by Brown, Nick
He waited for his companions to sit down, then did so himself, careful to ruffle his cloak up under him. The ladies, of course, both had cushions with them, once again reminding Cassius how much he needed Simo. No one would bat an eyelid at a servant carrying a cushion for his master but an army officer simply couldn’t be seen with one, so he would have to contend with a cold backside for the evening. He had, however, remembered to wear an under-tunic, and the thick, woollen cloak would help too. The ladies were both in hooded capes and long stola that reached down to their ankles.
‘Lucky me,’ he said, ‘a thorn between two flowers.’
Lepida moved in immediately, her left breast against his arm, the haze of perfume engulfing him. Cassius was glad she was sitting to the right – he wouldn’t have to look at that ghastly mole. During their last trip to the theatre, her hand had wandered up his tunic and he’d had to be quite forceful to fight her off. But tonight, with the fading light to cover them, he fancied he might not resist. The theatre had one notable advantage over other forms of entertainment; it was one of the few places where men and women were permitted to sit together.
‘Ah, I do love that scent,’ he said.
Down on the stage, a lad was sprinkling saffron water: a long-standing theatrical tradition that could have unfortunate consequences – few actors managed to get through their career without an embarrassing fall or two.
Lepida leaned forward to address her cousin. ‘Officer Corbulo did some acting as a youth.’
‘Really?’
‘An ignoble profession, of course,’ said Cassius. ‘But I must admit I did enjoy it at times.’
He stifled a grin – the main source of enjoyment had been the dressing up and spying on girls getting changed.
Lepida continued: ‘He also has a remarkable memory for poetry.’
‘Please, Mistress,’ said Cassius, ‘you’re embarrassing me.’
Fortunately, the play was about to begin and a corpulent actor in a green tunic had just appeared on the stage. Behind him was the first set; several screens decorated to resemble a forest. The actor held both hands high.
‘Pray, silence!’
The hum of muted conversation died away.
‘Thank you and welcome. Hail to the gods who watch over us!’
‘Hail!’ replied the locals, Lepida included. Cassius refrained; he could never quite bring himself to shout along with a crowd.
‘Hail to the governor, who has ensured that tonight’s performance goes ahead!’
‘Hail!’
‘Hail to the Emperor, Lucius Domitius Aurelianus!’
‘Hail! Hail! Hail!’
Cassius felt obliged to at least mutter this.
‘And now,’ added the actor in his most portentous tone, ‘best of order, please. The Bostra Players proudly present Brutus, a tragedy, by Accius of Pisaurum.’
He withdrew and was swiftly replaced by three of his compatriots, all dressed in luxurious robes and carrying wooden swords. Before even the first word was spoken, Cassius felt warm fingers upon his right knee.
Indavara hunched forward on the stone bench, chin propped up with his hand, gazing at the statue. Simo had told him about the sanctuary a few weeks ago and he’d already visited it twice. Because of the darkness he couldn’t see much more than the silhouette of the crowned head but that didn’t matter; he just hoped Fortuna might help him make up his mind.
To begin with, it had seemed as if life in Bostra might be good. He liked the idea of living in the house with the other two; having his own room, settling down in one place for a while. And parts of it were good; he would often help Simo with his work and in return the attendant would help him with his numbers and letters. But Simo had been away a while now and he’d been stuck in the house with Muranda most of the time. She was a nice woman but she talked too much and asked far too many questions, so whenever he could, Indavara escaped to practise his archery.
As for Corbulo, they shared the odd laugh when they were training but he was always busy, asleep or at the baths. And now that he knew him better, Indavara realised he was too tied up with himself to ever worry about anyone else. It was true he treated Indavara better than when they’d first met and – underneath the arrogance and vanity – he was a good man. But he was also a rich Roman; and Indavara reckoned Corbulo would always think of him as an employee, as his inferior.
