The Black Stone: Agent of Rome 4 (The Agent of Rome)

by Brown, Nick

  Thinking of the stack of paperwork awaiting him back at the villa, he quickened his pace. He would have to work hard for the rest of the day if he was to keep his evening appointment with the ladies.

  II

  It was the noise that did it. The previous rounds of the archery competition had been held in the morning, with only a few dozen inside the hippodrome. But the final was to commence at the eighth hour and over five hundred tickets had been sold. Before being introduced, the finalists waited inside one of the stalls usually used by chariot teams.

  Indavara stood at the back, staring vacantly at clumps of horsehair stuck in the planks of the wall. There hadn’t even been a cheer yet but he could hear that low buzz of excited anticipation. His hands were clammy, his throat tight; and for a moment he considered walking straight through the swinging doors and out of the stadium. But with little else to occupy him in the last few weeks, he’d put in hours and hours of practice and he was determined to see it through. Sixty-four entrants were now four and the winner stood to collect ten aurei plus a silver trophy.

  One of the other competitors – a cocky Egyptian named Eclectis – was removing the remains of his lunch with a toothpick. Two others – both local men – stood close to the front, peering over the doors. Outside, the organiser of the event, Taenaris, was warming up the crowd. The two locals exchanged a few barbed comments about him then shared a drink from a jug of wine.

  Indavara walked forward and checked the first few rows of benches for Sanari, the maid from next door. She had promised she would come. Corbulo had said the same but Indavara doubted he would be there, especially without Simo around to remind him. Though they shared a roof, Corbulo rarely needed his services these days and was usually busy with work or his social life.

  Belatedly realising that examining the sea of faces was only making him feel worse, Indavara turned away and tried to control his breathing.

  ‘Nervous, big man?’ asked Eclectis. The Egyptian had been calling him that since the quarter-finals. Every one of the competitors was by necessity broad chested and strong, but most were leaner than Indavara. They were mainly ex-auxiliaries. Eclectis, however, was still serving and always brought along dozens of his fellow soldiers.

  ‘Just want to get out there,’ said Indavara.

  ‘My advice – enjoy yourself now. This is as good as your afternoon’s going to get.’

  Eclectis had won the competition for the last three years and it seemed a good proportion of his winnings went on clothes. He was wearing a pale blue tunic decorated with two vertical bands of silver thread. The bands were not solid but composed of a series of miniature arrows arranged nose to tail. His belt buckle was, of course, in the shape of a bow.

  Taenaris had almost finished the preamble. His two assistants came over, their sandaled feet visible under the swinging doors. Eclectis and the local men lined up beside Indavara.

  ‘People of Bostra, please welcome … the competitors!’

  The assistants pulled the doors apart. Eclectis was out first and soon bowing theatrically to the crowd gathered to their left. The surge of clapping and shouting was almost too much for Indavara, who hung back behind the others. He looked forward at the range.

  The four targets had been set up on the crowd’s side of the ‘spine’ – the high, stone structure that formed the centre of the chariot course. Precisely one hundred yards away was the rope from where the competitors would fire their arrows. Taenaris stood there, beaming.

  Indavara glanced at the crowd and noticed a few city sergeants on the front row of benches, clubs laid out on the sand in front of them – ready for any trouble. Lads carrying trays were trotting around, selling palm leaves stuffed with sweet and savoury snacks. There were bookmakers on the move too; each trailed by a clerk clutching a handful of papers or a writing tablet.

  Indavara was glad to be farthest from the crowd. Each competitor had been given a circular table for his equipment. The two others were between Indavara and Eclectis, who was still enjoying the attention too much to worry about actually getting ready. His cronies were already on their feet and shouting his name.

  Indavara checked his gear. His leather case was propped up against the table, on top of which lay his arrows and the bow he had purchased the previous year in Syria. The string was a few weeks old – fresh enough to maintain elasticity but worn in enough to be consistent. The other archers had laughed when they saw he would be taking his arrows from the table. As seasoned auxiliaries they plucked theirs from a quiver on their back or hanging from their belt. Indavara owned one but wasn’t used to it yet; he preferred his own method for now.

