by Nick Brown
The prisoner took whatever he had in his hand, bent over and stuffed it into the lock.
‘What are you—’ One of the guards reached through and tried to grab him but the prisoner was already walking away. The other guard tried to put the key in but the lock was jammed. His compatriot ran away along the corridor.
The tall prisoner came up beside the other six. Cassius looked around the cell; it didn’t seem that anyone else was joining in but with seven they hardly needed them.
Indavara was rubbing his hands together.
‘Last warning,’ said Cassius. ‘I am an officer of the Imperial Army and he is a soldier. You touch either of us and you will pay for it a thousandfold.’
Greyboy appeared unmoved. ‘Unfortunately for you, Officer, we don’t have a lot left to lose.’
Indavara stepped forward. ‘You’re going to wish your mate had left that door alone.’
‘Oh,’ said Greyboy. ‘Why?’
‘Because soon you’ll be begging to be let out of here.’
Cassius felt himself shudder. His throat seemed to have frozen solid, his bowels quite the opposite. He wouldn’t have doubted Indavara’s ability to deal with three or even four of them. But seven? He had to help somehow; provide a distraction at least. Greyboy was closest to him.
‘They say that hair that colour in a young man is a sign of wisdom. Given your present situation, you seem to be the exception to the rule.’
‘You—’
Indavara was on his way. It was obvious to all that he would go for the imposing Trenico but the lunge at him was a feint. The kick aimed at the tall opportunist, however, was not. The reinforced tip of his left boot caught the prisoner low in the gut. As his breath flew out of him and he tottered backwards, Indavara slid under Trenico’s short, straight punch and hammered his own fist upward. It went between the Syrian’s arms, missed his jaw but smashed into his nose. Trenico grabbed at thin air, then toppled sideways, striking the floor with a thudding slap.
Cassius had already tried to kick Greyboy but the smaller man had neatly evaded it. Fists raised, he backed Cassius into the wall and was about to strike when Indavara grabbed his left arm. He flung him like a rag doll, straight into the others. Greyboy tripped over the bleeding Trenico and would have fallen had his brother not caught him.
Cassius thought that was it but Indavara’s first victim and another of the gang were not ready to give in yet. The tall man spat out a mouthful of phlegm and straightened up.
More sergeants ran into the corridor. The remaining guard was still fiddling with the lock.
The tall prisoner was holding something: a tiny dagger, the blade no more than three inches long.
‘Full of surprises, eh?’ said Indavara.
Still on the ground, Trenico had a bloodied hand over his bloodied nose. ‘Stick him. Do it.’
As the pair advanced, Indavara unbuckled his belt and took it off. He held the end without the buckle and locked his eyes on the knife.
‘Put it down,’ Cassius told the tall prisoner. ‘The guards will be inside any minute.’
‘A fight with a soldier when I’m the one with the blade? You think I’m going to waste this chance?’
He pushed his mate to the left and came on in a crouch. Indavara held his position and whipped the belt at him. The buckle cracked into the prisoner’s hand, sending the knife clattering into a corner. He looked down at his crushed fingers.
‘Who in Hades are—?’
The next swing of the buckle caught him on the head. He shrieked and spun around, then fell to his knees. The iron had torn flesh from his brow. Blood was already dripping from the wound.
‘All right, who’s next?’
The second man was already retreating but Indavara swung the belt at him anyway. The prisoner ducked and managed to avoid it so Indavara chased him for five paces then launched a flying kick into his flank. The unfortunate was sent careering into one of the columns. He bounced off it and hit the floor.
Indavara wasn’t finished. He walked back towards the gang, only two of whom were still on their feet.
‘What about you, Knuckles? Grown a pair of balls yet?’
Knuckles, Trenico and the others ran or crawled away but Indavara’s attention was now on Greyboy. He dropped the belt and punched him in the stomach. As the Syrian doubled over, Indavara dragged him towards the back of the cell.
