The Imperial Banner (7 page)

‘Does he know about the theft?’

‘Not yet. You will have to tell him.’

Cassius rubbed his brow.

‘Don’t worry. Venator’s a good old-fashioned aristocrat, I’m sure you’ll get on fine. I doubt Gregorius told him much of his plans but he used his men so he may have let something slip. You have to start somewhere. Chief Pulcher has a saying: “Someone always knows something.”’

Abascantius pushed the leather satchel towards Cassius.

‘For you. Information. If you’ve any more questions, you’ll need to be up early; I shall head off soon after dawn. I suggest you do the same – you’ve another long ride ahead of you.’

Abascantius stood. He glanced thoughtfully around the room for a moment, then ran a hand across his paunch.

‘The handover ceremony takes place in nineteen days. I don’t even want to think about the consequences of Marcellinus having nothing to hand over. Goodnight, Corbulo.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Cassius sat motionless as Abascantius left and made his way downstairs. He eyed the satchel and was struck by an almost irresistible desire to throw it into what remained of the fire. A cool draught whispered through the shutters and across the back of his neck. He shivered, then slowly shook his head. He felt numb, overwhelmed by what he’d heard.

There had been time to get used to the prospect of a return to Syria, of working for the Service; but nothing could have prepared him for the magnitude of the task he’d been charged with. How he wished he’d never heard the name Abascantius. It would have been far more convenient if the accursed man had somehow perished during the Palmyran revolt. The loss of the banner was his fault, yet now he expected Cassius to tidy up his potentially disastrous mess? If it couldn’t be done, Abascantius wouldn’t be the only one to suffer, he was sure of that. And who did he have to help him? Some brute of a bodyguard he was sure to detest.

With one elbow on the table, hand propping up his chin, Cassius took a deep breath and tried to find a way through the mass of thoughts about what he faced; but his tired, addled mind soon gave up, and in the darkness he closed his eyes.

He drifted back to Cyzicus – to the idyllic atrium at his villa on the edge of the city, where he’d often look out beyond the grey-barked fig trees to a village well and watch the people come and go. He would get most of his work done by lunchtime, then spend the afternoons there with books from his neighbour’s library. He had reintroduced himself to the works of the great orators and was determined to take up his aborted legal career if he ever made it back to Italy.

The villa had been his sanctuary, a poor second to his family home in Ravenna, but a sanctuary nonetheless. And when he wasn’t reading Cicero or Cato or Plutarch, there were the letters from his family. Those from his mother and sisters were welcome but it was the missives from his father he would tear open, desperate for signs that his ire had dimmed. Recently, there’d been a few intimations that he’d begun to forgive Cassius’s indiscretions, but not one suggestion that he might release his son from military service: reverse his demand that Cassius serve five years.

Cassius had always known that was unlikely; his father was not one to go back on his word. He was a compassionate and loving man, but a true Roman patriarch, and he ruled his family with an iron hand. So when Cassius had disgraced himself with his aunt’s serving girl, Corbulo senior had taken swift, decisive action. His errant only son would – like his father – serve in the military, where he would learn the value of discipline and the paramount importance of doing one’s duty.

Recently there had been talk of a visit home, largely from his mother, but Cassius knew that once he set foot back on Italian soil, he would not be able to bring himself to leave again; and that would mean yet more disgrace.

He had resolved simply to live day by day – endure the weeks and months as best he could. All his family and friends knew what he had done, the price he had been asked to pay; and if he wished to return and regain their respect, he would have to see out the five years. There were still two and a half to go.

The truth was, having somehow evaded death during the siege of Alauran, he had been lucky to avoid further danger for so long. There was a strange kind of relief at being found out. To return home with tales only of a comfortable life in Cyzicus would have been its own particular kind of shame. His family still knew little of what had happened at Alauran; he had tried to write an account of those events a dozen times but the words simply never came.

Cassius stood. The darkness seemed suddenly oppressive. He picked up the satchel and the spear-head and looked down at the glowing embers of the fire. Small lumps of charred wood lay beneath a large log that had somehow failed to take light. As the moments passed, more of the embers holding the log in place burned away, until it suddenly thumped down, expelling charcoal and dust from the grate, extinguishing the flame.

Cassius hadn’t slept well since leaving Cyzicus; and that night he didn’t sleep at all. Even if the revelations of the evening hadn’t been enough to occupy him, there were in any case sufficient alien sounds to keep him awake. Not the low wheeze of Simo’s snoring – he was well used to that – but the night-time breeze created an eerie whistle as it brushed through the reeds and lapped the water against the bank. Worse still, Shostra and the innkeeper stayed up most of the night: drinking, singing and laughing. Cassius might have quietened them down if he’d thought there was any possibility of him actually falling asleep.

He rose shortly after the sun, deciding his time was better spent examining the materials Abascantius had given him. Knowing he would need Simo on good form in the next few days, he decided to let him sleep. Leaving his boots at the end of his bed, he pulled on his tunic, grabbed the satchel and headed downstairs. No one else was up.

He found a nice spot around the back of the inn where a path ran close to the water. He sat back against the rear wall and looked out at the lake. It was incredibly wide here; he couldn’t see the far side. A flat-bottomed boat was marooned on reeds just in front of him. Eating bright green weed from its hull were a duck and four chicks.

Cassius opened the satchel. First out was a bundle of papyrus papers held together by twine. The first sheet gave what he presumed to be Abascantius’s home address in Antioch. The second consisted of some notes on Gregorius: his full name, a physical description and a code word he would recognise. The third sheet was the letter of authorisation from Chief Pulcher in Rome, complete with his personal seal. The fourth named the bodyguard and gave instructions for his payment; Cassius was to give him a quarter when he met him, Abascantius would give him the rest later. The fifth sheet was a manifest of the cart’s contents: a list of the trinkets and jewellery, totals for the number of gold and silver ingots. Cassius made a few quick calculations and a mental note. On the sixth sheet was a sketch of the Persian banner, on the seventh some renderings of specific pieces from the hoard.

