The Black Stone (12 page)

At each corner of the headquarters was a neatly trimmed acacia with sap lines running down its silvery bark. Arising from squares of earth between the paving slabs, the trees looked rather incongruous amongst all the brick and stone. Under one was a young gardener tilling the soil. Beneath another stood a soldier. He stepped out of the shadows and marched towards them.

‘Officer Absacantius?’

‘You Mercator?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mercator was a serious-looking fellow of around thirty, with a few grey flecks in his light beard and thick hair. His flattened nose had been broken more than once and he had the thin, pursed lips of a man who rarely smiled. He was a similar size and shape to Indavara, if a couple of inches taller and a few pounds lighter. Though the metal rings of his belt gleamed, his dagger and sword were mounted in plain, undecorated sheaths. Upon the sleeves of his tunic was a double red band, signifying his rank. If first impressions were anything go by, Cassius adjudged the optio a solid choice.

Abascantius didn’t offer his forearm, but instead gestured to Cassius. ‘Officer Corbulo. You’ll be working for him.’

Cassius winced at that phrase. He readied himself for a forceful grip but Mercator was no more than politely assertive. Cassius observed the older man glancing at his helmet, noting its poor condition perhaps.

‘Optio Secundus Sidonius Mercator – third century, first auxiliary cohort.’

To Cassius’s surprise, Abascantius also introduced Indavara, describing him as ‘another of my operatives’.

‘The volunteers are waiting as you ordered, sir,’ said Mercator. ‘The senior officers and I have already weeded out a few but there are still sixty for you to choose from.’

‘Excellent. Lead on.’

Just as they set off, there was a loud bang from behind them. Turning round, they saw a second window shutter rebound off the headquarters wall with equally loud results. Behind a grille up on the first floor was the face of Chief Nerva. ‘Aulus! A word.’

Abascantius made no attempt to hide his annoyance but waved to Nerva before addressing Cassius. ‘Go and make a start. Don’t mention any details. I’ll be along presently.’

As he hurried back towards the headquarters, the others continued along the avenue, Mercator setting a swift pace. ‘I see you wear the crest, sir. I’m never quite sure of the rank of you Service men.’

‘It is rather confusing,’ admitted Cassius. ‘“Officer” and all that. I do, however, hold the rank of centurion, and I am attached to the Fourth Scythican. I previously commanded a fort during the first Palmyran revolt.’

Cassius didn’t often trot that one out – it brought back too many unpleasant memories – but Mercator was probably already taken aback by his age; it seemed sensible to try to win him over.

‘And yourself?’ asked Cassius. ‘Aiming for centurion eventually, I presume?’

‘I am.’

‘I do appreciate that a crest is rather harder to achieve via the conventional route.’

Mercator seemed to accept this in the spirit it had been intended.

‘How do you find the auxiliaries?’ Cassius asked him.

‘Fine. I have local blood on my mother’s side, which helps. There were no optio posts available in my cohort so when I wanted to move up from guard officer it was the best alternative.’

‘You and your men are housed here?’

‘No, the auxiliary cohorts are based at the old fort, about a mile or so away. We’re not needed for the manoeuvres until tomorrow.’

‘You don’t mind the prospect of leaving your century at such short notice?’

‘They can do without me for a few weeks.’

‘You volunteered yourself?’

‘Yes.’

Cassius said nothing but he found this odd. An ambitious officer prepared to abandon his cohort for a risky operation with the unpopular Service? It didn’t make much sense and he made a mental note to question Abascantius about it later.

The auxiliaries were waiting between two of the barrack blocks. Some had been sitting but upon seeing the officers they got to their feet and joined the others in three neat lines, hands behind their backs. Aside from their more obviously local features, they were barely distinguishable from legionaries. As he got closer, however, Cassius did note a lack of tattoos, a preponderance of sandals over boots, and a number of curved daggers housed in ornate sheaths.

Mercator addressed the auxiliaries. ‘At ease, men.’

He turned to Cassius. ‘You have some specific criteria, I believe?’

Cassius answered quietly. ‘It is most important that they’re able to pass as hired swordsmen from the province: fluent Nabatean, of course, and a good understanding of local customs and habits. Other than that, we need competent riders, able fighters.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And no idiots. They may have to keep up the pretence for several weeks – the smallest detail might give us away.’

‘Understood, though I wish I’d been told all that before.’

‘I heard of this plan less than an hour ago myself.’

‘May I use your name?’

‘Go ahead.’

Having worn his helmet quite regularly in recent weeks, Cassius was finally beginning to get used to the weight of it, though the itchy leather strap still annoyed him. Reminding himself not to fiddle with it, he stood up straight and met the eyes of the men before him.

Mercator began. ‘Morning. For those of you who don’t know me – I am Optio Mercator of the Third. This is Officer Corbulo, Imperial Security. As you’ve been told, we are looking for volunteers for a special assignment lasting around a month. A substantial additional payment is being offered but first we must go through some requirements. You will need to know Nabatean. Please raise your hand if you consider yourself fluent.’

Every single man did so.

Cassius turned to Mercator. ‘I don’t believe it. Sure they all know what fluent means?’

‘The majority are Arabian but there are a few Egyptians and Syrians. Plus some come from Greek-speaking areas. I’m sure they all know the basics, but—’

‘Can’t blame them,’ said Cassius, lowering his voice again, ‘they want the money. You
are
fluent, I take it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I suggest you go through them one by one – dismiss anyone who isn’t up to scratch. I can continue from the front here.’

‘Very well.’

Mercator walked around to the rear line and began quietly questioning the first man.

