by Brown, Nick
He had long been aware that requests for a quiet, easy life were unlikely to elicit results. Upon being told by his father that he was to join the army he had embarked on a frenzied – if brief – period of worship; all to no avail. And considering how things had gone since that point, it seemed the denizens of the heavens were intent on putting him through trial after trial until he succumbed. Since arriving in Syria three years ago, he’d often felt like a bottle tossed around on a sea; and eventually he’d been tempted to forgo worship entirely.
But he had survived. And he knew that in many ways the gods had been kind. They had given him a rich, powerful family; a healthy, handsome body; and a mind that invariably outperformed those around him. He wasn’t perfect – swordplay and other martial skills didn’t come naturally, and he had a damaging tendency to lose all sense where women were concerned – but the latter was a common affliction and he was trying to address his other weaknesses.
This new-found sense of clarity had led Cassius to ruminate on the words of Marcus Aurelius: Nothing happens to anybody that he is not fitted by nature to bear.
Had the gods placed him in these situations to serve Rome? Set him these challenges precisely because he was well equipped to deal with them?
An appealing concept, but one that rather fell down in the face of logical appraisal. His own poor judgement had twice set in motion events leading him to face danger and death; that and the demands of Abascantius and Chief Pulcher. On the other hand, his arrival on Rhodes at precisely the right time to take up the Memor investigation had suggested a divine hand.
As he queued in front of the Temple of Jupiter, waiting to buy a libation, Cassius tried to put such questions aside and concentrate on the here and now. Whatever the gods’ intentions, they seemed determined to place him in harm’s way again. So be it; but Cassius reckoned he was owed something in return for his previous accomplishments and was prepared to spare an hour of his evening to make one important request.
He handed over a coin and took the clay cup of wine, then hurried up the steps and between the two gargantuan columns on either side of the entrance. The wooden doors were each a foot thick and studded with massive iron bolts. Two young priests whispered prayers as every worshipper entered.
Cassius liked the cool air of temples; the quiet, too. He’d remembered to change into his soft walking boots and he strode swiftly across the immaculate marble floor, past the interior colonnades to the podium at the rear.
Another pair of priests flanked the platform, silently watching over a dozen of the kneeling faithful. Cassius didn’t enjoy having to mix with commoners but there was nowhere else to go if one wished to commune with Jupiter. The altars here were not intended for sacrifice, merely to accommodate the hundreds of libations offered daily. Cassius found a space for his cup, then a space below the podium for himself.
Lifting his scabbard to make sure it didn’t scrape on the floor, he knelt on one knee. He didn’t want to look up at the statue until he was ready to speak but it was hard to ignore the whispered entreaties filling the air:
‘God of gods, let Aurelia be freed. We have waited so long.’
‘A son, a son, a son.’
‘Not bronze, silver. Mighty Jupiter, let it be silver.’
‘Father of the gods, I beg you to cure him.’
To Cassius’s dismay, more worshippers arrived and surrounded him. One man was clad in little more than rags, his sandals held together with rotting lengths of twine. He immediately embarked on a swift and remarkably articulate request for nothing more than enlightenment. More distracting still was a legionary. This man offered a cordial nod to Cassius, then bowed his head and whispered his prayers. His right arm was a stump that ended six inches below his shoulder. It was heavily bandaged and spotted with yellow and red.
Admonishing himself for wasting time, Cassius gazed up at the statue. It was a fine rendering, perhaps twice life size, composed of pale grey marble. The heavily bearded god was sitting, eyes no more than hollows in the stone, bronze sceptre held in his left hand. Cassius extended his arms upwards and whispered the words.
Father Jupiter, revered god of gods, I come with an offering, one of many I have given in recent times. I pledge to come again to your dwelling-place whenever I can and give for the rest of my days. In return I ask only for one thing. Do not let me face this journey alone.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Indavara as Cassius walked into the atrium.
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘Just walking.’
