The Imperial Banner (25 page)

The moon was covered by cloud and he hoped it stayed that way. With both the darkness and surprise on his side, he had a good chance of hitting at least two of them before they scattered. Then he would have to go for the man on the road; he couldn’t let him get away and bring others after them.

Corbulo and Simo would have to take their chances.

The leader took a step forward.

Indavara pulled the string back another two inches. His hand was beginning to shake. If the man made a move, he would fire, whether Corbulo gave the signal or not.

‘You’re bluffing,’ said the Palmyran.

‘No,’ replied Cassius. ‘I’ve not known him long, but the first time I met him he came to my aid and dispensed with three men equally as unpleasant as you appear to be without breaking a sweat.’

The leader looked past him, eyes boring into the inky black that surrounded them.

‘But there are
five
of you,’ Cassius continued. ‘I suppose one or two of you might make it.’

Another of the Palmyrans addressed the leader but he ignored him.

‘My offer still stands,’ said Cassius. ‘Forty. You can turn round and walk away. A good night’s work.’

The Palmyran glanced back at the men, then out into the darkness again.

‘Just take it,’ Cassius continued. ‘No blood need be spilled. We can all walk away from this.’

The leader’s eyes narrowed.

Cassius got ready to move if he had to.

The Palmyran nodded at the bags. ‘Forty it is.’

‘Let me give it to you. I would advise against any sudden movements. He can be a little impetuous at times.’

The leader passed his torch to another man, then took the bags from Cassius. One of the other Palmyans smiled and laughed. With a last glance at Cassius, the leader turned and walked away. The archer seemed to protest and pointed back at the horses but the leader snapped at him and thrust his torch towards the road. After a few paces he opened the bags and showed his comrades the contents. The two swordsmen cheered.

Cassius and Simo were left suddenly in darkness.

‘Well done, sir,’ said the Gaul.

Cassius took the reins of his horse then watched as the Palmyrans mounted up and went swiftly on their way. Cassius’s horse gave a whinny.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you can make all the noise you want now.’

Indavara materialised in front of him. ‘What happened?’

‘I offered him forty denarii but he wanted to search our bags, so I told him you were out there with a bow aimed at him.’

‘What? Why give away our advantage?’

‘There are alternatives to violence, you know.’

‘You were lucky.’

‘Maybe. Well – I’m due a bit.’

‘Insane,’ Indavara muttered.

Cassius took the reins of Indavara’s horse from Simo and threw them at him. ‘Insane is people getting killed for no good reason. It worked, didn’t it?’

By dawn, when the sun finally spilled colour into the sky, they reached the second way-station. All the doors hung open and everything of value had been looted, but there was enough straw in the stables for both riders and mounts to lie down in comfort. The horses were exhausted, and Cassius reflected that perhaps Epona had watched over them after all; it was remarkable that not one of them had sustained an injury during the night.

He didn’t want to push the limits of her favour, so allowed the animals four hours’ rest before setting off once more. He’d calculated that there would still be enough time to reach the mines before dark: they couldn’t risk getting caught on the road at night again.

All through the afternoon, he gazed west, looking for some angular shape between the road and the limestone hills, but he saw nothing of the fort, nothing of Alauran. He knew from the map that it had to be close but he chose to say nothing to Simo and part of him was glad not to see it. That place, that time, seemed to exist entirely in its own space: and he felt that to revisit any part of it would diminish it somehow. He remembered those few days so clearly and he wanted to keep the memories as they were. He had made his peace with them, for he knew they would always be with him.

It became hard to tell who was most tired. As the hours and miles passed, Cassius felt himself tipping further forward in his saddle, and he lost count of the times he’d seen Simo’s head snap up moments after he dozed off. Indavara, meanwhile, had spent more time walking than riding. Even he seemed weary now, cursing at his horse and tripping over his own feet.

It wasn’t just physical exhaustion. The encounter with the Palmyrans had unnerved them all; and the scarcity of other travellers on the road was the surest sign that they were crossing dangerous territory.

They passed several mounds of stones by the roadside and Cassius explained to Indavara that these were ‘Mercury’s Heaps’: honorific offerings for the god of wayfarers. Where there was no sanctuary or statue, a single stone added to a mound sufficed. Indavara took to throwing one on to every pile, and – when he could be bothered – Cassius did so too.

There was less than an hour of light left when they finally arrived at their destination. The road was marked by a collection of painted signposts giving distances and directions to various mines:
Golden Mine
,
Great Mine
,
Long Mine
,
Drusus’s Mine
,
the Mine of the Antiochene Metalsmiths.