The best thing about the last few weeks had been meeting Sanari. She didn’t seem to mind about his disfigured ear and all his scars, or that he knew so little of the world; they just seemed to get along. They’d been together when he saw the advertisement for the archery contest. Sanari couldn’t read but Indavara knew enough Greek to work out the basics and he’d later asked Simo to confirm the details. How he wished he’d never bothered now.
He stamped down on the ground, sending some birds fluttering away. That sly bastard Eclectis; he’d knock him down again if he could.
Indavara tried hard not to think of the arena but he suspected Corbulo was right – he usually was about that sort of thing. He could remember almost nothing before waking up there so it was no surprise that such thoughts were never far away. Little things reminded him: the clang of an iron door or that first breath of fresh air. Or the noise of a crowd.
Even so, he knew he’d have got through the contest if not for Eclectis. Indavara toyed with the idea of hunting him down. Facing his cronies wasn’t a concern; he would knock plenty of them over too before they stopped him.
He thought of the mob at the door. He had to admit Corbulo had done his best for him there. And perhaps things would be better when Simo came back. But he didn’t know how he could face Sanari now. What he had done must have seemed so cowardly, so weak. And how could he ever explain? Not without telling her it all.
Indavara heard shouting from somewhere. Nabatean? Aramaic? He could never tell the difference. He didn’t like this city much, or the province. It was too dry and too hot. He’d always preferred green lands with hills and rivers and forests. If he knew one thing about his origins it was that he came from one of the northern provinces, somewhere far, far from here.
He was also sure that Corbulo had offered to investigate his past only to make up for forgetting the contest. Indavara doubted there was anything to be discovered and he certainly didn’t want to return to Pietas Julia; not after what had happened in that inn.
Perhaps it was just better to keep moving, find a new life somewhere else. He had taken the job with Abascantius because the money was good, but he’d never intended to stay with Corbulo and Simo for so long. He had plenty of coin now; enough to take him as far as he wanted to go.
Brisk footsteps on the path to his right. Two men strode out of the shadows: city sergeants, clubs resting on their shoulders as they walked. Indavara looked down at the ground, raising his head only when they were well past.
He stood up and walked across the path, closer to the statue. The goddess’s face had always seemed to him how a mother would look: kind and forgiving. He knelt down.
‘Dear Fortuna, goddess most high. Tell me what to do.’
Although he had missed his afternoon trip to the baths, Cassius found he was now feeling quite relaxed. The play was even worse than he remembered but the actors were rather good, their eloquent delivery making the most of the crude, melodramatic dialogue.
Even more expert was Lepida’s technique. Though Cassius had taken Helena’s hand, Lepida had managed to get under his cloak and up his tunic without her cousin noticing. As he caressed Helena’s fingers, Lepida tightened her grip and increased her stroke. Cassius felt his breathing accelerate and shifted his right arm to cover his groin. He hoped Lepida would slow down but if anything she was going faster.
He coughed (largely to avoid making a noise of another kind) and gave the older woman a nudge. She let go, then withdrew her hand. Cassius coughed again.
‘Are you all right, Officer?’ asked Helena. ‘Perhaps we could get you a drink?’
; ‘No, thank you, I’m fine.’
Cassius turned to his right in time to see Lepida put her left hand to her mouth and lick her fingers.
‘Officer,’ said Helena in her soft voice, ‘please tell me what’s going on.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The play. I was following it up to a few moments ago but now I seem to be lost. The masks on those two actors are rather similar. Which is the daughter, which is the mother?’
‘Ah. Er …’
Cassius heard boots clattering down the aisle steps. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a legionary hurry past. Torches weren’t normally permitted in the audience and scores of people had already turned around. The legionary continued past them, then held the light up as he peered at the multitude. In such circumstances it was customary to pass on the name of the individual being sought and the people below soon did so.
‘Corbulo, Corbulo.’
‘Is there a Corbulo here?’
‘Anyone know Corbulo?’