The guards had cleared the lock. They were shouting at the others to move but – as Indavara had predicted – the gang were now desperate to get out.
Gripping Greyboy by the back of the neck, Indavara held him in front of Cassius. ‘Here, take a turn. Whatever you like.’
‘You’ve done what you needed to.’
The bodyguard ignored him. He spun Greyboy around and circled his throat with one big hand. ‘Thought you could kill me, did you?’
Greyboy either couldn’t speak or didn’t want to.
‘Never,’ growled Indavara through gritted teeth. ‘Not me. Not in this life.’
Cassius looked on as those thick, marked fingers dug into the smaller man’s neck. ‘Indavara. Enough.’
The bodyguard looked at him and grinned. ‘Don’t worry.’
He let go.
The Syrian dropped to the floor.
Indavara looked down at him. ‘Now say sorry.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Sir.’
‘Sorry, sir. Sorry, sir. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
The senior sergeant arrived, club in hand. He glanced at each of the fallen criminals, then at Indavara, who had picked up his belt and was now calmly putting it back on.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ said Cassius. ‘I think it would be preferable for all concerned if we were accommodated elsewhere.’
XXVII
The look on Cosmas’s face suggested that he was up to speed with the night’s events. He dismissed the young sergeant who had unlocked the interrogation room door, then stepped inside. Cassius was sitting at the table. Indavara was lying in a corner, having just woken up.
The Syrian tugged anxiously at his beard. ‘I don’t know what to say, sir. Sorry.’
Cassius had managed about an hour of sleep by resting his head on the table. ‘That’s a good place to start but I would offer the observation that interdepartmental communications do not appear to be a strength of your organisation.’
‘Pomponianus took personal command of the investigation last night and ordered the raids immediately. Even Diadromes didn’t know.’
‘We could have been killed in that cell.’
‘The sergeants present will all act as witnesses. The court will add the assault charges to those relating to the smuggling ring.’
‘Is it true – they will lose their hands?’
‘Probably. They have defrauded the city of thousands.’
‘Then I don’t see the point of bothering with the charges. Especially as we probably won’t even be here by the time it actually reaches the court.’ Cassius stood. ‘Except maybe that vicious bastard with the knife.’
‘Idomeneus,’ said Cosmas. ‘A robber and rapist.’
‘Gods.’
‘You should have let me kill him,’ said Indavara as he got to his feet. ‘Where are our weapons?’
Cosmas turned to the door. ‘Vespilo.’
The sergeant came in holding a bundle of belts, sheaths and blades. He also had Cassius’s satchel over his shoulder.
‘I had it fetched from the inn,’ said Cosmas. He dismissed Vespilo then looked on as the pair armed themselves.
‘I need some air,’ said Cassius. ‘I take it we’re free to leave?’
‘Of course, sir. Though I’m afraid it’s inevitable that talk of this incident will reach the magistrate.’
‘As things seem to be going from bad to worse with every passing day that seems highly likely.’
Out in the corridor, a group of sergeants watched them walk out. Unsurprisingly, they seemed most interested in Indavara.
Cassius straightened his sword belt. ‘Cosmas, can we be sure that this smuggling ring has nothing to do with the counterfeiting? What about the bronze sheets?’
‘The interrogations haven’t begun yet but we’ll know for certain soon enough. We’ve got most of the gang behind bars now and they’ll get little mercy from the magistrate unless they can offer him the money men. They’ll talk; and I’ll be listening.’
As they reached the courtyard outside, another group of sergeants were bringing in yet more prisoners: a dozen youths, the youngest of them no more than twelve or thirteen. Beyond the gate, a larger group had followed the sergeants and their captives.
Cosmas questioned one of his compatriots and passed on what he’d heard to Cassius. ‘They defaced a statue of the Emperor.’
‘Cretins.’
‘What will be done to them?’ asked Indavara.
‘Flogging at the very least,’ said Cosmas.
‘Even the young ones?’
