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

by Brown, Nick

  ‘Usrana here is in a hurry,’ he said. ‘Our horses need a rest – we’ve been on the move since dawn.’

  Mercator looked at him, brow furrowed.

  ‘We shall stay a while longer, Mertan,’ added Cassius.

  ‘Well, thanks again,’ said Usrana as Yorvah replaced the amphora on the cart for him. The men also helped him retie the rope so the load was secure. He and the boys climbed up and set off towards Dhiban.

  While the men were still gathered, Cassius walked up to Yorvah. ‘“By Jupiter” – is that a common phrase amongst local tribesmen, do you think?’

  Only then did the guard officer realise his error. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘He didn’t notice,’ said Andal.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Cassius.

  ‘They couldn’t ride with us?’ asked Mercator.

  Cassius ignored him and addressed the others. ‘The rest of you see to your horses. You have a quarter-hour.’

  Mercator stayed where he was, arms crossed, staring at Cassius. He at least waited for the men to disperse before speaking. ‘Didn’t you hear what he said? What if they run into some of these brigands?’

  ‘What do we care?’ countered Cassius. ‘I am a merchant and you lead my hired swordsmen, so it’s hardly our concern. Our concern is getting to the south of this province with our cover intact; a task which seems to be a sufficient challenge for you and your men.’

  ‘No harm done,’ said the optio.

  ‘Rumour and gossip fly up and down roads like this quicker than the imperial post. I suggest you go and remind your auxiliaries of their obligations.’

  ‘Perhaps they consider this playacting dishonourable.’

  ‘Perhaps you do.’

  Mercator looked away.

  Cassius held up a hand. ‘Listen, I admire the sentiment, really – wanting to help. But we have no room for sentiment. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  As they rode on, the sun grew hotter. Cassius was grateful for the riding breeches protecting his legs and the hood protecting his head. He couldn’t stop his fingers sweating on the reins, though, and eventually had to ask Simo for a towel.

  With the horses visibly slowing, he became increasingly keen to get to Dhiban and give the mounts and the men (not to mention himself) some respite from the heat. As they neared the top of a crest, Andal and Mercator assured him they were close. Beside the road was a milestone: like the others a thick, six-foot post of rounded limestone. Cassius peered down at the carvings, checking that the distance to Petra tallied with his map. Some idiot had daubed paint on one side and he couldn’t quite make out the figure. Waving the others past, he nudged his horse closer.

  ‘Shall I get down, sir?’ said Simo, who had come off the road behind him.

  ‘No, I think I can see it. That’s an eight, isn’t it?’

  ‘Look!’

  The cry came from Mercator.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Cassius.

  ‘Usrana – looks like he’s in trouble!’

  ‘Of course he is.’ Cassius handed the map to Simo and trotted his horse up to the crest. About two miles to the south were the densely packed buildings of Dhiban. Closer, on the right side of the road, was a large farmhouse.

  ‘See there,’ said Mercator, pointing.

  Usrana had just guided the cart behind the farmhouse. He jumped down and ran to the corner, then looked west. Riding hard across the flat, dusty ground towards him was a phalanx of around twenty horsemen.

  ‘Sir?’

  Cassius knew instantly he could not say no. If something happened to Usrana and the boys while they simply looked on, the men would never forgive him. Come to think of it, neither would he.

  Indavara rode up beside him. ‘I’ll go. We’ll see those thieving bastards off easily enough.’

  Cassius looked at the horses. Most of the tired, heavily loaded mounts wouldn’t make a mile gallop; and if the brigands weren’t put off by the sight of them, they would reach Usrana first.

  ‘Sir?’ pressed Mercator.

  ‘You and Indavara take Yorvah’s squad. Drop all your bags.’

  Mercator leaped down off his saddle.

  ‘You heard the man!’ yelled Yorvah as he and the others set about lightening their loads.

  Cassius got down and helped Indavara, who was frantically untying blankets and bags.

  ‘Take it easy. This isn’t why we’re here.’

