Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer

by Richard Foreman

  “Thank me with a drink, or four, and we’ll be even,” the veteran replied, grinning as he found a couple of gold coins upon the dead Briton. As he smiled Oppius noticed that one of his front teeth was missing and the other one was chipped.

  “Lucius, meet Tiro Casca,” Roscius remarked.

  “I served a little with your father. He was a good man, tough as leather. It seems you can handle yourself in a fight too. I also saw you on the beach. You’re your father’s son,” Tiro Casca announced, nodding in approval and respect.

  21.

  When they returned to camp Caesar assigned his own personal physician and surgeon to attend to the wounded archer. He also instructed his cook to muster up anything that the returning heroes wanted. Such were the appetites of Tiro Casca and Roscius that the cook was as verily exhausted as Oppius by the end of the feast. Before he could eat however the centurion delivered his report to his commander on the success of his mission.

  “I am indebted to you Lucius. You have served Caesar and Rome in a way that is above and beyond the call of duty. In the past few days you have completed a mission that not even an entire cohort could have managed. It’s only fair then that I reward you and the Briton with the equivalent wage of a cohort for the past few days. Please do not insult me by thinking of refusing my offer. Leave the curse of pride to Caesar,” the General announced, finishing off a piece of correspondence whilst talking.

  “Can I accept on behalf of my mother and arrange to send any payment back home? The money will make her comfortable in her remaining years.”

  After the debriefing Caesar ordered the centurion to eat, rest and return that evening for a light supper.

  Before returning to his tent however Oppius visited Teucer, who was resting in bed after his surgery. Despite all they had shared over the past few days – or because of it – the conversation between the two comrades was a little stilted. Finally, after one of many pauses, Oppius announced,

  “If you like I can petition Caesar for you should you wish to remain here. Your tribe needs a chieftain.”

  But the Briton shook his head, in a mixture of sadness and relief.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to suffer my company some more. There’s nothing left for me here, not even an embittered ex-wife.”

  “Britain’s loss is Rome’s gain. Now get some rest,” Oppius replied, fraternally squeezing the archer on the shoulder.

  “You should give yourself the same order. You look tired, as though you’ve been out all night with Roscius, drinking.”

  “I will. I’m so fucking exhausted that I won’t even need to read some of Fabius’ poetry to send me off to sleep.”

  Rain began to drum upon the roof of the tent again and both men briefly looked up, rolled their eyes and smiled wistfully.

  22.

  Outside the tent a bulbous moon and a treasure trove of stars lit up the night sky, majestically and coldly imperious towards the squalid world beneath.

  Inside braziers flanked the General. Servants continued to bring in all manner of dishes for the “light supper.” He would definitely need Roscius by his side should his next mission be to clear the table of food, the centurion thought to himself.

  “Marius once said me that, rather than a great centurion, give me a lucky one. It seems that you may be both Oppius,” Caesar exclaimed, popping another salted olive in his mouth and washing it down with diluted wine. “Firstly, how is Teucer?”

  “He’ll live. I am sorry again that I could not keep the agent alive. We learned nothing.”

  “There’s no need to apologise. We also learned more than you might think too. The manner of his death and his zealous devotion to stoicism has given me food for thought as to the identity of his employer. We also confirmed the existence of a conspiracy – and doused the flames of the treachery. It will be some time before news of his death will reach his master back in Rome. Recruitment will dry up during that time. Similarly it will take a while for someone to take the place of the agent. During that respite I will look to defeat our enemies across the channel – be they Gauls, Britons or Romans.”

  “So are we returning to Gaul?”

  “Not all of us, all at once. But you will be returning with me. You’ve proved yourself to be of far too much use. You’ve become a victim of your own success. Although I have promoted you to centurion Lucius, you’re still my standard bearer. But rather than a silver eagle, I want you with a sword in your hand – bloodied with the enemies of Rome and Caesar. There is a storm on the horizon. Gaul has only been half-tamed, civilised. There are still weeds in our garden there to pull up. The business of Britain and Rome can wait.”