The eighth sheet was folded over twice and made of thicker, more durable papyrus. It was a map of Syria – in fact one of the best maps Cassius had ever seen – with all major settlements and roads marked. In one corner was a date: the map was just a few months old; and it bore the emblem of the military cartographer’s office. Like most army maps, natural features were represented by icons next to main roads, never as impediments to Roman routes. Using his thumb for scale, Cassius calculated that Palmyra was about forty-five miles away.

There was also a smaller sheet: a receipt with space for Cassius to mark his name. It stated that the heavy bag at the bottom of the satchel contained one hundred silver denarii. Cassius took it out and weighed it in his hand. The money would certainly prove useful but he was worried about carrying it around the wastes of southern Syria with only Simo for company.

The big Gaul didn’t lack courage, but – like Cassius – he simply wasn’t the warrior type. There wasn’t an animal or human alive he wouldn’t help if he saw them in distress. Cassius had even noticed his depressed mood on the days he’d had to kill a chicken for dinner.

He replaced the money and the papers in the satchel and put it to one side. Smiling at the ducklings as they paddled around the boat after their mother, he rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. After a while he heard voices from the courtyard: Shostra and the innkeeper, then Simo, then Abascantius. He listened. He listened until he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t just listening: he was hiding, and this thought propelled him to his feet. He had hidden long enough.

Abascantius was taking breakfast with the innkeeper. They were sitting on a low bench, picking at plates of fruit, idly observing the stable-lad cleaning a saddle. A line running across the courtyard split shade and sun.

Cassius had sent Simo up to pack. He handed the signed receipt to Abascantius, who tucked it into a small purse at his belt.

‘Sir, I’ve a couple more questions.’

Abascantius touched the innkeeper’s arm and nodded towards the stables. The Syrian obediently wandered away.

‘Well?’

‘Where was the flag was being kept before Gregorius took charge of it?’

‘It had been hidden in a crypt under an abandoned temple. Apparently some centurion found it.’

‘And this cart . . .’ Cassius chose his words carefully, even though the innkeeper was out of earshot. ‘Its . . . contents . . . would be unusually heavy. You’re sure he planned to use only the one vehicle?’

‘Yes, just the one. But you’re right – it would have to be on the large side. You might be able to use that.’

‘And if I pressed you for an opinion, sir? Who do you believe might be responsible?’

Abascantius had been about to eat a date but he now put it down and leaned back against the inn wall.

‘I have some thoughts, but I shall not share them with you now. I do not wish to prejudice your work. A good investigator must approach these things with an open mind. Anything else?’

‘Not at the moment, sir.’

Abascantius stood and went inside. Hooves clattered against the courtyard flagstones as the lad led a horse from the stable. Simo then exited the inn, both arms laden down with saddlebags.

‘Sir, I’ve also arranged some food and water for the road.’ He nodded at the satchel. ‘Shall I take that?’

‘No, I’ll keep hold of this.’ Cassius slipped the thick leather strap over his shoulder. ‘Have you settled up?’

‘No need,’ said the innkeeper as he passed them, ‘Master Abascantius has taken care of it.’

‘Ah. Can you have a look at this for me?’

The innkeeper dutifully followed Cassius to a sun-soaked corner of the courtyard. Cassius pulled the map from the satchel and held it up against the wall.

‘Where exactly are we?’

The innkeeper pointed to the northern edge of a large, unnamed lake. ‘Here.’

Cassius moved aside to avoid close contact with the man’s protruding stomach.

‘Best route to Palmyra?’

‘Keep to the lake track for two miles then bear north-east and you’ll soon pick up the main road again. Should pass the boundary line about midday.’

‘Boundary of what?’

‘The territories of Emesa and Palmyra. It’s just a line of stones running north to south. Good marker though. There are milestones too.’

‘Might we make it before sundown?’

The innkeeper bobbed his head from side to side. ‘Not much rain recently. You’ve two good horses there. Might do it, I suppose.’

‘Accommodation?’

‘There are a few inns. Army way-stations too. Not sure if they’re back up and running though.’

Cassius and Simo had passed several of the way-stations since leaving Antioch. They were typically converted houses or inns with stables, manned by a few legionaries and slaves. Their main function was to facilitate the imperial post but some had lodgings for officers and men passing through. Cassius had seen a few burned to the ground, others had been damaged and defaced. Only a few had been reoccupied.

Despite Zenobia’s defeat, Roman control of the province was far from complete. The large cities were once more at heel, but it would take months to fully restore order, transport, trade and communications.

‘Anything else?’ asked the innkeeper.

‘No.’

Shostra and the stable-lad had two horses saddled and ready to leave. It wasn’t difficult to see which was Abascantius’s animal: the stallion was tall and stout, with a glossy black coat.

Its owner returned. He and the innkeeper stared admiringly at the horse and exchanged comments in Aramaic. Abascantius now wore a light, hooded robe over his tunic; and there was something rather disconcerting about the way the hood framed his broad, puffy face.

‘Last chance then: any more queries?’ he asked Cassius as Shostra attached the last of their saddlebags and the lad opened the gate.

‘Just the one, sir. What if I don’t get anywhere? What if I find out nothing?’

‘Have a little self-belief, Corbulo. You’re the hero of Alauran. Start acting like it.’

With an ironic grin, Abascantius took his reins from the lad and mounted up with surprising agility. He gestured for Shostra to ride out first, then caught Cassius’s eye again.