothing of interest. As his boots were already filthy, he kept up the search, moving outward towards the street.

  ‘We’ve lost all sorts,’ said the clerk wearily. ‘Dried fruit, dried biscuit, sour wine-’

  ‘And fish,’ interjected Cassius, who had just unearthed a charred set of bones.

  ‘No,’ replied the clerk. ‘No fish.’

  ‘What’s this then?’ Cassius knelt down and examined the remains: the shape of the skeleton was quite clear.

  The clerk walked over to it. ‘Just the one - maybe a cat left it under the warehouse or something.’

  ‘Must have been a bloody big cat. There’s definitely no fish on the list?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  With daylight rapidly running out, Cassius asked the sentries for directions and headed to the refugee encampment. It was quite a walk; and his legs felt leaden by the time he reached Cyzicus’s eastern gate. As a method of defence, the gate was currently rather useless: roughly a quarter-mile of the city wall was in a state of disrepair and in several locations had collapsed entirely. Cassius knew General Navio was desperately trying to raise funds to hasten the work.

  The legionaries on duty at the gatehouse told him that the refugees were mainly Galatians who had fled the Palmyran occupation of their province. Knowing these people would be wary of an officer, Cassius left his helmet and cloak at the gatehouse. Though the refugees would still note his military belt, the lack of startling red might make his task easier.

  Hailing the first lad he came across, Cassius gave him a sesterce and asked to be shown the scene of the fire. He was interested to find that the location was on the city side of the camp, only a minute or two’s walk from one of the wider gaps in the wall.

  Several men were still looking through the remains of their tents. There wasn’t much left: just a few charred sections of material and some blackened objects that were hard to identify. The lad remarked that it was only because their leaders had insisted on proper spacing that the whole camp hadn’t gone up.

  Using Greek, Cassius politely called the men over and told them that he was investigating the cause of the fire. They confirmed that Stolo’s subordinates had already been there and asked quite a few questions. Cassius did so himself but heard nothing that seemed significant. No one had seen any strangers around before the fire but the most popular theory was that the culprit belonged to a group of Cappadocians in a neighbouring camp; there had been arguments over refuse and water supplies.

  Cassius left what he reckoned might be the most important question until last. ‘Did anyone find fish in the remains?’

  His enquiry was met with blank faces.

  ‘Or the remains of any other animal?’

  ‘A chicken?’ said one man, a bearded fellow wearing cloth tied around his head.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘There were chicken bones; we couldn’t work it out - we haven’t had chicken for months.’

  ‘Can you show me?’

  ‘No,’ said the Galatian. ‘Some dog ran off with it.’

  One of the other refugees turned to Cassius. ‘You think he left it – the man who set the fire?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cassius could see no reason to disclose his theory. He gave the men a sesterce each for their trouble and told the lad he could get another two if he wanted. The youth had to go and ask his father for his permission but caught up with Cassius at the gatehouse. Once he’d reclaimed his cloak and helmet, Cassius asked the legionaries for more directions. He then sent the lad off to the villa with a message for Simo. He at last had the feeling he was getting somewhere.

  The Temple of Vulcan was situated close to a more robust section of the city walls, in a quiet area of middling villas with courtyards and gardens. It was one of the smallest places of worship Cassius had ever seen, the columns barely ten feet tall. The temple was also in a state of disrepair, the white paint flaky and patchy.

  Simo was yet to arrive but, with dusk approaching, Cassius hurried up the steps and peered inside. The temple seemed to be empty. All he could make out was the shadowy statue of the god of fire at the far end. He retreated and rang the small bell hanging close to the doors.

  He felt sure someone would be around; even if there were no portable valuables inside, the priests and followers wouldn’t leave the temple unlocked. Vulcan was not a particularly popular deity but maintained a solid constituency among smiths and craftsmen in most cities.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Cassius turned to find a man of around forty coming up the steps. He was wearing a plain tunic but carrying a heavily-embroidered toga over his arm. In his other hand was a broom.

  ‘I hope so. Centurion Corbulo, governor’s staff. I take it you work here?’

  The man came to a stop two steps below him and nodded cordially. One of his eyes was red and rather swollen; an affliction Cassius had seen numerous times in the city.

  ‘Vibius Salonius, chief priest in residence. What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘Just a few questions. Does Vulcan have many followers here in Cyzicus?’

  ‘Not as many as we would like.’ Salonius held up the broom and gave a genial smile. ‘I have a staff of one, though some of the more committed followers help me on occasion.’

  ‘It’s customary, is it not, for fish to be sacrificed during ceremonies?’

  ‘It is. Especially here on the coast, where we have a good supply.’

  ‘And sometimes other animals?’

&n
bsp; ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are aware of the fires over the last few nights?’

  ‘At the warehouse?’

  ‘There were two at warehouses actually. And others. Animal remains were found at two of the sites. I believe whoever set the fires might have placed them there.’

  Despite the gloom, Cassius caught a flicker of something in the priest’s expression. Realisation, perhaps? Or fear?

  Cassius continued: ‘It seems there might be some sort of religious aspect to all this. Tell me, are there - or have there ever been – any followers here who seemed … unbalanced in any way? Or had some axe to grind with the city?’

  Salonius rested the broom on the steps and leant against it while looking up at the temple. To Cassius, there seemed something rather theatrical in the way he considered his answer.

  ‘Not that I can think of. The only axe we have to grind is the question of funding; of which we receive very little. But none of our followers would wilfully endanger others. The great and honoured Vulcan is sometimes misunderstood; he is benevolent, he represents craftsmen, those who create-‘

  ‘Of course,’ said Cassius. ‘But fire also represents destruction – isn’t it possible that a disturbed individual might seek to please him, or commune with him in some way by setting fires? It might be someone young, a lad perhaps – they in particular like to see flames. Some of those I knew in my youth seemed almost obsessed with it.’

  Hearing hooves on stone, Cassius looked up to see Simo riding along the street, leading another horse. He was relieved the Gaul had found