  ‘I know.’

  Mercator was the first away, whipping his mount as he charged down the slope.

  ‘Stay on the road!’ shouted Cassius. ‘That ground is rough.’

  Indavara was next away, followed by Yorvah and the nine men of his squad.

  Cassius winced as he saw the bodyguard hunched way too far forward, and hoped he’d make it to the farmhouse without coming off.

  He turned to Andal. ‘Load that gear up – quickly!’

  Indavara cursed at his mount, imploring it to go faster as the auxiliaries sped past him. He was bouncing around all over the place and was pretty sure his horse was galloping only because the others were. Then he remembered what Corbulo had told him about gripping tight with his thighs, which seemed to help a bit. He snatched a look to his right as they neared the farmhouse – the brigands were close.

  His mount seemed to sense he was distracted and slowed down. Indavara didn’t like to kick it too hard and his half-hearted attempts made no difference. Thankfully, the horse followed the others as Mercator came off the road, heading straight at the brigands. Indavara glimpsed Usrana, still at the corner. He and the boys watched them fly past.

  Mercator came up in his saddle and slowed to a trot. As Indavara copied him, he heard a shout then two loud thumps.

  ‘Oh no.’

  Cassius had just set off from the crest when he saw the horses go down. The men were thrown to the ground and the animals tumbled into the dust, legs flailing. A couple of the others looked back but they had other things to worry about: the brigands had fanned out to meet them at the edge of the property.

  ‘Yah!’

  Cassius’s horse was the least heavily loaded. He lashed it with the reins and thundered away.

  As the dust cleared, Indavara turned back and saw that one of the fallen riders was already up on his feet. The auxiliary went straight to his horse, which was lying motionless. The other animal hauled itself up by its front legs. Indavara couldn’t see the second man.

  ‘Stop,’ ordered Mercator.

  Indavara halted next to the optio. Some of the animals were wheezing and foaming at the mouth, barely able to keep their heads up.

  The brigands passed through gaps in the patchy hedge that ran around the rear of the property. Dark, bearded faces framed by the folds of their hoods, they advanced across the dry ground. Indavara was relieved to see no bows or spears or other distance weapons.

  ‘Twenty-one,’ said Yorvah, ‘and we’ve only ten.’

  ‘Eleven.’ The auxiliary who had recovered himself walked up behind them.

  ‘Who’s down?’ asked Mercator without turning round.

  ‘Druz. Looks bad.’

  The brigands stopped at what Indavara reckoned to be about forty feet. He looked back at the road. Corbulo was ahead of the others but still a good half-mile away.

  Two of the brigands exchanged a few words then one pulled down his hood. He was surprisingly young, pale eyes regarding those before him with cool contempt. He spoke in Greek.

  ‘We want the black stuff. Give us the cart and there’ll be no trouble.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Mercator, who was breathing a lot harder than the brigand.

  The leader spat into the ground. ‘This is our territory. Who are you?’

  ‘Friends of Usrana,’ said Mercator. ‘He’s keeping the black stuff for himself – why don’t you go and get some of your own?’

  The leader gestured to his compatriots. ‘We have the numbers. Just give us the cart and we’ll let all of you go on your way.’


  Indavara was listening but he was more interested in the fact that almost all the brigands now had a hand on their swords. He thought he’d done pretty well to stay on his horse but he wasn’t about to try fighting on it. He patted its shoulder, then let go of the reins and dismounted. To avoid standing in amongst the other mounts, he took a few steps forward and stared at the brigand.

  There was another reason he wanted to settle the matter quickly – judging by the noises Druz was making, he was badly hurt. Indavara had no intention of waiting around for this plundering bastard to make his move.

  The brigand aimed a long finger at him. ‘I would advise against provocation. Anything that comes out of the water around here belongs to us.’ He nodded towards Usrana, who was still looking on from the corner of the farmhouse. ‘And anyone who gets in our way ends up under the ground.’

  ‘Enough talk, thief,’ said Indavara. ‘You want it, come and get it. If not, run along before I lose my patience and put you under the ground.’

