The Imperial Banner (17 page)

With not a single new trail spotted, Cassius was about ready to give up by the time Mico returned. The news was good.

‘We’re in luck, sir. He was out on one of the old nomad tracks a couple of days ago – saw a trail. Noticed because he’s never known anyone else use it. Says you can see the wheel marks clear as day. Two miles east of here.’

‘He’ll show us?’

‘He’s heading over there now. He’ll want paying of course.’

Cassius saw a small figure walking quickly away from the dwelling. The Syrian waved.

‘To the horses,’ said Cassius, already running.

The two sentries were sent back to their post and a muttering Lollius rejoined Cassius, Indavara and Mico as they rode across the plain to meet the goat-herder. The old man had covered the distance with admirable speed. He was squatting by the side of a narrow track but stood and bowed when the Romans arrived. The left side of his body was covered with a bright pink rash from ear to ankle. He pointed down at the ground.

One wheel-track was very clear, the other less so. Cassius dismounted and paced out the distance.

‘About right.’

‘Looks like you’ve found it, grain man,’ said Lollius, turning his horse around.

Cassius looked along the track. It ran as far as he could see, heading a little north of north-east.

‘Has to be it,’ he whispered to himself. A drop of water landed on his hand. He looked up; and two more drops splashed on to his face.

‘Caesar’s balls.’

Hunched low, with his thighs pressed against the saddle, Cassius held on tight as his horse charged through the palm grove. He’d already survived a couple of near misses with protruding roots, and – as the path took an abrupt turn around a tree – he only just avoided a local man carrying a barrel on his head. The Syrian might easily have been knocked flying but there was no gesture or shout of protest. Cassius grinned; there were some advantages to being an officer of the Roman Army.

Riding out to the east of the city to find Venator at least gave him a few moments’ relief from what was becoming a monumentally frustrating day. The rain continued to fall – light but insistent – and Cassius found himself staring up at the sky every few moments, hoping desperately that the cloud would clear.

The decision to follow the trail was an easy one; his brief time at Palmyra had yielded nothing particularly promising and he could always return if the cart-tracks led to a literal or metaphorical dead-end.

Simo and Indavara were busy packing. With no idea how long they might be out in the desert, or where the trail might take them, Cassius had told the Gaul to buy enough food and water for a week. Lollius seemed relieved that he would no longer have to play babysitter, and had even agreed to procure a mount for the old Syrian, who had readily assented to act as their guide. He seemed most concerned about what he would do with his goats but had pledged to meet them back at the trail at midday. Cassius had spent the last hour looking for Venator. Nobody seemed to know where he was, and only after questioning a tribune had Cassius discovered the prefect was in fact out at the city’s eastern walls, overseeing some construction work. He had also managed to fit in a visit to the clerk, who’d promised to get the remaining four legionary records transcribed on to papyrus immediately.

The palms began to thin out. Cassius slowed down and came off the path to avoid a pair of horses hauling timber. To his left was the south-eastern corner of the city walls – perhaps even less impressive than those to the west. Up ahead a massive crew of slaves were hard at work digging; three hundred men at least, scattered along a low ditch marked with poles and rope. There were Palmyran overseers there too, brandishing long canes as they patrolled the ditch. The only Romans in sight were officers: four centurions and two tribunes, standing around a table piled high with sheets of papyrus. They were listening intently to the seventh man at the table: Prefect Venator.

Cassius jinked his horse between cubes of basalt, then stopped and dismounted. The officers looked up as he approached. Venator – whose hands were planted on a big drawing – stopped speaking and turned round.

‘It’s important?’ asked the prefect. As he lifted his hands off the table, the drawing rolled itself up and fell off the table.

Cassius reddened as the tribunes and centurions all stared at him. ‘Yes, sir.’

Venator addressed his officers: ‘Go and check your sections. We’ll reconvene in an hour.’

The prefect walked over to one of the basalt cubes and sat down. Cassius tied his horse to a palm then hurried over.

‘Well?’ asked Venator.

‘We’ve found the trail, sir. I’ve hired a guide and we’ll follow it as far as we can.’

‘You must be quick. The rain.’

‘We’ll be gone within the hour, sir.’

‘What about those records?’

‘I’ll have them all before I leave, sir.’

‘Good. And I shall try to find out what I can regarding what we discussed yesterday: the temple, the Palmyrans – who knew what.’

‘Thank you, sir. And if you discover anything of note, anything at all—’

‘I shall dispatch a note to you via Abascantius’s address in the capital. Using the usual code – thirty-two.’

‘Thirty-two, sir.’

Venator let out a long breath and gestured towards the workers. ‘What a job. Marcellinus tells me I must keep the Palmyrans weak, yet the Emperor wants the city’s defences strengthened now that it’s once again a Roman possession. If the new walls are ever finished, I expect I shall receive orders the following month to tear them down.’

Venator ran a hand through his hair. Cassius wondered when it had turned white.