  He ran through a few stretches and started to feel better. As he swung his arms to loosen up, Taenaris came over. The Greek was short – barely five feet – and remarkably hirsute, with black hair sprouting above his tunic collar. ‘When they’ve quietened down I’ll introduce you by name. Where are you from again?’

  ‘Er … Antioch.’

  ‘And a bodyguard, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No family name.’

  ‘No.’

  Indavara continued his exercises.

  Taenaris turned to face the crowd. ‘Welcome once more! Welcome all, to the twenty-second annual Bostran archery contest. And a fine one it’s been this year, with competitors from six different provinces, all vying to win the much-coveted Silver Archer, not to mention ten – yes, ten – golden aurei.’

  One of Taenaris’s men held the figurine up to the crowd, then the bag of coins.

  ‘Eclectis has spent half of it already!’ yelled someone. The Egyptian chuckled along with the crowd and Taenaris waited once again for the noise to fade before continuing. ‘First, making his debut this year: the man who set a record-equalling score in the semi-finals – twenty-six points from ten arrows. Hailing from Antioch and currently employed as a bodyguard – I wish I could afford him! – Indavara!’

  Muted applause; mostly from a small group of girls sitting close to the front. Indavara had a quick look but couldn’t see Sanari. The girls were soon shouted down by the auxiliaries with cries of ‘Get back to work!’, ‘Stick to cleaning!’ and a few more vulgar insults.

  ‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ cried Taenaris. ‘Everyone is welcome here.’

  He went on to introduce the two locals, one of whom was a previous winner. Eclectis listened proudly to every word of his introduction, which was so lengthy and flattering that Indavara reckoned he’d probably helped write it. By the time Taenaris eventually called out his name, the auxiliaries were joined on their feet by much of the rest of the crowd.

  One of the Greek’s men ran off to station himself by the targets, while the other inspected the competitors’ equipment. Sitting at another table close by was a clerk of the Bostran court; a respectable-looking man in charge of scoring. Assisting him was a lad standing next to a large wooden frame facing the crowd. He had written the names of the competitors on paper sheets and now slotted them into openings on the left side of the frame. Next to each name was a row of holes. Once the contest started, coloured pegs would be placed in the holes to allow the onlookers to keep track of the score.

  ‘Is Bostra ready?’ asked Taenaris.

  Indavara tapped his fingers against his belt; this tiresome routine had preceded the start of every round.

  ‘I ask once!’

  ‘Yes!’ bawled the crowd.

  ‘Twice!’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’

  ‘Thrice!’

  ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

  ‘Let’s loose those arrows!’

  A final roar, amplified by stamping boots.

  ‘Gentlemen, ready yourselves,’ said Taenaris, taking a small hourglass from the clerk’s table.

  Indavara selected an arrow and stepped up to the rope. He took a long breath and a long moment to gaze at the target, then turned side-on and nocked the arrow.

  ‘Usual rules for the first round,’ announced Taenaris. ‘Our competitors have five minutes
to fire ten arrows. At the end we will count up the scores. The competitor with the lowest score drops out and we move in to round two. As ever, an arrow stuck in the white scores one, an arrow in Hades’ Eye scores three. Are the competitors ready?’

  Indavara nodded, facing away from the crowd and the other men.

  ‘Five minutes, then,’ said Taenaris. ‘I am turning the hourglass … now.’

  Eclectis always got a shot in quickly to intimidate the others and – judging by the shouts – he’d struck red.

  Indavara knew he had plenty of time and little to fear from the other two but he could feel his fingers shaking as he drew back the string. He stopped at three-quarters of a full extension: all he needed for a shot of three hundred feet.

  He closed his left eye and slowly breathed out.

  He took aim, then let go. The string snapped tight and he knew instantly the shot was low. The arrow clattered into the frame below the target, drawing a groan from the crowd.