Cassius had no intention of telling him what he’d been doing. ‘There’s hardly time for that. We must get ready for the journey.’
Indavara avoided his gaze.
‘I swear you’re enjoying this,’ said Cassius.
‘Corbulo, I am not your slave. I am a free man. I’ll tell you when I’ve made up my mind.’
‘No sign of Simo still, I suppose?’
‘I just got back.’
‘Muranda!’
‘Yes, sir?’ came the reply from the kitchen.
‘Nothing from Simo?’
‘No, sir.’
Cassius sighed. It seemed he could expect little help from above. Muranda walked into the atrium. ‘There was this note, though.’
Cassius unrolled the sheet. The message was from Abascantius. He had made the preparations and was waiting for them at the headquarters building.
Indavara was already on his way to his room.
‘Wait.’ Cassius held up the note. ‘From Master Abascantius. He has a proposal for you.’
‘Proposal? About what?’
‘Let’s go and find out.’
Abascantius concluded the tour of the headquarters with the armoury, a miniature version of the main building where a special cache of weapons was kept and maintained. Inside, one man was sitting on a stool polishing a bronze hilt without a blade. Another had a spear held in a vice and was fitting a new head. Indavara couldn’t help stepping up to the doorway and running a professional eye over racks full of pristine spears, swords and shields.
Abascantius had also shown him and Corbulo the small shrine where the senior officers worshipped and a large, colourful map of the eastern provinces. Indavara hadn’t been able to make much out of it and was still unsure what they were doing there.
‘Come, you two,’ said the agent. ‘I’ve had a room put aside for us.’
They passed three servants carrying trays of steaming food and entered a small chamber equipped with a square table surrounded by chairs. In one corner was a shelf overloaded with scrolls tied with multicoloured string. Abascantius shut the door behind them and gestured to the table. Three mugs of wine had already been filled from a jug and there were bowls of dates, raisins and walnuts. Next to a lamp was a small cloth bag.
The trio sat down and sipped at their wine. Indavara thought Corbulo seemed unusually quiet and didn’t particularly like the way he and Abascantius were looking at him. The agent plucked a bag of coins from his tunic and pushed it across the table to Indavara.
‘Let’s get this out of the way now. I don’t want it to influence your decision. Corbulo’s had his. It’s the balance for the Cilicia job and the rest’s for the Memor investigation.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re probably wondering what all this is about,’ said Abascantius. ‘Well, I’ve been very impressed by your work since taking you on last year. I’ve seen a lot of bodyguards and other operatives come and go over the years and it’s quite clear to me that you are an individual of great skill and courage.’
Indavara shifted his gaze to the wall. It was difficult to look at people when they gave you compliments, but he didn’t mind hearing them.
‘Helping Corbulo find that Persian flag, for example. You two helped us keep the peace – possibly even averted a war. And ridding Cyrenaica of Carnifex and his like. Noble acts, greatly appreciated. And yet Corbulo here tells me you’re thinking of leaving.’
&nbs
p; ‘Maybe.’
‘Might I ask why?’ Abascantius was speaking much more quietly than usual.
Corbulo was leaning back in his chair, trying to look uninterested.
‘I never really planned to stay on. I thought I’d keep moving, take another job somewhere.’
‘That’s up to you, of course, but Corbulo and I need a decision now. We need to know if this operation is going ahead with or without you. And I have an offer that I hope will help you make up your mind.’
Indavara nodded.
‘A place in the army,’ said Abascantius.
‘As what, a soldier?’
‘As bodyguard to Corbulo and an agent of the Service.’
Indavara had seen enough to know that being a free man didn’t count for much if you had to follow orders. ‘So I’d have to do whatever the army told me to.’
‘You’d have to do whatever the Service told you to.’ Abascantius aimed a thumb at himself. ‘Meaning me.’
‘Soldiers have to give an oath,’ said Indavara. ‘I can’t give an oath to Rome.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not a Roman.’
