by Nick Brown
Riding out to the east of the city to find Venator at least gave him a few moments’ relief from what was becoming a monumentally frustrating day. The rain continued to fall – light but insistent – and Cassius found himself staring up at the sky every few moments, hoping desperately that the cloud would clear.
The decision to follow the trail was an easy one; his brief time at Palmyra had yielded nothing particularly promising and he could always return if the cart-tracks led to a literal or metaphorical dead-end.
Simo and Indavara were busy packing. With no idea how long they might be out in the desert, or where the trail might take them, Cassius had told the Gaul to buy enough food and water for a week. Lollius seemed relieved that he would no longer have to play babysitter, and had even agreed to procure a mount for the old Syrian, who had readily assented to act as their guide. He seemed most concerned about what he would do with his goats but had pledged to meet them back at the trail at midday. Cassius had spent the last hour looking for Venator. Nobody seemed to know where he was, and only after questioning a tribune had Cassius discovered the prefect was in fact out at the city’s eastern walls, overseeing some construction work. He had also managed to fit in a visit to the clerk, who’d promised to get the remaining four legionary records transcribed on to papyrus immediately.
The palms began to thin out. Cassius slowed down and came off the path to avoid a pair of horses hauling timber. To his left was the south-eastern corner of the city walls – perhaps even less impressive than those to the west. Up ahead a massive crew of slaves were hard at work digging; three hundred men at least, scattered along a low ditch marked with poles and rope. There were Palmyran overseers there too, brandishing long canes as they patrolled the ditch. The only Romans in sight were officers: four centurions and two tribunes, standing around a table piled high with sheets of papyrus. They were listening intently to the seventh man at the table: Prefect Venator.
Cassius jinked his horse between cubes of basalt, then stopped and dismounted. The officers looked up as he approached. Venator – whose hands were planted on a big drawing – stopped speaking and turned round.
‘It’s important?’ asked the prefect. As he lifted his hands off the table, the drawing rolled itself up and fell off the table.
Cassius reddened as the tribunes and centurions all stared at him. ‘Yes, sir.’
Venator addressed his officers: ‘Go and check your sections. We’ll reconvene in an hour.’
The prefect walked over to one of the basalt cubes and sat down. Cassius tied his horse to a palm then hurried over.
‘Well?’ asked Venator.
‘We’ve found the trail, sir. I’ve hired a guide and we’ll follow it as far as we can.’
‘You must be quick. The rain.’
‘We’ll be gone within the hour, sir.’
‘What about those records?’
‘I’ll have them all before I leave, sir.’
‘Good. And I shall try to find out what I can regarding what we discussed yesterday: the temple, the Palmyrans – who knew what.’
‘Thank you, sir. And if you discover anything of note, anything at all—’
‘I shall dispatch a note to you via Abascantius’s address in the capital. Using the usual code – thirty-two.’
‘Thirty-two, sir.’
Venator let out a long breath and gestured towards the workers. ‘What a job. Marcellinus tells me I must keep the Palmyrans weak, yet the Emperor wants the city’s defences strengthened now that it’s once again a Roman possession. If the new walls are ever finished, I expect I shall receive orders the following month to tear them down.’
Venator ran a hand through his hair. Cassius wondered when it had turned white.
‘Well, sir, I suppose I should—’
‘Wait a moment, Corbulo. Last night – the auxiliaries. It was a surprise to you, I imagine.’ Venator smiled. ‘You believed me to be a gentleman.’
‘It has been nothing less than an honour to meet you, sir.’
The prefect waved this away. ‘Don’t toady, lad. I get enough of that from my tribunes. You grain men don’t enjoy a lot of advantages. Not having to worm your way up the promotional ladder is one.’
‘I meant what I said, sir. Regarding last night – the fault lies entirely with me.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one, sir.’
‘You’ve only three years more than my eldest.’
The prefect folded his arms across his chest.
‘What I saw last night was a young man struggling with himself. I know that struggle. Every officer who’s ever worn the crest knows it. But that’s the life. Dirty job after dirty job, and in the Service you’ll get the dirtiest of the lot. I remember what my old prefect used to tell me – though they were still called legates in those days: “You’re a Roman officer. And a Roman officer cannot be just one man. He must be two or three or four.” There’s truth to that. You think the man you saw last night is the same one who returns to his family on leave? Goes to the theatre with his wife and makes small talk with his respectable friends? Or the one who spends hours politicking with the bloody Palmyrans? Even the same as the one talking to you now? I’m not so keen on that man you saw last night myself. Don’t like him much. But I know I need him. Just like you need the man who was giving that Celt a good hiding.’
Cassius looked down at the ground. The thought of it still shamed him.
‘No, no. Head up, lad. Accept it. You need that man for this life. You must always take care not to become him, but you will need him. If you’re to find this accursed banner, by Jupiter you’ll need him. Don’t be afraid to do what needs to be done. I for one will owe you if you see this thing through.’
‘I shall do my absolute best, sir.’
‘Good luck then. And keep that bodyguard close by.’
