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

by Nick Brown

  Back in Pietas Julia, he had always taken great care not to make friends, because gladiators measured their lives in weeks and months, and never knew when they might face each other in combat. He had outlived every last man. From the moment he had heard of Capito’s deal, he had thought only of that twentieth contest. For six long years, he had done nothing but train and fight.

  All he could do – all he had ever done – was look after himself.

  He watched the boys a moment longer, as they began running towards the river.

  Things were different now. He was free; free to do what he wanted. But that meant he had choices, and whether he liked it or not, the choices he made today had consequences for others. What if Corbulo was alive? And what if Simo tried to save him on his own? They wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Indavara looked back at the junction.

  It was one thing to be forced to fight. It was another to choose to.

  At the top of the river bank was a well-trodden towpath usually used by slaves hauling barges up and down the Orontes. The path was smooth and wide, and Simo made good time. He knew there were fifteen miles of river between Antioch and Seleucia. Without knowing when the galley had left, it was impossible to guess where the ship might be.

  For the first hour, he passed only small vessels going downriver and three big grain freighters coming up. He came to an unmanned loading dock and was delayed while he took the road that ran round it.

  Another hour; and the path followed the meandering river through a wooded area thick with insects. The horses were fading fast. Simo was on the verge of stopping and unshackling them from the cart, when they passed the last of the trees and he spied a vessel up ahead.

  The galley was moving quickly, the sixteen oars dipping in and out of the water at speed, leaving a thick trail of foaming wake. Simo slowed the horses as he came up behind the ship. Below the sternpost was a bronze plaque. Shostra had told him the vessel’s name and there it was: Radians. One man was operating the tiller, another – the captain perhaps – stood next to him. Six other sailors were on deck, coiling ropes. They soon noticed Simo, and watched him as they worked. The captain looked up at the bank too.

  Simo kept his head facing forward, but his eyes stayed on the galley. As he passed each rank of oars, he could make out the dark, muscled forearms of each slave beyond the port-hole. There was no sign of anyone else. He passed the bow and drove the exhausted horses onward. He could see the cranes and warehouses of the port a couple of miles ahead.

  ‘Dear Lord, grant me strength.’

  XXXIV

  It was the shivering that woke Cassius: a sharp, icy chill that ran up his spine and across his shoulders. Raising his hands to rub his eyes, he realised his wrists were tied together. He shifted and felt a fiery pain on the left side of his skull. He could hear a rhythmic beating sound coming from somewhere ahead of him. He made himself stay still. Slowly, the pain receded.

  Where am I?

  A bright light somewhere above. He was sitting with legs stretched out in front of him, his back against a hard surface. He moved his neck and felt something sticky on the left side of his neck – dried blood, he guessed.

  Dreams? That pile of mutilated bodies in the cavern? Major butchered in front of him by that laughing warrior?

  Water dripped on to his lap. He looked up and saw blackened timbers, then a square of bright blue sky. Clouds too; and a gull swooping by on the wind. That noise. The beating. A drum for oarsmen. He was on the ship.

  A key turned. The door in front of him swung inward, and Kaeso Scaurus walked in. The smile on that cherubic face seemed so innocent, so genuine, that Cassius almost smiled back.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake at last.’

  Scaurus was wearing a simple long-sleeved tunic, with only the finger-rings and a gold-plated belt buckle to mark him out as a man of means. He was armed with a long, narrow dagger. He stood over Cassius and looked down at his head.

  ‘Ouch.’

  Running a hand through his curls, Scaurus leaned back against a thick pile of sailcloth.

  ‘I have some questions.’

  ‘Me too,’ replied Cassius. He was struck by the strangeness of his own voice; it sounded thin and weak.

  Scaurus smiled again. ‘I’m afraid I will have to insist on accurate answers.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Scaurus chuckled and looked Cassius over. ‘You are rather pretty, grain man. I do like your face. But be under no illusions – I will get what I need from you.’

  Cassius thought of Simo; remembered sending him to Abascantius. It was morning now; that had been hours ago. Why had no one come to help him?

