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

by Nick Brown

  ‘Do you know when he’ll back?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘Do you have an address for him?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t have an address for one of your employees?’

  ‘Why would I? He comes, he works; I pay him, he goes.’

  Having now blown the glass into a five-inch globe, the worker walked slowly to the other side of the furnace. He removed the globe from the pipe with a second rod and delicately placed it in another chamber.

  ‘You won’t mind if I talk to some of the others?’ Cassius said, nodding towards the factory. ‘See if anyone knows where I can find him.’

  ‘You can’t go in there. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Misleading members of the governor’s staff can be equally perilous,’ said Cassius.

  He and Indavara watched as the worker removed another globe from the second chamber and placed it on a wooden rack with a dozen others.

  A miniature reflection of Juba gesticulating to someone suddenly appeared in every globe. When Cassius and Indavara turned round, the foreman stopped, then shrugged. They heard a metallic clatter from the factory. One of the glass-blowers at the back had dropped his pipe. The man tore off his apron and dashed away into the bowels of the building.

  ‘Go!’ Cassius shouted, dropping his satchel. ‘Go!’

  Acrid fumes filled his nose as he sprinted after Indavara. Once past the glass-blowers, they came to a wooden partition. Indavara already had his sword in his hand. Cassius drew his own blade, then followed him through the wide doorway.

  On one side of the second section were boxes full of glass beads, on the other stalls full of sand. Another worker had just entered, dragging an empty hand cart. He darted out of the way as Cassius and Indavara hurried past, swords held aloft.

  The last section of the factory was filled with long, high shelves laden with glassware. Beyond the narrow central aisle was open ground and, in the distance, the dye-works. Light bounced around the room, half blinding them as they charged on. There was no sign of Nabor.

  Cassius glimpsed movement to his right; and suddenly one of the shelves was toppling towards them. Indavara stopped and tried to turn but Cassius ran straight into him. Before they could take another step, glass objects rained down on them. Both men got their hands up to cover their heads, but then the shelf struck, knocking them to the ground. It wasn’t heavy enough to do much damage but they landed on a floor already strewn with broken glass.

  Cassius cried out. He lifted his left arm to find a triangular shard of glass protruding an inch below the veins at his wrist. He looked up and saw a lean, dark-haired man already outside and running.

  Indavara grabbed the shelf with both hands and pushed it off them. He picked up his sword and darted out of the workshop after Nabor.

  Cassius got to his feet and pulled out the glass, releasing a rivulet of blood. There were other, smaller fragments embedded all over his hands, arms and legs. Trying to ignore the pain, he loped outside. Nabor was already fifty yards away: he had jumped the ditch and was heading for the dye-works.

  Indavara stopped at the ditch. He reached over his shoulder and pulled the bow from his back. Eyes still fixed on the fleeing figure, he plucked an arrow from the quiver.

  ‘Indavara! No!’

  Belatedly realising he’d lost his sword, Cassius ran for the ditch.

  Indavara held the bow out in front of him and fitted the arrow against the string.

  Cassius splashed through a puddle.

  ‘Indavara! Don’t!’

  The bodyguard cocked his head to one side and pulled back the string.

  Nabor had reached the dye-works. He was running between two lines of women who had stopped work to stare at him.

  Cassius struck Indavara’s elbow with his hand just as he released the string. With a loud twang, the arrow shot high into the sky over the road. Indavara spun round.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he bellowed, eyes blazing.

  ‘What in Hades are you doing?’

  ‘He tried to kill us!’ Indavara jabbed the bow towards the dye-works.

  Nabor had just untied a horse and swung up into the saddle.

  ‘We need him alive.’

  ‘I was going for his legs.’

  ‘From here? You might have hit one of those women.’

  ‘No chance.’

  They watched as Nabor kicked out at a man trying to stop him, then whipped at the horse with the reins, driving it towards the main road. Once there, he turned right in the direction of the city and within moments, both rider and horse had disappeared.

  Cassius noticed a piece of green glass sticking out of Indavara’s neck just below his ear. It was moving up and down with each breath. He pointed at it.

  ‘Er, you have a—’

  Indavara reached up and wrenched out the glass, along with a substantial chunk of skin. The wound began to bleed.

  Cassius looked back at the factory. Juba and several others had gathered in the storeroom.

  ‘I guarantee the foreman knows where Nabor lives. If we can get an address out of him and commandeer a couple of horses, we might get to his place before he can lose us for good.’

  Indavara nodded and marched back towards the workshop, holding the bow in one hand.

  ‘Just remember – nothing too excessive,’ Cassius said as he hurried after him.

  There were eight workers with Juba. They all watched Indavara approach. Without breaking stride, he whipped one end of the bow against Juba’s arm. The foreman cried out as he fell to the ground. The workers scattered. All except one man: a broad fellow still holding his iron pipe.

  ‘Juba’s my brother,’ he said as he moved in front of Indavara. ‘You’ll have to go through me.’

  With a casual second swing of the bow, Indavara lashed it against the side of the man’s head, striking him full on the ear. The Syrian dropped to his knees. The look on his face suggested disbelief at the level of pain he was experiencing.

  ‘My ear!’ he screeched. ‘Why did you hit me in the ear, you barbarous piece of shit?’

  ‘Because it hurts,’ replied Indavara, before delivering a kick to the man’s chest. He fell on to his back and was dragged away by the others.

  Cassius recovered his sword from the floor and took up a position between the workers and Indavara. The bodyguard grabbed Juba by his tunic, dragged him to his feet and shoved him outside. The foreman stumbled on the uneven ground, then fell again. Indavara dropped the bow over his head and twisted it until the string was tight against the Syrian’s neck.

  Cassius came after them, but kept one eye on the workers. ‘We need that address, Juba.’

  The foreman took a look back at his brother and set his teeth. ‘Go to Hades.’

  Indavara twisted the bow tighter.

  The foreman’s face turned from pink to red. He clawed at the string.

  ‘Address!’ yelled Indavara, bending over him, turning the bow with one hand.

  The foreman’s eyes widened. His jaw began to shake, then his whole head.

  Cassius thought of Estan, that night in Palmyra.

  ‘All right, that’ll do,’ he said, grabbing Indavara’s arm.

  The bodyguard reluctantly untwisted the bow. Cassius loosened the string and pulled it off over Juba’s head.

  ‘Talk fast or I’ll let him go to work on you again.’

  The foreman cast a hateful look at them both, then spoke: ‘Jewish Quarter. Apartment block next to the Fountain of Tiberius. Number twenty-four, I think.’

  Cassius helped the foreman to his feet.

  ‘That’s more like it. And as you’re now in a more cooperative frame of mind, I’m sure you won’t object if we borrow a couple of your horses for the afternoon.’

  With one hand still at his throat, Juba waved the other in surrender.

  ‘Good man.’

  The Jewish Quarter was just north of the Daphne Gate, an enclave about half a mile across. They found
the fountain and left the mounts at a nearby stable. The apartment block was only four storeys high, but with the ramshackle balconies built on to the front, it seemed almost to bend over the streets below. Many of the ground-floor rooms were store-fronts.

  ‘The people here look like any other people,’ observed Indavara as they searched for the entrance. ‘What are Jews anyway?’

  ‘I’ve never been entirely sure. There are a lot of them here because we’re not that far from Jerusalem. They’re a bit like Christians – though they don’t seem to get on with them very well. One god and all that. Maybe I should consider converting.’

  Indavara frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Despite the fact that they’re good at making weapons, their religion forbids them to work on one day of the week, so they’re exempt from military service.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I could avoid things like being strangled by my own cape, or sharing underground pits with dead bodies, or having people throw shelves full of glass at me.’

  Cassius looked down at his arms. The skin was dotted with multicoloured specks of glass. There’d been no time to get it all out.