‘You will also need to be able to ride,’ Cassius told the auxiliaries. ‘For an extended period, probably across some difficult terrain; and I know men drawn from an auxiliary infantry cohort will not all be expert riders. I will be leading a drill later and anyone not up to standard will be dismissed. Do not waste my time or yours; drop out now if you’re not up to it.’

Five men stepped out of line and sloped away.

‘Straight back to your centuries!’ barked Mercator, who was already conversing with the next man.

‘Don’t worry,’ Cassius said quietly to Indavara with a grin, ‘I’ll excuse you from the riding drill.’

‘And yourself from the sword drill?’ replied the bodyguard. ‘If this lot see how you handle a blade they’ll probably all drop out.’

‘Most amusing. On that topic we must fit in another lesson before we leave.’

‘You’re assuming I’m coming with you.’

Before Cassius could respond, he saw Abascantius approaching. The men all cast curious looks at the overweight figure with the unusual black crest. Cassius heard a few whispered comments, several of them mentioning ‘Pitface’.

‘How are we doing, Corbulo?’ asked Abascantius, rings of sweat already staining his tunic around the armpits.

‘Mercator’s assessing their Nabatean, sir. We’ve also just got rid of a few poor riders.’

Abascantius took his helmet off and wiped his brow, then walked up to one of the men. ‘Ever seen action, lad?’

‘Yes, sir. Palmyran revolt. Fought alongside the legion right here in the city.’

‘Good, good.’ He moved on to the next man. ‘What about you?’

‘No, sir. I joined up a year ago.’

‘But eager to do your bit, I’m sure.’ Abascantius took a few steps backward. ‘If you’ve struck an enemy of Rome with your blade, raise your hand.’

About half the men did so.

‘Could be worse, I suppose,’ Abascantius said to Cassius, before addressing the auxiliaries once more.

‘Listen here, I’m not going to tell you my name – just know that I’m in charge. This job will be tough. You’ll be a long way from home and a long way from help. You’ll be drawing those blades, more than likely blooding them. However, you will have good men leading you; and we’ll be making it worth your while. But if you’d rather stick to what you know, stay with your century. There’s no shame in it. If it’s not for you, you can leave now with your head held high.’

Another nine men left. Despite Abascantius’s words, all looked rather ashamed.

‘You and I can work through the rest from the front,’ the agent said to Cassius, unconcerned about keeping his voice down. ‘Get rid of any you don’t like the look of. The last thing you’re going to need is troublemakers.’

Half an hour later they were down to thirty-two. Mercator had dismissed six more whose language skills were deficient, while Abascantius had got rid of another five, one of whom he bodily threw out of the line for asking his name. Cassius had rejected two, one because his equipment was inexcusably shoddy, another because both his Greek and Latin were atrocious. He’d also had to refuse another man after Indavara noticed that he appeared to have an infected leg wound.

‘Well, that’ll do for now,’ Abascantius told Cassius and Mercator, scratching his chin as he surveyed the depleted lines. ‘You can use the drills to whittle them down to twenty. We might as well tell them what they’ll be getting.’

He turned to the men once more. ‘As I understand it, you auxiliaries receive four hundred denarii a year. Now, the twenty that progress from today’s drill to become the final squad will receive the same amount for this assignment alone. But it will be paid as sixteen golden aurei. Four will be given to you before you leave the day after tomorrow, the balance when you return.’

Several of the men smiled.

‘However,’ added Abascantius, ‘if the officers here have a single problem with you during that period the final amount will be reduced. Substantially. You will be given more details about the operation in due course but I can assure you that it is of the greatest importance to this province and the Empire.’

Cassius smothered a grimace. The operation was evidently important to the Emperor but it was hard to avoid the conclusion that the auxiliaries might be better employed protecting the province and their own people. Only Indavara saw his reaction; he was standing several yards away, silently looking on.

Abascantius continued: ‘In recognition of your commitment to Rome, I am also offering the final twenty something else.’

He reached into a bag hanging from his belt and took out a small, two-leaved bronze plaque. ‘I’m sure you all know what this is. Most of you can expect to receive your discharge certificate after serving twenty-five years, entitling you to a full military pension and other benefits. It is what you are all striving towards. I can bring it closer. Ten years closer. Governor Calvinus has agreed to make the arrangements.’

This caused even more excitement than the money. Many of the auxiliaries exchanged smiles and comments.

Cassius was still looking at the discharge certificate in Abascantius’s hand. It had given him an idea.

Organising the riding drill took an annoyingly long time. Most of the horses were being used for the manoeuvres and Nerva had refused to provide any more than three. Abascantius confided to Cassius that the chief centurion’s long-standing enmity towards the Service meant that they could expect little assistance from him. Pontius, however, had been helpful, even going as far as to personally recommend Mercator. As a man with serious political ambitions, the tribune had to take rather more care how he treated Abascantius than the veteran Nerva.

‘That stubborn prick,’ said the agent as he and Cassius watched some lads lead the horses onto the fortress corral. ‘He
demanded
to know what we needed the men for. As if I would disclose Service matters to the likes of him.’

‘The governor knows, though, sir?’

‘Of course. I had no choice there. Just hope the old boy keeps it to himself.’

‘He seems a decent man.’

‘Better than most. Can you take it from here? I have some other matters to attend to.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Abascantius plucked his helmet off a nearby fence post and pulled it on. ‘When you’re done here, start thinking about logistics: mounts for the journey, supplies, weaponry …’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the auxiliaries parted to let Abascantius through, Cassius quietly cursed. Organising all that needed doing in little more than a day would be a struggle, especially with no Simo to assist him. The thought of leaving Bostra without the capable attendant was deeply depressing. Cassius was trying not to think about what they might face in the southern desert. He now knew from experience that the only way to get through the next few weeks would be to negotiate a day at a time.