Agent of Rome: The Imperial Banner (The Agent of Rome)

by Nick Brown

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map: The Roman Empire in 272AD

  Map: Antioch

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Nick Brown

  AGENT OF ROME: THE IMPERIAL BANNER

  Nick Brown

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

  Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Nick Brown 2012

  Maps © Rosie Collins 2012

  The right of Nick Brown to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 444 71490 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Anne

  MONEY

  Four sesterces (a coin made of brass) were worth one denarius.

  Twenty-five denarii (a coin made partially of silver) were worth one aureus (partially gold).

  TIMES OF THE DAY

  The Romans divided day and night into twelve hours each, so the length of an hour varied according to the time of the year.

  In autumn, in Syria, the first hour of the day would have begun at approximately 06.15.

  The seventh hour of the day always began at midday.

  The first hour of night would have begun at approximately 18.45.

  Colonia Pietas Julia, April, AD 271

  Indavara was ready when they came for him. He had just finished the last of his exercises and his muscles felt warm, his mind sharp. He had to be prepared; there wouldn’t be much time once they took him up.

  A bolt snapped and the door opened towards him, revealing Capito’s full girth. A ridiculous black wig sat atop his large, oval head. Behind him, the latest whore – a plump beauty – looked on curiously, fingering a necklace. Capito winked at Indavara and waited for the guards to enter. Ducking their heads and lowering their knotted wooden clubs, the men took up position either side of the door. The older of the two, Bonosus, was Capito’s chief guard and brother-in-law. Not for the first time, Indavara noticed the blotches of dried blood that stained the top of his club. Capito had to turn sideways to move inside the cell.

  ‘Ready, my boy?’

  Indavara could smell his perfume. He said nothing.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you I’d be true to my word? “Twenty and out,” I said. And you alone have made it this far. I’m proud of you. Do you believe that?’ Knowing there would be no reply, Capito continued: ‘I shall miss these little chats, one-sided though they’ve been. You know – whatever happens today – we shall probably never see each other again.’

  Indavara stared blankly at him.

  ‘I imagine you’d like to kill me,’ added Capito, before glancing speculatively at Bonosus.

  ‘Him too, I’m sure.’

  Indavara was careful to show no reaction whatsoever.

  ‘Those eyes of yours. Cold fury. Mars himself made flesh.’ Theatrically, Capito put a hand to his ear. ‘Do you hear them, Indavara? They await you. They have come in their thousands. I have something very special for you this time. Very special indeed. Come!’

  Indavara snatched a final look at the cell: his home for the last six years. Though he hated the place, he knew now he would miss it. Next to the thin straw mattress were the few items he could truly call his own: a wooden mug, a spoon and a bowl; a spare tunic and two blankets. All that was missing was the tiny figurine of the goddess Fortuna a woman had thrown to him after his tenth fight. It was now tucked inside his tunic, where he’d kept it for every fight since. He believed it had brought him luck.

  Bonosus, Capito and the girl disappeared up a dank stone staircase. Two more guards joined the other behind Indavara as he strode through the cell-block. He paid little attention to the shouting and singing from above, but was grateful for the encouraging comments from his fellow fighters, all of whom stood by their doors, faces pressed to the bars.

  Indavara nodded to each man but he was more interested in seeing who else had been taken up. Capito had purchased four fighters from the northern provinces earlier that month and Indavara’s stomach turned over as he realised all were present except Auctus, a big brute who fought with the classic combination of trident and net. Auctus’s reputation had preceded his arrival in Pietas Julia by several days; it was said he had won more than thirty contests. Indavara was at least grateful for the one mercy it seemed Capito had granted him: he wouldn’t have to fight a man he knew.

  One guard moved ahead of him and up the second staircase at the end of the cell-block. As he ascended, Indavara recalled all he’d gleaned from his fellow fighters about Auctus – the five tips he’d memorised.

  Patient. Quick off both feet. Uses the net mainly to distract. Never throws it. Goes for the head with the trident.

  The four men stepped up into a wide, square tunnel, just five yards behind the southern gate. Two grim-faced legionaries stood there, each armed with a spear.

  Indavara flexed his arms and slapped his hands against his chest. Between the legionaries he saw a distinctive figure standing in the spring sunshine. Centurion Maesa was one of a handful of men with sufficient bearing and authority to address the crowd. Recently, he had taken to acting as host and umpire. His booming, sonorous tones were unmistakably martial.

  ‘Silence!’

  Maesa spun on his toes to face the other side of the arena.

  ‘Silence there!’

  Capito settled into a cushion, one hand on the girl’s ample waist. His seat was just above the podium, where assorted luminaries surrounded the governor and his staff.

