The Emperor's Silver: Agent of Rome 5 (6 page)

One of the hunters slapped the girl and a moment later her head came up. Then two of the men lifted her, one taking her under the arms, one by the legs. While they carried her towards the terrace, Skiron recovered the pear.

Amathea and Alexon walked over as the hunters reached the top of the steps. Lyra was looking at her mistress; everyone else was looking at her. Her face was so pale it appeared almost grey. The arrow tip had carved a thick line across the top of her head where her blonde hair parted. The flesh was horribly red.

‘Is it bad?’ asked Lyra.

‘It will stitch up,’ said Amathea.

The Iturean muttered a curse in his own language.

‘You’ll hardly be able to see it under all that hair,’ added Amathea.

Skiron spoke to the hunters as he came up the steps. They took the girl inside and he handed Amathea the pear, or rather the two halves of it.

‘A fine shot,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Kallikres?’

The sergeant said nothing.

‘Without a drink inside him, I’m sure he could do the same at fifty paces. Are you all right? You’re almost as pale as the girl.’

Kallikres gripped his stomach. ‘May I go?’

‘Of course. As long as we can be assured that you’ve understood the point of all this. Once my brother and I begin something, we always see it through to the end. We expect the same from you.’

Kallikres nodded then walked away down the steps.

Suddenly Alexon and Amathea were alone. ‘Sister, though I’m not sure that was entirely necessary, we seem to have made quite an impression on our guest.’

‘You disappoint me, brother. I told you that we must always appear united when in the company of subordinates. You questioned me.’

‘I’m sorry, Amathea. You’re right.’

‘I’m going to my room.’

He knew what that meant.

She was already on the balcony when he arrived. Alexon bolted the door and walked over to her. He had waited for an hour before coming up. Of their many routines this was the most established; it only increased the longing, the power of which amazed him every time.

Amathea was facing him but looking over the side of the balcony.

‘Anyone there?’ he asked.

‘Only one of the girls. She won’t see you.’

‘You must try to be quiet, Amathea.’

‘I shall do as I please.’

She stretched her arms out along the iron railing, fingers sliding on the metal. The diaphanous robe clung to her thighs, her form surrounded by the pink flowers and vivid green leaves that covered the balcony.

‘Am I beautiful?’

‘The blooms fade into insignificance beside you.’

Neither of them had ever touched anyone else. They found the very thought ridiculous.

‘I am yours,’ said Amathea.

‘And I am yours.’ Alexon dropped to his knees in front of her. He circled her ankles with his hands then slid them up, the robe bunching on his arms as he reached higher.

The coast road rarely strayed more than a hundred yards from the sea. It ran over countless rocky headlands and bridged ravines where water hissed and rumbled below. The only difficult section was north of Berytus, where the road steepened and twisted high above what was known colloquially as the Dog River. There they had passed the ancient statue of a wolf which was supposed to howl warnings to the locals if enemies approached. Some of the inscriptions on the rocks there were five hundred years old, dating back to when the Phoenicians had controlled the region.

The trio had been riding for seven days. It had taken four to reach the coast at Tyre, where they’d turned north, bound for Tripolis. Cassius was not in any great hurry; he’d sent a letter ahead to a man named Quentin, the treasury agent in charge of the counterfeiting investigation.

He never have imagined being glad to be back in Syria. Arabia – Bostra in particular – held dark associations for him now; he had left behind Abascantius, Governor Calvinus, the pressures of the troubling situation with the Tanukh and – most importantly of all – whomever had tried to capture him.

As suggested by Abascantius, Cassius had taken a series of precautions to remain undetected: they had left Bostra before first light, used a roundabout route out of the city, and been escorted by four cavalrymen for the first day. Though clearly bemused by such a duty, the soldiers had taken their responsibilities seriously, doubling back regularly to check the road behind them and leaving only when their charges found safe accommodation for the night.

Cassius was not in uniform and had used a false name at the inns where they stayed. As the days passed, he had grown more relaxed and was looking forward to what would surely be a comparatively leisurely and safe assignment. It was now mid-afternoon and – according to the milestones – there were only five miles left to Tripolis. They would arrive well before dusk with plenty of time to meet Quentin and arrange their lodgings.

Indavara – who was riding to Cassius’s left, closest to the sea – unleashed an almighty yawn. ‘Hot again.’

‘You ate too much lunch. Again.’

Indavara ignored him and pawed at an insect that had settled on his bulging right bicep. Though clearly happy to be on the move, the bodyguard never liked disruption to his conditioning regime and had to improvise exercises on the road. He’d spent half of the previous evening doing hundreds of push-ups and lifting a barrel above his head. His recovery had been remarkably speedy and he’d spent only two days languishing in the cart. Even so, he was inflicting daily progress reports on his companions – apparently the pain was now negligible but the purple bruising had turned black.

Indavara looked over his shoulder. ‘All right there, Simo?’

Cassius turned round. The attendant, who was driving the horse and cart, had set up a makeshift awning to protect himself from the sun.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Patch?’

‘Seems fine.’

The hardy donkey who had been with them since their journey into the Arabian desert was tied to the rear of the cart. Indavara and Simo didn’t even bother to pretend that they actually needed the beast for their luggage any more. Cassius allowed them this indulgence but was constantly amazed by how much care and attention they lavished on the creature.

‘Can you think of any more?’ asked Indavara. The game of ‘guess the emperor’ had been going on for some time.

