The Far Shore (2 page)

‘With the greatest respect, First Minister, I shall remind you that if it hadn’t been for the intervention of the Roman Army, your royal family would be without an heir.’

‘And I shall remind you, Officer Corbulo, that it was the failure of that same army to provide an escort for the royal party – through an area known for brigandage – that resulted in the death of the prince’s father and brother. If the king hadn’t been
summoned
to Tarsus by the governor, this whole disaster could have been avoided!’

Vyedra’s cheeks were turning red.

Cassius had strict orders not to reveal that four-fifths of the province’s forces were tied up in a crucial campaign against the Goths, nor that Imperial Security had organised Orycus’s return because there were no legionaries available to do it.

‘Will you sign the agreement, First Minister? And advise Orycus to do the same?’

Vyedra shook his head. ‘His Majesty King Adricus would never have accepted these conditions.’

Cassius took a last sip of wine, then replaced the glass on the table. He’d overheard an interesting conversation in Tarsus when they’d taken charge of the prince. He hadn’t intended on making use of the information unless the first minister proved recalcitrant, but it seemed that moment had arrived. He hunched forward and spoke quietly so that the servants wouldn’t hear him.

‘I’m told that the prince was found hiding in a latrine – unarmed and shivering in his nightshirt. He admitted to the tribune who found him that he’d fled as soon as the raiders struck.’ Cassius turned towards the window. ‘I’m sure you agree it would be most unfortunate if such a tale were to reach the people.’

Vyedra pursed his lips. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. After a moment, he glanced down at the agreement and sighed.

Cassius smiled. ‘Is there a pen around here anywhere?’

The coronation took place that afternoon, in what was known locally as the Great Square. Cassius slept through the whole thing, only to be woken by an impressive cheer when the deed was done. Half an hour later, a scowling First Minister Vyedra returned the agreement, now complete with Orycus’s signature.

Cassius was glad there had been no invitation to the coronation, but later a messenger arrived with a note from Speaker Argunt, requesting that he join the celebratory banquet in the palace’s Great Hall.

‘Great? It’s not even that big,’ observed Indavara as they joined the end of the queue.

‘Everything’s relative, isn’t it?’ replied Cassius, yawning. ‘It’s probably the biggest chamber in the city, so to these people it’s the Great Hall. Or – to take another example – I don’t feel especially proud of knowing my times tables up to fifty, whereas you’d be happy if you could manage four times three.’

After a considerable pause, Indavara said, ‘Twelve.’

‘Very good. Simo’s getting somewhere with you after all.’

Ahead of them were guests in bright tunics and thick furs; many of the women had elaborate floral arrangements woven into their hair. Silent attendants waited outside as their masters and mistresses filed through the door.

‘Anyway,’ added Cassius, ‘you should count yourself fortunate to be here at all. I was offered only two seats. Lucky for you Simo’s busy mending my saddle.’

‘Should be a good feed at least.’

Cassius noted how grimy Indavara’s tunic was. ‘Don’t you have anything cleaner?’

‘Hardly a mark on it.’

Cassius couldn’t wear his helmet in most of the low-roofed chambers and corridors of the palace, so he’d left it in his room. Assuming the hall would be hot, he’d left his cloak there too, and wore only his best long-sleeved scarlet tunic. Simo had also given his boots a good shine and fished out one of his favourite belt buckles – a circular silver plate with an image of the goddess Tyche, a memento from Antioch.

By the time they reached the door, Cassius realised all the men were removing their weapons. Two soldiers were taking the sword belts and knives and hanging them on wall-mounted pegs. Speaker Argunt was overseeing operations and coaxing the last of the guests inside.

‘A tradition, you understand,’ he explained as Cassius and Indavara handed over their daggers. ‘The Great Hall is where views are exchanged, not blows. Only the monarch may bring his blade into the room.’

Just as they were about to enter, a youth trotted up to Speaker Argunt. He bowed his head, then offered a rolled-up sheet of paper wrapped in cloth. ‘Just arrived by army dispatch, sir. For the officer.’

Argunt slid the letter out of the cloth. It was tied with twine and the wax seal remained intact. He read the single line of writing on the outside. ‘So it is.’