  The arena at Pietas Julia had begun life as a timber construction three centuries earlier but now the impressive dimensions of its limestone walls made it one of the largest amphitheatres outside Rome. Even at four hundred b
y three hundred feet, however, it was just half the size of the Colosseum. The arena was accessed by four main gates and eleven access tunnels and could hold over twenty thousand spectators.

  Capito surveyed the crowd with a satisfied smirk. There was barely an empty seat and those around him were an eclectic mix: young bucks still hung over from pre-fight parties, city bureaucrats relaxing after a long morning’s work, affluent merchants with family, friends and assorted hangers-on. Then there were the lower classes, those with tickets issued free of charge; enjoying rare hours of leisure courtesy of the governor.

  Pushing away the cup of wine offered to him by the girl, Capito wondered when the city authorities would finally reach an agreement with the sailors who were supposed to operate the shading system for the arena roof. They were currently on strike. He caught the eye of a nearby slave wafting a palm branch.

  ‘Put your back into it!’

  Wiping sweat from his eyebrows, Capito elected to take the drink after all.

  A tall, balding man in an immaculate toga two rows down turned round and waved. He seemed utterly unaffected by the heat.

  ‘What’ll it be then? Wolves, I expect – a pack perhaps?’

  Capito shrugged. He had let slip certain titbits designed to build yet more anticipation for the afternoon’s contest.

  ‘No, it’s a big cat,’ said another man. ‘Someone saw it being unloaded.’

  Capito held up his hands. ‘All will be revealed!’

  His jovial expression slipped quickly. Arranging for the purchase and delivery of the beast had cost him a small fortune. It had been captured just a week earlier, fed nothing, offered only a cell-full of clothes from executed prisoners to accustom it to the scent of human blood.

  Capito suddenly felt hot breath on his neck.

  ‘All arranged as instructed.’

  He turned and smiled again, allowing any watching eyes to believe he was glad to see the squat figure now sitting behind him.

  ‘I told you to stay away today,’ he hissed, trying to ignore the chunk of meat lodged in the man’s beard.

  ‘Just checking that all promises will be kept. I cannot afford for this to go wrong.’

  Capito managed to maintain the grin, conscious of the sea of faces behind him. Ideally, he would have used someone more discreet but the slave-trader was in desperate financial straits and had been more than happy to play his part. Their scheme was simple. A colossal amount had been staked by the people of Pietas Julia on Indavara surviving and winning his freedom (‘sentimentalists’ Capito called them) and their bets had kept the odds favourable. Using five proxies, he and the trader had bet a huge sum on Indavara’s death. If successful, they would each net over ten thousand denarii.

  ‘Do not concern yourself,’ Capito replied. ‘All good things come to an end. And this particular good thing is about to meet his.’

  ‘He had better, fat man. He had better.’

  Capito hadn’t heard such venom in the slave-trader’s voice before, nor had he previously taken much notice of the curved dagger he carried at his belt. Conjuring a final grin, he turned back towards the arena.

  Maesa had just finished the formalities: greeting the honoured guests and thanking various gods for blessing the city and its inhabitants. The centurion was clad in full officer’s regalia: white tunic lined with gold braid, crested helmet and scarlet cloak.

  ‘Now the main event of the day. For six years, this man has fought time and again for his life within these walls. He has shown great courage, skill and ingenuity. He has seen off countless foes: both man and beast. And on this day, he will either die or claim his freedom. Who can doubt that this man – slave though he is – exemplifies the Roman virtues of strength, intelligence and triumph over adversity. I am certain that if he succeeds, he will enjoy – fully – the benefits of victory.’

  Maesa gestured to a group of women next to the podium, provoking shrill shrieks and a low rumble of laughter from the men. Women were traditionally banished to the top tiers but the governor’s predecessors had enjoyed observing their interactions with the fighters. Local custom now dictated that a hundred or so of the most voluble were admitted to a small, low-walled enclave.

  ‘Today, our warrior faces his destiny. Will he die like a dog in the dirt, or leave this arena victorious, head held high, a free man?’

  Now the noise really began to build. Some applauded or chanted, others beat home-made drums or took off their sandals and slapped them against the stone flooring.

  Once the southern gate was unlocked, the legionaries and the trio of guards moved aside. Vitruvius was one of Capito’s more reasonable and independent employees – a lanky young lad with a mop of brown hair. He nodded and said something, but Indavara couldn’t hear it above the noise.

  One of the older guards obviously took exception to what Vitruvius had said and swatted him across the back of the head. The other guard cursed at him too but when they looked away the young man mouthed the words again, and this time Indavara understood.

