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

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Agent of Rome: The Imperial Banner (The Agent of Rome) Page 37

by Nick Brown


  The men hadn’t just been killed; they had been smashed to pieces. The eyes Cassius had seen belonged to a man lying against the platform. The bottom of his face – mouth, chin and jaw – had been mangled into a soggy mess of pink flesh and jutting bone.

  Cassius’s stomach burned hollow. Major threw up, the vomit splashing noisily against the floor. Simo backed up against the sculpture. The Gaul turned, and saw the implacable expression on the face of the god Mithras, staring skyward as he cut the bull’s neck.

  ‘Who could have done this, sir? Why?’

  Cassius went to the right side of the platform and down the steps. He half-wondered if there was anyone alive, but once he’d passed more of the bodies he realised the killers had left no chance of that. Most of the dead had been struck above the neck at least twice; crushing impacts that left deep wounds in their faces and skulls. His boots squelched on blood as he stepped between the corpses.

  He spied a red tunic and held the lantern over the dead man. The face was battered beyond recognition but then he noticed the withered arm. Centurion Turpo. Not far away was the gold merchant. Cassius still couldn’t remember his name but he recalled the ostentatious collection of rings on both hands. The killers had left them.

  Beyond the main mass of bodies was a smaller group of four. They had fallen between the first and second row of benches. One was a woman, lying face down, a ragged gash in the top of her head. Cassius knelt beside her and picked strands of hair from her face. Bacara’s eyes were open but the pupils were surrounded by black blood.

  On his back next to her lay Silus; the entire right side of his face had been torn open.

  Another man was lying on his side, fingers still gripping a long cavalry sword. The unkempt head was unmistakable. There was little blood on him, just a wide hole in his tunic and a puncture in the flesh over his heart. Justius Pythion – Two Fingers – had been the only one with the time, awareness or wit to get out his weapon and try to defend himself.

  The last man’s sword was still sheathed. Etched on the handle was a dedication to Mars. Cassius looked closer at the man’s belt buckle. It was silver, with a name engraved upon it. Tarquinius. Cassius moved the light past the ugly rent in his neck and saw a handsome, rugged face topped by a fine head of greying hair.

  Cassius straightened up and again noted the position of these four bodies. Had Tarquinius and his old comrade Pythion – along with Bacara and Silus – looked on as the others were butchered, only for the killers to turn on them?

  He walked to the rear of the cavern and leaned against the wall, feeling the heat of the braziers close by. Simo and Major were talking but Cassius didn’t hear a word of it. He gazed at the morass of bodies. There was no sign of the aged frame of Ulpian, nor the distinctive bulk of Quarto. Had he been right all along? Had one or both of them taken the banner and the treasure? Used the cultists and the others for their own ends, then dispatched them once they’d ceased to be useful?

  Whoever it was wanted to cover their tracks; tie off all the loose ends in one murderous frenzy. And their attempt to divert Abascantius had succeeded. Cassius cursed himself for his part in it. He had swallowed every word of what Silus had told him about Octobrianus, without even attempting to confirm or corroborate any of it. He wondered what his and Bacara’s real names had been. Not that it mattered now.

  He lurched out of the cavern and into the anteroom, looking for some water. There was only a dusty old wine bottle. But he had to drink something; fill the bitter void in his guts.

  Before he could pick it up, he heard a metallic clang. Stepping outside, he now noticed that the woodpile that had occupied the other end of the corridor had been pulled down. Timber lay scattered across the floor. Beyond was a darkened tunnel. The sound had come from there.

  Major and Simo arrived.

  ‘Gods, they were just here,’ Cassius breathed. He pushed past the others and started at once along the tunnel. It sloped downward for about forty paces, then became level as it curved to the right. Cassius smelled the tang of river water; it was heading back towards the Orontes.

  From the footmarks in the grey mud that lined the floor, Cassius guessed there must be at least five or six of them. When he saw light ahead, he shuttered the lamp and stopped.

  ‘We shouldn’t follow,’ whispered Major as he came up behind him.

