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

by Nick Brown

  The cape slackened again.

  ‘I am here to see—’

  Estan slapped him. ‘I might have to change your name to Stupid.’

  Cassius coughed. Spit ran down his chin. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  The Celts laughed, even as Telesinus again implored them to stop. Estan told the others to pull harder.

  Cassius could feel the cape cutting into his skin. His windpipe felt like a stone being pushed into his throat. He was choking.

  Why had he come in here alone?

  Now he was going to die here. The cape bit at his neck. Black mist edged across his vision. He was choking.

  ‘Do you have my money?’

  Cassius didn’t understand. They didn’t want money, did they?

  ‘Are you Corbulo? Do you have my money?’

  It was a different voice; a new voice. Who here knew his name? Cassius wanted to speak but he couldn’t.

  ‘You Corbulo?’

  The black mist was now a cloud. All the light had gone. He nodded.

  ‘Do you have my money?’

  Cassius nodded again. The pressure on his neck eased. Light flooded back into his eyes.

  Behind Estan was a well-built young man with what looked like half an ear.

  The fourth Celt realised quickly that the interloper was to be considered an enemy and attacked right away.

  He lined up his foe and swung a boot.

  Pivoting to his left, Indavara waited until the boot was sailing harmlessly past him then gripped the heel and wrenched it forward, pulling the Celt off his standing foot. The auxiliary slipped easily on the smooth stone floor and fell on his backside. Indavara stamped down hard on his groin, twisting his boot in for good measure.

  The ensuing high-pitched scream was enough to bring Telesinus’s wife and the doorman running in. Telesinus warned them to stay clear as Estan turned to face Indavara. The other two let go of Cassius and fanned out behind their leader.

  The folds of the cape were still stuck to Cassius’s neck. He was too busy pulling it off and sucking in air to notice much of what happened next.

  Indavara had hated having to leave his weapons by the door but he was not slow to improvise. As the three men closed, he retreated and picked up a small but sturdy stool and held it in his right hand.

  Estan muttered something; the three Celts advanced.

  Wielding the stool above his shoulder, as if preparing to defend himself with it, Indavara swung it back then launched it at the man to Estan’s right. It caught him high on the forehead with a sharp crack. The Celt staggered for a moment, mouth wide, then toppled like a felled tree, bringing down several shelves.

  With a quick look at his injured comrades, Estan picked up a hefty chair and launched it across the room.

  Indavara stuck two hands up and caught it.

  To his credit, Estan didn’t let this feat put him off. He charged.

  Indavara flung the chair back – at the Celt’s ankles. Estan tripped and stumbled, doubling over as he careened forward. Indavara took a single step and drove his knee straight up into the Celt’s face, catching him full on the chin. Estan’s head crunched to one side and he crashed to the floor, his body limp.

  The fourth Celt looked down at his three fallen fellows, then fled.

  The serving girls were all crying, hands on their faces. Telesinus, his wife and the doorman stood in a line, watching Indavara. The woman looked down at Estan.

  ‘Gods, he’s killed him, hasn’t he?’

  With a wary glance at Indavara, Telesinus knelt down by Estan. He put a hand to his chest.

  ‘He’s breathing.’

  Cassius pushed himself off the wall just as Indavara’s second victim dragged himself back against it. The man looked blankly up at him, then at the hand he had just placed on his head. It was wet with blood.

  Indavara walked past his first victim. The man was writhing around on the floor, clasping his groin and moaning.

  Indavara glanced at Cassius and gestured towards the door.

  Cassius nodded; and they left.

  VI

  Cassius walked towards the encampment with his head down, ignoring the legionaries and locals they passed, wholly occupied with trying to ascertain exactly how much damage had been done to his neck. It still felt horribly constricted and there was a rasping pain when he talked. Despite the presence of this bodyguard (who at least seemed well qualified to do the job), Cassius wouldn’t feel safe until he was inside the camp. He couldn’t believe such a thing was possible so close to a legion base. He felt angry and stupid; and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  A few yards behind, Simo and Indavara walked side by side, leading the horses.

  ‘What about my money then?’ Indavara asked for the second time.

  Cassius had heard him the first time but elected to ignore him. Now he spun round.

  ‘You, my man, bring new meaning to the word mercenary.’

  Indavara shrugged.

  Cassius turned to Simo. ‘Didn’t come to my aid until he was sure I had his silver. Quite happy to watch me being strangled. You’ll be paid within the hour. Quick enough?’

  Indavara shrugged again.

  ‘That’s settled then.’

  The rear entrance of the camp was narrow – no more than twenty feet across. On either side were high poles bearing the square standards of the Fourth Legion. The flags were of black cloth, with the legend and a goat (Capricorn being the legion’s symbol) embroidered in gold. Below the flags, four legionaries stood guard.

  Cassius called a halt well short of the entrance, where local traders had been permitted to set up day-pitches selling snacks and drinks. Simo had already retrieved the spear-head and now offered Cassius his helmet.

  ‘Crest’s not straight.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Simo, I’m about to meet a prefect of the Roman Army. I must at least try to look presentable.’

