by Nick Brown
Cassius pushed his plate away just as Abascantius returned. The agent was clutching a leather satchel and a long object wrapped in cloth. He thumped both down on to the table as he reclaimed his seat opposite Cassius.
‘To the matter at hand then. You must consider what I will tell you most secret. On occasion you may have to disclose parts of it – then you must use your own judgement. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In Antioch, on the last day of this month, I am to meet with Marshal Marcellinus and the four members of the city’s council. Like most of our esteemed military men, Marcellinus despises the Service and – for various reasons – me in particular. He’s been given complete autonomy over the eastern provinces and will tolerate my involvement only because the Emperor charged me with one important task.’
Cassius found it hard to imagine Aurelian entrusting any job whatsoever to the dishevelled character in front of him, but he reminded himself that Abascantius had been in Syria for more than a decade. He had served under four emperors and outlasted three governors. Perhaps his appearance worked to his advantage; it was difficult to overestimate him.
‘Aurelian left for Rome as soon as he’d finished treaty negotiations with the Persians. Gifts were exchanged, a few clauses agreed; all remarkably smooth. With the Palmyrans taken care of, the last thing we need is another conflict with our old adversaries to the east. Now, most of Zenobia’s treasures went with the Emperor – some thirty cart-loads I’m told. All that was left in Palmyra was a cache of jewels, trinkets, silver and gold for the provincial coffers in Antioch. It was to be returned inside one large cart, packed in barrels. But one of the barrels contained something more valuable than the rest of the booty put together. It is a flag, but no ordinary flag. Does the term Faridun’s Banner mean anything to you?’
‘The Persian imperial standard.’
Abascantius nodded approvingly. ‘Very good.’
‘One of my neighbours in Cyzicus had a fine library, with several translated tomes on the rulers of the east.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘Not much. Faridun was an ancient king. A hero who embodied the virtues of courage, justice, nobility and so on. A familiar tale.’
‘Indeed. And a sacred one to the Persians. They believe the standard represents their destiny, their fate. I’ve never seen it myself but apparently it’s a great purple thing of the finest silk, with jewels the size of apples. It’s been carried at the head of their army since the time of Ardashir I. But when Odenathus of Palmyra’s forces overran Ctesiphon ten years ago, his armies looted the city and took the flag back with them.’
Abascantius paused to take another swig of wine.
Cassius nodded. ‘Let me guess: the return of the banner is part of the treaty.’
‘A crucial part. And a secret one. I’m told that only a few men close to the royal family even know the flag was taken by the Palmyrans. We think they may have been using a replica; the people certainly don’t know of the loss. The young Emperor, Hormizd, is desperate for its return. His position is far from secure and he’s paranoid that the truth will come out. A closed ceremony is being planned for the day after my meeting. Marcellinus is to hand the flag over to Hormizd himself. Without it, the Persians won’t sign the treaty.’
Abascantius looked at the ceiling and rolled his tongue around his mouth.
Cassius said, ‘I presume that the banner is not where it should be.’
‘The cart should have left Palmyra twelve days ago. In command was my senior man – Gregorius, accompanied by ten hand-picked legionaries. They were to travel in local garb, just another merchant’s load on its way to Antioch. There is a good road, but he planned to use a quieter route. Should have taken them eight days. But there has been no news, no sighting, no reports. The men, the treasure and the banner have disappeared.’
Cassius leaned back and exhaled. ‘I hardly need ask what you expect of me.’
‘Actually I originally had something else in mind for you, but it seems the gods have delivered you to me at a fortuitous moment.’
‘Sir, I don’t know why you imagine I might be suited to such a task. Surely you yourself—’
Abascantius held up a hand. ‘The loss of the banner is my responsibility, yes. And believe me, I will do my part. But you must understand how it is here. My face is known on every street and in every inn and barracks from Seleucia to Dura. The legionaries call me “Pitface”, and they – along with many of the locals – would no sooner divulge anything useful to me than eat their own shit. You, on the other hand – a fresh-faced young gentleman from outside the province – should fare much better.’
Abascantius tapped the satchel. ‘I have an authorisation here for you, signed by Chief Pulcher. And there’s this.’
Abascantius reached over to the covered item and removed the cloth. What he held up on the table could easily have been mistaken for a weapon: it was a three-foot length of solid silver topped by a spear-head, with two circles beneath hung with golden thread. Just below the circles was a square iron badge, engraved with the emblem of the Governor of Syria.