  One of the other men unleashed a stream of curses at him. Indavara didn’t understand a word of it. He placed one hand on his sword and beckoned the vocal brigand forward with the other. Now that it came to it, he realised he might enjoy chopping his way through these parasites; in fact he was almost beginning to hope it would happen.

  The leader scratched his chin and seemed to think for a while before replying. ‘Luckily for you there’ll be plenty more of the black stuff coming out today. You’re not worth the trouble.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that,’ said Indavara. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘Easy,’ warned Mercator quietly.

  The brigand pointed at Indavara again. ‘I shall remember your face.’

  ‘I’ve already forgotten yours.’

  The loud brigand shouted more insults at him. The leader put out a hand and the man reluctantly quietened down. With a few more words, the leader turned his horse around and led the brigands back through the hedge. Some were slow to follow. Indavara and the auxiliaries watched them until the very last man had turned away.

  As Cassius dismounted, Usrana hurried towards him.

  ‘Thank you for sending your men, sir, thank you.’

  Cassius handed him his reins. ‘Watch my mount, would you?’

  He jogged along the side of the farmhouse to where the horse and the injured man lay. The horse was on its side, breathing unevenly, bloody spittle bubbling from its mouth and nostrils. Bone had sheared through skin just above its front left knee. It would have to be killed.

  Cassius reached the auxiliary at the same time as Indavara and Mercator. He was on his back, face wrinkled by pain, fists clenched. ‘My back. Gods, I think it’s broken.’

  ‘You’ll be all right, Druz,’ said Mercator as he knelt beside him and took a gourd from his belt.

  ‘Gods, gods.’ Druz, who was one of the younger auxiliaries, reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, roughly cast iron phallus – a good-luck charm.

  ‘Where’s the pain?’ asked Mercator, a hand on the younger man’s chest.

  ‘Everywhere.’

  Indavara had checked the rest of his body. ‘No other injuries I can see.’

  ‘Give him some room,’ Cassius told the others. ‘Simo will be here in a moment.’

  ‘Gods, gods,’ wailed Druz. ‘Some strong wine, please – something for the pain.’

  ‘Here.’ Usrana arrived with a flask. ‘I was saving this for tonight. It’s unwatered.’

  Mercator pulled out the stopper and held it to Druz’s lips.

  As the auxiliary drank, Usrana looked up at Cassius and the others. ‘Thank you again. Thank you all.’

  XII

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Backs are very difficult to diagnose, sir,’ said Simo. ‘But I’d say he’s damaged the lower part of it.’

  ‘Can he ride?’

  ‘Not a chance. We’ll need to make a stretcher for him.’

  Cassius looked at Mercator.

  ‘What else could we have done?’ said the optio. ‘Let those thieving bastards kill Usrana and the boys?’

  ‘I warned you about that ground,’ replied Cassius, ‘and you came off the road like it was a bloody cavalry charge.’

  Mercator didn’t seem keen to argue the point. ‘I’ll go and sort out the stretcher. We can bind some tent poles together, use panels for the sling.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  As he left, Druz continued to curse and groan. His cries had distressed the boys so much that Yorvah had taken them round to the other side of the farmhouse to play a game. There was no sign of any inhabitants; the place seemed abandoned.

  ‘Any reason not to give him more wine?’ Cassius asked Simo.

  ‘No, sir. Unless we can get him to a surgeon, there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Then keep him drinking until he passes out. I can’t take much more of that din.’

  Cassius walked over to Usrana. ‘You’re from Dhiban?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know if there’s a surgeon there?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Any army? Administrators?’

  ‘No, sir, just the odd tax collector now and again. There is the centurion – he’s the richest man in the town and head of the council.’

  ‘Centurion?’

  ‘Retired. Name’s Censorinus. He owns a big farm, employs dozens of workers.’

  ‘Where is this farm?’

  ‘About a mile south of the town. It’s signposted from the road.’

