The Imperial Banner (5 page)

Indavara was dimly aware of Bonosus and the other guards around him. He struggled to his feet again. Blinking into the sunlight, he turned until he could see the northern gate. Then he felt inside his tunic. The figurine was there. He pulled it out and held it tight in his hand.

The guards made way as he limped towards the gate. The crowd began to throw money. Coins peppered the sand around him.

Indavara hardly noticed. He was occupied by a single thought.

Get to the gate. Get to the light.

Centurion Maesa was already up by the podium, gathering the legionaries to restrain the hundreds rushing for the parapet above the northern gate.

Young Vitruvius was waiting for Indavara by the tunnel, holding some bandages he had torn from a sheet. The gladiator walked straight past him but the guard managed to hang the remains of the sheet about his shoulders. It stuck to his sweat-soaked body.

A small group lined the cold stone walls of the tunnel; more legionaries, pedlars waiting for the departing crowd, cleaners waiting to tidy up. Vitruvius hurried ahead and told the gatekeeper to open the second gate. Beyond lay the city streets.

For a moment, Indavara forgot the pain. He gazed at the golden glow ahead of him. This light seemed different to the light in the arena. Brighter. Warmer.

Vitruvius swung the gate open.

Indavara didn’t miss a step. Tears slid down his filthy, bloody face as he passed beyond the iron bars.

Through the gate. Into the light.

September, AD 272

‘I slaughtered three elephants and a giraffe in the arena on one day; and I was killed by a wrestler who strangled me in the bath.’

‘Commodus, sir.’

‘I’m detecting an air of boredom. Perhaps you tire of “Guess the emperor”.’

‘Not at all, sir. My turn: I once served a meal of six hundred storks, then ate every brain myself with a tiny golden pin.’

‘Easy. Our old friend Elagabalus.’

‘Quite right, sir.’

‘Ah. Look there, a light. That must be it.’

Cassius Quintius Corbulo and his servant Simo had been riding south since morning. Night had brought a chill to the air and both men kept their cloaks clasped tight around their shoulders. The road was wide and well used, its edges marked by low banks of stones. To their left lay the sullen emptiness of the Syrian steppe; to their right a lake, its moonlit surface stretching far into the distance. There were few villages here, just the odd house built close to the water, usually attended by a small boat or two. Aside from the soft plodding of the horses’ hooves and the thump and rattle of heavily loaded saddles, the only sound was the melodic chirrup of some unseen bird.

The ride was the last stage of an exhausting three-week journey. The letter demanding Cassius’s return to Syria had made it clear his presence was required immediately. Departing from Cyzicus on the northern coast of Asia Minor, they had secured passage across the eastern end of the Mediterranean to Seleucia, the port that served Syria’s capital, Antioch. A messenger had been awaiting them at the dock with a second letter summoning them south. They had hired horses and set off, journeying past the cities of Apamea, Larissa and Epiphania, staying in a selection of less than salubrious inns.

Approaching the city of Emesa on the sixth day out of Antioch, they turned east and passed right through the middle of a battlefield. Here, three months previously, the Emperor Aurelian had led his legions against a force of seventy thousand Palmyrans, finally smashing Queen Zenobia’s military might. His army had then marched east and besieged Palmyra itself. The city now lay in Roman hands, the rebel queen on her way back to Rome in chains.

A rather overdramatic merchant’s wife had told the two travellers that the sand of the battle-site was stained red as far as the eye could see, that an eerie sense of dread pervaded the land for miles around. Cassius and Simo had noticed neither. Anything of value had already been claimed by the victors or opportunistic locals. All that remained were the rotting skeletons of thousands of Palmyran cavalry horses, still providing food for a colony of buzzards.

Two more days of riding had taken them into the middle of the bleak steppe. The instructions in the second letter directed them south from the Palmyra road, to the lake and an isolated inn – their final destination.

Cassius and Simo dismounted and led their horses towards the light. Cassius winced as he walked. His buttocks and thighs were sore, his back unspeakably stiff. He felt sure he would find dark purple bruises on his thighs later, and welts where sand had rubbed against his skin. He had never ridden so far, so fast.