  Indavara grimaced. He’d missed only once through all the hundreds of shots in the previous rounds, and then only because some drunk had thrown a bottle onto the range. He lowered the bow. The others were already onto their second or third shots.

  All those people watching. The pressure, the tension. It felt like the arena.

  This is different. It doesn’t matter. You can walk away whenever you want. You are a freedman. Free.

  The tightness in his throat eased. He took his flask of water from the table and drank, continuing only when he felt ready. By the time he loosed his second arrow the others had all fired their fourth. It was a decent hit, not far from the three-inch circle of red.

  From then on he did well: white, white, red, white, white, red, white, red. His pace improved too; and he finished just after the locals. Eclectis had been done for some time and wandered over to take a seat on the front row. The Egyptian had scored five reds and five whites, giving him an impressive total of twenty.

  Thanks to Simo, Indavara’s mathematical skill was now sufficient for him to count up his score, and even before Taenaris announced the result he knew he was through to the next round. His total of fifteen was matched by one of the locals but nerves had obviously got the better of the other competitor; he hadn’t hit a single red. With a quick salute to the crowd, he collected his gear and sloped off.

  Taenaris then brought out a comedian; entertainment for the short break before the next round. Eclectis stood there, listening and laughing along, having sent a lackey to fetch his arrows. The other competitor asked one of Taenaris’s men to get his. Indavara chose to recover his arrows himself.

  The walk gave him a chance to calm down but halfway along the range, he heard a woman call his name. He turned to his left and saw Sanari. She and a couple of friends had followed him; away from the benches and along the protective wall that ringed the chariot course. The young maid had that ever-present smile on her face. Indavara couldn’t help grinning back.

  ‘Well done!’ she cried. ‘You’re through.’

  ‘Just about,’ he replied, feeling his cheeks glow. He was so relieved she hadn’t shouted out to him in front of the other archers.

  ‘You can do it. I know you can!’

  The other two girls shouted encouragements too, then all three set off back towards the crowd. Indavara waved a thank-you and walked on.

  He had never met anyone who smiled so much. Sanari was nineteen – a bit younger than him – and worked for the army administrator two doors down. She had first spoken to Indavara while he was doing his exercises in the back garden and she’d been hanging out washing. Corbulo reckoned she was too chubby and that it wasn’t a girl’s place to talk over a wall to a stranger but Indavara didn’t mind any of that. They had taken a few walks since then, and he’d told her he would buy her the biggest bunch of flowers in Bostra if he won.

  Shaking his head to dispel such distractions, he reached the target and plucked out the arrows. One had hit the shaft of another and was no longer usable but the rest were fine. Careful not to touch the flights, he walked back along the range. Unable to spot Sanari, he found himself looking at the images carved into the pale stone of the spine. Most of the carvings showed racing chariots and athletic contests. One, however, showed two gladiators standing toe to toe, swords raised. Indavara looked away and hurried on.

  It’s different. You have nothing to fear now. You are free.

  He told himself these things a lot. Often at night; when he awoke and thought he was back in his cell beneath the arena at Pietas Julia. If he wanted to get back to sleep he would have to go to a window or door so that he could see something – reassure himself he really wasn’t there.

  He felt sweat form under his arms; and as he approached the tables he thought again about walking straight out through the gate.

  No. He couldn’t let himself down like that in front of Sanari. He wanted to beat Eclectis. And he wanted to beat the fear.

  He didn’t even listen to the comedian’s last few japes; he was busy examining the arrows, selecting for the next round. Once Eclectis and the other man were ready too, Taenaris turned the hourglass over and the second round commenced.

  Indavara got off to another poor start – three whites – but he forced himself not to look at either the spine or the crowd. He imagined the range as a tunnel down which the arrows would fly, straight into the eye. Of the next seven shots, five hit red. He finished shortly after Eclectis, who had registered precisely the same score. The third man was slower and needed two reds from his last two arrows to equal the others. He managed only whites and uttered a stream of imaginative curses as he took a seat in the front row.