  Cassius looked down at his tunic. It was still dirty from his encounter with the inn floor, the cape too. As Simo dealt with the helmet, Cassius glanced over at the bodyguard.

  ‘What was the name again?’

  ‘Indavara.’

  ‘Unusual.’

  Indavara left his horse and wandered away to investigate the food on offer.

  Cassius noticed how shoddy his mount and gear were. The sides of the horse’s mouth were cut and sore; a sure sign of a bad rider. The saddle itself was ancient and poorly maintained: in several places the cover was coming away from the wood. Upon one side of the saddle was a leather bag. On the other side were a water-skin, a bow case and quiver, and a five-foot fighting stave.

  Indavara had reclaimed his main weapon – a short sword sheathed on a diagonal belt – on their way out of the inn. As he approached the traders, a group of locals broke up to let him pass. Most of the men were taller and older than him but their action was instinctive. Cassius had been too distracted to notice before but he now realised that there was something undeniably impressive about the man. He wasn’t overly large, or exceptionally muscular; but there was something in the way he carried himself. Cassius had met many such men, most of them soldiers, but he didn’t recall ever seeing it in one so young.

  Indavara returned. He had bought a large pastry covered with nuts and honey and devoured it at speed, eyes scanning the encampment. Cassius pretended to turn away but continued to examine him. His face, though handsome in a rather agricultural way, was marked and scarred. His eyes seemed to possess a vacant, almost innocent quality. Cassius suspected he was rather stupid. At least that would make him more biddable. Brainless but tough wasn’t such a bad combination for a bodyguard.

  ‘What will happen?’ Indavara asked, his mouth full of pastry.

  ‘What?’ Cassius replied irritably.

  Indavara pointed back towards Galanea. ‘Those men. What will happen?’

  ‘To you, nothing. It is they who shall face consequences. Ah, about time.’

  Cassius presse
d his hair down and pulled the helmet on, then straightened his tunic.

  ‘How do I look?’ he asked Simo.

  The Gaul hesitated.

  Indavara spoke up: ‘You have purple marks on your neck. And your face is very red.’

  Cassius scowled at him, then raised his eyes skyward. ‘I think I shall need another drink by the end of today.’

  Though he’d never been inside a full-sized army camp, Cassius knew they were all constructed along uniform lines and had no difficulty finding the way. The prefect’s quarters would be found at or close to the centre; traditionally the point from which the army surveyors marked out the rest of the camp.

  The trio turned left from the entrance then followed a wide avenue northward. They didn’t see a single unoccupied legionary. Inside a small stockade, a squad watched over two dozen doleful Palmyran prisoners. At a stabling area, a line of cavalrymen waited for their horses to be examined by veterinarians. Cassius reminded Simo to note the location. Another square of the camp was occupied by large wooden tables, where specialists repaired weapons, vehicle parts and all manner of other equipment.

  A smart young tribune, identifiable by the narrow purple stripe on his tunic, strode past them on the other side of the avenue. The officer was walking very quickly, so fast that the two men behind him were struggling to keep up. He wore a long cape and tapped a riding crop against his leg as he walked. Perhaps three or four years older than Cassius, he exchanged a graceful nod with his fellow officer.

  ‘Civilisation at last,’ Cassius announced.

  After a few more paces through the heavy, ploughed-up soil, he turned and spoke to Indavara.

  ‘Why Abascantius thought it wise for me to meet you in that damned inn I shall never know. I should have had you come here.’

  Indavara trudged on, head down.

  ‘Not very talkative are you? Unless the talk is of money, that is.’

  Indavara looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘I said you’re not very talkative.’

  Indavara tapped his mutilated ear. ‘I don’t always hear so well.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The queue outside the prefect’s tent contained eighteen people. Cassius knew that because, after an hour of waiting, he’d already counted them three times. There was little else to do. He’d been determined to bypass the queue but a staff officer had intercepted him and taken him aside. After seeing the spear-head and Cassius’s authorisation, he’d promised to let the prefect know of his arrival. Cassius had caught a brief glimpse of Venator inside the tent: a tall, lean man poring over a map table, surrounded by his staff.

  The Palmyrans in the queue seemed to be a mix of priests, administrators and merchants, all waiting patiently, talking in Greek or Aramaic. The sky had turned grey and now a light drizzle fell. Those with servants and parasols made use of them, others took shelter under the awning at the front of the tent.

  The staff officer reappeared. He politely negotiated the Palmyrans, avoided Cassius’s gaze and headed north towards the main entrance. Cassius jogged around the queue and caught up with him.

  ‘Excuse me. Any news?’

  The officer turned round. ‘The prefect will see you later this afternoon. He hasn’t the time now. I’m off for lunch. Do you mind?’

  ‘As it happens I do. This is a matter of the utmost importance. Just mention the name Gregorius to him. I assure you he will be most upset if he finds out you were obstructive.’

  The question of seniority was complex. The staff officer – a man of about thirty-five – was well below the level of a tribune but the proximity of his position to the prefect afforded him considerable authority. Cassius was young but the spear-head – and his position with the Service – gave him added status. He decided on a retreat into good old-fashioned politeness.

  ‘Please, sir. You know the Service doesn’t occupy itself with trivial concerns.’