Cassius took the letter and examined the wax seal. It carried the emblem of the Governor of Syria – almost certainly from Abascantius.

‘I trust that the rider and his mount will be accommodated?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ replied Argunt.

‘Good. I have some post requiring delivery to the capital. He’ll need to leave first thing.’

‘As you wish,’ said Argunt, gesturing towards the doorway.

They were the last guests to enter. The hall was lit by a multitude of glowing braziers mounted on three-legged stands. In the middle of the chamber was an impressive wooden throne facing a long row of tables that extended around on both sides to form a U. The guests – perhaps fifty in all – were standing behind their chairs, speaking excitedly. A dozen soldiers had been stationed around the hall. They were wearing tunics striped with red and yellow and, without any weapons to wield, held their arms stiffly by their sides. A serving girl directed Cassius and Indavara to their seats – the last two on the right side of the U. Feeling the eyes of the local elite upon him, Cassius clasped his hands behind his back and moved at a stately pace.

‘Stay behind me, oaf,’ he whispered as Indavara sped up, keen to investigate the tables of food that lined the walls. When they reached their seats, Cassius made sure he got the chair one in from the end.

‘I shall take this,’ he told Indavara, ‘in fear of the prospect of having you as my only source of conversation for the next few hours.’

Indavara shrugged and stood behind his own chair.

Speaker Argunt entered the hall and went to speak to First Minister Vyedra.

Cassius turned to face the man to his right. He was old, crook-backed and bald, hanging on to the chair and staring vacantly at the empty throne.

‘What happens now?’ Cassius asked him.

No reaction. Cassius bent closer to his ear. ‘What happens now?’

Again, nothing.

Cassius sighed and glanced at Indavara. ‘You’ve nothing to say either, I suppose?’

The bodyguard ignored him too.

‘By Jupiter,’ said Cassius. ‘I thought you might gradually begin to pick up the concept of polite conversation, but I see all my efforts of the last few weeks have been in vain.’

Indavara frowned.

‘Look at Simo,’ Cassius continued. ‘He’s only a slave but he and I can talk about all manner of things for hours: art, politics, religion. And think about where we are – a mountain kingdom most people will never have the chance to see. And what we’re doing – playing a part in important affairs of state. Have you no observations, no thoughts to share?’

Indavara considered this for a moment before replying. ‘Dinner smells good.’

‘By the gods.’

Cassius looked down at the letter in his hand and decided he couldn’t wait any longer. Sweat prickled the skin above his mouth as he scratched away the wax with his fingernails. He felt certain it contained details of his next assignment – what awful mission had Abascantius found for him now? Keeping his hands behind the chair, he unrolled the page and started reading.

Indavara turned round and inspected the food. There were platters of steaming roasted meat with the fat still sizzling, big wheels of cheese, bowls full of dried fruits and nuts, and silver trays piled high with cakes.

Argunt, Vyedra and several other grandly-dressed men lined up beside the throne. The room quietened.

‘What does it say?’ whispered Indavara, brushing his hair from his face as he looked down at the letter.

Cassius was smiling. ‘It’s from Master Abascantius. We have been tasked with a simple errand. We’re to journey to the island of Rhodes, pick up some important papers, then return to Antioch.’

‘An island?’ said Indavara. ‘Oh no. That means going on a ship.’

‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’

‘And picking up papers? Sounds even more boring than this job.’

‘Nothing wrong with “boring”,’ replied Cassius, rolling up the letter and tucking it behind his belt. ‘Highly underrated.’

First Minister Vyedra waited until there was absolute silence before he spoke. ‘Assembled guests, esteemed members of the grand council, priests of the High Temple; we gather here in the Great Hall this night to honour our new king.’

Vyedra paused, and Argunt initiated a long round of applause.

‘Blessed are the gods,’ the first minister continued when quiet returned. ‘Blessed are the gods that have delivered his excellency from the jaws of death. Blessed are the gods that smile upon Karanda.’

At this, two priests opposite the throne (whom Cassius now realised were the pair who’d earlier joined the procession) began an incantation in the local language. When they finished, the assembled city folk answered with a brief affirmation.

