The Far Shore

by Nick Brown

Genres: Historical Mysteries; General Fiction

Synopsis

When the deputy commander of Rome's Imperial Security Service is assassinated on the island of Rhodes, Cassius Corbulo swiftly finds himself embroiled in the investigation. Assisted once more by ex-gladiator bodyguard Indavara and servant Simo, his search for the truth is complicated by the involvement of the dead man's headstrong daughter, Annia.

Braving hostile seas, Cassius and his allies follow the assassin's trail south aboard a ship captained by a roguish Carthaginian smuggler and manned by his disparate, dangerous crew. Their journey leads them to the farthest reaches of the empire; to a ruined city where the rules of Roman civilization have long been abandoned, and a deadly battle of wits with a brutal, relentless foe.

(P)2013 Hodder & Stoughton

Release date: July 18, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 448

Sample

The noise reached its peak as the procession passed under the arched gate, then settled into a tumult of clapping, cheering and crying. Soldiers in gleaming bronze helmets and armour lined the road, holding back the crowd. Children clung to their parents’ legs and looked up; the lucky few able to reach a roof or high window looked down. Leading the way were four mounted soldiers carrying spears trailing red and yellow streamers. Behind them came a plump, long-haired herald, bellowing an insistent refrain: ‘People of Karanda, welcome our returning leader! Hail Prince Orycus! Hail the Prince!’

Orycus and his horse were covered in flowers thrown by the crowd. Clad in a pristine white tunic and cape, he sat high in his saddle, gracing his people with restrained smiles and nods. Close by were two attendants with heavily laden horses and two aged priests in long, flowing robes that hung close to the ground. Then came six armoured cavalrymen bearing circular shields and lances.

Bringing up the rear were three individuals who seemed entirely out of place with the rest of the procession. In the middle was Cassius Quintius Corbulo: a tall, lean, fair-skinned man who didn’t look anything like old enough for the scarlet cloak and crested helmet of an officer of the Roman Army. To Cassius’s left was his servant Simo: an older fellow of similar height but considerably more width, wearing a pale woollen tunic and a well-travelled pair of sandals. He had a kind, friendly face and looked as if he could barely resist the temptation to wave to the onlookers. Cassius’s bodyguard Indavara seemed to be the least comfortable in the saddle. He was the shortest of the three but altogether more muscular and his sleeveless tunic showed off a pair of remarkably solid arms laced with scars. His thick black hair didn’t quite cover his left ear, the top half of which was missing. He caught Cassius’s eye and nodded forward at the prince with a sneer.

‘Looks quite the part now, doesn’t he?’

Cassius shrugged as Indavara continued:

‘Lucky they didn’t see him hiding behind trees every time we met someone on the road, or starting at every sound.’

‘We all have our roles to play,’ replied Cassius, almost having to shout to make himself heard. ‘You too. Watch these windows for archers.’

‘Their man said there’d be no danger once we were inside the walls.’

‘I know numbers aren’t your strong point, but how many people do you think are here?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Indavara. ‘Thousands.’

‘Exactly. And it only takes one. We’ve got Orycus this far. We don’t want to lose him now.’

The ensuing half-hour was tense and chaotic, and Cassius let out a long sigh of relief when the procession finally reached the palace. The building barely deserved the name but then Karanda didn’t seem like much of a city and – as Indavara had pointed out – Orycus certainly didn’t seem like much of a prince. The palace was a three-storey structure built of timber and reminded Cassius of a large, not particularly luxurious inn. Roughly made standards hung from poles over the main entrance, where a number of well-dressed dignitaries had gathered. More soldiers were stationed along the path from the entrance to the front of the courtyard, where the prince had just dismounted. With a final wave to the crowd, Orycus strode towards the palace. He was met by a hulking, white-bearded man who gripped the hand offered to him, then escorted the prince inside. There was a groan from the watching horde, which was soon being dispersed by the soldiers.

‘Break it up there! Off you go!’

‘Back to your homes! Back to work!’

Cassius slid wearily to the ground, then unbuckled his chinstrap and removed his helmet. ‘Thank the gods that’s over with. He’s someone else’s problem now. A good night’s rest, then we can be on our way.’

Indavara dropped down next to him and stretched out his arms. Simo dismounted and immediately set about removing saddlebags.

Tutting at the commoners bustling past, Cassius glanced up at the darkening sky and the foreboding mountains beyond the city walls. Strands of grey cloud drifted past the high, jagged crags and a light drizzle began to fall.