  ‘What does he know?’ asked Scaurus.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pitface.’

  ‘I have no idea. The last time I saw him he was headed for the imperial mint. But I suspect you already know that.’

  Scaurus shrugged. ‘Don’t suppose he needed much encouragement to finger his old friend the procurator, did he? It seemed wise to keep the fat swine occupied. I heard from Quarto that Octobrianus was unveiling some new coins to Gordio there last night. I imagine there was quite a scene.’

  Cassius’s head was clearing. He ran over the events of recent days.

  ‘It must have started with Nabor, I suppose. The misdirection.’

  Scaurus nodded. He seemed rather proud of himself. ‘You had a narrow escape there. Pythion wanted to kill you right away – as soon as you started sniffing around – but that would have invited too much attention. Better to put you on another trail. How did you come to Nabor by the way?’

  Cassius told Scaurus about the merchant’s slave and tracing Nabor to the glass factory.

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Cassius. ‘But you didn’t control your people.’

  ‘Pythion’s mistake, not mine.’

  ‘Who were the others? The men who took the cart.’

  ‘Whoever he could get. Brigands, mercenaries. Even a few ex-legionaries, as I recall. There wasn’t time to be too picky.’

  ‘And Silus? Bacara? Or whatever their names were. You wouldn’t find a talented pair of actors like that just anywhere.’

  ‘True, true. They had done a few jobs for me before. Do you know how I first met them? They tried to con me out of five thousand denarii with a property scam. They were lovers. A shame really.’

  ‘But they had outlived their usefulness. Just like the others. Turpo. Tarquinius. Even Pythion.’

  Scaurus nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve been to the guild house again.’

  ‘We followed you from there. Do you have even an ounce of regard for human life?’

  ‘You seem to have answered your own question.’ Scaurus pushed himself off the sailcloth and came closer. ‘But what interests me is whether you got a message to Abascantius. Or your one-eared friend. I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘I’ll tell you – because I’ve seen enough to know what you’ll do to me if I don’t. But will you satisfy my curiosity about a few things first?’

  Scaurus shrugged. ‘Quicker than torturing you, I suppose.’

  ‘Quarto and Ulpian. They know nothing of all this?’

  ‘Those two idiots? Hardly. I took them out for a sail just a couple of days ago. They were standing on the deck above this very spot, drinking my finest Falernian. How I would love to see their faces when they find out.’

  ‘And the Sons of Antioch?’

  ‘A useful charade. And not only for myself, I might add. But it has been especially beneficial in the last few weeks.’

  ‘And what happened at the baths? You said you’d decided not to kill me.’

  ‘Once Pythion heard about your first visit to the guild house he panicked. And when he found out you were with Abascantius he took it upon himself to act. Could be a little impetuous at times.’

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘Oh, he was my half-brother. He and our father shared an unfortunate inability to control themsel
ves.’

  Cassius shook his head; such ruthlessness was hard to comprehend.

  ‘He was always on about some money-making scheme or another,’ Scaurus continued. ‘Told me one of his old soldier mates knew about this stash of Palmyran treasure. I said I wasn’t interested at first. Then I began to think about it . . .’

  Scaurus shut the door.

  ‘It’s best they don’t see what I have here. Wouldn’t want a mutiny on my hands.’

  He walked over to the barrel Cassius had half-opened the previous night. The lid had now been removed. Scaurus scooped out handfuls of coins, then retrieved a slender ingot of gold. He held it up to the light shining in through the hatch. Cassius could make out the Palmyran brand.

  ‘Look at that beauty. And there are a hundred more like it. A hundred!’

  Cassius took a deep breath. ‘What about the Persian banner?’

  ‘Yes, I wondered what that old thing was. Couldn’t ask anyone about it of course, so I had to send one of my clerks to the library.’

  ‘It’s here?’

  ‘No. I burned it.’

  Cassius let his head fall back against the barrel. He hadn’t even found the flag. Major had died for absolutely nothing; and now he faced the same fate.

  ‘Only joking,’ said Scaurus with a gloating smile. ‘It’s here somewhere. Don’t see why the Persians think it’s so special. I do like the gems though.’

  Scaurus replaced the gold in the barrel.

  Cassius shook his head and sighed with relief. ‘But you are already a rich man,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I was rich. I was the richest man in Antioch. But I ploughed most of it back into the city. They always wanted another temple, or another statue, or another bloody wall. And for what? A few cheap bronze plaques and a pat on the back. But never any real power. Not for a half-Jewish legionary’s son.’ Scaurus cast an eye across the barrels. ‘I did some calculations. Even with all the slaves and the property – it was barely a third of what I have here. And this I can take with me.’

  ‘But it wasn’t just about the money, was it?’

  Scaurus shrugged again.

  ‘The fame?’ Cassius continued. ‘Or rather the infamy?’

  ‘Oh the former, I think.’ Scaurus opened his palms wide. ‘This is the greatest robbery of all time, grain man. Everyone from here to Britannia will know my name.’

  Cassius looked up through the hatch at the sky – it was so bright, so benign. Just another day, yet here he was, a prisoner on this ship, conversing with this murderous madman. So many lives lost. And for what – some twisted desire for notoriety?

  Scaurus came close to him again.

  ‘I’ve indulged you long enough, pretty boy. Now, what does Abascantius know? You must have got word to him.’

  ‘I sent a message telling him about the cavern below the guild house and the dead men; and that you were responsible.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About the fourth hour of night.’

  ‘Ha, he really has lost his touch, hasn’t he?’ A relieved grin spread itself across the spherical face. ‘We’ll be at sea within the hour. There’s nothing he can do now.’

  ‘And then what?’ countered Cassius. ‘Abascantius is the least of your worries. Half the eastern fleet is stationed at Seleucia. They’ll send the navy after you.’

  ‘Possibly. But I’ll have a good start. Rufus Bolanus is the commander of that fleet – a personal friend of mine. He’s currently enjoying a week of leave at my villa in Paltus.’

  ‘Even if you do get away, Marcellinus and the Emperor will hunt you to the ends of the earth.’

  ‘They shall have to, for I am headed to Africa. There are lands there beyond a great desert where no man has been. I will find a way across it, and with all this I can build my own city, my own armies. No one will give a damn about my lineage there. And one day I may return.’

  Cassius knew he had to keep the conversation going as long as he could; find a way to make Scaurus let him live.

  ‘If I’d made it off this ship, you would never have got out of Antioch.’

  ‘Ah, but you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘But I got close to stopping you – you must admit that.’

  ‘Closer than Pitface, certainly.’

  ‘Listen, Scaurus, I’ve only been with the Service a few months. My father made me join the army. I detest it; and there seems to be no prospect of returning to my former life. I’m not a fighting man, but I’ve more intelligence than most. I could be useful. Why not let me join you?’

  Again, that wide, beatific smile.

  ‘A well-framed gambit, grain man, but a desperate one. You know my business – I trade in slaves. I have spent most of my life dealing with people who hate me, who’d like to see me dead. And try as you might, you can’t hide the disgust in your eyes. No, you shall die too. Stand. I don’t want to make a mess in here. That big friend of yours bled like a pig; made a horrible stain on my deck.’

  Cassius stayed where he was.

  Scaurus eased the thin blade from the sheath. He walked over to Cassius, bent over him, and placed the tip of the knife just inside one of his nostrils.

  ‘I said stand.’

  Cassius slowly did so. Scaurus kept the blade where it was, then ran his other hand up Cassius’s thigh and between his legs. He left his hand there for a moment, then continued on, up his chest and neck. He reached Cassius’s mouth and pressed a single finger against his lips.

  ‘Perhaps you could be useful to me.’

  Scaurus lowered the blade and stepped away. ‘But no, I mustn’t let myself get distracted. I’m not quite safe yet.’ He moved aside and gestured towards the door. ‘I shall slit your throat and drop you over the side. You should be grateful – a swift death.’

