Agent of Rome: The Imperial Banner (The Agent of Rome)

by Nick Brown

  Puffing hard, Simo dragged his injured horse to the brow of the ridge. Cassius glanced at the animal.

  ‘Will it make it down to the village?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Simo, straightening up and trying to control his breathing.

  ‘Good, because we need to keep moving.’

  Cassius squinted at the sun overhead, then started away along the snaking track that ran down to Galanea.

  If not for the lame horse, they would have made good time that morning. Despite his blanket bed, Cassius had slept well and had awoken to find Legionary Durio up on his feet and feeling much better. He joined the others for breakfast and helped Gerardus and Simo with the horses. Cassius made no further attempt to extract any information from the pair and they remained cordial – if tight-lipped – until their visitors went on their way.

  Of the two sets of legionaries from the Fourth Legion he had encountered since leaving Abascantius, Cassius hoped that those at Palmyra would be more like the second group than the first.

  On the outskirts of the village they passed a few mud-built hovels occupied only by children playing at war. Cassius somehow lost the main path and they had to pick their way through several abandoned sets of foundations and assorted rubble before finding the main street. It was lined by large, two-storey buildings of cemented stone. Two veiled women emerged from an alley to their left, carrying woven baskets. They hurried past, heads down. A trio of local men rebuilding a courtyard wall stopped their work to inspect the strangers.

  ‘Good morning,’ Cassius said in Greek. ‘There’s an inn here – The Goat’s Leg?’

  One man looked as if he was about to reply, then turned to the others and said something in Aramaic. They all laughed, then continued with their work.

  Cassius shrugged and pressed on. The street widened out into a square occupied by a few dozen legionaries and villagers. Traders had laid out their wares around a big date palm that leaned alarmingly to one side. Beyond the tree were two roads: one led east, the other south. Cassius stopped beside a smaller tree and looped his reins around a branch. Simo did the same, then stood with hands on his hips, breathing heavily.

  ‘We shall at least both be a good deal fitter after this affair,’ Cassius said as he reached for his canteen. ‘Stay here. I shall try to find this inn.’

  Ignoring the curious glances that greeted him as he walked towards the traders, Cassius sipped from the canteen and nodded to any of the legionaries who looked his way. Even when off-duty, they were easily spotted, with their short hair, thick military belts and hobnailed boots.

  Whatever the villagers’ attitude to their Roman occupiers, they clearly weren’t averse to profiting from trade with the soldiers. As well as food and clothing, there was glass and fine ware, building tools, firewood, blankets, sheets, cushions, riding equipment, and the ever-present local trinkets and cheap religious icons. Several legionaries were involved in protracted bouts of haggling. One of those looking on was a soldier carrying two folded sheets and chewing on a bread roll.

  ‘Morning, legionary,’ said Cassius.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Can you tell me where I might find The Goat’s Leg?’

  ‘You sure you want to go there, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because that’s a soldiers’ inn, sir. Not an officers’ inn.’

  ‘Just tell me where it is, man.’

  The legionary pointed to the southern road.

  ‘Down the hill there, sir.’

  Cassius headed off down the slope and gestured for Simo to follow with the horses. There were only six buildings on the street, three on each side, and it soon petered out into a dusty, palm-lined path. The inn was easily the biggest structure: three storeys high with an arched doorway. On either side of it were amateurish murals showing wine jars and girls wrapped in vine leaves.

  Cassius caught a glimpse of watching eyes from a window and in moments a straggly-haired woman of about fifty had appeared at the doorway.

  ‘Hello, handsome. Looking for some local hospitality?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Cassius stopped and waited for Simo to catch up.

  The woman moved aside to allow a bulky, large-headed man out, who then stalked down the steps and crossed his arms. Tucked into his belt was a thick cudgel.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said the woman, switching to Latin.

  ‘Quite the linguist,’ said Cassius.

  ‘I know a Roman officer when I see one. Not that we get many down here. My husband’s an ex-legionary. Why don’t you come in and meet him? We’ve got dancing girls and the finest selection of wines this side of the city.’