‘Sir? Sir?’ said a voice in Greek.

Cassius saw a small man pushing his way through the crowd. ‘Officer Corbulo?’

‘Yes.’

The man straightened his tunic and the thick silver chain around his neck. ‘I am Speaker Malacus Argunt of the grand council. Karanda welcomes the envoy of Rome.’

Cassius rather liked the sound of that. He gripped forearms with Argunt, who, like most provincials, was too delicate and too quick with the gesture.

‘Thank you, Speaker Argunt.’

Cassius always made a point of repeating back the names of anyone he met who occupied a position of authority. It created a good impression and invariably ensured he would remember the name.

Argunt waved a pair of servants forward. ‘We shall stable your horses at once. I’ve arranged a room for you in the palace.’ He cast a vaguely distasteful look at Indavara. ‘Three wasn’t it?’

‘Three, yes.’

‘If you come with me, sir. First Minister Vyedra would like to see you now.’

‘Of course.’

Cassius turned to Indavara, who was already removing his weapons from his saddle. ‘Help Simo with the gear, would you?’

Indavara nodded.

Cassius followed Argunt back through the crowd.

First Minister Vyedra turned out to be the white-bearded man who had greeted the prince. Speaker Argunt completed the introductions then left the large reception room, which was on the second floor of the palace, overlooking the courtyard. As a servant took Cassius’s cloak and helmet, Vyedra gestured to two couches by a broad window.

‘Thank you. A moment,’ said Cassius. He took off the leather satchel he carried over his left shoulder and put it down on the floor, then removed the diagonal sword belt from his right shoulder. ‘Don’t think I need this.’

The servant added the heavy sword to his load and hurried away into an anteroom. Cassius waited for Vyedra to lower his substantial frame on to one of the couches, then picked up the satchel and sat opposite him. Another servant – a middle-aged woman – appeared and placed a wooden tray on the table between the couches. She took from it a plate of cakes, a jug and two fine glasses. Her hand was shaking as she poured wine into each glass, then handed them to the men.

Cassius looked down at the street beyond the courtyard, where scores of the city folk were still gathered. ‘They seem reluctant to leave.’

‘All of Karanda rejoices,’ replied Vyedra. ‘We owe you a great debt. With the prince returned to us, the House of Tarebe will live on.’

‘All of Karanda?’ queried Cassius, resting the glass on his knee. ‘I was told the people of this enclave – Solba – oppose his family’s rule. Isn’t that why we had to escort him home in secret?’

‘The threat from Solba has been somewhat overstated in certain quarters. But it is better to be safe than sorry, is it not?’

‘Indeed. I did try to explain that to the prince, but he took a rather dim view of my methods.’

‘Staying in out-of-the-way inns with beds crawling with mites?’

‘Those sound like his words.’

‘And having him dress as your clerk until you were close to the city?’

‘Rather inventive that, I thought.’

Vyedra made a valiant attempt not to smile.

The servant offered each man the plate of cakes but both refused. She replaced the plate on the table and left.

‘So, regarding the new arrangement with the governor in Tarsus,’ continued Cassius. ‘Tragic that the king wasn’t able to sign it before his death, but now that the prince has been safely returned, it is essential that the agreement be ratified.’

Cassius unbuckled the satchel. ‘I have it here. I require your signature and – once he is king – Orycus’s too. I shall then have it sent back to the governor, for immediate implementation.’

Cassius took a sheet of paper from a thin leather folder and handed it over. Vyedra held it up to the light as he read. Cassius sipped on his wine (not watered enough considering the early hour) and glanced at the badly stuffed stag’s head mounted on the wall behind the minister. Though cross-eyed, it seemed to be staring right at him.

Vyedra read aloud: ‘We are to send a monthly report on the activities of the bandits to the north of our territory; hand over any prisoners captured for interrogation; and take action if their activities present a serious threat to communications or trade.’

‘Rome faces many threats from without its borders. We simply haven’t the resources to address all the problems within.’

Vyedra showed no sign that he had heard Cassius. His breathing – already laboured – became even louder. ‘Our annual tribute is also to be increased? And our commitment of men?’

The first minister lowered the sheet and glared at his guest. Strictly speaking it was none of Cassius’s concern; he was simply the messenger, but he knew that if the agreement wasn’t signed, his commander – Aulus Celatus Abascantius of the Imperial Security Service – would be less than impressed.