  ‘Sir, I think he’s right,’ added Simo. ‘You saw what they did.’

  Ignoring them both, Cassius pressed on. Another fifty paces and he spied a gate. The light was in the distance, on the other side of it. The tunnel was low here and he had to bow his head.

  He came up to the gate; and saw that the tunnel emerged just above a jetty. The light was a lantern swinging in the hand of a man at the back of the group. In a moment they were gone, striding along the jetty back towards the square. Cassius could hear the festival-goers singing and shouting.

  He opened the lantern shutter and examined the gate. It was locked and had been set deep into the walls.

  ‘They’re there,’ he hissed as Major and Simo caught up. He gripped the bars of the gate and shook them. ‘They’re right there!’

  He turned and pushed past the others once more.

  ‘Come on!’

  When he later recalled that night, Cassius remembered nothing of charging back up the tunnel and across the cavern, then through the villa and out into the garden. Nor did he recall clambering up the ladder or dropping down to the street. But he could always picture the scene that faced him after he sprinted down to the waterfront.

  Every single square foot seemed to be occupied. The rain had now stopped; and torches bobbed above the heads of the revellers as they threw dried flowers in the air or danced to the cacophony of uncoordinated drumming. Gangs of young men drank from bottles of wine, laughing and singing and pushing each other around.

  Cassius darted to the side of the street and leapt up on to a barrel. He looked out into the sea of bodies and faces. There must have been close to a thousand people there. If the killers were heading back into the city, they would have to pass through the crowd.

  Major was next to arrive. He had sheathed his sword and was breathing hard. Simo was still trotting down the hill, hand on his chest. Cassius had left the lantern on the ground. Major stopped right next to it; and as Cassius jumped down, he noticed the blood on the bodyguard’s boots from where he’d twice crossed the cavern. His own boots were in a similar condition.

  ‘They’ll have blood on them too,’ he told the others. ‘They’ll be in a group, carrying weapons.’

  Without a second thought, Cassius picked up the lantern and hurled himself into the crowd. He forced himself left, squeezing past body after body; and in moments he was covered in wine and flowers.

  His eyes were drawn to two figures about twenty feet ahead, close to the river, ploughing through the mob with lanterns held high. Cassius pushed a slight, older man out of the way to gain a better view. There were others behind the front two, also moving purposefully, clearly not part of the festivities.

  Cassius steeled himself and shoved his way forward once more. It was difficult to make progress but his height helped him see over the crowd and follow the lanterns. The man at the front turned and yelled something at the others. Then he changed direction; towards the street and the city beyond.

  Cassius tripped. Flinging his hands out as he fell, he dropped the lantern. It smashed as he landed, and he found himself stretched out on the ground, staring at the shards of glass flickering with the light from the torches above. He got to his knees. Then a big man standing nearby grabbed his belt and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Here you go, mate.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Take a swig for Apollo!’ said the reveller, offering a bottle of wine.

  Ignoring him, Cassius moved away. He looked over the sea of heads and saw the group passing left to right just in front of him. He squeezed past two men singing at the top of their voices, and suddenly found himself righ
t in the path of the leader. His face was set with grim determination as he led his fellows through the crowd.

  Cassius stopped as the man passed within a yard of him and noted his thick belt and well-maintained scabbard. The others were similarly attired. Cassius looked down at their hobnailed boots. There was not a trace of blood, nor the grey mud of the tunnel. The squad of legionaries continued on their way.

  He turned in every direction, searching desperately for some tell-tale sign. How long had it been since he’d seen the men leave the tunnel? Were they already past him? Could they have got through the crowd even before he’d arrived?

  Then he saw the staves – three of them. He couldn’t see the men holding them but he followed anyway. His way was soon barred by a group of twenty or more standing in a circle. In the middle was a drummer. The others had linked their arms and were kicking their legs up in time with the beat.

  Cassius tapped one of the men on the shoulder. ‘I need to get through!’

  The reveller shook his head. Cassius tried to force his way through anyway. The man shoved him in the shoulder.