‘What are you, then?’
Corbulo coughed. Abascantius looked at him.
Indavara took another drink before replying. This was exactly why he didn’t like being stuck in rooms and being made to talk. Too many difficult questions.
‘You know what I was.’
‘The arena is not Rome.’
Indavara wasn’t sure what to say to that. There had always been soldiers at the arena in Pietas Julia, and wasn’t the governor also the chief of a province’s legions?
‘The army didn’t put you there,’ added Abascantius. ‘The contests grow less popular every year. Not everyone agrees with them, you know.’
‘Corbulo doesn’t. He’s never even seen one. But you …’
Indavara stopped himself. Abascantius was a hard man to like but he’d been good to him. He didn’t want to insult him.
‘Go on,’ said the agent. ‘You can speak freely.’
‘What about the man who had the Persian flag – Scaurus? You had him torn apart by dogs in the arena at Antioch.’
‘That man was a criminal and a traitor.’
‘Perhaps I was too.’
Indavara wished he hadn’t said that. In his first weeks at the arena he’d been haunted by the thought of it; many gladiators were criminals after all. But over time – though he still didn’t know what he had been – he had become sure it wasn’t that.
‘Well, were you?’ asked Abascantius. ‘You never speak of your past.’
Corbulo leaned on the table. ‘That’s all water under the bridge now, sir. Shouldn’t we focus on the present?’
Indavara was grateful to him for intervening; and that it seemed he hadn’t passed on what he knew about Indavara’s memory loss.
‘Indeed we should,’ agreed Abascantius. ‘Indavara, taking the oath brings great advantages. You will receive a wage and be exempt from most taxes. If you serve for several years we can give you a discharge certificate like the one I showed the auxiliaries. You will be awarded a large lump sum or an area of land. Ex-soldiers go on to head councils, own concerns. They have great status, much more than—’
‘A bodyguard. Or an ex-slave gladiator.’
‘Yes.’
Abascantius glanced at Corbulo then continued. ‘And the army gives you protection. You cannot be brought before a court.’
Indavara could certainly understand the benefit of that. He had seen first-hand how Roman soldiers – Corbulo included – did as they pleased, often at the expense of others. But like the legionaries he’d encountered at the arena, they were a mix of good and bad. There were the evil bastards like Carnifex and his cronies but then there were men like that poor centurion Eborius in Cyrenaica. And then there was Corbulo. He wasn’t a bad man, not really. As for Abascantius – Indavara hadn’t quite made up his mind about him.
He still didn’t like the idea of taking the oath but the army and the Service at least offered order and direction; better than working for some bloody crook or merchant as he had before being taken on by Abascantius. But then he remembered something.
‘You said if I served for “several” years. Don’t legionaries have to do twenty-five?’
‘Exceptions can be made. Corbulo here, for example, has only two years left.’
Indavara couldn’t make up his mind; there were too many things to consider.
For the first time, Abascantius looked annoyed. ‘Do you imagine that we freely offer such things to hired men? I have never done this before. I am showing you how highly you are valued. I am offering much but I need something in return. Your loyalty.’
‘Might I suggest a compromise?’ said Corbulo. ‘The oath to the army is taken every year. Why not write into Indavara’s contract that his service is on a year-by-year basis. In that time he would enjoy the benefits and – if he completed an extended period – the other rewards of service.’
‘How does that sound?’ asked Abascantius.
‘So I could leave after a year?’
‘If you wanted to.’
Abascantius reached into the cloth bag next to the lamp and pulled out two small items. The first was a miniature spearhead about three inches long with a pin on the back. ‘We use these when the full-size version is impractical. You walk into a room wearing this, you’ll get people’s attention. Solid silver.’
Indavara picked up the spearhead and turned it around, catching the light from the lamp. The intricate carving was remarkably detailed; he thought it rather beautiful. Then Abascantius showed him a small rectangular tablet. It was about the size of a thumb and composed of a duller metal.