‘Thank the gods,’ said Cassius. ‘Here at last.’

Further along the road they could see a sign hanging from a pole and a sprawling heap of spoil. This turned out to be Long Mine, and they had barely passed the sign when an old man burst out of a shack and ran towards them, shouting in Aramaic and waving his hands. He was barefoot, wearing only a ragged tunic and a blanket tied round his neck. His beard was a mix of white and ginger, his face worn rather than wrinkled. Cassius couldn’t age him; he might have been fifty or seventy. Judging by the feral look in his eyes and his vitriolic ravings, he was quite mad.

Simo tried to speak to him, but the old man wouldn’t stop.

‘He says the mine is his, sir. He has claimed it. We cannot set foot on his property.’

‘Tell him—’

The old man was getting louder.

‘Tell him to shut up.’

Cassius continued in Latin before Simo could translate.

‘Shut up!’

But the old man only stopped when a dagger embedded itself in the ground between his feet. Indavara fixed him with an implacable stare and raised a finger to his mouth. The old man watched in silence as he dismounted.

‘Simo,’ Cassius continued, ‘tell him that if he doesn’t stay quiet, I’ll have Indavara here tie him to that post over there and use him for target practice.’

Simo translated. The old man stepped away from the knife and nodded.

‘Explain that we mean him no harm and we have no designs on his mine.’ Cassius pointed at a second timber-built shack. ‘We simply need shelter for the night. We’ll move on in the morning. Now ask him about the men and the cart.’

As Simo began, Cassius slid down off his saddle and looked along the road. It bore right around the spoil heap then disappeared from view. If his hunch about the raiding party heading north proved correct, they might be close to getting some answers. If he was wrong, the efforts and trials of the previous day and night had been for nothing.

‘Sir, he will give us permission to stay but if he sees anyone go near the mine entrance he’ll strike them down at once.’

Indavara grinned as he pulled his dagger out of the ground.

‘Terrifying,’ said Cassius. ‘Has he seen anything?’

‘Four riders came past last week but didn’t stop. Some time before that he did see some men with a big cart. He thinks they were slave-traders.’

‘Here? I doubt it.’

Simo shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t take his opinions too seriously, sir.’

‘How many of them were there?

Cassius waited impatiently for the translation.

‘Twenty or more.’

‘Palmyrans?’

‘He says no.’

‘Why did he think they were slave-traders?’

‘Because one man was being towed along on foot by a rope round his neck.’

‘One prisoner,’ said Cassius. ‘Gods – it might have been Gregorius. How tall was he, this prisoner?’

‘He doesn’t remember.’

‘What colour hair?’

‘He can’t remember anything about him. Just a man, he says.’

‘All right. Last question. Which way were they going?’

No translation was needed this time. The old man pointed down the road, towards the other mines.

‘Another salubrious locale,’ Cassius remarked as he laid out a blanket at one end of the shack.

Indavara was sitting opposite him, sharpening his dagger with a flint. Behind him was a pile of rusting mining implements. Simo was outside, preparing dinner.

‘Truly a treat to work for old Abascantius, isn’t it?’ Cassius added as he lay down.

Indavara didn’t reply.

‘Bodyguard, I spoke to you. Perhaps you could do me the courtesy of responding.’

‘What? Oh, I don’t care that much. I like being outside. All the open space.’

‘I must say I was surprised you’d not heard of Mercury’s Heaps; and I’ve not once seen you pray or make an offering since we met. Who are your gods?’

‘I have only one.’

‘You’re a Christian? A Jew?’

Indavara shook his head, as if the words meant nothing to him.

‘How unusual,’ Cassius continued. ‘Who is this single god?’

‘Fortuna.’

Cassius laughed. ‘Everyone prays to Fortuna. That’s a given. There must be some others.’

Indavara looked hard at the dagger as he whipped the flint along the blade.

‘All right then,’ said Cassius. ‘Why just Fortuna?’

Indavara pulled out the figurine and showed it to Cassius but said nothing.

‘It’s a bit on the small side; if Fortuna’s the only god you pray to, you might want to show her a bit more respect.’

Indavara contemplated this.

‘You weren’t allowed many possessions, I suppose.’

‘A woman threw it to me after a fight.’

Cassius propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Ah yes – the women. They love you fighters, don’t they? All that bare flesh and blood-letting. I’ve heard the more forward of them go to the cells late at night. You had your share of visitors, I expect.’