The Imperial Banner (6 page)

‘Womanising aside, you were well thought of there. Some considered you a touch precious, arrogant even, but you completed your duties well. You refused the offers of several patrons and made no attempt to endear yourself to any particular faction.’

Cassius reddened again. Abascantius’s sources were alarmingly accurate.

‘And when the general called on you for some . . . special duties, you did very well. That’s from him, by the way. Only when you disgraced yourself with the girl did he become amenable to the prospect of your departure.’

Abascantius paced in front of the fire, the poker still in his hand.

‘Officially you were in charge of supply procurement and pay but on three separate occasions you solved some rather thorny issues for him: a hole in the accounts that led all the way to the top of the treasury; an arsonist you collared in less than a day; and a murderer you finally identified after personally interviewing every urchin on the city’s streets. Quite the investigator.’

‘I simply did what I was asked to do, sir.’

‘The thing is, Corbulo, I have some able men under my command here – crafty, tough, unpleasant men. But they’re all ex-legionaries. Not what one might describe as university material. Now – two years ago – when I heard I’d been given some cowardly young dolt simply because his father wanted to keep him out of trouble, I was less than enthusiastic. In fact, I was inclined to send you to the nearest available legion as a rank and filer. But it seems that you are not entirely unintelligent, and that you have a knack of getting to the bottom of things. Better still, your face is not known in these parts. I can make good use of you.’

‘I don’t know what you have in mind, sir, but—’

‘We’ll get to that.’

Abascantius hesitated a moment, then jabbed the poker towards Cassius. ‘It sounded like you were about to protest then, Corbulo. I advise against it. You have absented yourself from the Service for over a year and a half. Chief Pulcher knows I’ve found you but it’s up to me how I present your story to him. One explanation might be an administrative foul-up: lost orders, a miscommunication perhaps. You weren’t with us but you were doing your duty nonetheless. Happens all the time. Perfectly feasible. After all – there was a war on.’

Abascantius tilted his head from one side to the other.

‘Another explanation might be plain, simple, good old-fashioned desertion. The wilful neglect of a soldier’s sworn duties. Also happens all the time.’

Abascantius replaced the poker by the fire, returned to the table and stood over Cassius.

‘So which is it to be?’

‘The former sounds preferable, sir.’

‘Infinitely, I should say.’

Abascantius moved closer.

‘Do you know how I have spent the last two years, Corbulo? Riding. The Palmyrans pushed us back a thousand miles, then we pushed
them
back. The lines could change in days, hours. And all the while, someone had to keep the governors and the generals and the Emperor advised of what was happening. And then do their bidding; even though they disagreed more than they agreed. And every single day there was someone to see, something to do, somewhere to go. Riding, riding, riding. I’m getting old. My stomach gets fatter and my arse just gets bonier – so I don’t like to ride.’

He pointed at Cassius. ‘You owe the Service, Corbulo. And you owe me. You should be grateful that I am offering you a chance to redeem yourself.’

Cassius slid off the bench and stood. Even during his most relaxed, peaceful periods in Cyzicus, he had always known this moment would come. He pressed his tunic down and nodded formally to Abascantius.

‘What is it you require of me, sir?’

‘We’ll get to that. First we shall eat.’

Midnight was long past when Cassius finished his meal. It was simple but tasty fare: cold lamb with bread and cheese, then some dried pears and pistachio nuts – one of his few pleasant associations with Syria. Abascantius had wolfed down his food, then disappeared downstairs. The young girl had brought up wood for the fire, but Cassius had felt too morose even to strike up a conversation. Simo came later, carrying their saddlebags. The Gaul announced that the horses were settled for the night, then set about preparing the rooms reserved for them – the two chambers on the other side of the stairs.

Cassius pushed his plate away just as Abascantius returned. The agent was clutching a leather satchel and a long object wrapped in cloth. He thumped both down on to the table as he reclaimed his seat opposite Cassius.