Having collected the newly copied records from the clerk, Cassius found Simo and Indavara waiting outside the camp’s main entrance. Their mounts were heavily laden with water-skins, sacks of food, firewood and horse-feed. Tied to the back of Simo’s saddle was a placid-looking pony: shortly to become the goat-herder’s mount.
Cassius’s own saddlebags lay on the ground. He dismounted and kept hold of the reins as Simo set about attaching them.
‘Got everything?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Simo, grunting as he lugged one of the bags up.
‘Spear-head?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Money?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All my papers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
As a short column of cavalry trotted into the camp, Indavara looked along the road to the Damascus Gate and shook his head.
‘What’s up with you?’ asked Cassius.
‘I had a dream last night,’ Indavara answered, his brow knotted.
‘Congratulations.’
‘There were animals.’
‘Thrilling.’
Cassius knew where this was going; Indavara struck him as just the type to ascribe dire consequences to his nocturnal imaginings.
‘Let me guess – owls.’
‘How did you know?’
Cassius rolled his eyes. ‘You dreamed of owls so there’ll be storms on our journey. Nonsense. Maybe there will, maybe there won’t. Your dreams have nothing to do with it. It’s the will of the gods or whatever else controls these things. My aunt won’t travel for a month if she dreams of moving statues. But she’s a silly old woman. What’s your excuse?’
Indavara frowned. ‘I thought owls meant we would be attacked by bandits.’
‘Ah, I’ve never heard that one but at least it’s a bit more realistic. Yes, we may well be attacked by bandits. So keep your bow handy and your sword sharp.’
‘We should at least wait until tomorrow,’ said Indavara.
Cassius turned to Simo. ‘By Mars, he’s serious.’
Indavara shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d tell you.’
‘Hey you! You there!’
Cassius and Indavara looked up at a cavalryman who had stopped.
‘You,’ the man repeated, nodding at Indavara, ‘you were a fighter, weren’t you?’
Indavara turned away from the road and said nothing. As he fiddled with his saddle, the rider examined him a moment longer, then turned and called out to a friend, one of the last in the column.
‘Here, Sita! Come and look! We’ve a famous fighter here!’
Sita brought his horse up next to his friend.
‘Remember – Pietas Julia, wasn’t it? A couple of years back.’
Sita was nodding. ‘You’re right, Ruso. It’s him all right. I remember the ear.’
Indavara was doing a poor job of ignoring the men. In fact he seemed to be getting angrier by the moment.
‘What’s the name again, mate?’ asked Ruso.
‘Indavara,’ answered Cassius.
The bodyguard shot him a glare.
‘That’s it!’ said Ruso, slapping his hand down on his saddle. ‘I doubled my money on him. Right tough bugger. So what you doing here, mate?’
Indavara shrugged.
Another cavalryman joined the duo. ‘Did you say Indavara? Everyone the other side of Byzantium’s heard of him. Won twenty bouts and his freedom. Killed a seven-foot German, then a bear – with only a dagger. My sister was there.’
‘Well, well,’ said Cassius.
Simo was now listening in too.
‘Here, mate, show us a move or something!’ said Sita.
‘No, no, he’s not that type,’ said the third man. ‘Just hard and quick. Crafty too.’
Indavara took up his reins, turned his horse around and walked away up the road.
‘Come on!’ shouted Ruso. ‘Just a trick or something!’
‘Miserable sod,’ muttered Sita when Indavara was safely out of earshot.
The third legionary turned his attention to Cassius. ‘Is he your bodyguard, sir?’
‘He is.’
‘Must be costing you a fortune.’
Sita grinned mischieviously. ‘Just don’t get on the wrong side of him, sir.’
The cavalrymen went on their way.
Cassius and Simo looked up the road. Indavara glanced back at them for a moment, then kept walking.
X
Following the trail turned out to be surprisingly easy. Gregorius had kept to the track and only on very dry, hard soil did the wheel marks become unclear. Simo knew enough Aramaic to communicate with the goat-herder, who seemed thrilled to have a pony to ride and kept up a good pace throughout the day.
As evening approached, the track edged past a mountain; the western flank of a range that stretched forty miles to the east. The steep sides of the crag were striated by horizontal bands of yellow, brown and black; and the top seemed to have been cut away, forming a huge escarpment.
Cassius looked up at a pair of broad-winged eagles, circling hundreds of feet above. He knew from his map that the Antioch road followed a pass through the mountains, then struck north for the town of Seriane. Gregorius’s route cut between this range and a smaller one to the west.
As his decision to follow the trail seemed to have turned out well, Cassius’s spirits had lifted throughout the afternoon. He’d even had time to read the records of the other four legionaries – some of the men who had walked this very path two weeks earlier. Again, nothing of note stood out: four more highly decorated Italian veterans and no reason to believe they were anything other than reliable, honest soldiers.
‘Well,’ he said, turning to Simo. ‘They got this far.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
Cassius had told Simo and Indavara only the basics. They knew nothing of the banner – only that they were following a group escorting a precious cargo.
‘Would you like your cape, sir? It is rather chilly now.’
‘No, no. I’m fine.’
Cassius looked at the sun. ‘Another two or three hours of light. If we see another suitable building we’ll stop there.’
