The Emperor's Silver: Agent of Rome 5 (41 page)

‘Need me?’

‘A note just arrived. I am to meet with the governor at Diadromes’s place. We can ride there.’

Indavara asked the lad to fetch their mounts. They were left alone, standing opposite three horses with their heads out of their stalls, solemnly looking on.

‘Where’s Patch?’

‘In the field out the back.’

‘Ah. Can we talk for a moment?’

Indavara had left his sword propped up against a stall. He picked it up and wiped something off the handle. ‘If you like.’

‘Busy couple of days,’ said Cassius. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve had to … well … some unpleasant situations.’

‘What I get paid for, right?’

‘Yes. I’m just saying … I appreciate that it takes its toll.’

‘What do you mean?’

Being lost for words was not a familiar predicament for Cassius. ‘I … er … I just … I hope you’re all right. In yourself. I mean, there was the incident with the legionary, then last night.’

‘You’re unhappy with something? Just say so.’

‘Not at all – you did exceptionally well, as always. It’s just …’

Indavara put the sword belt on and stared at him.

‘Ah … nothing,’ said Cassius. ‘I don’t know what I’m on about really.’

To his relief, the lad returned with their horses.

‘Right, well. We’d better be going.’

Indavara stayed where he was. ‘You’re worried that I might lose control of myself.’

Cassius could not think of a reply.

‘I survived the arena for six years but I realised within six days that control was the most important thing I had to learn. No rushes of blood, no wild swings, no revenge. I know you think me ignorant but it was thought that got me through – the right decision at the right time. Just leave me to do my job. All right?’

‘Right.’ Cassius stood there for a moment, still absorbing what he’d heard.

Indavara took the reins for both horses and handed him his. ‘We going, then?’

Diadromes and Magistrate Pomponianus were waiting in the garden, sitting under a solitary pine tree, the top of which looked to Cassius very much like a head of broccoli. Leaving his superior sitting on an ornate stone bench, the deputy magistrate hurried forward to shake Cassius’s forearm.

‘Careful,’ he whispered before turning back, ‘he’s not in a good mood.’

Pomponianus was a rotund, dark-skinned man with a well-manicured beard. He sat hunched over on the bench, folds of his toga hanging between his legs, inspecting Cassius. Several yards away stood a legionary bodyguard and another man in a toga. Directly behind the magistrate was a young attendant holding a glass of wine.

‘Officer Crispian of the Imperial Security Service.’

Diadromes then gestured towards the older man, who clearly had no intention of getting up. ‘The honourable Placus Cipius Pomponianus, Magistrate of the City of Berytus.’

Cassius gave a slight bow. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

Pomponianus nodded and stuck out a hand – not towards Cassius, but to his left. The attendant handed him his wine, which he sipped as Cassius and Diadromes sat on the bench opposite.

‘A rather unpleasant night, I understand, Officer?’

‘I’ve certainly had better, sir.’

‘It could have been avoided, of course, had you and Deputy Diadromes here elected to keep my office fully apprised of your activities.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Cassius, reflecting that the reverse was also true.

‘Fortunately no real harm was done – apart from to a few prisoners and we hardly need concern ourselves with them. But what of this legionary? Your man seems rather keen on dispensing violence – is that him?’

Pomponianus pointed across the lawn to the terrace at the rear of the villa, where Indavara was waiting.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You need to keep him on a tighter leash, Officer Crispian. My chief centurion is very angry. I suspect he would like me to have you escorted to the city gates.’

Cassius said nothing; he would wait to hear what the magistrate intended.

‘But that would be overly hasty, especially as you are here on the orders of Marcellinus himself. However, Diadromes has described to me the “evidence” used as the basis for your investigation here and the word is highly inappropriate. Is there some further information I am not aware of?’

‘We were notified about a suspicious shipment of bronze, sir – which is why we were watching the warehouse.’

‘But that is also connected to this smuggling ring, correct?’

‘It seems so, sir.’

Diadromes intervened. ‘Those investigations are at an early stage, sir. There may yet be some link.’

Pomponianus ignored him and examined his fingernails. ‘But you would agree with me, would you not, Officer, that the reasons for your continuing presence here are weakening with every passing day?’

‘That’s probably fair, sir, yes.’

‘Then let me explain how I think we should proceed from here. You will prepare a daily written report on your activities to be submitted to Diadromes and my office at the end of each day. If, after one week, you have made no further progress, you will leave voluntarily. I will then write to Marshal Marcellinus, politely explaining why I will no longer tolerate the baseless smearing of my city’s good name. Does that seem fair?’

Cassius suspected he wouldn’t get more than a week from Marcellinus and Abascantius anyway. ‘It does, sir. Though I would respectfully suggest that you also write to Aulus Celatus Abascantius, my commander in the Service.’

‘Mmm.’ Pomponianus grinned. ‘Is this the moment when I drop to my knees? Prostrate myself before the shadowy power of the “grain men”? Please, Officer, neither I nor Chief Centurion Nemetorius will be intimidated by the involvement of your organisation. We have both had dealings with Abascantius before. You will know that the governor of this province considers the man nothing less than an arrogant troublemaker and I can’t claim to feel all that differently.’

Cassius briefly considered asking whether Pomponianus was also prepared to so readily dismiss Chief Pulcher, who was known to be one of Aurelian’s most trusted aides.

‘Merely an administrative point, sir.’

Pomponianus finished his wine and handed it to the attendant.