  Oppius observed the good-humoured glint in his commander’s eye go out again, clouded over with a furrowed brow and expression of icy determination.

  Later that evening, after the centurion had been dismissed, Joseph looked in on his master. The braziers were still glowing, but barely. Caesar was finishing off some correspondence, a letter to Brutus. Caesar’s relationship with his mother had been long and intense. He looked upon Brutus as being like a son. He had encouraged him in his studies, taught him soldiering. As he wrote to Brutus though Caesar could not help but sneer as he thought about the other father-figure in his life, his uncle – Cato.

  “Would you like anything before I go to bed?”

  “No thank you Joseph. Get some rest. Try to get some for me too,” Caesar replied, wearily.

  As he stood by his master the old servant couldn’t fail to notice how the map of Britain on the table had been replaced by one of Gaul. He squinted in the half-light, attempting to read the name of the town Caesar had recently circled.

  Alesia.

  End Note.

  Since the release of Augustus: Son of Rome I have received a number of letters asking about when the follow-up will be published. The reply has been “not yet”. I fear that the reply may remain “not yet” for some time, due to other commitments. I hope that the Sword of Rome series will provide some compensation though in the form of a prequel, as opposed to sequel. For those of you who have read Standard Bearer without having first read Augustus: Son of Rome you may be interested to know that the characters of Oppius, Roscius, Tiro Casca and Julius Caesar all feature heavily throughout Augustus: Son of Rome too.

  Thanks as always to Matthew Lynn and everyone at Endeavour Press.

  Should you be interested in some further reading then I can recommend the works of Adrian Goldsworthy, particularly his biography of Julius Caesar and also In The Name Of Rome. The works of Cicero, Suetonius and Plutarch are classics for good reasons too. If interested in reading more historical fiction on Rome then I can recommend Conn Iggulden, Steven Saylor, Simon Scarrow and Robert Harris.

  Should you have enjoyed Standard Bearer or Augustus: Son of Rome and wish to get in touch I can be reached via richard@endeavourpress.com

  This book is dedicated to John McGrath – courageous, smart, stoical and fun.

  Richard Foreman.

  Raffles: Stumped

  Richard Foreman

  © Richard Foreman 2012

  Richard Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  1.

  “Now Bunny, I am hoping that you have had a sufficient amount to drink to finally tell me what’s on your mind. You chewed your nails and bottom lip more than your fillet mignon at dinner. You are also still looking like a man whose funeral – or worse, wedding – is tomorrow,” Raffles exclaimed whilst loosening his tie and topping us both up.

  We were working our way through a fine bottle of Madeira back at Raffles’ apartment at the Albany, after dinner at the Savile Club. It was a month or so before our encounter with Sherlock Holmes (the events of which can be found in Raffles: The Gentleman Thief). A summer breeze wafted through the window and cooled my flushed features.

  “I am sorry
A.J if I have been poor company this evening. But there’s the rub. I am poor. Indeed to be poverty stricken may even prove to be an aspiration right now, for I am in a far more perilous state. I am debt ridden.”

  I went on to explain how, despite my “work” with Raffles over the past few months (as a cracksman’s accomplice), I had still not wholly freed myself from my financial straits. My present predicament stemmed from owing a significant amount of capital to a moneylender called Alexander Cardinal. Cardinal revelled in his nickname of Shylock. He specialised in targeting gentlemen of leisure. I was befriended by one of his agents in a casino one evening, who introduced me to his well dressed, well spoken employer at Cardinal’s house in Notting Hill. I borrowed a sum of money from him to pay, at a reasonable rate of interest, certain other debts. He called it a “quick quid” to help tide things over. Although we signed a contract, we also had a gentleman’s agreement that I would pay off the loan – and interest – when certain investments I owned matured. These investments were gilt-edged and served as my security.

  “Yet I found out this week that Cardinal is no gentleman. He has proved a fiend rather than friend. Employing a technical clause in the contract he is calling in the debt, or else he will be upping the rate of interest during the interim period before I can collect on my investments. I am to meet with him the day after tomorrow. If I do not have his money - which I don’t - then he says he will seek to destroy my reputation by informing my family and employers of my indebtedness. Cardinal also employs a number of thugs who will look to inflict harm upon my body, rather than good name. I am caught between Scylla and Charybdis Raffles. My lack of funds has only been matched by my lack of sleep over the last day or so. I fear I will just have to relinquish all my investments to him – and thus leave me ruined for years to come.”

  Raffles opened his silver cigarette case and handed me a Sullivan. His face had betrayed neither sympathy nor indifference when listening to my plight.

  “You have a trusting nature Bunny. ‘Tis a virtue I admire old chap, as is your trustworthiness, but others see such virtues as weaknesses rather than strengths. I have heard about this Alexander Cardinal. He is as rapacious as he is niggarding, I understand. He is also a hermit somewhat, or agoraphobic is the term I believe, hence he conducts his business dealings at home. He lives with just his manservant, a former soldier, who also serves as his minder.”

  “And he has heard of you Raffles in return, it seems. When he discovered that you were an acquaintance he spoke of a passion for cricket and a desire to meet you. I duly played down our friendship, as I did not wish for him to have any thoughts of ensnaring you also. I will not have you in his debt too and suffer my fate.”

  My friend stood up and commenced to pace around the room - his head bowed, deep in thought. After two laps around his armchair and desk he finally stopped, lifted his head and smiled.

  “You must ask Cardinal to pay me a visit here, upon the evening after tomorrow. Let us say 9.00. You should state, to further entice the fox from his burrow at such an hour, that you will pay the debt in full. And you will be paying off your debt with your very own hard earned money Bunny.”

  “But how? Raffles, you are being absurd. A whole year’s earnings from my writing would be needed to pay off the sum. And if you are thinking that we could pull a job in that time then it’s out of the question. We would need time to locate and reconnaissance the place. Also, we would need the house to be empty – and for there to be enough boodle about. No, I will not permit you to risk your neck, or for there to be any blood spilled,” I vehemently exclaimed.

  “Bunny, I need you to utilise your trusting nature one last time – by trusting me.”

  I smiled, feebly, and nodded my head but I was stumped if I knew how Raffles thought he could deliver me from my ruinous fate within forty eight hours.

  2.

  The Madeira may have wiped away some of my brain cells, but alas it did not wipe away my debts when I awoke the next morning. As I had promised Raffles my task for the day was to visit my persecutor. Cardinal’s house – and his intimidating character – loomed large in my mind but I confronted them both that afternoon.

  Perhaps a certain desperation of having nothing left to lose, or my growing resentment for the odious usurer, emboldened me to hold fast in my insistence that Raffles would meet with Cardinal – but only in the evening and at the Albany. It rankled with his pride - and the prospect of venturing outdoors discomforted him - but Cardinal agreed to the meeting. He explained how he was keen to meet the famous cricketer who could “turn a game with the turn of his wrist.” And of course he was eager to have me settle my debt with him, one way or another.

  “I’ll either have the money, or you, in my pocket by the end of the week Mr Manders,” Cardinal remarked with self-satisfaction – and then cackled to himself. I looked up to see his smarmy butler-soldier grinning too. I was a source of amusement, as well as revenue, to the broker of the “quick quid” it seemed.

  Later that evening Raffles insisted that I join him for a function at Lord’s. He briefly went over the arrangements for the following night during the cab journey over to the hallowed ground. I was to bring my spare key to the Albany as Raffles was due to run an errand and he might be late for the meeting.

