by Nick Brown
‘It’s all right,’ said Cassius. ‘We’re all right.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Indavara.
One of the soldiers cursed as he slipped in a pool of blood.
‘Excuse me.’ Simo pushed his way through.
Cassius pointed at the bodyguard.
Simo knelt beside him and examined his damaged jaw.
‘Forget that,’ said Indavara. He nodded at his groin. ‘Check there.’
One of the legionaries came forward: Leddicus, a friendly veteran who Cassius knew quite well. The soldier pulled back all the assailants’ hoods and examined their various wounds. Cassius had recovered sufficiently to note that all three were between twenty-five and thirty years of age and wearing similarly dark clothing. Judging by their features, they could have been from anywhere from Thrace to Arabia.
‘All dead,’ said Leddicus.
‘See what they have on them, would you?’
Indavara was on his side, eyes screwed shut. ‘Sweet Fortuna, please help me. Simo?’
‘It’s … well, it’s very red. But everything’s where it should be.’
Cassius put a hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder. ‘Thank you. A shame you had to kill them, but thank you.’
‘If that whoreson’s done any permanent damage I’ll kill him again.’
Simo took off his cloak and covered Indavara. ‘I’ll get you some wine.’
‘Strongest we have. By the gods it hurts.’
Leddicus walked over to Cassius. He had searched the assailants and was holding several lengths of rope, a hood and a gag. Cassius realised why the trio had been armed with clubs instead of swords.
‘Clear what they were here for, sir. Any idea who might want to capture you?’
‘No.’ Cassius stared down at the rope. ‘Or why.’
I
‘You must be Corbulo.’
Cassius belatedly realised there was a man sitting at a desk on the other side of the office. He was partially obscured by a stack of wooden chests.
‘Indeed.’ When he went to greet him, Cassius noted the narrow purple stripe running from the shoulder of his tunic to the waist. ‘Sir.’
The tribune didn’t get up but they shook forearms.
‘Vitalian, Fifteenth Legion. And you’re Abascantius’s man.’
‘Yes,’ said Cassius, though he didn’t much care for the description. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Getting some lunch, I believe.’
The raised eyebrow was enough; it was in neither of their interests to say much more about the infamous agent known throughout the East as ‘Pitface’.
Vitalian was about Cassius’s age, possibly a bit older; a slender, thoughtful-looking fellow who was already losing his hair.
‘The Fifteenth,’ said Cassius, who’d been taught the dispositions of Rome’s legions by his father before his sixth birthday. ‘Cappadocia. Did you come all that way with the Emperor?’
Vitalian was sitting on a stool, back against the wall. ‘Every mile.’
‘How long before the grand army arrives?’
‘Less than a week, they reckon.’ Vitalian nodded down at the papers in front of him. ‘Trying to rustle up some extra horses from the local estates – we’re running very low. Grain too.’ He grinned. ‘Isn’t that supposed to be your job?’
Agents of the Imperial Security Service were commonly known as ‘grain men’ because the original function of the organisation had been to find provisions for the legions. Being so widely spread and well informed about the provinces, the Service had gradually transformed itself into an intelligence-gathering organisation and expanded the repertoire of missions it carried out for Empire and Emperor. As Cassius had discovered in the last year, they were seldom of the safe variety.
‘I wish. Don’t suppose you’d like to swap posts?’
‘No thank you,’ said Vitalian. ‘I heard about how you only just got out of that scrape with the tribesmen down south.’
‘It will all have been for nothing if a decision isn’t reached soon.’
‘The negotiations, you mean?’
‘The Tanukh – that’s the tribesmen – have come to the table but they’re not getting what they want. I would hate for it all to—’
‘Ah, Corbulo, there you are.’ Abascantius hurried in with a well-stocked plate in one hand and a scroll in the other. He dumped both on his desk by the window, seemingly unconcerned by the half-dozen grapes that rolled on to the floor.
He walked over to Cassius and gripped his shoulder. ‘Are you all right, then, lad?’