‘It seems you are a wanted man,’ said Lepida.
‘Indeed,’ said Cassius. ‘Excuse me, ladies.’
He stood – grateful a little time had passed since Lepida had released him – and walked down the steps to the legionary. ‘You there, looking for me?’
‘Officer Corbulo, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Message from headquarters. There’s another officer wants to see you immediately.’
‘Typical.’
He hurried back up the steps to Lepida and Helena. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. Army business. My apologies.’
‘We will see you again soon, I trust?’ said Lepida.
‘Absolutely.’
He hurried away up the steps with the legionary. ‘Who is this officer?’
‘Sorry, sir, I can’t remember the name. I did see him ride in, though. Big man, with marks on his face.’
‘Marks?’
‘Yes, sir. You know, scars … from spots.’
‘Overweight, thinning hair?’
‘That’s him.’
Cassius sighed. ‘Caesar’s balls.’
IV
They were just yards from the fortress when Cassius heard someone shout his name. Peering back towards the villa, he spied a heavyset figure holding a lamp just outside the door. There was enough light to make out the sneering visage of Shostra, Abascantius’s ever-present attendant. Cassius dismissed the legionary then trudged back along the street.
Shostra gestured at the doorway and grunted, ‘In here.’
‘As cordial as ever, I see,’ said Cassius. ‘Try addressing me correctly next time. And by the way, I don’t really need an invitation to enter my own house.’
The Syrian – an ex-wrestler with the manners of a monkey and a face to match – grunted again and crossed the atrium to the kitchen.
The aching hollow that had been forming in Cassius’s stomach as he marched back through the city streets now seemed to burn hot along with the rest of his body. He wiped his face and took off his cloak, then shut the front door behind him.
‘By the favour of the great gods,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing too perilous, please.’
Cassius had made a concerted effort to worship of late and had even surmised that this might have contributed to his peaceful few months in Bostra. But a visit from Aulus Celatus Abascantius inevitably meant trouble. He draped the cloak over an unused candelabra and walked through to the kitchen.
‘And here he is – the Service’s best and brightest.’
Abascantius was sitting by the hearth in the dwelling’s only comfortable high-backed chair. Resting on his lap was a plate stacked with bread, cheese and dates; and he was already well into a large mug of wine.
‘I would get up, Corbulo, but my arse is absolutely killing me.’
Muranda – who was standing behind him – giggled.
Shostra, loitering in the shadows with his arms crossed, looked on impassively as Cassius walked over and shook his superior’s forearm.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Abascantius gave a sour smile. ‘Hardly the warmest of welcomes, Corbulo, but I’ve become used to a chilly reception over the years.’ He nodded down at the plate of food. ‘Your girl’s sorted me out, though, as you can see.’
‘Sorry, sir. How was the journey?’
‘Long and hard. We’ve been through four horses and I’ve barely slept a wink. Fortunately we were already in Epiphania but it still took five days. I hear that Christian slave of yours is up in Antioch. What about our quiet friend?’
‘I’m not exactly sure, sir. There was an … incident today.’
‘Oh? Well, you can fill me in later. There is a rather more pressing matter to discuss.’
‘I thought there might be.’
‘Mar …’
‘Muranda, sir,’ volunteered the housekeeper.
‘Muranda, pour your master some wine. We may be here for a while. And shut that door – I’ve a nasty draught on my back.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius was too concerned about what was coming to summon much outrage at the way Abascantius had made himself at home. He pulled out the bench again and sat opposite the agent, who had turned his attention to Shostra.
‘Get back to the fortress and make sure they’ve sorted out my room. And send a message to Calvinus requesting a meeting first thing tomorrow. I’ll be over later.’
The Syrian departed silently.
‘Indavara hasn’t been back?’ Cassius asked Muranda.
‘No, sir,’ replied the maid as she shut the back door.