‘No more than they deserve,’ said Cassius. ‘Some things simply cannot be allowed.’
Indavara muttered an oath and stalked away towards the gate.
‘I’ll contact you if anything comes up, sir,’ said Cosmas. ‘And, again, sincere apologies.’
‘Don’t stop, Simo. I’m filthy.’
Cassius didn’t have the energy for a trip to the baths so was standing naked in the middle of the tower while Simo cleaned him with a sponge.
‘Sorry, sir, I’m just concerned about Indavara.’
‘As am I. Even for him, it was quite a display. No wonder they loved him in the arena.’
The bodyguard was at the stables, having been encouraged by Cassius to go and see Patch. He had said little during the night and even less on the way back through the city. It seemed obvious that he was again in need of a calming influence.
‘I suppose I should be grateful that he listened to me. But he had that look in his eyes again.’
Simo shook his head.
‘I mean, he’s always liked a good scrap – it’s what he does. But … well, it was almost as if he was enjoying it.’
‘Have you talked to him, sir? Arms up, please.’
Cassius complied, and tried to ignore the sponge tickling his armpits.
‘Not directly. But I think I shall. I cannot afford for him to be … unstable.’
‘Violence has always been a part of his life, sir.’
‘The main part – of the life he knows, anyway. I wonder what more we can do for him.’
Simo squeezed the sponge out over the drain, then dipped it in the soapy water once more and ran it across Cassius’s shoulders. ‘Sir, I know your views on the Faith but I think he needs some kind of release. He likes to be active, to help others where he can. I believe it might help keep him on an even keel.’
‘You would consider it a great triumph, of course, to turn him from the path of violence and sin.’
‘No, Master Cassius. That is not what I meant.’
‘Surely I don’t have to remind you again of what we discussed?’
‘No.’
‘Gods, things were simpler when he just sulked around and thumped people when I needed him to.’
Cassius didn’t add that he, Abascantius and the Service could not afford to blunt the bodyguard’s edge. What was it Diadromes had said? Thoroughbreds are highly strung.
It now seemed this was more accurate than he’d previously realised. And if a man like Indavara became unbiddable, he would soon become a liability. Cassius could not let that happen – certainly not at the moment.
‘But it is different now, sir, isn’t it?’ said Simo, as he cleaned his master’s chest. ‘Because he is your friend.’
‘Yes. There is that to consider too.’
Cassius decided he could brave the two-minute walk to the stables alone but kept his hand on his sword all the way. He found Indavara helping one of the lads sweep out the stalls and heard a snatch of their conversation: they were talking about their favourite varieties of bread. Indavara didn’t look particularly happy to see Cassius but stopped working and gave his brush to the lad.
‘Need me?’
‘A note just arrived. I am to meet with the governor at Diadromes’s place. We can ride there.’
Indavara asked the lad to fetch their mounts. They were left alone, standing opposite three horses with their heads out of their stalls, solemnly looking on.
‘Where’s Patch?’
‘In the field out the back.’
‘Ah. Can we talk for a moment?’
Indavara had left his sword propped up against a stall. He picked it up and wiped something off the handle. ‘If you like.’
‘Busy couple of days,’ said Cassius. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve had to … well … some unpleasant situations.’
‘What I get paid for, right?’
‘Yes. I’m just saying … I appreciate that it takes its toll.’
‘What do you mean?’
Being lost for words was not a familiar predicament for Cassius. ‘I … er … I just … I hope you’re all right. In yourself. I mean, there was the incident with the legionary, then last night.’
‘You’re unhappy with something? Just say so.’
‘Not at all – you did exceptionally well, as always. It’s just …’
Indavara put the sword belt on and stared at him.
‘Ah … nothing,’ said Cassius. ‘I don’t know what I’m on about really.’
To his relief, the lad returned with their horses.
‘Right, well. We’d better be going.’
Indavara stayed where he was. ‘You’re worried that I might lose control of myself.’