‘I was … rather shaken last night, sir, but I’m fine now.’
‘Indavara?’
‘He took a blow on the jaw and another one to … to a more sensitive area.’
‘Ah, well, I’m sure his sausage and beans are as tough as the rest of him.’ Abascantius looked at Vitalian. ‘Give us half an hour, would you, Tribune?’
‘Very well.’ Vitalian stood and picked up the pile of papers.
‘Plenty of grub in the kitchen,’ added Abascantius. ‘You need feeding up, after all.’
Vitalian frowned at this but nodded politely to Cassius as he left.
‘Officer.’
‘Tribune.’
Abascantius kicked the door shut behind him and returned to his desk. ‘Cannot believe I have to share an office. And there’s some other snivelling wretch arriving tomorrow. Sit down, Corbulo.’
There was no seat on the opposite side of Abascantius’s desk and the only one Cassius could find was Vitalian’s. By the time he’d sat down on the stool, the agent had unrolled the scroll and spread it across the desk. It was a very new-looking map and – even examining it upside down – Cassius could see that it showed the south-east corner of the Empire, including Arabia and Egypt.
‘You’ll be staying with the grand army, sir?’
‘Looks like it.’ Abascantius studied the map. ‘The route is yet to be finalised and trying to get the general staff to agree is like trying to balance small marbles on a big marble.’
When he took his hands off, the scroll rolled itself up. ‘Anyway, that can wait.’ The agent lowered his heavy frame on to a chair nothing like big enough for him. ‘I’m more concerned with what happened last night.’
Cassius was about to suggest that he be relocated as swiftly as possible but Abascantius hadn’t finished.
‘This morning I checked the bodies and their gear as you requested. I agree that there’s nothing there to help us, presumably as intended. Did you say they spoke Greek?’
‘Yes, sir. Which doesn’t tell us much. No discernible accent either.’
‘So, any ideas?’
‘Dozens, sir. They kept me awake all night. That and the atrium. Despite Simo’s best efforts it still smells of blood.’
Abascantius grabbed the plate, then picked a corner off a wedge of cheese and popped it in his mouth. ‘Can’t be because of the business with the Persian flag, or that rogue centurion you took care of in Africa: I can’t see who would be left alive to bother with you, and even if there were they’d want you dead, not captured.’ He noted Cassius’s expression. ‘You don’t agree?’
‘If it was someone seeking revenge, they might have wanted to hurt me … torture me.’
‘Possible, I suppose, but surely it’s more likely to be connected to this Tanukh business.’
‘Yes, sir. Given the timing, that is the logical conclusion.’
‘Specifically?’ Abascantius scratched a nasty-looking rash on his forearm then picked up a roll.
‘I see two alternatives, sir. The person behind this could be someone left over from Ilaha’s forces. Perhaps even the German mercenary or Ethnarch Kalderon – seeking revenge for my role in foiling their plans. Or it could be some faction within the Tanukh – I promised them a permanent deal on the import tax and now the talks have stalled. I presented myself as an envoy of Rome. I gave my word.’
Abascantius deployed a cynical look. ‘You said
what you needed to at the time – to get yourself out of there and stop that deluded charlatan Ilaha. The Tanukh are realists. They know as well as we do that they’re not going to revolt. Especially with the Emperor and four legions coming their way.’
‘Sir, once order has been restored in Egypt the Emperor will return to Rome and the legions will leave. This province and Governor Calvinus will still be stuck with the same old problems. Men gave their lives to create this opportunity. There is a chance for a real solution, one that will—’
Abascantius – now devouring the roll – held up a hand. ‘Not your problem, young man. Especially as you’re not going to be around much longer. I’m sure you concur that it’s best to get you away from here for the time being.’
Cassius’s commitment to a peaceful Arabia did not extend to risking his life again. ‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘And I can’t think of a more secure posting than with the grand army.’
Cassius’s stomach quivered. ‘Sir?’
Abascantius pointed at the map. ‘I have a couple of men in Egypt already but another intelligence officer wouldn’t go amiss.’
