The Eagle and the Dragon, a Novel of Rome and China

by Lewis F. McIntyre

  The two soldiers studied the impressive polished floors of the III Cyr praetorium’s anteroom, emblazoned with a mosaic of the shield-symbol of the III Cyr, an eagle bearing an asp in one claw and a lightning-bolt in the other. Antonius whispered to Gaius, “Nice quarters! But I wonder how long since they’ve deployed in a mobile field camp?”

  “It’s been a while, Antonius, maybe too long.”

  At last the meeting broke up, well into the second hour of the morning. The twelve camp tribunes, the primus pilus and the praefectus castrorum camp prefect emerged into the anteroom, laughing and joking.

  “Hullo!” said one of the tribunes. “You can go in next, we’ve softened the old man up for you.” Gaius smiled and waved in return as the group departed to their duties. Pudgy around their waists. Political careerists in a soft post.

  The young clerk went into the commander’s office with the scroll, then returned empty-handed. “You can go in now.”

  Gaius entered first, “Vale! Gaius Lucullus, legate, Legio XII Fulminata, sends greetings!” He said, slapping his right hand smartly across his chest.

  Quintus Albus waved lazily, not rising from his chair by his polished oak desk. “Please, enter and sit down.” He too wore his parade ground armor, his helmet on the right side of the desk. He completed his reading and rolled up the scroll, looking up and fixing them by eye. He was young, lithe, and with a full head of dark hair. About Gaius’ age. “I am sure you find this quite a change from the frontier,” he said.

  “Yes, your Excellency. Quite a comfortable posting,” answered Gaius.

  “Sure, but drop the ‘Excellency’, Gaius. I am where you will be in a year or so, if the Legate Maximus’ recommendation on your behalf carries any weight. In command, as I am. This is my first month here. Like you, I came from the frontier, X Fretensis in Judea. But at least here you can go to town without someone trying to put an arrow in your back.”

  “This command must pose its own challenges to you, Quintus Albus.”

  “Better than ‘Your Excellency,’ but shorten it further to just Quintus. I don’t feel like being formal with you.” He smiled, then continued. “You know, challenge is not enough to describe the experience. I had this legion fall out last week in battle gear. Not in the fancy parade ground crap, but real steel. Would you believe, even my centurions had rusty field armor! Hadn’t been oiled in months, the leather cracked. Then we did some basic small unit drill. Nothing much, just run a few miles, then pair off centuries against one another in testudo formation, shields interlocked over their heads, some basic sword drill. Not one century finished the drill, Gaius! Not one! Half the men went down for heat. Complained they shouldn’t drill the testudo in the hot sun.” He shook his head. “We are going out this week into the desert. We’ll sweat some pounds off these... soldiers.”

  “Sounds like you’d like to borrow Antonius. He was my first spear,” Gaius chuckled, pointing toward his gruff centurion.

  “And a damned good one, too, by reputation. I got thrown into this command without any of my own staff. Can I have him for a week?”

  “Ho, ho! I’d like to loan him to you, Quintus, but we won’t be here that long. We’ll be heading south to the Red Sea, then out to the Indian Ocean.”

  “So now, this is more than the obligatory courtesy call?” queried Quintus, his curiosity aroused. “What takes you to India?”

  “India and far beyond. However, that is another story in itself. I have some intelligence which may be of interest to you. Have you ever heard of some pirate by the name of Ibrahim? Ibrahim bin Yusuf?”

  “That devil! Yes! There’s a full talent of gold on that bastard’s head. Sixty pounds worth. The Navy would like to crucify the son of a bitch to his own masthead if we could catch him. He jumps ships all up and down the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. Always knows just which ship to pull down. Never a whole convoy, just the pick of the litter. What do you want to know about him?”

  “Antonius thinks he may have met him yesterday. At the Bull and Dove, a dive frequented by sailors and merchant marine types.”

  “Not bad work. You lads have been here less than twenty-four hours, and you have already been introduced to the most wanted man in Egypt. The Bull and Dove is a hellhole, Antonius. What makes you think you met him there?” Quintus turned, fixing Antonius squarely in the eye, with a bit of a twinkle.

  “Well, your Excellency, he introduced hisself ter me.” The centurion expressed himself squarely, with no hesitation or uncertainty.

  “Is that so? At the Bull and Dove, he just introduced ‘hisself’ to a Roman soldier he never met before?” He cocked his head quizzically, a smile playing across his lips.

  “Yessir, yer Excellency. I wasn’t in uniform or nothin’. Was lookin’ fer information on shippin’. Din’t he just kill some high-born Romans?”

  “Well, seems like he did, and he is getting bolder than ever. Describe the man you met.”

  “Arab. Speaks very good Greek. About fifty-five years old, gray beard, actually kinda salt-an’-pepper, an’ behind the beard, he is really pock-marked. Blue eyes, real intense, hooked nose. Strokes his beard a lot. Maybe five foot ten inches tall, one seventy-five or so. I’ll skip the clothes. He was in Arab dress. They all look the same ter me.”

  “Hmm. How’d you know he spoke good Greek?”

  “Yer excellency, ‘tis me first tongue...Me great grandfather was a Greek tutor in rhetoric... a slave. Me grandfather was a freedman, me father earned his citizenship in the auxiliaries, and I am the first citizen by birth.”

  “And a great addition to the Principate you’ll be, Antonius. So Greek is your native tongue. Koine, I suppose?”

  “Aye, that an’ classical. We bein’ a family of tutors we pride ourselves on that.” Gaius looked up in surprise. He had not known that Antonius spoke classical Greek as well as the koine ‘dockyard Greek’ of the Mediterranean.

  “So you were making inquiries yourself in civilian clothes, in fairly good Greek. Maybe he mistook you for somebody’s servant. Someone with some money.”

  “No, he seemed to know right off that I was under the eagles. A centurion, even. An’ your librarius what sent me down there yesterday had alerted me to him.”

  “Back up. Someone here at the Third told you to go the Bull and Dove. At this camp? Who? And why?”

  “One of your librarii. I don’t remember his name, but I think I could point him out. I was tryin’ to find out how shipping was arranged through the Third, an’ he said they didn’ do that. He tol’ me how to arrange Imperial Post passes on our orders, as they do that regular here. But shippin’ south of that was done through the merchants. He suggested that I look at schedules at the Bull and Dove, ter look for someone named Hasdrubal an’ watch out fer anyone named Ibrahim. But the Bull an’ Dove weren’t no place to be arrangin’ transport, ‘cept maybe acrost the Styx.”

  “This is interesting. We just had two Romans killed and two disappear, and some cocksucker in this camp is directing a stranger down to that cesspit. The Bull and Dove, Antonius, is not one of the places I like the III Cyr’s troops to frequent.”

  “What about that fellow Hasdrubal?” asked Gaius.

  “You have me,” answered Quintus. “That’s a common enough Carthaginian name. One of the biggest shipping magnates in Alexandria goes by that name. But you wouldn’t find him at the Bull and Dove. He could buy that dive, and twenty square blocks of the city around it. In fact, I think he’s south himself now, setting up some big project on the Red Sea, last I heard. Hmm, I wonder if that bastard Ibrahim has penetrated the camp.”

  “Quintus, that may make some sense.” interjected Gaius. “Antonius may not be much of a big-city fellow, but he generally knows to stay on the beaten path. He wouldn’t go down there on his own unless he expected a bona-fide merchant’s shipping office.”

  “Which I was, an’ the Bull an’ Dove weren’t,” added Antonius.

  Gaius was glad to restore Quintus’ confidence in Antonius�
� common sense. Anyone can be misled some of the time. And, if the misleading took place in the same orderly room where Antonius had lined up their lodgings and horses, the tipster would have known that he was in fact on Imperial orders. Which might be why Ibrahim would have been willing to expose himself a bit to a stranger?

  “I think I need to bring the quaestiones into this.” Quintus placed his fingertips together. “If they are not penetrated also.” The quaestiones were a combination legal and police staff within the Legion, attached to the headquarters. “You won’t mind spending a few more hours with them this morning, will you?”

  “Not at all, legatus.”

  “Very well. Antonius, if you are lucky and we run him to ground, you may get a talent of gold.” Turning to Gaius, he said, “Well, you have brought me mixed events this morning. A lead on a pirate, and a possible traitor in my camp. What else can we do for you?”

  Before he could answer, the clerk opened the door. “Begging your pardon, sir, but there has been a death in the camp.”

  “Let me guess, a young librarius, right?”

  “Right, sir... How... how did you know?”

  “Commanders know everything. Antonius, care to bet that the dead man is your friend the librarius?” Turning back to the clerk, he said, “Fetch the quaestiones. Where is the body?”

  “Under the stands, behind the Campus Martialis.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” Quintus said, buckling on his sword. “Let’s go see your friend, Antonius.”

  The Campus Martialis was a combination parade ground and drill field dedicated to Mars, the god of war, lying opposite the praetorium on the south side of the Via Principalis which divided the fort in half. Outfitted with seats, the field doubled as a sports field, theater and other such uses when not used for training.

  The quaestiones were already examining the body when the legate and the two visitors from the Twelfth arrived. The young man lay face down by the field, his arm crossed under his face, one leg drawn up somewhat sideways, like a man asleep. A quaestio turned him over, and the young man’s dead eyes stared blankly up to the morning sky. Someone had slit his throat from ear to ear, and the gaping red wound was in stark contrast to the blue pallor of his skin. His tongue protruded from the side of his mouth, and there was a look of surprise, frozen on his face for all eternity.

  The legion’s medicus knelt to examine him, attempting to move his arms and legs, examining his eyes. “How long has he been dead?” asked one of the quaestiones.

  “I’m not sure, but I think he probably died before daybreak. The body hasn’t begun to stiffen yet and that takes about eight hours… but he didn’t die here. Not much blood. He was killed somewhere else and dragged here.”

  Quintus Albus nudged Antonius. “Don’t tell what you know about this,” he whispered. “Is he the one? Just nod.”

  Antonius nodded in the affirmative. It was indeed the young man who had directed him to the Bull and Dove. The man was too young and innocent to have been a conscious traitor. Perhaps picking up a denarius or two, steering people there to the Bull and Dove and other dives but not realizing the danger to them, or to himself. The traitor was still here, Antonius was sure, and he strongly suspected that he himself might indeed be the target. One of these five men could be the traitor. Or one of those in the gathering crowd in the field. Or even Quintus Albus. The hackles on his neck rose.

  “Well,” announced Quintus, “It seems we have yet another gambling death, or lover’s triangle or whatever. Cupid’s arrow struck deep last night. Who is this young man?”

  “This young man is Lucius Servilius, your Excellency. Originally from Cisalpine Gaul, enlisted from the dockyards at Ostia. He hasn’t been with us long. Six months, maybe.”

  “Bring me a report by noon today to the praetorium. Find out where he was killed, since it was apparently not here. Include in the report all of the people who entered or left the camp last night, and the times of their comings and goings,” Quintus demanded.

  “That may be difficult, your Excellency,” mumbled one of the centurions. “This camp is more like a town than a frontier post. People just come and go. We don’t keep records at the sentry posts.”

  “Correction. You didn’t keep records. You do keep those records, starting now. One of the reasons for doing so lies at your feet. I will inspect those records myself tomorrow... and the next death in this camp may be the sentry who fails to keep those records adequately.” Quintus continued: “I expect you to reconstruct from the sentries what little they may have observed of last night’s comings and goings. They were awake, were they not? I know we post sentries, for I place my own seal on the watch bill myself.” He was growing increasingly sarcastic.

  Quintus turned to his primus pilus, who had just now arrived on the scene. “Lepidus! As you may notice, someone is dead. Murdered, in fact. I want you to examine our camp security and explain to me how this happened. Everything. The status of our sentries, who was on watch, how they were trained, what each saw. In writing. Tomorrow at the morning meeting.”

  Lepidus’ mouth began to move in protest, then thought better of it. “Aye, sir.”

  Quintus wheeled to leave. “I shall be in my quarters. Bring his parents’ address with your afternoon report. I shall have the miserable task of explaining to them their son’s fate.”