‘With the greatest respect, First Minister, I shall remind you that if it hadn’t been for the intervention of the Roman Army, your royal family would be without an heir.’

‘And I shall remind you, Officer Corbulo, that it was the failure of that same army to provide an escort for the royal party – through an area known for brigandage – that resulted in the death of the prince’s father and brother. If the king hadn’t been summoned to Tarsus by the governor, this whole disaster could have been avoided!’

Vyedra’s cheeks were turning red.

Cassius had strict orders not to reveal that four-fifths of the province’s forces were tied up in a crucial campaign against the Goths, nor that Imperial Security had organised Orycus’s return because there were no legionaries available to do it.

‘Will you sign the agreement, First Minister? And advise Orycus to do the same?’

Vyedra shook his head. ‘His Majesty King Adricus would never have accepted these conditions.’

Cassius took a last sip of wine, then replaced the glass on the table. He’d overheard an interesting conversation in Tarsus when they’d taken charge of the prince. He hadn’t intended on making use of the information unless the first minister proved recalcitrant, but it seemed that moment had arrived. He hunched forward and spoke quietly so that the servants wouldn’t hear him.

‘I’m told that the prince was found hiding in a latrine – unarmed and shivering in his nightshirt. He admitted to the tribune who found him that he’d fled as soon as the raiders struck.’ Cassius turned towards the window. ‘I’m sure you agree it would be most unfortunate if such a tale were to reach the people.’

Vyedra pursed his lips. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. After a moment, he glanced down at the agreement and sighed.

Cassius smiled. ‘Is there a pen around here anywhere?’

The coronation took place that afternoon, in what was known locally as the Great Square. Cassius slept through the whole thing, only to be woken by an impressive cheer when the deed was done. Half an hour later, a scowling First Minister Vyedra returned the agreement, now complete with Orycus’s signature.

Cassius was glad there had been no invitation to the coronation, but later a messenger arrived with a note from Speaker Argunt, requesting that he join the celebratory banquet in the palace’s Great Hall.

‘Great? It’s not even that big,’ observed Indavara as they joined the end of the queue.

‘Everything’s relative, isn’t it?’ replied Cassius, yawning. ‘It’s probably the biggest chamber in the city, so to these people it’s the Great Hall. Or – to take another example – I don’t feel especially proud of knowing my times tables up to fifty, whereas you’d be happy if you could manage four times three.’

After a considerable pause, Indavara said, ‘Twelve.’

‘Very good. Simo’s getting somewhere with you after all.’

Ahead of them were guests in bright tunics and thick furs; many of the women had elaborate floral arrangements woven into their hair. Silent attendants waited outside as their masters and mistresses filed through the door.

‘Anyway,’ added Cassius, ‘you should count yourself fortunate to be here at all. I was offered only two seats. Lucky for you Simo’s busy mending my saddle.’

‘Should be a good feed at least.’

Cassius noted how grimy Indavara’s tunic was. ‘Don’t you have anything cleaner?’

‘Hardly a mark on it.’

Cassius couldn’t wear his helmet in most of the low-roofed chambers and corridors of the palace, so he’d left it in his room. Assuming the hall would be hot, he’d left his cloak there too, and wore only his best long-sleeved scarlet tunic. Simo had also given his boots a good shine and fished out one of his favourite belt buckles – a circular silver plate with an image of the goddess Tyche, a memento from Antioch.

By the time they reached the door, Cassius realised all the men were removing their weapons. Two soldiers were taking the sword belts and knives and hanging them on wall-mounted pegs. Speaker Argunt was overseeing operations and coaxing the last of the guests inside.

‘A tradition, you understand,’ he explained as Cassius and Indavara handed over their daggers. ‘The Great Hall is where views are exchanged, not blows. Only the monarch may bring his blade into the room.’

Just as they were about to enter, a youth trotted up to Speaker Argunt. He bowed his head, then offered a rolled-up sheet of paper wrapped in cloth. ‘Just arrived by army dispatch, sir. For the officer.’

Argunt slid the letter out of the cloth. It was tied with twine and the wax seal remained intact. He read the single line of writing on the outside. ‘So it is.’

Cassius took the letter and examined the wax seal. It carried the emblem of the Governor of Syria – almost certainly from Abascantius.

‘I trust that the rider and his mount will be accommodated?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ replied Argunt.

‘Good. I have some post requiring delivery to the capital. He’ll need to leave first thing.’

‘As you wish,’ said Argunt, gesturing towards the doorway.