‘To the matter at hand then. You must consider what I will tell you most secret. On occasion you may have to disclose parts of it – then you must use your own judgement. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In Antioch, on the last day of this month, I am to meet with Marshal Marcellinus and the four members of the city’s council. Like most of our esteemed military men, Marcellinus despises the Service and – for various reasons – me in particular. He’s been given complete autonomy over the eastern provinces and will tolerate my involvement only because the Emperor charged me with one important task.’

Cassius found it hard to imagine Aurelian entrusting any job whatsoever to the dishevelled character in front of him, but he reminded himself that Abascantius had been in Syria for more than a decade. He had served under four emperors and outlasted three governors. Perhaps his appearance worked to his advantage; it was difficult to overestimate him.

‘Aurelian left for Rome as soon as he’d finished treaty negotiations with the Persians. Gifts were exchanged, a few clauses agreed; all remarkably smooth. With the Palmyrans taken care of, the last thing we need is another conflict with our old adversaries to the east. Now, most of Zenobia’s treasures went with the Emperor – some thirty cart-loads I’m told. All that was left in Palmyra was a cache of jewels, trinkets, silver and gold for the provincial coffers in Antioch. It was to be returned inside one large cart, packed in barrels. But one of the barrels contained something more valuable than the rest of the booty put together. It is a flag, but no ordinary flag. Does the term Faridun’s Banner mean anything to you?’

‘The Persian imperial standard.’

Abascantius nodded approvingly. ‘Very good.’

‘One of my neighbours in Cyzicus had a fine library, with several translated tomes on the rulers of the east.’

‘What else do you know?’

‘Not much. Faridun was an ancient king. A hero who embodied the virtues of courage, justice, nobility and so on. A familiar tale.’

‘Indeed. And a sacred one to the Persians. They believe the standard represents their destiny, their fate. I’ve never seen it myself but apparently it’s a great purple thing of the finest silk, with jewels the size of apples. It’s been carried at the head of their army since the time of Ardashir I. But when Odenathus of Palmyra’s forces overran Ctesiphon ten years ago, his armies looted the city and took the flag back with them.’

Abascantius paused to take another swig of wine.

Cassius nodded. ‘Let me guess: the return of the banner is part of the treaty.’

‘A crucial part. And a secret one. I’m told that only a few men close to the royal family even know the flag was taken by the Palmyrans. We think they may have been using a replica; the people certainly don’t know of the loss. The young Emperor, Hormizd, is desperate for its return. His position is far from secure and he’s paranoid that the truth will come out. A closed ceremony is being planned for the day after my meeting. Marcellinus is to hand the flag over to Hormizd himself. Without it, the Persians won’t sign the treaty.’

Abascantius looked at the ceiling and rolled his tongue around his mouth.

Cassius said, ‘I presume that the banner is not where it should be.’

‘The cart should have left Palmyra twelve days ago. In command was my senior man – Gregorius, accompanied by ten hand-picked legionaries. They were to travel in local garb, just another merchant’s load on its way to Antioch. There is a good road, but he planned to use a quieter route. Should have taken them eight days. But there has been no news, no sighting, no reports. The men, the treasure and the banner have disappeared.’

Cassius leaned back and exhaled. ‘I hardly need ask what you expect of me.’

‘Actually I originally had something else in mind for you, but it seems the gods have delivered you to me at a fortuitous moment.’

‘Sir, I don’t know why you imagine I might be suited to such a task. Surely you yourself—’

Abascantius held up a hand. ‘The loss of the banner is my responsibility, yes. And believe me, I will do my part. But you must understand how it is here. My face is known on every street and in every inn and barracks from Seleucia to Dura. The legionaries call me “Pitface”, and they – along with many of the locals – would no sooner divulge anything useful to me than eat their own shit. You, on the other hand – a fresh-faced young gentleman from outside the province – should fare much better.’

Abascantius tapped the satchel. ‘I have an authorisation here for you, signed by Chief Pulcher. And there’s this.’

Abascantius reached over to the covered item and removed the cloth. What he held up on the table could easily have been mistaken for a weapon: it was a three-foot length of solid silver topped by a spear-head, with two circles beneath hung with golden thread. Just below the circles was a square iron badge, engraved with the emblem of the Governor of Syria.