  “However tardy I might be though you must keep the villain at the Albany. State that I will be bringing his money along. Mention too how I am keen to meet him, to discuss cricket or business opportunities. Just keep the predator in your sights, Bunny. I will look after everything else.”

  3.

  I woke early the following day, the sunlight screeching through my window, but in a gesture towards not wishing to face the day ahead I remained in bed, Oblomov-like, for some time. I tried to read but not even Tennyson – or Pope – could distract me from my black thoughts. If I could just awake tomorrow free from the clutches of my Shylock then I promised myself that I would be as prudent with my money as George Peabody. There are no “quick quids”, just hard times. You cannot lift oneself out of debt by borrowing and digging a bigger hole for oneself.

  “Come what may, time and the hour run through the roughest day,” I told myself, unconvincingly. I prayed to God that things would work out and that I would escape ruination – but in many ways, more than God, I was praying to Raffles.

  I must confess that I was less assured that God might answer my prayers when Raffles failed to answer his door. As instructed though I had brought the spare key and I let myself in. Cardinal arrived on the hour. One could have put his age at fifty, or seventy. Light shone off his silvery grey hair and balding head. Beady, hazel eyes shone out behind serpent-like eye-lids. His face was long, cheeks sunken akin to a cadaver’s and his black expression – and black garb – gave him the air of an undertaker. Aye, in some ways he was here for my funeral, I thought to myself. The moneylender was accompanied by his manservant cum bodyguard, Gough. Gough (he had neither a Christian name nor Christian bone in his body) stood six feet tall. A long pink scar marked the side of his flame-haired head from where a bullet had grazed him during the battle of Maiwand. A scowl marked Gough’s appearance too when he entered the apartment. As transfixed as one could be by his broken nose and cauliflower ears I could not help notice the bulge in his jacket also, where he kept his revolver.

  “Where’s our host?” Cardinal asked, already in a state of impatience and displeasure.

  “I am afraid that Raffles is running late. Can I fix you both a drink while we wait?” I replied, whilst already pouring a large gin and tonic for myself.

  “No. I wish to keep a clear head. And Gough does not drink whilst on duty.”

  Although the ex-soldier remained stone-faced, sentry-like, I sensed a flicker of disappointment still in his expression.

  “So this is the Albany?” Cardinal exclaimed, arching his eyebrow and surveying the tastefully furnished apartment. “Your friend Raffles must have a private income, for surely he cannot make any significant sums of mone
y from playing cricket? Although I hope to change that by making him an offer he can’t refuse. Perhaps I shall have both of you in my pocket by the end of the evening,” the moneylender remarked and smirked, a dog-tooth poking out from beneath his top lip as he did so.

  I took another swig of my gin and tonic, draining the glass, with the contents of Cardinal’s - and Gough’s - pockets worrying me equally, but for different reasons.

  4.

  “I am most displeased Mr Manders. Time is money - a lesson which you will learn all the more if you are unable to settle your debt this evening.”

  It was an hour or so since Cardinal had first arrived. Raffles was still absent. He now needed to turn up with some tonic water, as well as Cardinal’s pound of flesh. I had apologised repeatedly, with Gough grunting in disdain each time I did so. Yet, as per instructed by Raffles, I held fast and persuaded his guests to stay.

  “And if you bide your time and remain a little longer Mr Cardinal, you shall have your money,” I replied, with perhaps more conviction in my voice than in my heart.

  “I just hope that Mr Raffles’ timing with his bat upon the field is better than his punctuality off it.”

  Another half an hour or so passed. Cardinal often sighed, rolled his eyes and checked his watch. Sometimes he paced around the room and examined certain pieces of furniture and paintings, or he sat stern-faced in a chair by the fire – like a judge about to deliver the death penalty. Gough cracked his knuckles and glared at me too – licking his lips smirking, as if he were a hangman about to carry out the judge’s sentence.

  “This is intolerable. It seems that your friend has abandoned you,” Cardinal posited, looking at his watch once more.