The Imperial Banner (8 page)

‘If you need an added incentive, I should perhaps remind you that the Service is also responsible for running military prisons. I understand there’s a vacancy at a quarry outside Thessalonica. Two and a half thousand Goths live and work there, guarded by a garrison of just three centuries. The last governor was killed in a riot. Chief Pulcher’s after a young, thrusting type to replace him. Feeling more inspired now?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Only eighteen days until the handover now. Don’t waste a moment.’

With a warm smile for the innkeeper, Abascantius tapped down on his horse’s flank and rode out of the courtyard.

The track that ran along the lake was of smooth, compacted earth, and Cassius and Simo made swift progress. Insects hovered over the reeds and the water, and occasionally swept by or followed the horses for a while. The temperature was perfect for riding: the two men wore only tunics, their skin cooled by a thin morning mist.

The horses seemed well refreshed after their night’s rest. They were both fine animals, hired at considerable expense. Cassius’s was the larger of the two, a rangy grey; Simo’s a stockier chestnut. They were both mares, and seemed to get on well, occasionally nudging each other as they walked along side by side.

Cassius glanced across at Simo. Though he worked all day long and never seemed to eat much, the Gaul was a heavy man, and he’d added several pounds during their time in Cyzicus. Cassius was convinced he’d lost a few of those already, just as he had during their last trip to the Syrian interior. He wondered how much of it was down to exertion, how much to anxiety.

Like all slaves, Simo was expert at concealing his feelings. Since their departure, he hadn’t given a single inkling of what Cassius felt sure must be profound disappointment at having to leave their settled life in Cyzicus, or betrayed his fears about what this sudden change in their fortunes might bring.

‘It seems that once again you must share in my bad luck, Simo.’

The Gaul sat a little higher in his saddle, and flicked at a fly buzzing around his head. He said nothing.

‘I did say the good times couldn’t last, didn’t I?’

‘You did, sir. You did.’

‘You miss it, I dare say? The villa, the other staff. Your life there.’

Simo straightened his tunic sleeve and smiled blandly. ‘When you purchased me from Master Trimalchio I understood that I would share both fortune and misfortune alike, sir. Such is the lot of a slave.’

‘Ever the diplomat, Simo. Ever the diplomat.’

Buying Simo the previous winter had almost bankrupted Cassius – and he’d also needed a hefty loan from his father – but he believed the investment was worthwhile. He could forgive the Gaul’s occasional unexplained disappearances and his strange obsession with helping others, because he looked after him fantastically well. Skilled, bright, loyal slaves were hard to find.

Though he would never admit it, Cassius felt a modicum of guilt for what he had put Simo through. The Gaul had been a respected deputy to his first master, a valued part of the merchant’s business, but all that had ended two years ago when Trimalchio had generously lent him to his old comrade’s errant son. Within days, Simo found himself at a remote desert fort, facing hundreds of rampaging Palmyran rebels alongside Cassius and the rest of the garrison.

Those few terrible days aside, however, once they’d arrived in Cyzicus with General Navio’s retinue, life had been good. Now, though, they were pretty much back where they started. Simo knew about the indiscretion that had led to his master joining the army but Cassius wasn’t particularly keen to explain that a similar ‘moment of weakness’ had landed them in this new predicament.

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ he said, ‘having one’s destiny dictated by the whim of others is a concept I am well able to understand.’

‘I suppose we all must do our duty, sir.’

‘Quite.’

‘I gather we are bound for Palmyra, sir?’

‘Indeed. Our task can be summarised simply enough: we are to embark on a treasure hunt.’

By noon, they had passed twelve milestones on the Palmyra road. Many of these had been defaced by crude graffiti: first by Zenobia’s triumphant warriors, more recently by passing legionaries eager to mark newly reclaimed territory. As they were making good time, Cassius decided to stop for some food.

‘Here, Simo, some shade for our meal. We might find a trough for the horses too.’

Cassius coaxed his mount off the road and down a slope towards a ramshackle farmhouse. Leaning back in his saddle as his horse descended, he saw that the settlement was made up of two mud-brick buildings. The rear of the smaller one had half collapsed. A startled goat bolted from under its timbers and scampered round a corner.

Cassius and Simo followed the animal into a courtyard. The damaged building was a stable. Next to it was a longer, larger structure. The stable was empty, but tethered to the doors were two saddled horses and a third yoked to a cart. Wary of the interlopers, they shuffled anxiously and strained against the ropes. The cart was half-full with dust-covered sacks.

‘Wheat, sir.’

Cassius nodded. On the back of the cart was a metal plate, identifying it as the property of the Second Cohort, Fourth Legion. Cassius looked again at the empty stable, then at a line of washing hanging across one corner of the courtyard.

‘What is it, sir?’ asked Simo.

They heard what sounded like someone kicking a door. Then a woman’s cry, suddenly muffled.

Both men looked at the building ahead. There was only shadow beyond the low windows. Of the two doors, one was shut. The other, wide and made of thin timbers, was slightly ajar.

At Cassius’s signal, they dismounted quietly. To their right were the remains of a long-abandoned plough. Cassius gestured for Simo to follow and led his horse over to it, looping the reins around a heavy iron bar. Tightening his sword belt, he nodded at one of his saddlebags.

‘Bring the spear-head,’ he said. ‘And be ready with your dagger.’