Even though they were now venturing deep into the Syrian desert, there always seemed to be some kind of structure in view. They had already seen three hamlets and several isolated stone-built houses, all long since abandoned. There had been no time to arrange tents, nor was there space to carry them; one of these old buildings would have to provide shelter for the night.
Cassius nodded over his shoulder. ‘I don’t think our ex-gladiator friend is enjoying himself.’
Though they’d already noted his lack of riding ability, only now did Cassius and Simo realise just how uncomfortable Indavara was in the saddle. He constantly berated his horse, though he hardly ever struck it; and was often seen squirming around, unable to find a comfortable riding position. They’d both offered a few words of advice but it was evident he’d never been taught properly.
So now Indavara was walking, towing the horse by its reins, trudging along with his head down.
‘It’s quite common for gladiators to become bodyguards,’ Cassius continued. ‘Certainly explains a lot.’
‘The scars, you mean, sir.’
‘Not just that, Simo. His demeanour. He was probably a captured prisoner of war, or – if our bad luck’s still with us – a criminal. Those men are kept alive only to fight. They are utterly brutalised. And he’s not been out that long. Two years ago that soldier said he saw him in the arena. No wonder he struggles with the niceties of everyday life.’
‘I suppose he must have killed many men.’
‘There’s no suppose about it. And with great efficiency judging by what I saw at the inn. Gods, to think we’re to spend nights out here alone with him.’
‘Do you really fear him, sir? He did help you yesterday.’
‘Only when he knew he would receive his money. You must keep our coins well hidden, Simo. Be on your guard around him. He may seem quiet, shy even – but don’t forget what he is.’
A sudden gust of wind blew around the base of the mountain. Cassius shivered.
‘I think I’ll take that cape after all.’
As the sun sank close to the horizon, the track led past a small farmhouse. Its uneven walls were formed of dark basalt blocks. It might have been twenty years old or a hundred. As Cassius, Simo and the Syrian dismounted, the Gaul translated the old man’s words.
‘He says they stopped here too.’
Cassius examined the disturbed ground in front of the doorway.
‘So I see.’
Recalling that Gregorius had set off at dusk (and had intended only to travel during the night) Cassius imagined they stopped at dawn; the darkness and the cart would have slowed them. The two parties had covered the same distance on the first leg of their journey.
He wandered inside the farmhouse. In one corner, close to the only window, were the remains of a small fire. The dusty floor was criss-crossed by footprints. Cassius imagined it must have been a squeeze to get them all in. Despite the gloom, he took the time to inspect every inch of floor while there was still enough light. He found only a few crusts of bread.
Outside, the Syrian was distributing fodder to the horses. Simo had removed his and Cassius’s saddles and was unpacking them in front of the farmhouse. Indavara arrived, still on foot. He dropped the reins and left his horse where it was, then sat below the window and undid his boots.
After all the talk of his violent past, and his concerns about the man, Cassius decided he would feel happier if he could at least strike up some kind of rapport with him.
‘I’ll have to give you some proper riding lessons.’
Indavara pulled off one boot and examined a nasty set of blisters on his heel.
‘I’m serious,’ Cassius added, standing over him. ‘I need you fit and fresh, and we’ve many a mile to go. You have to learn some time.’
‘Not now.’
‘Of course not now.’
‘I mean I don’t want to talk about it now.’
Indavara pulled off the other boot.
Cassius shrugged, then headed back inside.
‘Well, a rude bodyguard I can accept. A lame one I cannot.’
Cassius grabbed two blankets and lay down in a corner while Simo brought in their gear. He thought again of the legionaries. So they all had spotless records. But what if they’d found out what they were guarding? A lot of men had died in the last few months. The campaign against the Palmyrans had been difficult and costly and – with the state the Empire was in – few legionaries could expect a peaceful life over the next few years. Had one of them seen an opportunity for a way out? And what of Gregorius? Had he been the one tempted or coerced into an act of betrayal? Perhaps they were all innocent; victims of some unforeseen raid.
Despite these dark thoughts, Cassius was weary and he soon dozed off, only waking when he heard the metallic clank of pans.
Outside it had grown dark. The other three were inside: Simo had an oil lamp lit and was taking food out of a sack; Indavara and the Syrian were setting up their beds.
‘Ah, you’re awake, sir,’ said the Gaul. ‘What do you think about a fire? Nice to have something hot – I’ve a pot of stew here. I can warm you some wine too.’
‘I don’t see why not. The other party did.’
‘Perhaps that was their first mistake,’ observed Indavara.
‘Go ahead, Simo,’ said Cassius. ‘We’ve not seen anyone for hours.’
Simo nodded and reached into the little bag where he kept his fire-starting equipment. The old man said something, stood up and walked outside.
‘He’s checking on the horses,’ explained Simo as he laid some kindling – dry grass and bark – in a circle next to his firewood.
‘Tell him to make sure they’re well roped,’ said Cassius. As the Gaul did so, Indavara picked up his quiver and moved close to the oil lamp. He selected an arrow and began checking the shaft and feathering. Cassius sat down next to him.