‘Lead. I’ve already had it inscribed.’
Indavara was amazed to see his name etched into the metal in neat, precise lettering.
‘May I?’ said Corbulo, examining it. ‘Gods, they did a better job with this than mine.’
Indavara liked the tablet too, but he couldn’t help thinking of the brands slave-owners sometimes burned onto the skin of their slaves.
‘We need to know now,’ said Abascantius.
‘I’ll have to sign this contract, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll read it to you,’ said Corbulo. ‘Make sure it’s what you want.’
Indavara looked up at the ceiling. He had money. He could leave the next morning if he wanted to – just keep walking north. But what then? It would be just like the first day he left Pietas Julia.
And there was something else too. He didn’t much enjoy sitting around doing nothing. And as a bodyguard protecting someone else there’d been a lot of that. Well, standing around mostly.
The last time he’d really felt alive was when those auxiliaries had been after him. Scared, yes, but alive. Standing around wasn’t for him.
‘We want you with us,’ said Corbulo.
Abascantius nodded. ‘We do.’
The ceremony was carried out in the shrine. Night had come and the chilly room was lit by shifting splashes of candlelight. While he and Corbulo waited for Abascantius to return, Indavara looked down at the three bound sheets of paper lying on a writing block. He had understood only a little of the contract, but Corbulo had assured him it was in line with what they’d discussed.
Abascantius came back with two tribunes. They exchanged greetings with Corbulo then stood at the rear of the room.
Indavara listened carefully as the agent began. ‘He who joins the legions pledges himself to Rome. He who joins the legions honours Jupiter and Mars and all the great gods. He who joins the legions bows before the Emperor Lucius Domitius Aurelianus and offers his sword, his service and his life. Do you give your oath?’
‘I give my oath.’
Abascantius grinned.
‘Is that it?’
‘Not quite.’ The agent pointed at the bronze pen beside the writing block. ‘You must sign all three pages.’
For Ind
avara, this was the worst part; having to write his name with the four of them watching. When he was finished, he showed it to Corbulo. ‘Is that all right?’
‘It’s fine.’
Abascantius clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations, lad, you are now on the books of the Fourth Scythican Legion under Prefect Oppius Junius Venator.’
The two tribunes came forward and shook Indavara’s forearm.One examined his signature. ‘Just the one name, eh? Very mysterious.’
‘Congratulations,’ said the other man, ‘you must down plenty of wine tonight in celebration.’
Indavara noticed him wink at Abascantius.
The agent said, ‘Thank you, both.’
As the tribunes left, Abascantius handed over the identity tablet and the miniature spearhead. ‘Yours to keep, though I’m afraid you won’t be able to take them with you on this operation.’
‘Well then,’ said Cassius. ‘What about that drink?’
‘You two go ahead,’ said Abascantius. ‘I’ll call in tomorrow before I leave. If there’s anything else to discuss we’ll do so then.’
‘Come on,’ said Corbulo, leading the way out of the shrine. Indavara followed him, the spearhead in one hand, the tablet in the other.
‘I think the occasion merits a bit of that Surrentine.’
Cassius reached to the back of the cupboard and took out the flask, which had been left in the villa by Verecundus. He removed the stopper and looked inside. ‘Muranda, have you been drinking this?’
The housekeeper was sitting on one of the benches, polishing a candelabra between her legs. ‘No, sir.’
‘I’m sure there was more.’
‘You drank some when you came back from that dinner party last week.’
‘Oh. Right.’
Cassius took the wine over to the table and poured some for him and Indavara. The bodyguard was standing, staring thoughtfully down at the fire. At certain points in the evening, Cassius had felt the odd twinge of guilt about his and Abascantius’s scheming but such thoughts had now been subsumed by a warm flood of relief.
Indavara took the mug offered to him. ‘Corbulo, this doesn’t change anything between us. If I have something to say, I’ll say it.’