  Two capsularii field medics arrived with a stretcher, a blanket stretched between two poles. They hoisted the dead Lucius Servilius onto it, and produced another blanket to cover him, shielding his unseeing eyes from the stares of the living. They led him away with the medicus to the fort hospital, while the quaestiones assembled to plan their questioning.

  Gaius and Antonius followed Quintus, as the commander strode briskly away from the scene of the crime. Quintus Albus clearly expected his staff to take the lead in this investigation, examining for themselves how their shortcomings had led to this young man’s death.

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind that this was foul play, and damned serious.” Quintus was angry. “We lose perhaps a man a month to fights and murders of one kind or another here. Regrettable, but that’s what you have when you have men of all social classes here, from every nation in the empire. Trained to fight, they fight. Over women, gambling debts, you name it. They confront each other, fight, stab each other or knock each other over the head. One gets killed.” Quintus paused, “and sometimes both.”

  “But cutting a man’s throat... that happens very seldom. The attacker comes by stealth, sneaks up behind someone, and kills the victim before he can cry out. The attacker is either someone trying to penetrate the guards, or an executioner killing coolly, deliberately and without remorse. I think it may have been the latter, especially since the body was moved. Ominous!”

  The three took a light lunch in the praetorium, with Gaius sharing the details of the scope of the forthcoming expedition. They were in mid-meal when a centurion burst in, saluting.

  “More bad news, your Excellency,” said the centurion. “The clerks’ office appears to be where the young man was killed, though the killer took some pains to slosh the blood away with a bucket of water. A lot remained in the corners and along the wall. And it has been ransacked, as though they were looking for something.”

  “The report on the four murdered Romans!” Gaius blurted out. “Antonius exaggerated a story about a report on their deaths while talking to Ibrahim, saying these were relations of Trajan himself, who had taken a personal interest in the case. He had hoped to make killing him sound very unattractive to Ibrahim.”

  “And Excellency, you’re not going to believe the family name of Lucius Servilius. Nothing ‘servile’ about the Crassus gens.”

  Quintus gave a low whistle. The Crassus gens was an old line patrician family, going back to the founding of Rome itself. Their clan had produced generals and consuls, tribunes, governors of provinces. “A common miles is an odd occupation for such a distinguished family, Centurion. Enlighten me as to how Lucius
chose such a career.” It was not illegal for such an illustrious family to enlist as a simple foot soldier, just highly unusual.

  “Appears he was disinherited, Excellency,” replied the centurion.

  “Maybe so. But disinheriting is not an uncommon thing among the blue-bloods. In any event, I personally know of ten men in Rome who would loan the young man a million sesterces on his name alone, just to be able to say they loaned money to a Crassus when he was down and out. Nine of them wouldn’t care if they were repaid or not.” Quintus tapped the desk with his spoon. “So what’s he doing here, as a common foot soldier?”

  “Appears there was a falling out with his father over a girl he wanted to marry. She may have been... a Christian, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression. Anyway, she died afterwards, or was killed by someone, or the authorities. His messmates aren’t sure, ‘cause Servilius didn’t talk much on this. After he was disowned, he denounced all his family’s possessions, and went to work in Ostia as a common stevedore. Guess he found that kind of life too rough, ‘cause he enlisted with the legions a year later. Been a good soldier, kept his class well hidden. Only one lad really knew his background, and he didn’t want to talk about it much.”

  “Hmm, and well he shouldn’t. A high-born patrician serving that far below his station... he’s lucky if a slashed throat was all he suffered.” The four soldiers nodded in assent. The Roman society was an upwardly mobile society, with many senators having barbarian or even slave forebears not three generations back, like Antonius. But the lower classes were not as quick to welcome interlopers from the upper classes in their midst. “Any chance he was a... Christian, also?” Quintus asked.

  “No one knows for sure. He didn’t have any of the cross signs or fish symbols of the cult. He wasn’t actively religious for any of the gods or goddesses either, but frankly, most of the troops just think they’re swear-words anyway.”

  “Well, seems like we have a good reason for his dying as he did, though it is most ominous. Did you find anything missing from the officia?”