  For the next break, Taenaris had recruited a juggler and a pair of acrobats. Feeling rather calmer, Indavara even left the table and watched their alternating routines, which drew cheers and whoops from the crowd. Spying some frantically waving hands, he spotted Sanari and her friends and summoned a smile. He was grateful, but he really wished Simo or Corbulo were there.

  Eclectis sidled up to him, running his hands through his shiny mane of hair. ‘Now we can get down to the real fight, eh, big man?’

  Indavara did not reply.

  ‘Nothing new to you, I’m guessing.’

  Indavara watched the juggler, pretending not to listen.

  ‘All those scars. Never seen so many on such a young man. Too young to have got them all in the army, so I’m guessing maybe you’re used to contests of a different kind.’

  Indavara tried desperately not to react.

  ‘Thought so,’ continued Eclectis. ‘So you should be used to all this. The sand, the heat, the noise. Except you look a bit nervy to me, big man – have done since you got here. So I’m thinking maybe you haven’t been back in a contest like this for a while. And now it’s starting to get to you a bit.’

  ‘You think you’re the only one who notices things?’ Indavara replied, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Four times I’ve seen you compete and not once before did I see you try to put someone else off. You must be worried.’

  He returned to the table. There was one easy way to shut Eclectis up and he wanted it now more than ever.

  ‘We come to the final round,’ announced Taenaris. ‘Sixty-four are now two and only one man can walk away from here victorious.’

  Indavara realised he had forgotten his prayers. He reached down and touched the little figurine of Fortuna nestling behind his belt.

  Dear Fortuna, goddess most high, make my hand steady, make my aim true.

  ‘Eclectis and Indavara will take turns with their ten arrows,’ continued Taenaris. ‘When both are finished, we will have our champion. In the event of a tie we move into “sudden death”. Are the competitors ready?’

  Indavara nodded. When Taenaris didn’t continue, he glanced left.

  Eclectis was facing the crowd, bow held casually in one hand. ‘I am sometimes known as the Hawk, because of my unerring eye. It seems only fair that our new friend has his own title. I sugge
st the Maid – because he likes to take things from the table!’

  Eclectis’s acolytes weren’t the only ones to laugh. Face glowing once more, Indavara kept his back to the crowd, eyes locked on the target. As the noise faded, a high-pitched voice yelled a response: ‘And now he will take your prize!’

  The auxiliaries’ attempts to shout Sanari down were drowned out by the noise from the rest of the crowd. It took several efforts by Taenaris to restore order.

  ‘As the competitor with the highest total score, Eclectis wins the right to choose who shall loose first.’

  Smirking, Eclectis jabbed his bow towards his rival.

  Indavara started well, the first arrow landing only an inch or two above the red. The smile finally off his face, Eclectis matched it.

  Though there was noise after each arrow hit the target, the crowd remained respectful as every man took his turn. By staying focused on the imaginary tunnel, Indavara found he became calmer and calmer. Both he and Eclectis had struck red with their second shot and hit white only twice more with their next six arrows.

  At this point, Taenaris broke in: ‘A tie, with only two shots left!’

  Most of the crowd was now standing. Taenaris held up a hand to Eclectis and Indavara; the bookmakers wanted time to register a last few wagers.

  Eclectis took a couple of steps towards Indavara. He smiled for the benefit of anyone watching and kept his voice low. ‘Seeing as you got out alive, I’m thinking you must have been quite a killer. That right, big man?’

  Indavara just wanted to get on with it.

  ‘Always wondered what it must be like,’ continued the Egyptian. ‘Standing over some poor bastard with a blade in your hand, waiting for the decision. Feel good, did it?’

  Images flashed into Indavara’s mind. So many men. All hurt, all bloodied, all lying in the sand.

  The betting was over. Taenaris addressed the competitors. ‘Indavara will loose first.’