Both men stopped. The light had moved. They soon realised it was a lantern, being carried towards them at speed. The horses tugged anxiously at their reins as the lamp-bearer approached. He turned out to be an unkempt, swarthy individual who perused the new arrivals with red-rimmed eyes.

‘Your name?’

His Greek held a thick local accent.

‘Corbulo.’

‘Come.’

The man turned and hurried back towards the inn.

‘A fine welcome,’ muttered Cassius as they followed.

Once through the gate, the Syrian turned left towards a two-storey building of clay brick. Opposite was a stable block. The horses inside stirred, disturbed by the new arrivals. A young lad stumbled out of the darkness, wiping sleep from his eyes. He closed the gate, then came over and took both sets of reins.

‘Careful,’ Simo told him. ‘They’re tired.’

A dim light emanated from the doorway where the Syrian now stood. He gestured for them to enter. With Simo the customary three paces behind his master, they followed the man inside, ducking under a low beam into a smoky parlour.

Passing a stone staircase, they came to a wide bar stocked with all manner of bottles and amphorae. A large, bald man – presumably the innkeeper – sat there asleep, double chin resting on his chest as he quietly snored.

Opposite the staircase was a hearth surrounded by tables and stools. A raven-haired teenage girl knelt by the fire, taking logs from a woven basket. She turned to look at the men as they entered and Cassius caught sight of a fair, if rather rustic, face. Once she had checked that the innkeeper – her father perhaps – was still asleep, she gave a welcoming smile.

‘I think I might warm my hands,’ said Cassius, making for the fire.

The Syrian blocked his path. ‘He’s upstairs. Doesn’t have all night.’

‘I’m not entirely sure I care much for your manner.’

‘His orders. Not mine.’

Cassius glared down at the man, then made his way back to the stairs.

‘Not you.’

Cassius turned to find that now Simo’s way had been barred by the Syrian’s beefy arm. He poked the ruffian in the back.

‘I’ve had about enough of you, my man. Who gave you the right or rank to inform an attendant of mine where he can and can’t go?’

Before the man could reply, a deep, authoritative voice rang out from above.

‘Actually I did. Please forgive Shostra there, he’s yet to master a single social grace. Won’t you come up? There’s a mug of hot wine here for you.’

Cassius hesitated a moment, then shrugged. ‘Perhaps you can rest by the fire for a bit, Simo.’

‘I think I shall help the lad with the horses, sir.’

‘As you wish.’

Simo departed. Cassius shot the Syrian a final glare then made his way up to the first floor. To the left was a cramped corridor leading to two more rooms. To the right was a space similar to the parlour below except that instead of a bar there were two wooden booths built against the wall. The single occupant was sitting in the far booth, his body angled towards the hearth.

The man who had summoned Cassius back to Syria; a man Cassius knew only by name and reputation.

As he entered, Aulus Celatus Abascantius stood up to greet him. He was of middling height but considerable width, especially in the heavily pock-marked face. The thinning hair was a curious mix of brown and grey. He looked about fifty but might have been a decade younger. As they gripped forearms, Cassius examined his extraordinarily tatty tunic and sandals.

It was hard to believe that the fellow before him was the Imperial Security Service’s top man in Syria. Cassius knew the agent was regarded as something of a maverick but he hadn’t expected him to so closely resemble a provincial merchant.

Abascantius ran a similarly inquisitive eye over the young man in front of him. Even after more than a week in the saddle, Cassius suspected he looked rather good. Thanks to Simo, his bright red tunic was fresh on that morning – finest Egyptian cotton. His boots were brand-new, bought especially for the trip. His thick military belt and the thinner, diagonal strap that held his sword in place were also in good condition, the latter largely because it had been so rarely used. His light brown hair was well cut, his skin clear and perfumed. Of the many things Cassius appreciated most about Simo, the foremost was the Gaul’s ability to maintain high standards in trying circumstances.

Abascantius sat down again and gestured to the bench opposite him. Cassius had no wish to sit close to the man but by the time he’d folded his rangy frame under the table, their knees were almost touching.

‘Latin or Greek? Which shall it be?’

Cassius found the question odd. His Greek was fluent but officers of the Roman Army rarely used anything other than Latin.