They were the last guests to enter. The hall was lit by a multitude of glowing braziers mounted on three-legged stands. In the middle of the chamber was an impressive wooden throne facing a long row of tables that extended around on both sides to form a U. The guests – perhaps fifty in all – were standing behind their chairs, speaking excitedly. A dozen soldiers had been stationed around the hall. They were wearing tunics striped with red and yellow and, without any weapons to wield, held their arms stiffly by their sides. A serving girl directed Cassius and Indavara to their seats – the last two on the right side of the U. Feeling the eyes of the local elite upon him, Cassius clasped his hands behind his back and moved at a stately pace.

‘Stay behind me, oaf,’ he whispered as Indavara sped up, keen to investigate the tables of food that lined the walls. When they reached their seats, Cassius made sure he got the chair one in from the end.

‘I shall take this,’ he told Indavara, ‘in fear of the prospect of having you as my only source of conversation for the next few hours.’

Indavara shrugged and stood behind his own chair.

Speaker Argunt entered the hall and went to speak to First Minister Vyedra.

Cassius turned to face the man to his right. He was old, crook-backed and bald, hanging on to the chair and staring vacantly at the empty throne.

‘What happens now?’ Cassius asked him.

No reaction. Cassius bent closer to his ear. ‘What happens now?’

Again, nothing.

Cassius sighed and glanced at Indavara. ‘You’ve nothing to say either, I suppose?’

The bodyguard ignored him too.

‘By Jupiter,’ said Cassius. ‘I thought you might gradually begin to pick up the concept of polite conversation, but I see all my efforts of the last few weeks have been in vain.’

Indavara frowned.

‘Look at Simo,’ Cassius continued. ‘He’s only a slave but he and I can talk about all manner of things for hours: art, politics, religion. And think about where we are – a mountain kingdom most people will never have the chance to see. And what we’re doing – playing a part in important affairs of state. Have you no observations, no thoughts to share?’

Indavara considered this for a moment before replying. ‘Dinner smells good.’

‘By the gods.’

Cassius looked down at the letter in his hand and decided he couldn’t wait any longer. Sweat prickled the skin above his mouth as he scratched away the wax with his fingernails. He felt certain it contained details of his next assignment – what awful mission had Abascantius found for him now? Keeping his hands behind the chair, he unrolled the page and started reading.

Indavara turned round and inspected the food. There were platters of steaming roasted meat with the fat still sizzling, big wheels of cheese, bowls full of dried fruits and nuts, and silver trays piled high with cakes.

Argunt, Vyedra and several other grandly-dressed men lined up beside the throne. The room quietened.

‘What does it say?’ whispered Indavara, brushing his hair from his face as he looked down at the letter.

Cassius was smiling. ‘It’s from Master Abascantius. We have been tasked with a simple errand. We’re to journey to the island of Rhodes, pick up some important papers, then return to Antioch.’

‘An island?’ said Indavara. ‘Oh no. That means going on a ship.’

‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’

‘And picking up papers? Sounds even more boring than this job.’

‘Nothing wrong with “boring”,’ replied Cassius, rolling up the letter and tucking it behind his belt. ‘Highly underrated.’

First Minister Vyedra waited until there was absolute silence before he spoke. ‘Assembled guests, esteemed members of the grand council, priests of the High Temple; we gather here in the Great Hall this night to honour our new king.’

Vyedra paused, and Argunt initiated a long round of applause.

‘Blessed are the gods,’ the first minister continued when quiet returned. ‘Blessed are the gods that have delivered his excellency from the jaws of death. Blessed are the gods that smile upon Karanda.’

At this, two priests opposite the throne (whom Cassius now realised were the pair who’d earlier joined the procession) began an incantation in the local language. When they finished, the assembled city folk answered with a brief affirmation.

‘This will take probably go on for hours,’ Cassius whispered, ‘and not even a mouthful of wine yet.’

Vyedra, Argunt and the others went to stand in front of the table opposite the priests, then turned round.

‘Now we welcome him,’ stated Vyedra in the same portentous tone he had adopted throughout. The nobles dropped down on one knee, closely followed by everyone else except the two priests.

Cassius did so too, prompting Indavara to reluctantly comply.

Vyedra spoke again: ‘Keeper of the Winter Crown, Guardian of the High Temple, I present to you, his people, King Orycus the Fifth.’