Cassius could not think of a reply.
‘I survived the arena for six years but I realised within six days that control was the most important thing I had to learn. No rushes of blood, no wild swings, no revenge. I know you think me ignorant but it was thought that got me through – the right decision at the right time. Just leave me to do my job. All right?’
‘Right.’ Cassius stood there for a moment, still absorbing what he’d heard.
Indavara took the reins for both horses and handed him his. ‘We going, then?’
Diadromes and Magistrate Pomponianus were waiting in the garden, sitting under a solitary pine tree, the top of which looked to Cassius very much like a head of broccoli. Leaving his superior sitting on an ornate stone bench, the deputy magistrate hurried forward to shake Cassius’s forearm.
‘Careful,’ he whispered before turning back, ‘he’s not in a good mood.’
Pomponianus was a rotund, dark-skinned man with a well-manicured beard. He sat hunched over on the bench, folds of his toga hanging between his legs, inspecting Cassius. Several yards away stood a legionary bodyguard and another man in a toga. Directly behind the magistrate was a young attendant holding a glass of wine.
‘Officer Crispian of the Imperial Security Service.’
Diadromes then gestured towards the older man, who clearly had no intention of getting up. ‘The honourable Placus Cipius Pomponianus, Magistrate of the City of Berytus.’
Cassius gave a slight bow. ‘Good day to you, sir.’
Pomponianus nodded and stuck out a hand – not towards Cassius, but to his left. The attendant handed him his wine, which he sipped as Cassius and Diadromes sat on the bench opposite.
‘A rather unpleasant night, I understand, Officer?’
‘I’ve certainly had better, sir.’
‘It could have been avoided, of course, had you and Deputy Diadromes here elected to keep my office fully apprised of your activities.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Cassius, reflecting that the reverse was also true.
‘Fortunately no real harm was done – apart from to a few prisoners and we hardly need concern ourselves with them. But what of this legionary? Your man seems rather keen on dispensing violence – is that him?’
Pomponianus pointed across the lawn to the terrace at the rear of t
he villa, where Indavara was waiting.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You need to keep him on a tighter leash, Officer Crispian. My chief centurion is very angry. I suspect he would like me to have you escorted to the city gates.’
Cassius said nothing; he would wait to hear what the magistrate intended.
‘But that would be overly hasty, especially as you are here on the orders of Marcellinus himself. However, Diadromes has described to me the “evidence” used as the basis for your investigation here and the word is highly inappropriate. Is there some further information I am not aware of?’
‘We were notified about a suspicious shipment of bronze, sir – which is why we were watching the warehouse.’
‘But that is also connected to this smuggling ring, correct?’
‘It seems so, sir.’
Diadromes intervened. ‘Those investigations are at an early stage, sir. There may yet be some link.’
Pomponianus ignored him and examined his fingernails. ‘But you would agree with me, would you not, Officer, that the reasons for your continuing presence here are weakening with every passing day?’
‘That’s probably fair, sir, yes.’
‘Then let me explain how I think we should proceed from here. You will prepare a daily written report on your activities to be submitted to Diadromes and my office at the end of each day. If, after one week, you have made no further progress, you will leave voluntarily. I will then write to Marshal Marcellinus, politely explaining why I will no longer tolerate the baseless smearing of my city’s good name. Does that seem fair?’
Cassius suspected he wouldn’t get more than a week from Marcellinus and Abascantius anyway. ‘It does, sir. Though I would respectfully suggest that you also write to Aulus Celatus Abascantius, my commander in the Service.’
‘Mmm.’ Pomponianus grinned. ‘Is this the moment when I drop to my knees? Prostrate myself before the shadowy power of the “grain men”? Please, Officer, neither I nor Chief Centurion Nemetorius will be intimidated by the involvement of your organisation. We have both had dealings with Abascantius before. You will know that the governor of this province considers the man nothing less than an arrogant troublemaker and I can’t claim to feel all that differently.’