  Good luck.

  ‘Victor of nineteen contests, conqueror of thirty-six men. Governor Actius Lucius Vanna and our esteemed Organiser of Games, Gaius Salvius Capito bring you . . . Indavara!’

  Shrill trumpets rang around the arena; twenty thousand people watched the compact, stocky figure amble into the sunlight. Regular observers had noted the developments in his physique since his first appearance as a teenager. The broad shoulders and thick neck had always suggested a propensity for bulk and this had been supplemented by endless hours of training and meals of barley gruel that added a protective fatty layer. Yet even those who had seen Indavara fight only once knew that the impression of immobility was purely that. Though he would never make a great runner, his raw strength and surprising agility were matched with a rare quickness of thought that invariably gave him an advantage even over a lighter, defter foe. Watchers were also always struck by the young man’s near-supernatural air of stillness and composure. Whatever his occupation, from the most perfunctory walk to the most desperate struggle, he projected an unyielding, elemental solidity.

  Scarcely an inch of his dark skin had survived unscathed. Aside from the brand upon his shoulder that identified him as Capito’s property, his hands, wrists and forearms were a mass of scars, welts and bruises in differing states of repair.

  At various times, he had fractured both wrists and both ankles. His arm had also been broken close to the shoulder, his leg just below the knee; but thanks to Capito’s surgeon he had suffered no long-term effects from either. He had lost count of the broken ribs, knowing only that in cold winter air or when he breathed hard, he felt shards of pain in his chest. His only permanent disability had been sustained in his third fight: an opportunistic slash from a long cavalry sword that had taken off half his left ear. He recalled looking first at the slick stream of blood running down his chest, then the mangled piece of flesh lying close to his foot. His opponent had also been badly wounded and the governor had determined the contest a draw. Both men lived to fight another day.

  Since then Indavara had allowed his thick, black hair to grow out and now a low fringe hung just above his wide, pale green eyes. To Capito, and others who knew men of his kind, their washed-out, lifeless quality was familiar. Indavara had seen them recently too, in a metal mirror used by the surgeon. He could hardly believe they were his.

  He came to a stop ten yards beyond the gate and bowed in four directions. He had no weapon yet so he simply held a clenched fist high.

  Groups of youths yelled and whooped and leapt in the air, punching each other or matching the clenched fist. Others carried flags with supportive slogans or surprisingly well-rendered likenesses. Women screamed at him and blew kisses.

  Capito watched the aristocrats gleefully rubbing their hands together and exchanging excited smiles. The depth of support for Indavara never ceased to surprise him, because he had never come across a fighter less disposed to play to the crowd. Initially, his efficient, dire
ct style had not endeared him to the mob. Not for him the ostentatious flourishes that many fighters employed to win the favour of the watching masses. He had been booed for his first seven or eight fights and a certain faction still maintained a stubborn dislike of his brisk, functional method.

  But as time had passed, and Indavara survived battle after battle, outwitting and outfighting whatever was thrown at him, he had slowly won over the crowd. His status had been secured through dogged determination and unstinting resilience.

  Capito admitted to himself that he would miss days like this.

  Indavara examined the scene in front of him. Two thick ropes had been stretched across the sand, dividing the arena in three. Just in front of him was a barrel. There was another in the second section and another in the third.

  As he had demonstrated a certain gift for resourcefulness, Capito had decided that – ‘for the sake of entertainment’ – Indavara would not follow the traditional path of specialising in a specific combination of armour, equipment and weaponry. In fact, for the last eight contests, his allotted weapon hadn’t been revealed until he entered the arena. He imagined that inside each barrel he would find a different weapon for each stage of the contest.

  In the middle of the first section was a square wooden structure fifteen yards long and ten wide. Mounted above it was a narrow, rickety bridge composed of rope and small timbers that could be accessed by steps at both ends. The ‘box’ was one of Capito’s favourites. Indavara was almost relieved to see it; he’d suspected the vicious old bastard might choose it and had managed to fit in several practice sessions.

  The second section of the arena was completely empty. The third – closest to the podium – housed the hatch for the lifting platform. It was powered by a team of twelve slaves and could raise loads of up to a thousand pounds. For now, however, the third section was also empty, except for a small deer carcass by the wall which someone had neglected to remove after one of the hunts from the morning show.

  Maesa raised his hand again and waited for silence, then gestured towards the eastern gate.

  ‘To our first opponents then. Two examples of the type of scum and villainy the city fathers wish to banish from our streets. These fiends were arrested just two days ago. One robbed a respected citizen, leaving him bleeding in the street; the other stole valuables from a temple.’