‘Leave us alone, would you? Tidy my room up or something.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Chewing a lump of cheese, Abascantius watched the departing housekeeper. ‘You need to work her harder, Corbulo. Last thing I saw with a rear end that size had a trunk and tusks.’
Cassius forced a grin. Abascantius wolfed down some more food then dumped the plate on the table and picked up a leather folder. After wiping his hands on his tunic, he opened the folder and rifled through the sheets inside.
As usual, Cassius was struck by the singular ugliness of the man. His plump legs and arms were covered with moles; his broad face by pockmarks. He seemed to have lost even more of his straggly grey-brown hair but Cassius also observed another change in him.
‘I do believe you’ve lost weight, sir.’
‘It’s the worry.’
Abascantius took out a sheet and gave it to Cassius. It was composed of the finest Egyptian paper and addressed to him. His eyes ran down to the signature and wax seal at the bottom.
‘From Chief Pulcher,’ said the agent.
Despite his fears, Cassius couldn’t ignore the slight tingle of excitement. The commander of the Imperial Security Service was not known for readily doling out praise but even a brief glance at the letter revealed its tone of genuine gratitude.
‘An official commendation,’ continued Abascantius. ‘For your efforts in tracking down those responsible for the death of Deputy Chief Memor.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Your report was very detailed. That murdering piece of shit Carnifex sounds like quite a foe. You did remarkably well.’
‘I had a lot of help, sir.’
Abascantius replaced the folder on the table and retrieved his wine.
‘I must admit I didn’t expect a lot when I put you and our ex-gladiator friend together all those months ago, but you have proven yourself a potent combination. The affair with the flag must of course remain secret but this last investigation – Pulcher tells me there’s even been talk of it in the Senate.’
As Cassius placed the letter on the table, the tingle of excitement became a pulse. He took a long drink and wondered whether any of the talk had reached his father. At last, something for the old man to be truly proud of.
Abascantius raised his mug and gave a toothy grin. Excitement turned to trepidation once more as Cassius realised the flattery was purely to soften him up.
Now the agent would work his way round to what he was really doing in Bostra. The Emperor himself was currently leading his legions east and would soon be arriving in Syria to deal with the second Palmyran revolt. What could be important enough to drag Abascantius away from his duties in Antioch?
The older man belched, then reached into a money bag on his belt. He took out a handful of coins then leaned towards the fire, looking for one in particular. When he found it, he threw it to Cassius. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Cassius put down his wine and shuffled along the bench so that he too could see it better. ‘An old denarius.’
The obverse was quite worn; he couldn’t read the legend around the portrait. ‘Not sure which emperor that is.’ He turned the coin over and examined the reverse. The image on this side was clearer – four horses leading a cart with a round object inside. Beneath was a single word. ELAGABAL.
‘Ah. Elagabalus. The Syrian boy priest who somehow ended up emperor. If memory serves he liked to wear women’s clothes and set up a brothel in the palace. Ended up dead in a sewer after four years in charge. My grandfather, and many other people, consider him to be one of the worst emperors of all time.’
‘And in the cart?’
‘The fabled black stone. He’d worshipped it as a child then took it with him from Emesa to Rome. A sacred rock that spoke with a voice from above.’ Cassius handed the coin back. ‘Or some such rubbish.’
‘Given the views of our current ruler, it might be wise to keep statements like that to yourself.’
‘It’s true, then, sir? Aurelian really does favour the solar religions of the east now?’
‘I don’t know about “favour”. He’s certainly interested in them, though unlike Elagabalus he’s too wise to elevate them above Jupiter and the other great gods. But he has recently set about acquiring the most notable icons associated with Sol or whatever name you wish to give him and placing them in the Palatine temple. The black stone is perhaps the most well known of them all. Aurelian intends – was intending – to add it to his collection.’
Cassius took a longer swig of wine to steady his nerves. ‘Something tells me that what comes next might bode ill for me. This is starting to remind me of our first conversation regarding a certain missing flag.’