‘These are carried by every senior agent in the Service. It identifies you as a member of the governor’s staff and entitles the bearer to certain privileges. While in possession of it, you hold a rank equivalent to a centurion; you may use way-stations and the imperial post; and you can requisition troops when you need them. There are fewer than a hundred of this particular type in existence. This belongs to Gregorius. He left it with me.’
Cassius took the spear-head and laid it down on the table. ‘I hope I get a chance to return it to him.’
‘Look after it, and don’t be afraid to use it. I suggest that you avoid mentioning me if at all possible; pretend you’ve been dispatched straight from Rome by Chief Pulcher.’
‘Marshal Marcellinus knows of the theft?’
‘Not yet, though I may have to inform him at some point.’
Cassius could understand his reluctance. The Emperor’s deputy would surely be delighted to hear of a ready-made reason to discredit Abascantius. Emperors had been using the Service to spy on the army for years, the main reason why most military men regarded its agents with such contempt. Though the strength of the bond between Aurelian and Marcellinus was well known, the fact that the Emperor had used Abascantius for this assignment reinforced a historical truth: the Service had a far better record of loyalty to Roman emperors than the army did.
Abascantius sighed loudly. ‘I fancy the ultimate solution to this may lie in Antioch, so I shall return there tomorrow. Aside from myself, Gregorius and Prefect Venator – who supplied the legionaries – the only men who knew about the cart were Marcellinus himself and the four members of the council. He swore them all to secrecy – on pain of death if I know him – but I’ve little doubt one of them is involved somehow.’
‘In a theft of imperial property?’
‘Stranger things have happened. The council may resent my interest in their personal affairs but at times like this it becomes extremely useful.’
‘And what of this Gregorius? Isn’t it possible that he—’
Abascantius shook his head vigorously. ‘Not a chance. His loyalty is not in question. Besides, he’s worked for me long enough to know the consequences of betrayal.’
‘How much were the contents of that cart worth?’
‘Not including the flag – over ten thousand aurei.’
Cassius blew out his cheeks. It was an astronomical sum – enough to buy an army or a fleet of ships. ‘Sufficient to risk the consequences of betrayal then.’
‘You don’t know Gregorius. I do. He would have taken every precaution necessary. He has never let me down.’
‘What about the legionaries he used, couldn’t they have decided to do away with him and take the treasure for themselves?’
‘I gave strict instructions. They were to be strangers from different cohorts: none of the men knew each other. They were a
ll to be Italians, decorated veterans only, each personally recommended by their centurions. No, the answer doesn’t lie there.’
‘What about locals? Brigands? There must still be Palmyran soldiers scattered all across Syria.’
‘They were to travel only at night, they were to—’ Abascantius abruptly halted his explanation. ‘Do you think I didn’t consider all this?’ he yelled, slamming his hand on to the table. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday?’ He stared at Cassius, bloodshot eyes wide.
‘Of course not, sir. My apologies.’
Abascantius took a few breaths. The impact of his hand had sent the satchel to the far edge of the table, close to the window. He dragged it back towards him and smoothed the edges down. Then he placed it carefully in front of Cassius, shifting it around until it was parallel with the side of the table.
‘I make no claim to be infallible. You are right to put such questions. And now you must seek some answers.’
‘Sir, I should explain that I do not really consider myself a man of action. I have been in battle, yes, and I took on the odd criminal case for the general, but any group well-informed and well-organised enough to carry out this theft represents a considerable threat. What am I to do if I actually track them down?’
‘In the first instance contact me – but that will take time. Remember that you can take command of any nearby units if you need them.’
‘That entitlement sounds impressive on paper, sir; the reality might be somewhat different.’
‘I am also providing you with some additional help: a professional bodyguard, also from outside the province. Bit dense but he knows how to handle himself. He was on a job for me in the north but should be down here by now. You are to meet him the day after tomorrow, at an inn called The Goat’s Leg. It’s in the village of Galanea, just south of Palmyra – run by an old ex-legionary. Close by is the encampment of the Fourth Legion; they’re stationed there to deter any chance of an uprising. I suggest you go straight to Prefect Venator.’
‘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.
III
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; h
e 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.