‘This will take probably go on for hours,’ Cassius whispered, ‘and not even a mouthful of wine yet.’

Vyedra, Argunt and the others went to stand in front of the table opposite the priests, then turned round.

‘Now we welcome him,’ stated Vyedra in the same portentous tone he had adopted throughout. The nobles dropped down on one knee, closely followed by everyone else except the two priests.

Cassius did so too, prompting Indavara to reluctantly comply.

Vyedra spoke again: ‘Keeper of the Winter Crown, Guardian of the High Temple, I present to you, his people, King Orycus the Fifth.’

Cassius and Indavara looked over the edge of the table as Orycus entered. The two guards flanking him took up positions on either side of the door. The king was wearing a long, purple cloak with a gem-studded silver crown nestling in his curly hair. Strutting slowly, he rounded the throne and stood in front of it.

‘Hail, King Orycus!’ roared Vyedra.

‘Hail, King Orycus!’ came the reply.

The new monarch took a step backwards and sat down.

Cassius noticed a servant close to the priests moving around. One of the holy men glared at him.

‘We bow to you, our king,’ announced Vyedra.

Indavara nudged Cassius. ‘Not me.’

All the locals bowed their heads, including the priests this time.

Cassius was still watching the servant. The man bowed briefly, then turned and picked up something from one of the food tables. Cassius looked over his shoulder. On every plate with a joint of meat was a long, sharp carving knife.

He pointed across the hall. ‘Indavara, there!’

‘Quiet,’ said someone to their right.

The servant leapt between the two priests and on to the table. The orange light of the braziers sparked off the blade in his hand.

Indavara was already on his feet and running.

Cassius stood up as the assassin leapt again, this time over the kneeling dignitaries.

Indavara pounded across the flagstones towards the throne.

Some of the guards were moving but none stood a chance of getting there in time.

Neither will Indavara
.

Cassius picked up a large, empty wooden jug and threw it at the assassin. The jug bounced once, then skittered into the man’s ankle. He stumbled and fell to one knee, skidding on the smooth stone floor. As he struggled back up again, he shouted: ‘For Solba!’

King Orycus shrank back into the throne.

The quicker guards were still yards away.

The assassin raised the blade high and jabbed it down at the king’s neck.

His arm froze in mid-air.

Eyes wide, the assassin looked down at the big, scarred hand gripping his wrist. He couldn’t see the second hand but he could feel the fingers digging into his neck.

Indavara held him there as the guards closed in around them. Before he could do anything more, the assassin cried out. Indavara watched as blood seeped from the corner of the man’s mouth. He looked down and saw the king’s red-streaked blade slide out of the assailant’s gut.

The man shuddered then suddenly went limp. Indavara let go and the guards took hold of him. The face of the would-be assassin was impossibly young, his cheeks marked with the spots of a teenager. Indavara backed away from the throne, leaving the king standing there alone, holding the bloodied sword in his hand.

‘All praise the king!’ came a shout from somewhere.

‘All praise the king!’

Suddenly everyone was shouting.

Cassius hurried over to Indavara, who shook his head when their eyes met.

‘That was too close.’

‘Could have been the shortest reign in history,’ replied Cassius. ‘Good work.’

‘Good work by whoever threw that jug. Slowed him down just enough.’

‘It was me. I threw it.’

‘You?’

The soldiers half dragged, half carried the assassin out of the hall, leaving a trail of blood on the flagstones.

Speaker Argunt came over and gripped their arms in turn. It took him a while to get out any words. ‘All of Karanda thanks you both. What speed of thought and action.’

Cassius turned to Indavara, who gave a rare nod of approval.

Vyedra came past and grabbed one of the older soldiers.

‘Four men to stand by the king. I want every one of these servants replaced. And take anything that looks like a weapon outside. The meat can be cut in the kitchens.’

Speaker Argunt then tried to address the crowd but with his diminutive height, few people could see him, let alone hear him. One of the soldiers had taken the blade from the king, who had sat down and now looked rather dazed, his crown in his lap. After a few moments, he put it back on, stood up and raised his hand. Even the servants being herded out of the room and the soldiers herding them stood still and silent. Orycus beckoned Argunt forward, then whispered in his ear. The older man spoke: