The Imperial Banner (59 page)

‘And that’s for Gregorius.’

Cassius looked up.

Indavara was just feet away, between the hatch and the side rail.

Alikar lunged at him.

Indavara didn’t dare let him get close again. He took two swift steps back to give himself space, then launched a wide sweep at the mercenary.

Alikar parried solidly; and the impact sent convulsive tremors up Indavara’s arm. He barely kept hold of the weapon, but saw for the first time a flash of doubt in the older man’s eyes. He lashed out again, this time aiming low.

Alikar saw it coming and leapt backwards. Indavara missed him completely – and almost lost his balance – but he pressed on, raising the club over his shoulder once more. He took a deep breath, planted his front foot on the deck and twisted into a full-blooded swing at his foe’s head. Alikar had no choice but to block.

The clubs met with a shuddering crack. Both men lost their grip: Indavara’s weapon flew from his hands and smashed into the deck, Alikar’s wheeled into the air.

Before it had even hit the ground, Indavara reached for his dagger.

Alikar went for his own blade.

Indavara’s fingers closed on the handle. He plucked the blade from the sheath.

Alikar was fumbling. He looked down.

Indavara plunged the dagger straight into his foe’s heart, sinking the blade in deep.

Alikar’s hand was still on the handle of his knife.

Indavara forced the blade in another inch.

The mercenary’s entire body quivered and he let out a gasping sigh. His hands came up around Indavara’s neck. Indavara tried to push him away but Alikar pulled him in close and locked him into a bear hug. He staggered backwards, dragging Indavara with him.

Cassius dropped the boathook, picked up Scaurus’s knife, and rushed towards them.

Two more stumbling steps and they were at the side rail. Indavara’s arms were pinned. He tried to get a knee into the Palestinian’s groin but they were too close.

He smashed his head into Alikar’s nose just as the mercenary gave a final heave.

They pitched over the side rail and into the river.

Water exploded against Indavara’s face. He shut his eyes as he sank, then opened them as he began to rise. He thought Alikar still had hold of him but then realised his arms were free. His head broke the surface and he saw the big body drifting away between the ship and the jetty.

For the first time in his entire life, Indavara found himself floating in water. The feeling of a liquid void around and beneath him panicked him like nothing before. He kicked out to try to stay afloat but the river seemed to be sucking him down.

He went under again, swallowed water, came back up, spat it out, thrashed around, swallowed more.

Under again and this time he didn’t come back up. The mail-shirt seemed to have tripled in weight. He tried to pull it off him but it didn’t move an inch.

He sank lower.

A dark shape in front of him. He reached for the ship, trying to halt his descent, but his fingers slid down the smooth planks of the hull.

He fell further into the green mist. Tendril fingers slithered over his legs, pulling him lower. He shut his eyes again.

This is how I will die
.

‘Cut, damn you!’

Kneeling by the side rail, with Scaurus’s knife wedged between his knees, Cassius ran the ropes on his wrists up and down the blade. He was already through one but needed to cut another to get free.

He took long, deep breaths to get some air into his lungs. It seemed an age since he’d heard the last splash. Indavara had been under a long time already. But he was so strong. He could hold on.

Cassius saw movement to his left: Simo – running along the barge towards the jetty.

‘Simo, he can’t swim! The armour! He can’t swim!’

Finally the knife was through. Cassius shook the rope off his wrists and wrenched off first one boot, then the other. He got up on the side rail. All he could see below was a thin trail of bubbles.

He dived into the river.

The shock of the cold faded quickly, as did the power of the dive. He felt himself rising again and kicked downward as he opened his eyes.

Nothing but murky green. Wide, arcing strokes took him deeper. Pain stung his ears.

There, impossibly far below him, something glinting in the darkness. He kicked again. Fifteen feet down. Twenty. Pressure in his lungs and throat.

Twenty-five feet. Then he saw him. Indavara’s face was no more than a blur. Everything below the silvery mail-shirt was obscured by thick clumps of undulating reed.

Cassius kicked towards him. When he was close enough, he reached between Indavara’s flailing arms for his belt, catching an elbow in the neck for his trouble. Cassius hauled the belt upwards. Indavara moved a couple of inches but then stopped. The reed seemed to have wrapped itself around him. The disturbed water cleared. He looked like a child, terrified and helpless.

Cassius felt the slippery reed licking at his legs. He locked both hands on the belt and heaved upwards again but Indavara was stuck there.

He came for me.

I can’t leave him here to die.

Cassius’s chest was on fire; and the fire was moving up to his throat. He knew he had only moments of air left.

He let go of Indavara. Instinct took over. He began to drift upwards.

Sensing something behind him, he turned.

A dark shape above, a big hand coming towards him, then a broad face set in a steely grimace.

Despite his size, Cassius knew Simo to be a strong swimmer. The Gaul ploughed past him and took Indavara’s left hand. Cassius reached out and took the right, interlocking their fingers. Simo started upward. Cassius shut his eyes and kicked out with every ounce of strength he had left.

Indavara shifted, then suddenly was free.

Legs thrashing, they rose swiftly, accelerating up towards the dark bulk of the ship.

The fire was through Cassius’s throat and into his mouth. His eyelids flickered open and shut. Darkness closed in around him. He was blacking out.

Shimmering sunlight above. Yellow spots flashed in his eyes. His body felt light, hollow. He wasn’t even kicking any more.

He reached up. His fingers broke the surface. And then he was there.

Spluttering as he sucked in air, he let go of Indavara’s hand, barely noticing the other two surface three yards away.

‘Sir!’

Cassius could do nothing to help. He reached out for the ship, then realised it was too far away. But as he drew in more air, his vision began to clear. He turned to see Simo struggling to keep Indavara’s head above the surface. The bodyguard’s eyes were shut. He was coughing up water.

‘There,’ cried Simo, nodding at the thick timbers that supported the jetty.

Cassius could move now. Between them, he and Simo manoeuvred Indavara over to the nearest support. They propped him against it, then wrapped their legs around the wood. The three of them just hung there, recovering.

After a time, Indavara’s eyes opened. He stared blankly forward, his breaths coming in convulsive gasps. Simo smacked him on the back a couple of times to clear all the water out. The bodyguard couldn’t even keep his grip on the support. Cassius and Simo put their arms under him to keep him out of the water and he laid his head against the wood.

Cassius had no idea how long they stayed there. At some point he realised he could hear the slaves, still shouting to each other in their own language. And once he turned towards the ship, he thought of Scaurus and the barrels; and the imperial banner. He had to know.

‘You all right, sir?’ Simo asked. A thick clump of weed lay across his forehead.

‘I will be,’ replied Cassius. He turned to Indavara. ‘Can you move?’

Indavara nodded.

Again they took one of his arms each, and swam to the bank. They hauled themselves up through thick, clinging mud until they were above the level of the jetty. Then they collapsed on to a bed of reeds and lay out on their backs for a moment, eyes shut against the sun.

‘By the great gods,’ breathed Cassius. ‘To think I used to love swimming. After today and yesterday, I don’t ever want to leave dry land.’

‘Me neither,’ spluttered Indavara.

It was the first thing he’d said; and Cassius and Simo laughed long and hard, mostly out of relief.

Indavara turned on his front and continued to spit out water. He looked as if the river had washed all the colour out of his face.

‘Can you take this off?’ he said.

Simo crawled over to him and, after several attempts, managed to wrench the mail-shirt off over his head.

‘Thank you,’ said Indavara. ‘Both of you.’

Cassius dragged himself to his feet. ‘Our pleasure. Come, you two, I hope to show you what this terrible affair has been all about.’

Walking along the jetty, they could still see some of the sailors – now all running back towards Antioch. A glance along the northern side of the river confirmed why they were leaving at such a pace. About half a mile away, a column of horsemen with a standard-bearer leading the way were riding along the towpath.

‘About time,’ said Cassius. ‘I wonder who they are.’

‘Marshal Marcellinus’s men probably,’ suggested Simo. ‘Shostra was to take a message to him.’

‘Better late than never, I suppose.’

They made their way back out along the barge – Indavara taking special care – and on to the galley. The slaves were still babbling away to each other below.

They passed Indavara’s first victim. The bodyguard went to recover the sword, and was barely able to summon the strength to dislodge the blade.

Cassius retrieved Scaurus’s knife from the deck and tried not to look at the second fallen mercenary.

‘Careful,’ he said as he led the way down the hatch. ‘This could be dangerous.’

Lying next to the still motionless form of Scaurus was the overseer. The slaves had somehow overcome him but were all still shackled. One man was stretching for the key on the overseer’s belt as Cassius came down the last step.

‘We should free them,’ Indavara said.

‘Why?’ Cassius asked.

‘Look at them. What life is this for a man?’

‘The life of a galley slave.’

Indavara looked again at the Africans; and when Cassius saw the expression on his face, he lost interest in arguing about it. He took the key off the overseer’s belt and passed it to him.

‘All right, Spartacus, do as you wish. But tell them to head for the south side of the river or the legionaries will round them up. And don’t blame me if they turn on you.’

Cassius checked Scaurus and the overseer. They were both still breathing. He found Scaurus’s key in a bag on his belt.

The slaves strained at their chains, trying to get close to Indavara.

Cassius pointed at the two unconscious men. ‘Drag them out of the way, Simo.’

He hurried past the slaves and down the steps to the forward hold. He unlocked the door and went inside. Using Scaurus’s knife, he set about taking the lids off the barrels. As he worked he heard the cries of the slaves; then Indavara and Simo trying to talk to them; then their footsteps as they hurried up the stairs, across the deck and on to the barge.

He had opened nine of the barrels – scooping aside the old coins to see what was underneath – before he came to one that didn’t contain either silver, gold or jewellery.

The flag had been rolled up and stuffed into the barrel. Cassius pulled it out and spread it across the floor. The gems had been removed and the purple had faded, but he recognised the star in the middle and the swirling patterns of golden thread from the sketch Abascantius had given him. He smiled as he ran his hands across it.

‘Now I understand,’ said Indavara as he walked into the hold and gazed down at the barrels. He picked up one silver ingot and one gold and weighed them in his hands. Then he glanced quizzically at the imperial banner.

‘What’s that old thing?’

‘Just a flag.’

‘Worth anything?’

Cassius nodded. ‘Priceless.’

The old man could barely walk. Despite the attendants either side of him – each with a hand on an elbow – every step seemed to require a huge effort. His head was bent so far forward that his chin touched his chest, and the parched skin of his hairless head was marked by liver spots and freckles. His pale robes reached down only as far as the knees of his gnarled, nut-brown legs.

Coming to a stop by the table, he rested his hands on the edge and took a few breaths. The attendants moved aside. He raised his head a little and looked around. There were no pupils in his eyes: they were milky white.

Sliding a bony hand across the table, he grabbed a handful of cloth and dragged the flag towards him. He ran his fingers down one side, then let his hands wander over the material. He traced the patterns of the thread, the faces of the recently restored gems.

Ten paces behind him, the small Persian delegation looked on: four middle-aged ministers in modest robes and – standing slightly ahead of them, looking over the old man’s shoulder – the young Emperor himself, Hormizd Ardashir. The delegation’s presence in Antioch was a secret so he had forgone regal apparel, and wore only a dark cloak over his tunic; yet he somehow still projected the composed confidence of a man born to power. He was tall and slender, and his sleek black hair hung far below his shoulders.