‘Well, sir, I suppose I should—’

‘Wait a moment, Corbulo. Last night – the auxiliaries. It was a surprise to you, I imagine.’ Venator smiled. ‘You believed me to be a gentleman.’

‘It has been nothing less than an honour to meet you, sir.’

The prefect waved this away. ‘Don’t toady, lad. I get enough of that from my tribunes. You grain men don’t enjoy a lot of advantages. Not having to worm your way up the promotional ladder is one.’

‘I meant what I said, sir. Regarding last night – the fault lies entirely with me.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-one, sir.’

‘You’ve only three years more than my eldest.’

The prefect folded his arms across his chest.

‘What I saw last night was a young man struggling with himself. I know that struggle. Every officer who’s ever worn the crest knows it. But that’s the life. Dirty job after dirty job, and in the Service you’ll get the dirtiest of the lot. I remember what my old prefect used to tell me – though they were still called legates in those days: “You’re a Roman officer. And a Roman officer cannot be just one man. He must be two or three or four.” There’s truth to that. You think the man you saw last night is the same one who returns to his family on leave? Goes to the theatre with his wife and makes small talk with his respectable friends? Or the one who spends hours politicking with the bloody Palmyrans? Even the same as the one talking to you now? I’m not so keen on that man you saw last night myself. Don’t like him much. But I know I need him. Just like you need the man who was giving that Celt a good hiding.’

Cassius looked down at the ground. The thought of it still shamed him.

‘No, no. Head up, lad. Accept it. You need that man for this life. You must always take care not to
become
him, but you will need him. If you’re to find this accursed banner, by Jupiter you’ll need him. Don’t be afraid to do what needs to be done. I for one will owe you if you see this thing through.’

‘I shall do my absolute best, sir.’

‘Good luck then. And keep that bodyguard close by.’

Having collected the newly copied records from the clerk, Cassius found Simo and Indavara waiting outside the camp’s main entrance. Their mounts were heavily laden with water-skins, sacks of food, firewood and horse-feed. Tied to the back of Simo’s saddle was a placid-looking pony: shortly to become the goat-herder’s mount.

Cassius’s own saddlebags lay on the ground. He dismounted and kept hold of the reins as Simo set about attaching them.

‘Got everything?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Simo, grunting as he lugged one of the bags up.

‘Spear-head?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Money?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘All my papers?’

‘Yes, sir.’

As a short column of cavalry trotted into the camp, Indavara looked along the road to the Damascus Gate and shook his head.

‘What’s up with you?’ asked Cassius.

‘I had a dream last night,’ Indavara answered, his brow knotted.

‘Congratulations.’

‘There were animals.’

‘Thrilling.’

Cassius knew where this was going; Indavara struck him as just the type to ascribe dire consequences to his nocturnal imaginings.

‘Let me guess – owls.’

‘How did you know?’

Cassius rolled his eyes. ‘You dreamed of owls so there’ll be storms on our journey. Nonsense. Maybe there will, maybe there won’t. Your dreams have nothing to do with it. It’s the will of the gods or whatever else controls these things. My aunt won’t travel for a month if she dreams of moving statues. But she’s a silly old woman. What’s your excuse?’

Indavara frowned. ‘I thought owls meant we would be attacked by bandits.’

‘Ah, I’ve never heard that one but at least it’s a bit more realistic. Yes, we may well be attacked by bandits. So keep your bow handy and your sword sharp.’

‘We should at least wait until tomorrow,’ said Indavara.

Cassius turned to Simo. ‘By Mars, he’s serious.’

Indavara shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d tell you.’

‘Hey you! You there!’

Cassius and Indavara looked up at a cavalryman who had stopped.

‘You,’ the man repeated, nodding at Indavara, ‘you were a fighter, weren’t you?’

Indavara turned away from the road and said nothing. As he fiddled with his saddle, the rider examined him a moment longer, then turned and called out to a friend, one of the last in the column.

‘Here, Sita! Come and look! We’ve a famous fighter here!’

Sita brought his horse up next to his friend.

‘Remember – Pietas Julia, wasn’t it? A couple of years back.’

Sita was nodding. ‘You’re right, Ruso. It’s him all right. I remember the ear.’

Indavara was doing a poor job of ignoring the men. In fact he seemed to be getting angrier by the moment.

‘What’s the name again, mate?’ asked Ruso.

‘Indavara,’ answered Cassius.

The bodyguard shot him a glare.

‘That’s it!’ said Ruso, slapping his hand down on his saddle. ‘I doubled my money on him. Right tough bugger. So what you doing here, mate?’

Indavara shrugged.

Another cavalryman joined the duo. ‘Did you say Indavara? Everyone the other side of Byzantium’s heard of him. Won twenty bouts and his freedom. Killed a seven-foot German, then a bear – with only a dagger. My sister was there.’

‘Well, well,’ said Cassius.

Simo was now listening in too.

‘Here, mate, show us a move or something!’ said Sita.

‘No, no, he’s not that type,’ said the third man. ‘Just hard and quick. Crafty too.’