Free The Far Shore by Nick Brown Page A

storefront. ‘Two doors down is the tavern.’
    They negotiated a long queue outside a money changer’s, waited for a well-laden cart to rumble past, then crossed the road to the tavern. Were it not for the people outside, Cassius would have assumed The Anchor was closed. Several of the windows were boarded up and the roof had a quarter of its tiles missing. A painted sign had been stripped of all colour by the elements, though there was a rusty iron anchor by the door. Of the two tables outside, one was in fact a converted half of a rowing boat. Sitting inside were three lads throwing pebbles at a gull. The other table was occupied by four men playing some kind of board game. They were a rough-looking bunch: bearded, grizzled and tanned.
    ‘Which one’s the harbour master?’ Cassius asked Simo.
    ‘The older man, sir. Wearing the felt cap.’
    ‘Hang back to start with,’ Cassius told Indavara. ‘If he doesn’t cooperate, make your presence known. But let’s avoid any unpleasantness if possible.’
    The harbour master threw three dice and moved his glass counter. He and the other players were still discussing the move when the trio approached the table. The harbour master glanced up at Simo and rolled his eyes. ‘You again.’
    ‘And me, this time,’ said Cassius. ‘I’m sure Simo told you who his master was. Are you in the habit of ignoring requests from officers of the Roman Army?’
    Before the harbour master could answer, another man spoke up. ‘On his day off, he’s in the habit of ignoring everything except the next game of Twelve Lines or the next cup of Lindos’s best.’
    Two of the others found this hilarious.
    The harbour master turned to Cassius. ‘What’s the problem?’
    Cassius was already annoyed; the man hadn’t addressed him as ‘sir’.
    ‘I’ll tell you that when you’ve stood up and accompanied me back to your office. A most important matter. I haven’t time to waste.’
    ‘My clerk will tell you all you need to know.’
    ‘Not good enough.’
    The harbour master sipped his wine and gave a resigned shake of his head. The man who’d made the quip pointed at Cassius’s helmet.
    ‘I can see you’re Roman, but we ain’t.’ He pointed in turn at his friends, starting with the harbour master: ‘Rhodian, Egyptian, Spanish, and I’m Carthaginian.’
    ‘Forget it, Korinth,’ said the harbour master, collecting up his pile of coins. ‘We can play later.’
    Korinth, whose muscled bulk strained against his undersized tunic, had strange dark tattoos circling his neck and wrists. His right cheek had been disfigured by a burn – a curiously angular slab of smooth, orange skin. He put a hand on the harbour master’s shoulder.
    ‘Stay where you are. It’s your day off.’
    ‘I don’t care if it’s Saturnalia,’ said Cassius. ‘A man has been killed. A very important man.’
    ‘This man,’ replied Korinth. ‘Roman, I take it?’
    ‘If you were born free in the Empire, so are you. As are we all.’
    Korinth and the others laughed at this. The harbour master restricted himself to a grin. Cassius felt his face reddening.
    ‘He’ll come when he’s finished his game,’ said Korinth, running a hand through his wild tangle of hair.
    Cassius turned slightly to his right.
    Indavara got the message. He stepped forward and kicked the table, knocking drinks, coins and the board flying.
    ‘Looks like the game’s over,’ he said.
    One of the men looked down at his wine-soaked tunic. ‘You son of a bitch.’
    Korinth jumped up and made a grab for Indavara. Unfortunately for him, his legs were between the bench and table, so when Indavara swiped his hand away then pushed him in the chest, he went flying backwards, hitting the ground hard.
    ‘Uff!’
    The other three scrambled free of the table.
    ‘All right that’s enough!’ yelled Cassius as he and Simo got out of the way. The harbour master put his hands up. The man with the wet tunic helped Korinth to his feet and the