  The officer raised an eyebrow at this but he seemed to appreciate the improvement in tone.

  ‘I will mention the name. Prefect Venator will make his own decision about the importance of the matter.’

  He returned to the tent. Cassius walked back to where the other two were waiting. He shook his head as he watched Indavara – surreptitiously counting up the coins he’d been given. Simo was examining his horse’s injured leg.

  ‘There’s not much point you two staying here. Why not head back to the stables and get your mount seen to?’

  Simo looked up and smacked his hands together to clean them.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You can use the spear-head if they’re uncooperative.’

  ‘Corbulo!’

  Cassius turned to see the staff officer beckoning to him. He hurried over and was all set to head inside the tent when the officer moved aside and Prefect Venator himself appeared. He gave Cassius the briefest of nods then turned towards the Palmyrans.

  ‘Good afternoon to you all,’ he said in immaculate Greek. ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting. Please come in out of the rain. There are some refreshments in here for you. My men will answer any immediate questions you have. I shall return presently.’

  With a politician’s smile fixed on his face, Venator stood to one side while the Palmyrans filed into the tent. A young servant appeared next to him and began unfolding a large parasol. Venator waved it away.

  ‘I don’t need that.’

  He turned to Cassius. ‘You have your horse?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘We shall take a ride.’

  The prefect, Cassius decided, was a thoroughly impressive character. He was at least forty, undeniably handsome; and the incongruous combination of thick black eyebrows and soft white hair somehow reinforced his authoritative bearing. He carried no sword and wore a long red cloak fringed with gold.

  Another servant trotted forward with a big, pale mare in tow. The first attendant got a box on to the ground just in time for the prefect to use it as a step. Venator climbed up on to the saddle, then turned and glared at Cassius.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Ah, sorry, sir.’

  Simo brought Cassius’s horse over. By the time he had mounted up, the prefect was already on his way.

  ‘I’ll meet you here later, Simo,’ Cassius said. He guided his horse on to the road then urged it into a trot until he caught up with Venator.

  The prefect looked him over. ‘They say you’re getting old when legionaries start to look young. It seems the same applies to grain men. Are you one of Abascantius’s?’

  Cassius wasn’t sure what to say. It all depended on the prefect’s opinion of the agent. He doubted it would be particularly favourable.

  ‘Not exactly, sir. I report directly to Chief Pulcher.’

  ‘Do you now? Then I should be careful what I say.’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ Cassius replied, trying to sound humble.

  ‘How is the old rogue? Still wearing those awful finger-rings?’

  Cassius hesitated; he didn’t want to get caught in a lie.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve never actually met him. I’ve only been with the Service two years. I was transferred here from Cyzicus. I believe the idea was to use an investigator from outside the province.’

  ‘An investigator? And something to do with Gregorius. Are you about to make an already bad day worse?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. He, the men and the – shipment – haven’t been seen since they left here.’

  One of Venator’s hands drifted from the reins and he began rubbing the back of his neck. They came to a crossroads. A tribune left a group of legionaries loading a cart and ran over to the prefect.

  ‘Sir, might I have a moment?’

  ‘Not now,’ replied Venator sharply. As the tribune sloped off, he guided his horse across the avenue.

  ‘Marcellinus knows?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  Venator let out a long breath.

  Cassius hadn’t really thought about the prefe
ct’s situation, but as part of Abascantius’s scheme, he might also expect to suffer the consequences if the banner couldn’t be found. Men of his rank typically used their command of a legion as a stepping stone to a senate career. A connection – any connection – to such a disaster might set his political ambitions back years.

  The prefect brought his horse to a halt by another line of tents. There was no one close by.

  ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘Nothing yet, sir. Abascantius is returning to Antioch to see if he can make any progress there.’

  ‘He assumes the army has something to do with it, I expect.’

  ‘He made no suggestion of that to me, sir. I think he just wants to find the treasure and the flag.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure of it. Marcellinus will have his balls on a skewer if he doesn’t sort this mess out. Mine too, come to think of it. And yours.’

  The pain in Cassius’s neck suddenly seemed to double. It was alarming to see this noble, powerful man reduced to such statements. Venator was staring blankly down at a large puddle next to his horse as the rain continued to fall.

  ‘I remember once hearing some Persian prisoners talking about Faridun’s Banner. It means as much to them as a legion standard does to us. More even. Gods – if it can’t be recovered.’ Venator shook his head. ‘Abascantius. I should have known better than to help that fat slug.’ He cast a wary glance at Cassius, as if regretting his words.

  Cassius realised that he still didn’t fully appreciate the reach and reputation of the Service. If a prefect acted like this around him, no wonder ordinary legionaries were so wary.

  ‘What do you think of your superior?’ asked Venator.

  ‘He’s quite a character, sir. I suppose “fat slug” makes a change from “Pitface”.’

  Venator gave a grim smile. He ran an eye over Cassius.

  ‘I must say, you don’t seem like the Service type at all, Corbulo.’

  ‘Long story, sir.’

  Venator’s horse was startled by something and backed off the road. The prefect swiftly got it under control and spoke softly to the animal, gently patting its neck.