  ‘Go around, fool!’

  Cassius got up on his tiptoes. The staves were moving to his left, away from the river. He ducked down, and tried to burrow between two of the men. He thought he was through but then felt himself being hauled backwards by his belt. He twisted round and saw the same man staring at him. The Syrian was short but well-built; and he suddenly looked very, very drunk. He grabbed Cassius by the tunic with his left hand, then drove his right fist into his stomach. Winded, Cassius staggered backward. He couldn’t catch his breath. He fell on to his backside.

  Then he felt hands under his arms.

  ‘I’ve got you, sir.’

  Simo helped him to his feet and held him up while he recovered himself. Major appeared too, which was enough to drive the drunk swiftly away through the crowd. The bodyguard cleared a path as Simo helped Cassius towards the river. There was a little space at the edge of the square, by the wall above the jetty. Simo helped Cassius sit down on a wide stone bollard.

  ‘Stay here a moment, sir.’

  ‘Those men with staves—’

  ‘Wait to catch your breath, sir.’

  Cassius tried to stand, at least to try and point, but Simo put two hands on his shoulders.

  ‘No – Simo – They could be –’ Cassius bent forward, wincing at the pain as he took deep breaths.

  ‘That’s it, sir.’

  After a moment, Cassius raised his head and looked down at the jetty. Moored against a pontoon twenty yards away was a long rowing boat. At the end of the pontoon, three lanterns had been hooked on to a wooden post. Below it, four men were kneeling, washing their hands in the river. They were identically attired in black loose-fitting trousers and sleeveless tunics.

  ‘That’s it, sir,’ said Simo. ‘Slow, deep breaths.’

  One of the men had taken off his boots. He dunked them in the water, wiped the soles with his hand, then put them on again. He stood up and joined the others as they clambered down into the rowing boat. All had heavy sacks across their shoulders which they deposited in the bottom of the boat before grabbing an oar.

  Cassius stood up.

  ‘Sir? What is it?’

  Ignoring Simo – and with his hand pressed against his aching gut – Cassius hurried along the wall towards the pontoon.

  Two of the men had taken lanterns with them into the boat. The last was lifted off the post by a fifth figure, who waited for the others to get settled, then climbed down into the stern. The men untied the mooring ropes and pushed off. They then took up their oars and gently propelled the boat away from the jetty.

  The fifth man was holding the lantern on his lap, and even as the boat neared the main stream of the river, Cassius could still see his face quite clearly.

  ‘Kaeso Scaurus.’

  XXXI

  The covered cart was stuffy and hot. The legionary sitting to Indavara’s right was dozing, the man to his left drinking noisily from his canteen. Abascantius’s men sat in a row opposite him. They had barely stopped talking since leaving the mint.

  ‘Ten years I’ve worked in this province. And this is my reward?’

  ‘I reckon old Pitface has lost it this time. I told you we were looking in the wrong place. Octobrianus doesn’t have the balls for something like this.’

  ‘Enough, you two,’ said Salvian, who as well as being the largest of the three, was also the oldest. ‘This isn’t over yet by a long way. Gordio’s overstepped the mark.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Aba used up all his favours a long time ago. Marcellinus and the rest will be more than happy to see him disgraced. And where does that leave us?’

  Salvian spoke up again: ‘I’ve known him a lot longer than you. He’s come through worse than this. I reckon he’ll have us back on the streets by dawn. Now shut it.’

  Indavara took heart from this last comment, but when the cart stopped and they were manhandled outside, he realised he was back at the tower where Simo’s father was being kept. As they were escorted up the stairs with spears at their backs, he felt a rising sense of panic. And when he smelled the foul stench of the prisoners and came close to the iron bars, he was suddenly sure that if he let himself be put inside that cell, he would not get out.

  Herminius was on duty again. With a curious glance at Indavara – the last in line – he unlocked the door and opened it wide. The others went in quietly. A push in the back from one of the legionaries sent Indavara to within a foot of the cell. He turned round.