‘These are carried by every senior agent in the Service. It identifies you as a member of the governor’s staff and entitles the bearer to certain privileges. While in possession of it, you hold a rank equivalent to a centurion; you may use way-stations and the imperial post; and you can requisition troops when you need them. There are fewer than a hundred of this particular type in existence. This belongs to Gregorius. He left it with me.’

Cassius took the spear-head and laid it down on the table. ‘I hope I get a chance to return it to him.’

‘Look after it, and don’t be afraid to use it. I suggest that you avoid mentioning me if at all possible; pretend you’ve been dispatched straight from Rome by Chief Pulcher.’

‘Marshal Marcellinus knows of the theft?’

‘Not yet, though I may have to inform him at some point.’

Cassius could understand his reluctance. The Emperor’s deputy would surely be delighted to hear of a ready-made reason to discredit Abascantius. Emperors had been using the Service to spy on the army for years, the main reason why most military men regarded its agents with such contempt. Though the strength of the bond between Aurelian and Marcellinus was well known, the fact that the Emperor had used Abascantius for this assignment reinforced a historical truth: the Service had a far better record of loyalty to Roman emperors than the army did.

Abascantius sighed loudly. ‘I fancy the ultimate solution to this may lie in Antioch, so I shall return there tomorrow. Aside from myself, Gregorius and Prefect Venator – who supplied the legionaries – the only men who knew about the cart were Marcellinus himself and the four members of the council. He swore them all to secrecy – on pain of death if I know him – but I’ve little doubt one of them is involved somehow.’

‘In a theft of imperial property?’

‘Stranger things have happened. The council may resent my interest in their personal affairs but at times like this it becomes extremely useful.’

‘And what of this Gregorius? Isn’t it possible that he—’

Abascantius shook his head vigorously. ‘Not a chance. His loyalty is not in question. Besides, he’s worked for me long enough to know the consequences of betrayal.’

‘How much were the contents of that cart worth?’

‘Not including the flag – over ten thousand aurei.’

Cassius blew out his cheeks. It was an astronomical sum – enough to buy an army or a fleet of ships. ‘Sufficient to risk the consequences of betrayal then.’

‘You don’t know Gregorius. I do. He would have taken every precaution necessary. He has never let me down.’

‘What about the legionaries he used, couldn’t they have decided to do away with him and take the treasure for themselves?’

‘I gave strict instructions. They were to be strangers from different cohorts: none of the men knew each other. They were all to be Italians, decorated veterans only, each personally recommended by their centurions. No, the answer doesn’t lie there.’

‘What about locals? Brigands? There must still be Palmyran soldiers scattered all across Syria.’

‘They were to travel only at night, they were to—’ Abascantius abruptly halted his explanation. ‘Do you think I didn’t consider all this?’ he yelled, slamming his hand on to the table. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday?’ He stared at Cassius, bloodshot eyes wide.

‘Of course not, sir. My apologies.’

Abascantius took a few breaths. The impact of his hand had sent the satchel to the far edge of the table, close to the window. He dragged it back towards him and smoothed the edges down. Then he placed it carefully in front of Cassius, shifting it around until it was parallel with the side of the table.

‘I make no claim to be infallible. You are right to put such questions. And now you must seek some answers.’

‘Sir, I should explain that I do not really consider myself a man of action. I have been in battle, yes, and I took on the odd criminal case for the general, but any group well-informed and well-organised enough to carry out this theft represents a considerable threat. What am I to do if I actually track them down?’

‘In the first instance contact me – but that will take time. Remember that you can take command of any nearby units if you need them.’

‘That entitlement sounds impressive on paper, sir; the reality might be somewhat different.’

‘I am also providing you with some additional help: a professional bodyguard, also from outside the province. Bit dense but he knows how to handle himself. He was on a job for me in the north but should be down here by now. You are to meet him the day after tomorrow, at an inn called The Goat’s Leg. It’s in the village of Galanea, just south of Palmyra – run by an old ex-legionary. Close by is the encampment of the Fourth Legion; they’re stationed there to deter any chance of an uprising. I suggest you go straight to Prefect Venator.’