Cassius again examined every window in turn, then started towards the open door. The whole courtyard was covered in wheat dust. Ahead of him was a jumble of footmarks. He was five yards away when the door flew open. A young, smiling legionary walked out.

‘Good morning!’ he said, stumbling as his scabbard slapped against his leg. ‘Good morning, sir,’ the legionary added, noting the colour of Cassius’s tunic. ‘How are you?’

Cassius looked past him into the gloom. ‘Name?’

The man could barely stand upright. Blinking into the sun, he pawed at his clammy face.

‘Give me your name, soldier.’

Simo was now at Cassius’s side. The legionary slowly transferred his gaze to the Gaul, then back to Cassius.

‘Your name?’

The legionary shook his head.

Cassius indicated that Simo should watch the man, then walked past him.

‘Hey!’

Before the legionary could move, Cassius bellowed at him, ‘You stay there!’

Though he hadn’t been a field officer in Cyzicus, Cassius now had two years’ experience of dealing with junior ranks and he had perfected a deep, imperious tone for such occasions. He imagined his theatre teacher back in Ravenna would have been most proud.

The legionary did as he was told.

Cassius entered the building. Inside the cool, murky interior was a grain press: a large stone slab with a roller mounted on one side. To his left was a closed door. He saw movement in the shadows to his right. He gripped his sword handle but didn’t draw the blade.

‘Come out of there at once.’

First to appear was a tiny old woman, little more than four feet tall. She was barefoot and clad in dusty robes. She received a hefty shove in the back from the second figure, an older legionary with a thick beard and very little hair. The old woman fell to her knees and began wailing in Aramaic.

‘Outside. Now,’ Cassius ordered.

The legionary fixed him with a stare, then nonchalantly joined the other man.

The old woman was still on her knees and still wailing. Cassius took another quick look around then walked outside, past the men. He could smell the wine on them. He went and stood next to Simo once more.

‘Will
you
give me your name?’

The second soldier was at least able to formulate a reply. ‘Caesar. Julius.’

The younger man giggled.

‘What are you doing here?’ Cassius asked.

‘Grain requisition.’

The second legionary reached into his belt and offered Cassius a scrappy sheet of papyrus. Cassius came forward and took it. An order for the grain had indeed been scrawled by one Optio Rullus.

‘Well, since I now know the name of your legion, cohort and optio you may as well give me yours.’

The older legionary took a breath before answering. ‘Nennius.’

Then the younger man spoke up. ‘I’m Papus.’

‘You have your grain. Why aren’t you already back on the road?’

‘Just taking a little break before the return journey. You know how it is.’ Nennius offered what he clearly believed to be an engaging smile.

‘Tell your friend to come out,’ Cassius said calmly.

‘Sir?’

‘Your friend. There are three of you here.’

Nennius looked over at the horses. ‘No, sir, that mount is a spare.’

Cassius nodded at the building. ‘I saw all the footmarks in there. He’s behind that door to the left. With the daughter, I expect.’ Cassius pointed across the courtyard. ‘The old woman didn’t hang the clothes on that high washing-line.’

‘You’re wrong, sir.’

‘Let’s see, shall we?’

Cassius took two steps before Nennius blocked his way. Papus sidled into position behind him, hand on his sword pommel.

‘I tell you you’re wrong,’ repeated Nennius.

‘Do you know what that is, legionary?’ asked Cassius, aiming a thumb at Simo.

The Gaul held the spear-head up. It took Nennius a while to process this new development. He looked back at Papus. The younger man shrugged.

‘I see you do,’ Cassius continued. ‘Tomorrow I am to meet with the commander of your legion, Prefect Venator. I’m sure he’ll be most interested to hear of this encounter. Optio Rullus too.’

Now Nennius moved his hand towards his sword.

Cassius swiftly decided on a different approach.

‘However, if you three get on your horses and leave at once, this need go no further.’

Nennius let out an anxious sigh. Papus – at least aware that he was too drunk to make a decision – shrugged again.

After what seemed an eternity, Nennius nodded slowly, then scratched at his nose.

‘Come out, Vulso!’

Cassius heard a door open inside, then soft footsteps. The tall, wiry legionary who appeared was carrying his boots in one hand, his belts and weapons in the other. His state of inebriation seemed to be somewhere between the other two. There were livid scratches on his neck and face.

‘Morning,’ Cassius said evenly. Another thing he had learned in the last two years was the value of civil formality, even when dealing with infantrymen.

Cassius would have preferred to take on the other two than Vulso alone. Despite the drink, Cassius noted the immaculate state of his belt and scabbard. He looked like a man who loved his weapons; and men who loved their weapons usually loved using them.

‘You lads were involved in the fighting, I expect,’ Cassius said.

Silence.

‘Emesa? Immae?’

‘Both,’ said Nennius.

‘And quite rightly you feel entitled to a little reward. Fair enough. But that’s what whore-houses are for. I’m sure Palmyra has its share.’

Vulso nodded towards the building. ‘You haven’t seen her.’

‘To the victor the spoils, sir,’ offered Nennius.

‘The spoils of war do not extend to indiscriminate rape. Not among the armies of Rome at least. But if you go now, you have my word that news of this will not reach your superiors.’

Nennius and Vulso exchanged glances, then shrugged. Vulso bent over and put his boots on, then he and Nennius walked away towards the stable.

‘I don’t get a turn?’ asked Papus.

‘I didn’t even get mine,’ Vulso replied over his shoulder. ‘Was hard enough to get the feisty little bitch on the ground.’