‘I believe we’ve exhausted our entire supply,’ replied Simo. ‘Perhaps another game?’

‘I don’t think you’ve heard this one,’ said Cassius, looking down at the white sandy beach where four fishermen were bringing in a net.

‘I once had a special collapsible boat constructed then used it to try and drown my mother.’

‘Mmm.’ Simo seemed perplexed.

‘Let me,’ said Indavara. ‘Was it Caligula?’

‘No,’ said Cassius.

‘Tiberius?’

‘No. Last guess.’

‘Nero.’

‘Very good.’

‘Ha.’ Indavara slapped his thigh. ‘Did it work?’

‘The boat? Yes. But she managed to swim back to shore – that must have been an awkward conversation.’

Indavara shook his head. ‘Emperors – mad buggers every one.’

Cassius pointed at him. ‘Don’t say that in company. And remember you’ve taken an oath to Aurelian. We should all consider ourselves lucky; we’ve not had such a capable character in the purple for quite a while.’

‘Do you think he’s seen the black stone yet?’ asked Indavara.

‘Probably.’

‘Perhaps he’ll see the god Elagabal like we did.’

Cassius didn’t reply. He’d tried to forget the vision he’d had that day in the canyon and wished he’d never told Indavara about it.

‘You saw him too,’ said the bodyguard. ‘I dream of it sometimes. I dream of him fighting with my Fortuna.’

‘It was our minds playing tricks, that’s all.’

‘Of course,’ said Indavara, rolling his eyes. ‘You know everything. About everything.’

‘As I said at the time: no – just more than you.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Move over.’

They were heading up a slight slope and Cassius had just spotted a cavalryman coming over the rise. The rider carried a scarlet and gold standard and was leading a squad of ten. They seemed to be well equipped for a long journey: the saddles were loaded with fodder, water skins and equipment which thumped and jangled as they trotted past. Each man also had a yellow oval shield with the same pattern of black swirls surrounding the bronze boss.

These were not the first soldiers they had seen; there had been two more units of cavalry and a century heading south. Cassius didn’t like ignoring them; he enjoyed the camaraderie of greeting fellow soldiers on the road – seeing his crest, they generally assumed he was a centurion. But for the moment it seemed wise to draw as little attention as possible so he had forgone anything that identified him as a military man. He would have to wear his uniform in Tripolis while undertaking the investigation but (again at the suggestion of Abascantius) would continue to operate under an assumed name.

As the last of the cavalrymen passed them, they reached the top of the slope. Ahead, the road cut through thick scrub and olive groves, following the gentle curve of the coast before reaching Tripolis, most of which seemed to be crammed on to a promontory jutting out into the sea. It was a medium-sized city, not as large as some of those they had passed through like Sidon and Berytus. Cassius had no idea why the Emperor had decided to commission a new imperial mint there.

‘Four to go,’ said Indavara, spying another milestone. ‘Hope there’s some good eating round here. I’m starving.’

After obtaining some directions from a pair of legionaries patrolling the road, they headed straight for the nearest army way station. It was currently occupied by a party of surveyors, so while Simo went to find alternative accommodation, Cassius and Indavara were assigned a young lad to escort them to the mint. It was less than a mile away, on the eastern edge of the town in an area of factories and workshops. Unlike the other buildings, the mint was surrounded by a twelve-foot brick wall topped by spikes and guarded by a squad of legionaries. Confident he could find his way back, Cassius dismissed the lad and they waited outside the entrance for Quentin.

‘Looks just like the one in Antioch,’ said Indavara, examining the walls.

‘Of course – you were with Abascantius when he thought Governor Gordio was mixed up in the theft of the Persian flag. Gods, what a mess he made of that. Fortunately, I was around to pick up the pieces.’

‘By getting yourself captured?’

‘All part of the plan,’ said Cassius with a grin.

He let out a long breath and wished he’d brought his hat with him. He was wearing a thin, sleeveless tunic and his lightest boots but was still sweating. ‘Hope Simo’s found somewhere close to the coast, bit of sea air would be nice.’

One of the eight legionaries on duty opened the small iron gate next to the main entrance and a slight man of about forty appeared. Cassius’s skin was on the fair side, but this fellow’s was even paler and he grimaced as he was struck by the full power of the sun. His long-sleeved tunic was of good quality but the sleeves were marked with ink blots.

‘Officer Crispian?’

‘Yes,’ lied Cassius.

‘Lucius Gratus Quentin.’ They shook forearms.

Quentin shielded his eyes as he inspected the other new arrival. Like Cassius, Indavara was armed with dagger and sword.

‘May I see your documentation?’

‘Of course.’

Cassius reached into the deer-hide satchel over his shoulder and took out the letter of introduction. Glycia had written it; Marshal Marcellinus had signed it. Only Abascantius had possessed the presence of mind to suggest that it identified Cassius as ‘the bearer’ instead of by name.

Quentin read the note and returned it. ‘This is all rather irregular but we must of course do as we are bid. Please, follow me.’

Quentin went through the narrow archway first. As Cassius followed, one of the legionaries stepped in front of him. ‘You’ll have to leave the weapons here, sir.’

‘I’m afraid it’s policy,’ said Quentin. ‘You’ll see that I carry no blade; only the soldiers of the garrison are allowed to do so.’

‘You did see the name in that letter? Must I invoke it a second time?’