Cassius and Indavara looked over the edge of the table as Orycus entered. The two guards flanking him took up positions on either side of the door. The king was wearing a long, purple cloak with a gem-studded silver crown nestling in his curly hair. Strutting slowly, he rounded the throne and stood in front of it.

‘Hail, King Orycus!’ roared Vyedra.

‘Hail, King Orycus!’ came the reply.

The new monarch took a step backwards and sat down.

Cassius noticed a servant close to the priests moving around. One of the holy men glared at him.

‘We bow to you, our king,’ announced Vyedra.

Indavara nudged Cassius. ‘Not me.’

All the locals bowed their heads, including the priests this time.

Cassius was still watching the servant. The man bowed briefly, then turned and picked up something from one of the food tables. Cassius looked over his shoulder. On every plate with a joint of meat was a long, sharp carving knife.

He pointed across the hall. ‘Indavara, there!’

‘Quiet,’ said someone to their right.

The servant leapt between the two priests and on to the table. The orange light of the braziers sparked off the blade in his hand.

Indavara was already on his feet and running.

Cassius stood up as the assassin leapt again, this time over the kneeling dignitaries.

Indavara pounded across the flagstones towards the throne.

Some of the guards were moving but none stood a chance of getting there in time.

Neither will Indavara.

Cassius picked up a large, empty wooden jug and threw it at the assassin. The jug bounced once, then skittered into the man’s ankle. He stumbled and fell to one knee, skidding on the smooth stone floor. As he struggled back up again, he shouted: ‘For Solba!’

King Orycus shrank back into the throne.

The quicker guards were still yards away.

The assassin raised the blade high and jabbed it down at the king’s neck.

His arm froze in mid-air.

Eyes wide, the assassin looked down at the big, scarred hand gripping his wrist. He couldn’t see the second hand but he could feel the fingers digging into his neck.

Indavara held him there as the guards closed in around them. Before he could do anything more, the assassin cried out. Indavara watched as blood seeped from the corner of the man’s mouth. He looked down and saw the king’s red-streaked blade slide out of the assailant’s gut.

The man shuddered then suddenly went limp. Indavara let go and the guards took hold of him. The face of the would-be assassin was impossibly young, his cheeks marked with the spots of a teenager. Indavara backed away from the throne, leaving the king standing there alone, holding the bloodied sword in his hand.

‘All praise the king!’ came a shout from somewhere.

‘All praise the king!’

Suddenly everyone was shouting.

Cassius hurried over to Indavara, who shook his head when their eyes met.

‘That was too close.’

‘Could have been the shortest reign in history,’ replied Cassius. ‘Good work.’

‘Good work by whoever threw that jug. Slowed him down just enough.’

‘It was me. I threw it.’

‘You?’

The soldiers half dragged, half carried the assassin out of the hall, leaving a trail of blood on the flagstones.

Speaker Argunt came over and gripped their arms in turn. It took him a while to get out any words. ‘All of Karanda thanks you both. What speed of thought and action.’

Cassius turned to Indavara, who gave a rare nod of approval.

Vyedra came past and grabbed one of the older soldiers.

‘Four men to stand by the king. I want every one of these servants replaced. And take anything that looks like a weapon outside. The meat can be cut in the kitchens.’

Speaker Argunt then tried to address the crowd but with his diminutive height, few people could see him, let alone hear him. One of the soldiers had taken the blade from the king, who had sat down and now looked rather dazed, his crown in his lap. After a few moments, he put it back on, stood up and raised his hand. Even the servants being herded out of the room and the soldiers herding them stood still and silent. Orycus beckoned Argunt forward, then whispered in his ear. The older man spoke:

‘Clear a space at the table there! The king will eat with our Roman friends.’

The crowd answered with a roar.

It was in fact more than an hour before Cassius and Indavara actually got to eat something. They were seated on either side of the king, who apologised for his conduct during the journey, raised a brief but heartfelt toast to them, then left. The mood in the hall became considerably more rowdy and people began to queue up to thank Cassius and Indavara personally. Some of the ladies present also offered enthusiastic kisses.

Only when this duty was complete were they free to fill their plates. Cassius found he had rather lost his appetite after all the excitement. He managed a bit of cheese and a few little cakes, then settled for supping his wine. The local concoction was unusual – sweet and fortified with spices – but he swiftly acquired a taste for it. Indavara used the wine only to slosh down his food; he was already on to his second plateful.

Speaker Argunt sidled up and knelt by Cassius’s chair. ‘Word is spreading across the city. The people will bring gifts and flowers for you in the morning.’