‘One week, Officer. Make sure your daily reports arrive before the twelfth hour.’

The magistrate stood up and adjusted the thick silver chain around his neck. ‘My sergeants and my soldiers are occupied with the well-being of this city. They do not need unnecessary distractions. You shall keep your investigations discreet.’ Pomponianus jabbed a chubby finger towards the house. ‘And you shall keep that thug of yours under control. Understood?’

Cassius and Diadromes had risen too. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good day,’ added the magistrate smoothly. He set off towards the house, retinue close behind.

Diadromes looked at Cassius and shrugged. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure.’

‘He’s not the only one.’

Diadromes scratched his bald patch. ‘Like I said, the smuggling investigation might turn something up.’

‘The way things have gone so far, I very much doubt it. In fact, I’m inclined to return to Tripolis.’

Diadromes looked up at the pine, where some unseen bird was squawking. ‘Sometimes I wish I could just leave.’

‘More trouble? We saw a group of youths being brought in this morning. Something about a statue?’

‘Young fools – just like Sorio and the other grooms. They share an inability to accept the world as it is.’

‘A common affliction. But to attack an image of the Emperor?’

‘I know. Nemetorius will push for the harshest sanctions, I’m certain.’

‘And you?’

‘As you will have noted, I am not currently the magistrate’s favourite deputy but I will argue for clemency. The boys are young. That will help.’

‘Pomponianus needs assistance from Antioch if he wants to keep a lid on this unrest. Another century perhaps. Or funds for the corn dole.’

‘He will not ask. To do so would be to admit his own failure. Governor Gordio might even prevent him standing for re-election.’ Diadromes led the way back towards the villa. ‘I expect you’re looking forward to a rather more comfortable night?’

‘I am.’

Diadromes laughed. ‘Cosmas told me those smugglers were begging to be let out of that cell. That bodyguard of yours would make a quite excellent sergeant but something tells me you would not let him go.’

‘Indeed I would not.’

Indavara lay there in the dark, his hand upon his chest, the figurine clasped within it.

He thought of what he’d told Corbulo in the stable. He felt proud of his words, how he’d convinced him that he was all right. He just wished it were true.

At least he had stopped himself killing Greyboy. A thief deserved punishment but not death. A rapist did, though; and Indavara had killed three of them in the arena. Not that he’d really thought about who he was fighting. Criminal, prisoner, professional; it didn’t matter. It was always either them or him.

But these men like the rapist. Men who cared nothing for others but simply took for themselves. Men like the centurion Carnifex in Africa or the slave trader Scaurus in Antioch. They were the demons Simo and his people spoke of; and if Indavara had a chance to rid the world of them he would do it.

The legionary Scato was not one of them and Indavara screwed his eyes shut as he thought of what he’d almost done to him. He thought again of Corbulo’s awkward speech at the stable; he knew something was wrong and Indavara knew it too.

Why was it happening now? When he was free? When he had a place in the world and friends beside him?

If only he could remember something more; that would make everything better. The woman in the clearing?
Could
it have been his mother? There was no face, no voice, just a presence, something familiar. But the power of the memory faded with every day, like a feather drifting on the wind which he could never quite grasp. He almost wished he had never heard that accursed song.

Dear Fortuna, goddess most high, help me to be a good man. Help me to think, and be calm and to control myself. Help me be a good man.

Indavara wiped his eyes and pushed his blanket aside.

‘You all right?’ asked Simo in the darkness.

‘I’m going.’

‘Indavara, we’ve already pushed our luck too far. Master Cassius will be so angry.’

‘He’ll never know.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Then I’ll go alone.’

‘What shall I tell him?’ asked Simo.

‘Whatever you want. I’m going.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have to.’

It was still dark when he got there. He walked the paths between the mountains of rubbish, listening and looking. He was convinced he needed to be there, that he would find one of the abandoned babies. He hadn’t actually heard Fortuna’s voice say so, yet he was sure.

But the dump was quiet and as the hours passed and the light came he wondered if it was just the torment of the night that had led him there. The boys arrived, ready for another day’s work, and he saw two dogs fighting over a bit of meat, snarling as they snatched the flesh from each other, neither able to eat it.

Indavara had completed at least three circuits of the dump when he saw a flicker of movement among a pile of shattered pots. He ran to the edge of the path and checked carefully but whatever it was had moved on.

Hearing someone run up behind him, he turned to see the lad from the previous day. The young Syrian had lost one of his sandals. He ran back and recovered it then blurted something in Aramaic.

‘I don’t understand,’ replied Indavara in Greek.

The lad switched languages. ‘Baby! You want baby? Come – got a good one.’

Indavara followed him to the side of the dump, close to a street where a few early risers had appeared. The lad stopped and held out his hand, palm upturned.

‘Where is it?’ asked Indavara.

‘Very close. Very close. Give coin first.’

Indavara doubted the lad would risk tricking him so he took a sesterce from his money bag and handed it over.

The lad grinned, showing his sharp little teeth, and ran off again. ‘Come, come. Look here.’

Lying close to the ditch were several broken stone columns. The lad pointed between two of them. Indavara leaned over one of the columns and saw a circular basket. A cloth cover had been put over the handle, covering the contents. The lad sprang between the columns and lifted the cloth. Lying inside the basket was a baby that, to Indavara, looked similar to the other one the women had found. The infant narrowed its eyes against the light and wrinkled its nose but didn’t make a sound. The lad pulled back the tiny blanket covering it and pointed at its arms and legs.