The Imperial Banner (12 page)

A few yards behind, Simo and Indavara walked side by side, leading the horses.

‘What about my money then?’ Indavara asked for the second time.

Cassius had heard him the first time but elected to ignore him. Now he spun round.

‘You, my man, bring new meaning to the word mercenary.’

Indavara shrugged.

Cassius turned to Simo. ‘Didn’t come to my aid until he was sure I had his silver. Quite happy to watch me being strangled. You’ll be paid within the hour. Quick enough?’

Indavara shrugged again.

‘That’s settled then.’

The rear entrance of the camp was narrow – no more than twenty feet across. On either side were high poles bearing the square standards of the Fourth Legion. The flags were of black cloth, with the legend and a goat (Capricorn being the legion’s symbol) embroidered in gold. Below the flags, four legionaries stood guard.

Cassius called a halt well short of the entrance, where local traders had been permitted to set up day-pitches selling snacks and drinks. Simo had already retrieved the spear-head and now offered Cassius his helmet.

‘Crest’s not straight.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Come on, Simo, I’m about to meet a prefect of the Roman Army. I must at least try to look presentable.’

Cassius looked down at his tunic. It was still dirty from his encounter with the inn floor, the cape too. As Simo dealt with the helmet, Cassius glanced over at the bodyguard.

‘What was the name again?’

‘Indavara.’

‘Unusual.’

Indavara left his horse and wandered away to investigate the food on offer.

Cassius noticed how shoddy his mount and gear were. The sides of the horse’s mouth were cut and sore; a sure sign of a bad rider. The saddle itself was ancient and poorly maintained: in several places the cover was coming away from the wood. Upon one side of the saddle was a leather bag. On the other side were a water-skin, a bow case and quiver, and a five-foot fighting stave.

Indavara had reclaimed his main weapon – a short sword sheathed on a diagonal belt – on their way out of the inn. As he approached the traders, a group of locals broke up to let him pass. Most of the men were taller and older than him but their action was instinctive. Cassius had been too distracted to notice before but he now realised that there was something undeniably impressive about the man. He wasn’t overly large, or exceptionally muscular; but there was something in the way he carried himself. Cassius had met many such men, most of them soldiers, but he didn’t recall ever seeing it in one so young.

Indavara returned. He had bought a large pastry covered with nuts and honey and devoured it at speed, eyes scanning the encampment. Cassius pretended to turn away but continued to examine him. His face, though handsome in a rather agricultural way, was marked and scarred. His eyes seemed to possess a vacant, almost innocent quality. Cassius suspected he was rather stupid. At least that would make him more biddable. Brainless but tough wasn’t such a bad combination for a bodyguard.

‘What will happen?’ Indavara asked, his mouth full of pastry.

‘What?’ Cassius replied irritably.

Indavara pointed back towards Galanea. ‘Those men. What will happen?’

‘To you, nothing. It is they who shall face consequences. Ah, about time.’

Cassius pressed his hair down and pulled the helmet on, then straightened his tunic.

‘How do I look?’ he asked Simo.

The Gaul hesitated.

Indavara spoke up: ‘You have purple marks on your neck. And your face is very red.’

Cassius scowled at him, then raised his eyes skyward. ‘I think I shall need another drink by the end of today.’

Though he’d never been inside a full-sized army camp, Cassius knew they were all constructed along uniform lines and had no difficulty finding the way. The prefect’s quarters would be found at or close to the centre; traditionally the point from which the army surveyors marked out the rest of the camp.

The trio turned left from the entrance then followed a wide avenue northward. They didn’t see a single unoccupied legionary. Inside a small stockade, a squad watched over two dozen doleful Palmyran prisoners. At a stabling area, a line of cavalrymen waited for their horses to be examined by veterinarians. Cassius reminded Simo to note the location. Another square of the camp was occupied by large wooden tables, where specialists repaired weapons, vehicle parts and all manner of other equipment.

A smart young tribune, identifiable by the narrow purple stripe on his tunic, strode past them on the other side of the avenue. The officer was walking very quickly, so fast that the two men behind him were struggling to keep up. He wore a long cape and tapped a riding crop against his leg as he walked. Perhaps three or four years older than Cassius, he exchanged a graceful nod with his fellow officer.

‘Civilisation at last,’ Cassius announced.

After a few more paces through the heavy, ploughed-up soil, he turned and spoke to Indavara.

‘Why Abascantius thought it wise for me to meet you in that damned inn I shall never know. I should have had you come here.’

Indavara trudged on, head down.

‘Not very talkative are you? Unless the talk is of money, that is.’

Indavara looked up. ‘What?’

‘I said you’re not very talkative.’

Indavara tapped his mutilated ear. ‘I don’t always hear so well.’

‘Ah.’