  After a failed attempt to mount the stretcher across two of the steadier mules, they decided to carry Druz the remaining two miles to Dhiban. Cassius placed the bearers in the middle of the party and kept one eye to the west all the way, fearing the brigands might return with reinforcements.

  But in fact they saw no one, and with the men all taking their turn with the stretcher – Indavara included – they made reasonable time. Druz had succumbed to the wine and remained unconscious as they pressed on through the town, accompanied by Usrana and the boys until they reached the central square.

  Dhiban was indeed a quiet place with no sign of any soldiers or officials, but Usrana assured Cassius that the brigands never ventured too close. He insisted on handing over all his remaining wine for Druz and promised that he and his family would offer prayers for him for the next hundred days. Farewells were exchanged and they went on their way.

  Despite what Usrana had told him, Cassius asked several passers-by about a surgeon, but the only medical help available was from the usual opportunistic amateurs offering questionable advice and unreliable treatments. Cassius knew that only a well-trained, experienced physician would be able to do more for Druz than Simo. He didn’t intend travelling any farther with the stricken auxiliary so all hopes now lay with this retired centurion.

  Fortunately, the property was as easy to locate as Usrana had suggested. On either side of the track leading off the road were fields enclosed by fences and hedges, most containing goats or sheep. In the middle of one field were three boys who had stopped to peruse the new arrivals. They suddenly ran off towards the buildings.

  Cassius led the auxiliaries to the scanty shade offered by a row of date palms, then told Mercator to wait there and rode on with Indavara and Simo. They passed numerous outhouses and pens before reaching what looked like the residence. The two-storey villa was large compared to most within the town, and was fronted by a wooden verandah. A maid cleaning the window shutters also ceased her work to watch the interlopers.

  Hearing hooves on stone, Cassius turned to his right and saw four riders trotting up between two barns. Looking on from behind them were the boys. The leading rider was the oldest of the four and was wearing a wide-brimmed hat.To Cassius’s relief, the expression under it was more curious than suspicious.

  ‘Good day. I don’t recall making any appointments for this afternoon.’

  ‘Good day. Are you Censorinus, the ex-centurion?’

 
; ‘Around here it is usual for the visitor to give his name first.’

  ‘Of course. I am Cassius Oranius Crispian.’ Cassius gestured back along the track. ‘I have an injured man in my party and thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘I am Censorinus. But what makes you think I’d be so willing to help a stranger?’

  ‘Simo.’

  The Gaul – who had already retrieved the spearhead – held it up.

  Censorinus nodded at the villa. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Cassius stood alone on the verandah and watched the men gather. Not his men – they were topping up their water supplies from a cistern – but the group Censorinus had swiftly assembled from his family and staff. In charge was one of his sons, a well-built fellow armed with spear and sword. There were two other sons, three nephews plus a dozen labourers. They had been tasked by Censorinus with recruiting more sword-hands from Dhiban, then heading north in search of the brigands that had attacked Usrana.

  The son gave a shout and led them away towards the road at a gallop, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. The boys and women who had been looking on dispersed rapidly when they saw Censorinus exit the front door.

  He too watched the group depart. ‘I hope they find plenty of help. These thieves are growing in numbers and confidence – they even tried to take us on a couple of times recently.’

  ‘The people are lucky to have you watching over them.’

  ‘This is the first year I’ve had to do so alone.’

  ‘No help from the army?’

  Censorinus gave an ironic grin. ‘You’re the first officer I’ve spoken to in months. No, brigandage is generally kept under control by the local Saracen chief – we’re on the western edge of what’s long been considered his territory. No thief would dare rob one of the locals if they thought he would hear of it. But no one’s seen him or his men in weeks.’

  ‘Any idea where they are?’

  Censorinus ran his hand across the few white hairs left on his head. ‘Some say he’s gone north to fight the Palmyrans, others that he’s fighting with them. He never stays in one place for long anyway – he’s heavily involved in the incense trade – but he’d always leave a few men behind to keep the peace. Seems like they’ve all gone with him this time.’