Cassius folded his hands across his stomach but it didn’t reduce the quivering. ‘Egypt?’
The revolt there had already claimed the lives of hundreds of legionaries. Taking on the rebellious tribes and their charismatic leader Firmus would be a far bloodier affair than cleaning up the last death throes of resistance in Palmyra. Cassius knew he might well be safe there from whoever had tried to capture him, but it wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.
‘You’ve done your share of investigative work,’ said Abascantius. ‘It would be good for you to get some varied experience.’
‘But that would be in the field, sir. You promised me six months sitting behind a desk.’
Abascantius frowned. ‘Sitting? As in a sitting duck? With the army you’ll be on the move. Safe.’
‘With respect, sir, I’ve heard that before.’
The door flew open and Vitalian burst in.
‘He’s here,’ said the tribune, hurrying over to his desk.
‘Who’s here?’ snapped Abascantius.
‘The marshal.’
‘What? He wasn’t due until tomorrow.’
‘He’s here. Just coming through the gate, apparently.’ Vitalian took his sword belt off a hook and examined it.
‘Ah, shit.’ Abascantius got up so quickly that he kneed the desk, tipping his plate on to the floor.
‘Double shit.’ The agent marched over to another row of hooks where his scarlet cloak and black-crested helmet hung.
Cassius had put his own helmet on a barrel by the door. Fortunately Simo polished it every few days but he checked it anyway; his sword belt, scarlet tunic and boots too.
‘Corbulo.’ Abascantius waved him over and spoke in a low voice. ‘The marshal knows your name – because of the black stone. He might talk to you. If he does, answer directly. But do not say any more than you need to – about the Service, or about me. Marcellinus is no enemy of ours but he likes to stick his nose in, sometimes where it’s not needed or wanted. Keep it simple, understood?’
‘Understood.’
The officers hastily gathered outside the headquarters. A legionary dispatched by Chief Nerva returned at a run. ‘Coming across the parade ground now, sir.’
‘Everyone get in line,’ ordered Nerva. As chief centurion of the fortress, the portly veteran was currently the senior officer in Bostra. He stood in front of the entrance, below the two flags hanging limply in the enervating heat. One was red and bore the familiar pair of eagles and the SPQR legend. Until a few minutes earlier, the other had been the emblem of the third Cyrenaican (a lion), but after a frantic search a clerk had located the personal standard of Marshal Gaius Marcellinus, Protector of the East and one of Aurelian’s most trusted men.
Lined up to Chief Nerva’s right were five centurions, four tribunes (including Vitalian) and assorted junior officers, with Cassius and Abascantius stuck on the end. Cassius reckoned the arrangement offered a good metaphor for the position of the Service – out on a limb and well away from those who saw themselves as real soldiers. In fact, they were only there because it had taken Abascantius so long to brush all the dirt off his cloak.
The agent offered Cassius his canteen.
‘No thank you.’ Though they were standing in the full glare of the midday Arabian sun, Cassius wasn’t about to share drinking equipment with his unhygienic superior. He checked his helmet was straight then put his arms by his side, trying to ignore the chilly streams of sweat running down his flanks.
They heard the horses coming along the avenue and watched the marshal lead the way around the hospital building and towards them. His entourage was small: eight Praetorian Guardsmen and a dozen clerks and assistants. The Praetorians carried large rectangular shields, each decorated with three white scorpions, the image assigned to the Guard upon its formation under Tiberius.
The marshal wore a lustrous purple cloak – triple dyed by the looks of it – and, as he rode closer, Cassius noted the same strong, compact frame he’d observed the previous year when Marcellinus had overseen the return of the Persian Banner. His fair hair was cropped short, his skin a deep brown. The golden muscle cuirass looked spectacular but his physique needed little embellishment; the bulky limbs and solid neck showed him to be every inch a military man. Marcellinus held up a hand, halting the Praetorians and the others. He let his horse take a few more steps until he was level with the flags, then stopped.
A servant ran up with the box.