The queue outside the prefect’s tent contained eighteen people. Cassius knew that because, after an hour of waiting, he’d already counted them three times. There was little else to do. He’d been determined to bypass the queue but a staff officer had intercepted him and taken him aside. After seeing the spear-head and Cassius’s authorisation, he’d promised to let the prefect know of his arrival. Cassius had caught a brief glimpse of Venator inside the tent: a tall, lean man poring over a map table, surrounded by his staff.

The Palmyrans in the queue seemed to be a mix of priests, administrators and merchants, all waiting patiently, talking in Greek or Aramaic. The sky had turned grey and now a light drizzle fell. Those with servants and parasols made use of them, others took shelter under the awning at the front of the tent.

The staff officer reappeared. He politely negotiated the Palmyrans, avoided Cassius’s gaze and headed north towards the main entrance. Cassius jogged around the queue and caught up with him.

‘Excuse me. Any news?’

The officer turned round. ‘The prefect will see you later this afternoon. He hasn’t the time now. I’m off for lunch. Do you mind?’

‘As it happens I do. This is a matter of the utmost importance. Just mention the name Gregorius to him. I assure you he will be most upset if he finds out you were obstructive.’

The question of seniority was complex. The staff officer – a man of about thirty-five – was well below the level of a tribune but the proximity of his position to the prefect afforded him considerable authority. Cassius was young but the spear-head – and his position with the Service – gave him added status. He decided on a retreat into good old-fashioned politeness.

‘Please, sir. You know the Service doesn’t occupy itself with trivial concerns.’

The officer raised an eyebrow at this but he seemed to appreciate the improvement in tone.

‘I will mention the name. Prefect Venator will make his own decision about the importance of the matter.’

He returned to the tent. Cassius walked back to where the other two were waiting. He shook his head as he watched Indavara – surreptitiously counting up the coins he’d been given. Simo was examining his horse’s injured leg.

‘There’s not much point you two staying here. Why not head back to the stables and get your mount seen to?’

Simo looked up and smacked his hands together to clean them.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You can use the spear-head if they’re uncooperative.’

‘Corbulo!’

Cassius turned to see the staff officer beckoning to him. He hurried over and was all set to head inside the tent when the officer moved aside and Prefect Venator himself appeared. He gave Cassius the briefest of nods then turned towards the Palmyrans.

‘Good afternoon to you all,’ he said in immaculate Greek. ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting. Please come in out of the rain. There are some refreshments in here for you. My men will answer any immediate questions you have. I shall return presently.’

With a politician’s smile fixed on his face, Venator stood to one side while the Palmyrans filed into the tent. A young servant appeared next to him and began unfolding a large parasol. Venator waved it away.

‘I don’t need that.’

He turned to Cassius. ‘You have your horse?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘We shall take a ride.’

The prefect, Cassius decided, was a thoroughly impressive character. He was at least forty, undeniably handsome; and the incongruous combination of thick black eyebrows and soft white hair somehow reinforced his authoritative bearing. He carried no sword and wore a long red cloak fringed with gold.

Another servant trotted forward with a big, pale mare in tow. The first attendant got a box on to the ground just in time for the prefect to use it as a step. Venator climbed up on to the saddle, then turned and glared at Cassius.

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Ah, sorry, sir.’

Simo brought Cassius’s horse over. By the time he had mounted up, the prefect was already on his way.

‘I’ll meet you here later, Simo,’ Cassius said. He guided his horse on to the road then urged it into a trot until he caught up with Venator.

The prefect looked him over. ‘They say you’re getting old when legionaries start to look young. It seems the same applies to grain men. Are you one of Abascantius’s?’

Cassius wasn’t sure what to say. It all depended on the prefect’s opinion of the agent. He doubted it would be particularly favourable.

‘Not exactly, sir. I report directly to Chief Pulcher.’

‘Do you now? Then I should be careful what I say.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ Cassius replied, trying to sound humble.

‘How is the old rogue? Still wearing those awful finger-rings?’

Cassius hesitated; he didn’t want to get caught in a lie.

‘I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve never actually met him. I’ve only been with the Service two years. I was transferred here from Cyzicus. I believe the idea was to use an investigator from outside the province.’

‘An investigator? And something to do with Gregorius. Are you about to make an already bad day worse?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. He, the men and the – shipment – haven’t been seen since they left here.’

One of Venator’s hands drifted from the reins and he began rubbing the back of his neck. They came to a crossroads. A tribune left a group of legionaries loading a cart and ran over to the prefect.

‘Sir, might I have a moment?’

‘Not now,’ replied Venator sharply. As the tribune sloped off, he guided his horse across the avenue.

‘Marcellinus knows?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

Venator let out a long breath.

Cassius hadn’t really thought about the prefect’s situation, but as part of Abascantius’s scheme, he might also expect to suffer the consequences if the banner couldn’t be found. Men of his rank typically used their command of a legion as a stepping stone to a senate career. A connection – any connection – to such a disaster might set his political ambitions back years.