‘Up to you, sir.’

‘Latin, I think. I need the practice.’

Abascantius switched languages.

‘Perhaps I’ve been here too long.’

He took up an iron pot from close to the fire and filled a large wooden mug with steaming wine. Cassius pulled it closer as Abascantius topped up his own drink. The spices smelled good.

‘Well, young Master Corbulo, it’s taken me quite a while to track you down.’

Cassius had his answer ready. ‘I can see how things might look, sir, but after what happened at Alauran, General Navio offered me a position with him. I remained with his staff when he was transferred to Cyzicus.’

‘Transferred. An interesting choice of word. Demoted might be more apt.’

‘I’m not aware of the intricacies of that situation, sir.’

Cassius tried not to look at the cluster of pale moles on Abascantius’s left eyelid.

‘You are aware though, I presume, of the events that have occurred in this province since your departure?’

‘Of course.’

‘And at no point did it occur to you to notify the Service of your new post, or your location?’

‘It did, sir. But there was no one in Antioch for me to report to, what with the revolt. You yourself were . . .’

Abascantius leaned forward over the table. Cassius shifted back, not only because of the whiff of meaty breath.

‘My location was, and is, no concern of yours. Do you know how many men the Service has this side of Cyprus? Eleven, including myself. Eleven men to guard the interests of the Empire and the Emperor. Eleven, though we should have had twelve. And all because you decided to take yourself off to sunny, peaceful Cyzicus!’

Well before the tirade was finished, Cassius had decided to stay quiet. It certainly didn’t seem worth mentioning that the Palmyrans had actually got dangerously close to Cyzicus. Humility seemed the best option.

Abascantius stared at him a while longer, then the expression suddenly softened. He stood up and took his mug with him, knocking the table and spilling some of Cassius’s wine. Abascantius looked down at the fire, his grinning face lit by the orange glow.

‘I’ve waited a long time to say that. But I must admit I can’t help admiring your gall. I doubt there’s many of your rank between here and Rome who escaped action in the last two years. I suspect that week in the desert was more than enough for a fine young gentleman like yourself.’

Cassius looked down at the floor as Abascantius continued.

‘Quite a triumph though. News of it spread right across the province. Outnumbered five to one, and it all came down to a duel between a guardsman and a master Palmyran sword-hand. What a tale!’

Cassius shrugged. ‘Hardly mattered in the end, sir. The enemy took the fort a few months later anyway.’

‘But you raised the spirits, Corbulo. Navio and his cronies made much of your victory. I dare say it bought him another few weeks. Clearly he was grateful.’

‘I won’t deny I was happy to find a way out of Syria, sir.’

Abascantius tilted his mug towards Cassius’s chest. ‘They gave you the silver medal, didn’t they? Why don’t you wear it?’

Cassius replied quickly. ‘That battle was won by better and braver men than me. I do have the medal. But it’s theirs, not mine.’

With a faint smile, Abascantius drank his wine.

‘I have another question for you. Was she worth it?’

‘Who, sir?’ Cassius asked, though he knew.

‘The magistrate’s daughter. Welcomed you with open legs, by all accounts.’

Cassius felt his face reddening.

‘Sorry,’ said Abascantius unconvincingly. ‘The provinces roughen one so.’ He paused, tapping his fingers against the mug. ‘Surely you must have known it would get back to Navio eventually?’

Cassius had known that. He had always known he was taking a massive risk that night in the governor’s garden. Still, he thought of it almost every day, and couldn’t quite bring himself to condemn his choice. He had found Marta alone, well away from the rest of the party-goers. He had been after her since arriving in Cyzicus. She was pretty rather than beautiful, but both elegant and voluptuous – a combination Cassius had never been able to resist. He really should have known better; it was the second time an ill-advised dalliance had set in motion a chain of events that had led him to Syria; and into danger. He stared gloomily down at the wine.

‘Navio protected you,’ Abascantius continued. ‘Once I found out where you were, I wrote to him several times, but never once received a reply. You must have become quite useful to him.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Oh, I’m certain of it. He’s not the only person in Cyzicus I wrote to.’

Abascantius picked up a poker and shifted the burning logs around.