  ‘I’m not going in there.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: you’re an innocent man,’ said Herminius with a sneer.

  ‘I can’t.’ Indavara wiped away the sweat running down his forehead. ‘I can’t go in there.’

  The guards laughed.

  ‘It’s funny, you don’t look the craven type,’ added Herminius. ‘Get in.’

  ‘I tell you I can’t.’

  Another of the guards jabbed his spear towards his face. ‘You heard the man.’

  Herminius shoved Indavara in the shoulder. He didn’t move an inch.

  ‘I’ll take pity on you and assume that because you’ve only the one ear, you don’t hear so well. Last chance. Inside!’

  Herminius lashed out again. This time Indavara grabbed his hand, or, more precisely, two of his fingers. With a single flick of his wrist, he bent the fingers back on themselves, snapping them just below the knuckle.

  Herminius loosed an agonised screech and staggered away, staring down at his hand.

  Two of the guards struck out with their spears. Indavara had nowhere else to go but back. He tripped over the bottom of the gate, and fell into the cell. One of the guards swung the door. As it clanged shut, another man came forward and locked it.

  ‘You one-eared whore-son,’ Herminius spat. ‘You’ll pay for that. By the wrath of the gods you’ll pay!’

  Indavara got to his feet. He barely noticed the other prisoners as he retreated across the cell to the window. He turned and looked out at the black sky.

  ‘Caesar’s balls,’ said Cassius. ‘Then we’ll just have to steal one.’

  Having dispatched Simo with orders to find Abascantius and tell him everything they’d seen, Cassius and Major had spent the last few moments scouring the jetty for a manned boat, but to no avail.

  Alongside the last pontoon was a rowing tender about twelve feet long. Cassius ran over to it and knelt down, searching for oars. He found a pair stowed under the middle of the three seats.

  ‘No rowlocks but it’ll do. Major, untie that rope.’

  Cassius climbed down and pulled out the oars from under the seat. The bodyguard threw in the rope then clambered in after it. Cassius pushed off and passed an oar back to Major.

  ‘We shall have to paddle – you take the right.’

  The little boat lurched alarmingly as the two men got settled, Cassius on the forward seat, Major to the rear. Realising his sword belt would hinder him, C
assius wrenched it off over his head.

  Then he took up his oar and dug deep, propelling the boat out into the river. He was relieved to see the tide was ebbing; it would have been a struggle to row against the water and keep pace with Scaurus’s craft. Cassius reckoned the boat was about a hundred yards away but with the lanterns still alight it wouldn’t be difficult to follow.

  On they went, until Cassius could feel his arms burning and sweat on his back. To their left were high banks of reeds, to their right the scattered lights of the city. Occasionally a snatch of singing would drift across the water towards them.

  Kaeso Scaurus. He could hardly believe it. The ostenatious host, this vulgar, almost comical man – a robber and murderer? Cassius reminded himself that Scaurus was a slave-trader. It hardly defied belief that he held human life in such low regard, or that he might be prepared to use anyone – and dispose of anyone – to get his way. There had been that moment at the dinner party with the young slave when his cruel nature had been there for all to see. And Antonia felt he had given up on obtaining office in the city, been unusually rude and impolitic; had he known his days in Antioch were numbered?

  And what of the banner? If he was acting alone, did he even understand the true significance of the object in his possession? If he was working with others, why did they want it?

  Forcing himself to focus on the job in hand, Cassius put in a few wide strokes to keep them on course. Major was powering them along well from the rear, and he had to keep his concentration to compensate.

  They passed an area of the river bank lined with sections of the old city walls, then followed the eastern channel as the Orontes split around the island. Once or twice, Cassius heard heavy splashes close to the shore – rats, he guessed. He looked up and saw that Scaurus’s boat was pulling away. He increased his stroke.

  Soon they were passing under the arches of the closest bridge, past the smelly, salty weed that clung to its bricks. Now there were more river craft: a few rich types being rowed home by their attendants, and some noisy drunks on a moored barge.

 

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