The Imperial Banner (10 page)

‘I can imagine, sir,’ replied Simo as he ran the cloth across his master’s chest. ‘Perhaps we might find a bath for you tomorrow.’

‘I live in hope. Nasty business this morning.’

It was the first time Cassius had mentioned the incident with the three legionaries. Simo – now attending to his master’s shoulders – took his time to reply.

‘Evil, sir. Simply evil.’

‘That kind of thing is to be expected at a time like this. Even so, not the sort of treatment likely to win over the locals.’

‘I cannot imagine what possesses people to commit such acts, sir.’

‘Well, it’s in your nature to think the best of people, Simo, but the army does not always attract the most wholesome of characters, and not everyone shares your preoccupation with the well-being of others. I’ve spoken to you about it before, and yet you will persist with trying to help every poor unfortunate we encounter. I’ll remind you again: charity is for Jews and Orientals.’

‘Might I speak freely for a moment, sir?’

‘As long as you hurry up. I’m getting cold.’

‘Sir, you went to help those women without a second thought. Are our attitudes really so different?’

‘Do you know what I should have done, Simo? I should have kept on riding. I am on imperial business. We might easily have fared a good deal worse with those three thugs. And who would have benefited then?’

‘You did the right thing, sir, I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, I’m happy to know you approve, Simo, but think on this. Another hour and we would have missed the whole thing. And who’s to say they didn’t find another poor girl somewhere else?’

Simo put the wet cloth aside and picked up a new one.

‘You don’t think your words might have brought them to their senses, sir?’

‘Your naivety is endearing, Simo. Listen here: life is hard. I think we’ve both seen enough to know that. The world is too big and too cruel for the actions of well-meaning men to make much difference.’

‘Perhaps their superiors could get those men back on the straight and narrow, sir? I suppose that’s not possible now.’

‘You mean because I gave my word I wouldn’t report them?’

Simo didn’t see his master grinning. He was down on his knees, vigorously rubbing away at the dirt caked on Cassius’s legs.

‘You know I’m not one to give an oath lightly but circumstances have changed, Simo. I am now in the employ of the Imperial Security Service and am therefore expected by all and sundry to be a lying, underhand scoundrel. I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.’

It was quite astonishing to ride through a largely barren wasteland for more than a week, then look down upon the lush, dark green carpet of palm trees that surrounded Palmyra.

From Cassius’s position high on a ridge, he could easily make out the Damascus Gate, where travellers arriving from the south or west entered the city. Down low to his left were more of the tomb towers that dominated the approach and where he and Simo had encountered a legionary patrol. The men had assured him that the path over the ridge was the quickest route to the village of Galanea.

From the Damascus Gate, a grand colonnaded avenue cut a crooked line eastward, embellished by vast arches and tetrapyla. Halfway along the avenue, on the northern side, was a high, imposing building book-ended by domed towers, which Cassius assumed to be Zenobia’s palace. Further east was an even larger edifice, one he recognised from a sketch in one of his neighbour’s books. The massive Temple of Bel honoured a Babylonian god long worshipped by the Palmyrans. It was easily the largest structure in the city. Though surrounded by a vast courtyard, its angular bulk dwarfed dwellings whose size decreased according to their proximity to the main avenue. Beyond the temple was a mile-wide lake where the subterranean waters that sustained the city broke the surface.

‘Impressive,’ Cassius said, though Simo was too far behind to hear him. He turned to the south. ‘Almost as impressive as that.’

The encampment of the Fourth Legion was huge. Though Cassius knew precisely how such a settlement was created, how it was organised, and how swiftly it could be dismantled, he had never seen a legion-sized camp in the field. At moments such as this, he felt proud to be Roman.

The northern perimeter of the camp was perhaps a mile from the city: a deep ditch reinforced by a rampart wall. There was a narrow entrance on each side of the square, and a two-hundred-foot space between the wall and the first lines of tents. This space – a defensive buffer that kept everything valuable out of range of burning missiles – was empty apart from a few horses grazing on what little grass was left. The centre of the camp was remarkably uniform: rows of large, pale tents divided by wide avenues. Beyond the eastern perimeter, a cavalry unit drilled their mounts.

As if eager to share the view, Cassius’s horse nosed him in the shoulder. He pushed it away and looked south beyond the encampment. A wide track marked by darker soil led from the Roman camp to the village. People could be seen travelling in both directions.

Puffing hard, Simo dragged his injured horse to the brow of the ridge. Cassius glanced at the animal.

‘Will it make it down to the village?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Will you?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Simo, straightening up and trying to control his breathing.

‘Good, because we need to keep moving.’

Cassius squinted at the sun overhead, then started away along the snaking track that ran down to Galanea.

If not for the lame horse, they would have made good time that morning. Despite his blanket bed, Cassius had slept well and had awoken to find Legionary Durio up on his feet and feeling much better. He joined the others for breakfast and helped Gerardus and Simo with the horses. Cassius made no further attempt to extract any information from the pair and they remained cordial – if tight-lipped – until their visitors went on their way.

Of the two sets of legionaries from the Fourth Legion he had encountered since leaving Abascantius, Cassius hoped that those at Palmyra would be more like the second group than the first.

On the outskirts of the village they passed a few mud-built hovels occupied only by children playing at war. Cassius somehow lost the main path and they had to pick their way through several abandoned sets of foundations and assorted rubble before finding the main street. It was lined by large, two-storey buildings of cemented stone. Two veiled women emerged from an alley to their left, carrying woven baskets. They hurried past, heads down. A trio of local men rebuilding a courtyard wall stopped their work to inspect the strangers.

‘Good morning,’ Cassius said in Greek. ‘There’s an inn here – The Goat’s Leg?’