  ‘A moment, woman. Will your man watch the horses for us?’

  ‘Stable’s closed. And you’ll have to leave your weapons with your servant, or at the door. And you must buy at least one drink.’ She pointed to a worn papyrus sheet mounted in a frame. ‘Rules of the house.’

  Cassius turned to Simo and shook his head as he undid his sword belt.

  ‘The delights of the provinces. This won’t take a moment, Simo. If the man I’m supposed to meet is here we shall depart at once, if not I shall leave a message and we’ll head up to the camp.’

  Cassius touched his tunic just above his belt, checking that the small bag of money he’d counted out that morning was there. The rest of the coins were in his saddlebag.

  ‘Perhaps you should wait down there,’ he suggested. Beyond the final house was a patch of unused land where Simo could remain safely out of sight.

  ‘Very well. Careful in there, sir.’

  Cassius removed his dagger and handed it to Simo with the sword belt. Greeted by a smile from the woman and a frown from the doorman, he stepped up through the doorway. Nearby was a large wooden chest with a few sheathed swords and daggers inside. Four bows (too long for the chest) had been leant against the wall, along with four quivers. The woman bustled ahead of him and pulled back a heavy curtain. Although he could hear voices, Cassius was surprised to find the room empty. There was a bar but no furniture.

  ‘We’re using the back room. Fire.’ The woman pointed to the hearth. Black streaks of soot covered most of the wall and roof. ‘Take your cape?’ she asked.

  Cassius shook his head as he undid the clasp himself and dropped the cape over his arm.

  ‘Just through there.’ She pointed at an open door, then returned to the window and took up some sewing.

  Cassius walked warily through the doorway. There were two groups inside. Gathered at the bar directly in front of him were six dark-skinned men with long, black hair. Auxiliaries, Cassius guessed; probably Cilician or Galatian. They were talking to an older man behind the bar. A couple of them threw a quick glance towards Cassius then returned to their conversation.

  To the right, four men sat by an empty hearth, too occupied with three serving girls to notice the new arrival. They were all fair-haired and broad in the shoulders and chest; certainly the owners of the bows. Also auxiliaries – Celts perhaps.

  Cassius waited for a moment to see if anyone might come forward but not one of them had given him a second look. In any case, he was certain they were all soldiers. He checked the tables to the left; they were empty.

  Continuing to the bar, he kept well clear of the auxiliaries and sat down on a stool. There was a shrill call in Aramaic from a hatch. The barkeep nodded a greeting to Cassius, then picked up two steaming wooden plates. He delivered the food to the men then returned to Cassius, slapping his hands down on the bar. He had a weathered, ruddy face and an unusual mark on his chin; Cassius couldn’t decide if it was a dimple or a scar.

  ‘Good-day, sir. Not seen you in here before.’

  ‘Just arrived.’

  ‘Which cohort you with?’

  ‘None. I’m with the governor’s staff.’

  ‘Is that right? I’m Telesinus. I own this place.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I just met your
wife.’

  ‘Still out there, is she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not been struck by lightning?’

  ‘No,’ Cassius answered with a curious grin. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been begging the gods for twenty years – it has to happen one day.’

  Cassius laughed; and wondered how many times a day Telesinus trotted that one out.

  ‘What are you drinking, sir?’

  ‘Well, I don’t really have the time but I suppose I must follow the rules of the house. Half and half. Something decent. Hot.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  Telesinus wiped his hands on his apron and selected a wine bottle from a long shelf, then tipped some into a wooden mug. Finding the hatch untended, he reached inside and topped the wine up with hot water.

  ‘There you go, sir – a light Galician. Some sausage? Goes well.’

  Cassius investigated the plate Telesinus had retrieved from behind the bar. The meat looked edible but his policy was always to let Simo make or choose his food.

  ‘No thank you. Listen, I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. Any strangers been in?’

  ‘Just you,’ said the owner with a grin, moving off.

  Though he didn’t want to leave Simo alone outside for long, Cassius took a moment to enjoy being still. He sampled the wine. Bitter but passable. He glanced over at the auxiliaries and saw a legend engraved on one of their mugs: Fill it up again! Judging by their inability to form coherent sentences, Telesinus had obliged. Cassius felt a light touch on his shoulder, and turned to find one of the serving girls beside him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in Greek. Her voice was soft, her accent hard.

  ‘Hello.’

  Cassius looked her up and down. She was about his age: slim and pretty, and wearing a tunic short enough to reveal a shapely pair of legs and tight enough to outline a fine pair of breasts. If not for her dirty fingernails and the faint whiff of sweat, Cassius might have found her rather attractive. She ran a finger along his forearm.

  ‘I’m Sabina. What’s your name?’

  ‘Cassius.’

  Thanks to one of his more free-spirited uncles, Cassius had a little experience of such hostelries; and the girls who worked there. He was certain she would offer more than table service if the price was right. Sabina brushed her left breast against him.

  ‘You smell nice, Cassius. And I like your hair.’

  ‘I’m sure I look a complete mess. I’ve been on the move since breakfast.’

  ‘You look fine to me.’

  Despite a pang of guilt about what his mother would say if she could see him, Cassius admitted to himself that it was rather nice to have a little female company.

  ‘How tall are you?’ asked Sabina.

  He shrugged. ‘Tall.’

  Over her shoulder, Cassius noted one of the auxiliaries nudge his friend. The second man looked annoyed.

  ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘I gave you a good tip. Now you run off and leave me.’

  Sabina rolled her eyes and spoke without turning round. ‘That was an hour ago!’

  ‘Get back here, you cheeky cow, or you’ll not get another!’

  Cassius moved his head forward so that the Celt couldn’t see him speak. ‘And people say northerners are coarse . . .’

  Sabina giggled and ran a hand across his knee.

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded the auxiliary.

  Cassius leaned back and kept a straight face as he took another sip of wine.

  ‘Not bad this,’ he said, holding up the glass to Telesinus.

  ‘You’d best hurry, girl!’ shouted the Celt.

  Cassius removed Sabina’s hand from his leg and nodded towards the auxiliaries. ‘Perhaps you better—’

  ‘I’m staying here!’ she yelled, spinning round and placing a defiant hand on her hip. ‘Where I can talk to this nice Roman!’

  The Celt, whose chiselled features were surrounded by an unruly tangle of sandy hair, glared at her.

  Cassius caught his eye, then shrugged.

  ‘Pah!’ With a dismissive wave, the Celt turned back to the table and refilled his mug.

  Sabina smiled gleefully. ‘Good. Now we can talk. Will you buy me a lemon water?’

  ‘Very well.’

  Sabina leaned over the bar and ordered it. ‘Honey too, please.’

  Telesinus reached for a clean glass.

  Cassius nodded towards the Celts again. ‘Looks like he’s given up. You know these bowmen have remarkably strong wrists. I suppose if he can’t find any pleasure with you, one of his friends can oblige.’

  Sabina’s throaty laugh was so obviously tinged with mockery that Cassius knew instantly he had made a mistake.

  Stool legs screeched as the Celt sprang to his feet.

  ‘What was that?’ he demanded, striding towards the bar. ‘What did you say, Roman?’

  ‘Calm down, Estan,’ said Telesinus.

  Cassius turned to the Celt, who had stopped a yard away. He really was quite large: as tall as Cassius, with a remarkably sturdy chest and a thick neck. Intricate, dark green tattoos snaked up his forearms.

  ‘You said something about me. Admit it.’

  ‘Not I,’ Cassius said, with what he hoped was an appeasing grin. ‘Please, let me buy you a drink.’

  Estan hunched forward, eyes locked on Cassius. ‘Tell me what you said.’

  ‘Just a common joke: there’s a Greek, a Carthaginian and a—’

  The Celt poked Sabina in the shoulder. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Estan plucked a silver denarius from a bag attached to his belt and held it up to the girl’s face. The other Celts and the serving girls had gathered behind him. Even the six drunks had quietened down. Sabina looked at the coin, then back at Cassius.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, girl,’ warned Telesinus, walking around the end of the bar.