  ‘More than you’ll get,’ Cassius said as he passed him. ‘I hope they crucify you.’

  ‘What’s your name, pretty boy?’

  Cassius raised his chin. ‘Cassius Quintius Corbulo.’

  ‘Well, Cassius Quintius Corbulo, I, Kaeso Scaurus, am going to kill you now.’

  He opened the door and shoved Cassius outside, then placed the tip of the blade against his neck. Cassius heard him locking the door behind them. The cold blade pushed at his skin.

  ‘Up you go.’

  Cassius went up the three steps and found himself staring at sixteen African slaves. Naked save for loincloths, the oarsmen were the darkest men he had ever seen. Though their upper bodies rippled with muscle, their legs seemed rather undeveloped in comparison. Each man was shackled to a longer chain that ran along the floor.

  A seventeenth slave sat close to the hatch, beating out a slow rhythm on a drum between his legs. The oarsmen were taking long, steady breaths between strokes. Cassius could see they were an experienced, well-trained crew; though their chestnut skin shone with sweat, every man looked well within himself. A couple of them glanced curiously at him, then looked away.

  An overseer with a long cane tucked into his belt was patrolling up and down the aisle between the slaves, sipping from a wooden mug. He made way for Cassius and looked him up and down as he and Scaurus passed. Next to the hatch, opposite the drummer, was a table around which four men sat, playing dice on a board and drinking wine.

  The men from the jetty: the men who had slaughtered Major and laughed about it. The men who did Scaurus’s killing for him.

  They looked to be from lands either east or south of Syria. One was older – bald, probably in his forties; the other three about Cassius’s age. All stocky and powerful, they were still wearing their black tunics and heavy leather boots. Propped up against the table were their four clubs. The head of one had been embellished by metal studs hammered into the wood. Another had two spikes sticking out of it. Cassius examined each face in turn but had no idea which of them had killed Major.

  ‘Need a hand there, sir?’ asked the older man casually, in passable Latin.

  ‘I think I can handle this one, Alikar,’ answered Scaur
us. ‘Take it easy on the wine.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cassius slowly made his way up the steps.

  ‘Palestinian mercenaries,’ explained Scaurus, his hand on Cassius’s arm. ‘I’ve bought and sold every kind of warrior imaginable. There are none better.’

  Cassius stepped up on to the deck and bowed his head against the sunlight glinting off the river.

  ‘Come, grain man.’

  Scaurus led him towards the stern. Two men were there, one with both hands on the tiller, the other standing beside him. They were both wearing a pale belted tunic with trousers – standard sailor attire. The older man had a vertical blue stripe on his tunic. He was standing next to the deckhouse, a solidly built shelter that offered protection from the elements when at sea.

  ‘Bit of rubbish,’ Scaurus said, nodding at Cassius. ‘Needs to be disposed of.’

  The helmsman suddenly pointed forward. ‘Sir, look there.’

  The captain stared along the river, then moved right to see around the mast. His jaw dropped open. He ran forward and bellowed down into the hatch.

  ‘Oars up! Oars up!’

  Simo had prayed; and he believed God had answered.

  Just half a mile downriver, he’d come across three old barges tied up to a decrepit jetty. One of the barges was full of water and listing badly, but the other two were still afloat. They were little more than wooden shells with posts close to the bow for a tow rope. The vessels were narrow but long – long enough for what Simo had in mind.

  Having left the cart and the horses on the towpath, he’d cut some rope from the sunken barge, then used it to connect the other two via the towing posts. He then cut all the ropes except a line holding one of the barge’s bows against the jetty.

  Seeing how close Scaurus’s galley was, he pushed the stern of the other craft out into the river. The ebbing tide did the rest, pulling both vessels out into the channel, until the far end of the second barge swung into the thick bank of reeds on the other side of the river. For one terrible moment, Simo thought the tide might pull it through but then both craft came to a rest, blocking the entire width of the river.