‘That’s very kind.’

Argunt leaned in closer. ‘You not only saved the king, but also made him appear a hero.’

‘The gods have smiled upon us this night.’

‘Indeed. Though not on First Minister Vyedra, I fear. The king has had him arrested and appointed me in his stead.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘He was in charge of security.’

With a wink, Argunt stood up and walked away. Before Cassius could take another sip of wine, a rather voluptuous woman of about forty hurried over. She was wearing a fox fur around her neck and sweating profusely.

‘Centurion, I am the Countess Sifke. May I too offer my profound thanks for your heroic actions.’

Cassius’s actual title was ‘officer’ but he often chose not to correct the error.

‘Thank you, Countess.’

She looked past Cassius at Indavara, who was stripping a greasy chicken leg with his teeth.

‘You too, of course, young man.’

Indavara answered with a grunt.

‘What a throw, sir,’ the countess continued. ‘Worthy of an Olympiad.’

‘You should see me with a javelin, madam.’

Indavara grunted a different kind of grunt.

‘I wonder, sir,’ said the countess, ‘would you like to come and join my party? I’m here with my four daughters. They would be enchanted to meet you.’

Cassius glanced over at the girls: three black heads of hair and one red, and fair faces too, watching coyly from a corner.

‘Likewise, I’m sure. We will be over presently.’

The countess smiled and wobbled her way back to her table.

Indavara put down the chicken leg and stood up to inspect the rest of the food.

Cassius gave him a napkin. ‘Clean yourself up.’

‘Why?’ asked Indavara, wiping his chin.

Cassius aimed a thumb towards the corner.

The bodyguard grinned when he saw the girls.

‘Come,’ said Cassius, grabbing his wine as he stood. ‘Time to enjoy the warm embrace of a grateful nation.’

Even as the ship finally slid alongside the quay, as the yelling sailors tied off the mooring ropes and fixed the gangplank, the dozen passengers remained by the side-rail. They stood in a line, gazing across the harbour, though the object of their fascination had been visible for hours, soon after the island’s high mountains materialised out of the morning mist.

‘Half the bronze in the world, they say.’

‘Two hundred feet high it was.’

‘I heard three hundred.’

‘You could get a thousand men inside it.’

‘Probably more.’

‘And to think it’s just lain there like that for five hundred years.’

‘Five hundred and fifty, actually,’ said Cassius.

It was a remarkable sight, but he was struggling not to be slightly underwhelmed. Hadn’t someone told him the statue once stood astride the port; that high-masted ships sailed between the sun-god Helios’s legs? Looking back at the narrow breakwaters that enclosed the harbour, he now saw how ridiculous this notion was.

The statue was in fact about a mile back from the water, built upon an enormous stone platform. The god appeared to have been cut off at the knees. The body had fallen to the left and now lay face down on the ground. The right arm – originally held up, supposedly shielding the god’s eyes from the sun – now seemed to cover the face, as if protecting it from further assault. In the centuries since an earthquake had toppled the statue, numerous buildings had sprung up around it.

‘Men made that?’ Indavara enquired, his hands resting on the side-rail.

‘No,’ said one of the other passengers, a fat-necked merchant in a garish green tunic. ‘The locals try to claim credit for it, but it was the gods. And it was them that brought it down too.’

Cassius glanced at Indavara and shook his head.

‘How? How could men make that?’ asked the bodyguard.

‘I don’t know the specifics,’ Cassius replied. ‘I’m no engineer. But it was a man named Chares who designed the whole thing. I think he was a sculptor.’

‘Must have had big hands,’ scoffed the merchant. Several of the others laughed.

Cassius turned to him. ‘Tell me this then: why would the gods create such a statue of just one of them?’

‘Perhaps it was Helios himself – to remind the people of his power.’

‘Then why create it only to bring it down fifty years later?’

‘Perhaps that was the work of another god. A jealous god.’

Cassius gave an ironic smile, then nodded at the sparkling white columns of the ancient citadel on the hill above the city. ‘So who built that?’

The merchant shrugged.

Cassius gestured at an equally impressive temple lower down the slopes. ‘And that?’

‘Men. But those are just buildings. Look at it!’

The merchant pointed at the statue – the vast expanse of gleaming bronze that shone out among the pale buildings. ‘That is the work of a higher power! How could a man – or even hundreds of men – create such a thing?’

‘I don’t know h