  Sabina shrugged and took the coin. Then she told the Celt what Cassius had said.

  The dark auxiliaries erupted into a fit of hysterics.

  ‘You silly little bitch,’ Cassius snapped.

  Estan breathed in sharply through his nostrils and raised himself to his full height. One of his fellows spat on the floor by Cassius’s feet.

  ‘Now wait a moment,’ Cassius said. Before he could move, Estan swung a boot at the high stool. As it flew away, Cassius dropped like a stone, catching his head on the bar and landing heavily on the floor. Rubbing his head, he got to his feet and backed towards the other auxiliaries.

  ‘You men, I am an officer of the Roman Army. You must help me.’

  One of the soldiers stood and saluted. ‘At once, sir!’

  Cassius was all set to move behind him when the man sat down again and bellowed with laughter. The others joined in.

  Cassius pointed to his tunic. ‘I am an officer. It is your duty to assist me.’

  One of the men tilted his mug towards the Celts. ‘We know them. We don’t know you. We’re not Roman.’

  ‘I command you to help me.’

  ‘Somebody hear something?’ replied one of the men.

  ‘Not me,’ said another.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ Cassius told them.

  ‘You won’t be in a state to tell anyone anything,’ said one of the Celts.

  Telesinus moved in front of Cassius. Sabina was now crying. Her employer pushed her over to where the other girls stood.

  ‘That’s enough, Estan,’ he said. ‘You—’

  Telesinus never finished the sentence.

  Estan barged him aside, stomped forward and drove both hands into Cassius’s chest, propelling him across the room. Cassius’s legs buckled as he hit a table, flew over the top of it and landed in a heap next to the wall. Though his shoulder now blazed with pain, he forced himself up straight away. He had to stay on his feet; if they got him on the ground he was finished. He reached instinctively for his dagger, then remembered it wasn’t there.r />
  Why had he said that stupid quip? Why?

  He glanced across at the door.

  ‘No you don’t.’

  One of the Celts blocked his way.

  Cassius held up his hands. ‘I apologise unreservedly. It was a harmless joke.’

  ‘How you Romans love to mock us,’ said Estan. ‘We’re good enough to kill for you and die for you but not good enough to earn your respect.’

  Telesinus intervened once more. ‘That’ll do, Estan. You’ve had your fun.’

  ‘Skinny here seems very interested in how strong we are. I think it’s time for a little demonstration.’

  Cassius decided to make a dash for the door anyway. He had barely taken a step before Estan grabbed his left arm and swung him back against the wall. The Celt gave an order in his own language and two of the others darted forward and took hold of Cassius. With a sly smile, Estan bent down and picked up Cassius’s cape from where it had fallen to the floor. He stretched it out, doubled it over, then began twisting the ends. Cassius tried to shake himself free but now both his arms were pinned to the wall.

  ‘I have money,’ he said, nodding down at his belt.

  ‘So have I,’ said Estan. ‘I don’t want your money. What I want is for you to understand the consequences of insulting the men of Caledonia. When this is done, I think you will.’

  Estan had finished twisting the cape and he now looped it over Cassius’s head, crossing the ends in front of his neck. The other men took an end each and kept one hand on Cassius’s shoulders.

  Cassius knew he had to call for help while he still could.

  ‘Simo! Simo!’

  Estan nodded. The men pulled tighter and the cotton cut into Cassius’s neck. He tried to draw breath but no air came. He reached for the cape but Estan sent a knuckled punch straight down on to his right wrist. Cassius would have cried out had he been able.

  Estan spoke again. The pressure eased.

  ‘Now listen. There is something I want you to say: “My name is Skinny. I am a Roman and I am nothing.”’

  Through the fear and pain, Cassius was surprised to hear his reaction.

  ‘By Mars you’ll pay for this. I am an officer of the Imperial Army and I am here to—’

  With a nod from Estan the two men pulled again.

  ‘No, no, no,’ replied the Celt. ‘That’s not what I said. You must repeat it exactly: My name is Skinny. I am a Roman and I am nothing.’