‘Keep it, boy,’ said the marshal, his voice an intimidating rumble. ‘I’m short but I’m not that short.’
The lad retreated as Marcellinus dropped to the ground. The men assembled in front of him had been saluting ever since he’d appeared.
‘At ease, all of you.’ He stretched out his arms and yawned, then shook forearms with Nerva. ‘Sorry if I caught you out, Chief. Entirely unintentional, I assure you. An unexpectedly swift trip – the roads down here are far less busy than in Syria.’
‘We are honoured by your presence, Marshal.’ Nerva bowed low.
‘Everything looks in order. We’ll be ready for the Emperor?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Good, good. Well, have some lunch put out for me, would you? Some hot water too – bloody blisters are playing up again. All these tours and inspections take their toll.’
Nerva pointed at an elderly servant who bowed and hurried inside.
Marcellinus looked along the line and exchanged some light-hearted banter with a couple of the centurions. His gaze eventually reached Abascantius. ‘And there’s Aulus – still wearing his black crest. Thinks it makes him mysterious, you know.’
Nerva and the centurions chuckled.
‘How are you?’ asked Marcellinus. ‘All this riding hasn’t taken much weight off.’
‘Unfortunately not, sir,’ said Abascantius.
Cassius was surprised by how relaxed the agent sounded.
‘And who’s that with you there? Not Corbulo, is it?’
Cassius could hardly believe what was happening. The Protector of the East had just spoken his name!
‘It is, sir.’
At a nudge from Abascantius, Cassius stepped forward and bowed.
‘Ah, I was hoping to meet you, young man. You shall join me inside. You may as well bring Aulus along too.’
With that, the marshal strode between the flagpoles and through the doorway.
Cassius stood there, eyes wide.
‘Well, come on, then,’ said Abascantius irritably. ‘And remember – say no more than you have to.’
There were six of them in the parlour. One was a Praetorian Guardsman; a towering grey-bearded giant who stood in a corner with his hands tucked into his belt, face impassive. Marcellinus was sitting on a chair turned away from the table so that he could dunk his feet into a bowl of water. According to Abascantius, the older, toga-clad ma
n also sitting was named Glycia – the marshal’s chief adviser. He seemed tired from the journey and was sipping wine from a glass. There was also a servant, on hand to provide the marshal with whatever he needed from the food and drink laid out on the table. Cassius and Abascantius stood together by the door, helmets under their arms, waiting. They had been called in after the marshal had spoken to Chief Nerva.
‘Ah. There are few better feelings in the world than that.’ Flexing his toes beneath the water, Marcellinus closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was looking at Cassius. ‘Yours is a name attracting some attention, young man. The Emperor was very angry when he heard of the theft of the black stone. To have it returned to its rightful place with such speed was a great relief to him. Is it true, this tale of you raising your spearhead among a crowd of rebels and exposing this Ilaha character?’
‘It is, sir,’ said Cassius, trying to sound magnanimous. ‘Though there were allies as well as enemies within that crowd. We received a good deal of help from some of the local tribesmen.’
‘Troublesome lot, these nomads. Another breed, really. And what about this bodyguard of yours? This ex-gladiator? Apparently he played his part too. I’m told he’s quite a specimen. Is he here?’
‘He is recovering, sir,’ said Cassius. ‘There was an … incident last night.’
Abascantius took up the tale. ‘Three intruders attacked Corbulo in his home. He and the bodyguard fought them off but all three were killed and we’ve little to go on.’
‘By Mars. You all right, Corbulo?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
Marcellinus waved a hand at them. ‘Put your helmets down you two – parade’s over.’
Abascantius and Cassius carefully placed them on a nearby chair.
‘Well, Aulus, what are we going to do about this? We can’t have valued officers fearing for their lives in their own homes. Presumably you’re investigating?’
‘Of course, sir. But as I mentioned, there’s not a great deal of evidence to help us. The attack may be connected to Corbulo’s dealings with the Tanukh so it might be advisable to get him out of the province for the moment. I think it would be best for him to accompany the …’