One man looked as if he was about to reply, then turned to the others and said something in Aramaic. They all laughed, then continued with their work.

Cassius shrugged and pressed on. The street widened out into a square occupied by a few dozen legionaries and villagers. Traders had laid out their wares around a big date palm that leaned alarmingly to one side. Beyond the tree were two roads: one led east, the other south. Cassius stopped beside a smaller tree and looped his reins around a branch. Simo did the same, then stood with hands on his hips, breathing heavily.

‘We shall at least both be a good deal fitter after this affair,’ Cassius said as he reached for his canteen. ‘Stay here. I shall try to find this inn.’

Ignoring the curious glances that greeted him as he walked towards the traders, Cassius sipped from the canteen and nodded to any of the legionaries who looked his way. Even when off-duty, they were easily spotted, with their short hair, thick military belts and hobnailed boots.

Whatever the villagers’ attitude to their Roman occupiers, they clearly weren’t averse to profiting from trade with the soldiers. As well as food and clothing, there was glass and fine ware, building tools, firewood, blankets, sheets, cushions, riding equipment, and the ever-present local trinkets and cheap religious icons. Several legionaries were involved in protracted bouts of haggling. One of those looking on was a soldier carrying two folded sheets and chewing on a bread roll.

‘Morning, legionary,’ said Cassius.

‘Sir.’

‘Can you tell me where I might find The Goat’s Leg?’

‘You sure you want to go there, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because that’s a soldiers’ inn, sir. Not an officers’ inn.’

‘Just tell me where it is, man.’

The legionary pointed to the southern road.

‘Down the hill there, sir.’

Cassius headed off down the slope and gestured for Simo to follow with the horses. There were only six buildings on the street, three on each side, and it soon petered out into a dusty, palm-lined path. The inn was easily the biggest structure: three storeys high with an arched doorway. On either side of it were amateurish murals showing wine jars and girls wrapped in vine leaves.

Cassius caught a glimpse of watching eyes from a window and in moments a straggly-haired woman of about fifty had appeared at the doorway.

‘Hello, handsome. Looking for some local hospitality?’

‘Possibly.’

Cassius stopped and waited for Simo to catch up.

The woman moved aside to allow a bulky, large-headed man out, who then stalked down the steps and crossed his arms. Tucked into his belt was a thick cudgel.

‘Don’t mind him,’ said the woman, switching to Latin.

‘Quite the linguist,’ said Cassius.

‘I know a Roman officer when I see one. Not that we get many down here. My husband’s an ex-legionary. Why don’t you come in and meet him? We’ve got dancing girls and the finest selection of wines this side of the city.’

‘A moment, woman. Will your man watch the horses for us?’

‘Stable’s closed. And you’ll have to leave your weapons with your servant, or at the door. And you must buy at least one drink.’ She pointed to a worn papyrus sheet mounted in a frame. ‘Rules of the house.’

Cassius turned to Simo and shook his head as he undid his sword belt.

‘The delights of the provinces. This won’t take a moment, Simo. If the man I’m supposed to meet is here we shall depart at once, if not I shall leave a message and we’ll head up to the camp.’

Cassius touched his tunic just above his belt, checking that the small bag of money he’d counted out that morning was there. The rest of the coins were in his saddlebag.

‘Perhaps you should wait down there,’ he suggested. Beyond the final house was a patch of unused land where Simo could remain safely out of sight.

‘Very well. Careful in there, sir.’

Cassius removed his dagger and handed it to Simo with the sword belt. Greeted by a smile from the woman and a frown from the doorman, he stepped up through the doorway. Nearby was a large wooden chest with a few sheathed swords and daggers inside. Four bows (too long for the chest) had been leant against the wall, along with four quivers. The woman bustled ahead of him and pulled back a heavy curtain. Although he could hear voices, Cassius was surprised to find the room empty. There was a bar but no furniture.

‘We’re using the back room. Fire.’ The woman pointed to the hearth. Black streaks of soot covered most of the wall and roof. ‘Take your cape?’ she asked.

Cassius shook his head as he undid the clasp himself and dropped the cape over his arm.

‘Just through there.’ She pointed at an open door, then returned to the window and took up some sewing.

Cassius walked warily through the doorway. There were two groups inside. Gathered at the bar directly in front of him were six dark-skinned men with long, black hair. Auxiliaries, Cassius guessed; probably Cilician or Galatian. They were talking to an older man behind the bar. A couple of them threw a quick glance towards Cassius then returned to their conversation.

To the right, four men sat by an empty hearth, too occupied with three serving girls to notice the new arrival. They were all fair-haired and broad in the shoulders and chest; certainly the owners of the bows. Also auxiliaries – Celts perhaps.

Cassius waited for a moment to see if anyone might come forward but not one of them had given him a second look. In any case, he was certain they were all soldiers. He checked the tables to the left; they were empty.

Continuing to the bar, he kept well clear of the auxiliaries and sat down on a stool. There was a shrill call in Aramaic from a hatch. The barkeep nodded a greeting to Cassius, then picked up two steaming wooden plates. He delivered the food to the men then returned to Cassius, slapping his hands down on the bar. He had a weathered, ruddy face and an unusual mark on his chin; Cassius couldn’t decide if it was a dimple or a scar.

‘Good-day, sir. Not seen you in here before.’

‘Just arrived.’

‘Which cohort you with?’

‘None. I’m with the governor’s staff.’

‘Is that right? I’m Telesinus. I own this place.’

‘Ah, yes. I just met your wife.’

‘Still out there, is she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not been struck by lightning?’

‘No,’ Cassius answered with a curious grin. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve been begging the gods for twenty years – it has to happen one day.’