  ‘I think we’re here,’ Indavara said as they arrived at a narrow staircase that ran up to the first floor. Outside sat an old woman presiding over an impressive stock of kitchen utensils.

  ‘Can we get to number twenty-four through here?’ Cassius asked her.

  ‘Turn right at the top of the stairs.’

  Indavara reached for his sword.

  ‘Perhaps your stave this time,’ suggested Cassius. ‘I’d like to avoid any fatalities if possible.’

  He followed Indavara up the dank, dark staircase. It stank of urine.

  ‘Gods, what a hole.’

  Just as they reached the top, a dog hurtled past them, closely followed by two young boys. Indavara leaned against the wall, peered round the corner, then stepped into the corridor. Cassius followed him. It was a narrow space, perhaps only five feet across, and the roof was only an inch or two above his head. A couple in one of the rooms were firing colourful insults at each other in Greek, providing some useful cover noise. The flimsy wooden doors were incredibly close to one another. Some had numbers illustrated with paint or bronze numerals; many had figurines nailed to the wall above them.

  Twenty-four was close to the far end of the corridor. There was no number on the door. Indavara, who hadn’t – or couldn’t – keep track, was all set to walk past it when Cassius grabbed his tunic. The bodyguard stopped and turned round.

  ‘This one,’ Cassius mouthed, before pointing down at the bottom of the door. There was an inch between it and the floor. If Nabor was inside and watching, he would see their shadows.

  Cassius didn’t want the satchel and spear-head getting in his way, so he took the bag off and laid it carefully against the wall. Indavara took the stave from his shoulder. It was a five-foot length of timber with leather wrapped around the middle section and both ends.

  The door was equipped with a solid-looking bronze lock, but the frame looked weak. Cassius pointed at the stave, then at a spot midway between the hinges. Indavara stood well back from the door, holding the stave in both hands. He lined the weapon up, then drove it forward.

  The blow knocked the door clean off the hinges and into the middle of the room. Indavara leapt in after it. Cassius came in behind him, hand on his sword hilt.

  The apartment was empty. It was a single room, only seven or eight yards wide, with one window facing the street. Under the window was a narrow, unmade bed. Next to the bed were a chest and a bedpan. To the left of the door was a set of shelves containing some clothes and a few glass items.

  Cassius investigated the chest. The lid was open but there was nothing inside.

  ‘Looks like he’s gone. Let’s see if we can find anything.’

  There was little else to search. Once they’d checked the shelves and every corner of the bed, they stood there, staring blankly at each other.

  The noise came suddenly: shouted orders in Greek, then the heavy footfalls of a group of men coming down the corridor.

  ‘Draw your sword,’ said Indavara, picking up his stave.

  Cassius had only just done so when three city sergeants burst into the apartment. They were wearing mail-shirts and bronze helmets and wielding their clubs.

  ‘Drop your weapons,’ ordered the shortest and oldest of the three. Two more men arrived and pressed into the room behind them.

  ‘You first,’ Indavara replied. One of the sergeants had already advanced far enough for his liking so he swung lightly at the man’s club with his stave. The weapons barely touched but the men spread out and advanced.

  ‘Get out of my face,’ Indavara snarled.

  Cassius sheathed his sword and held up his hands.

  ‘All right, that’s enough. Let’s all put our weapons down.’

  The older man turned to Cassius. ‘Who are you to order us around, son?’

  ‘Corbulo, Imperial Security.’

  ‘Prove it,’ said the man sourly.

  ‘My spear-head is just outside the door there. May I?’

  ‘Stay there.’

  The sergeant ordered one of his men to fetch the satchel. He took it from him and inspected the contents for himself. Then he returned the bag to Cassius.

  ‘All right, men. At ease.’

  They reluctantly lowered their clubs.

  ‘I’m Master of Sergeants Congrio. My men and I work for the magistrate.’

  ‘I know who you work for.’

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘Looking for a man named Nabor. He lived here.’

  ‘Well, you need look no longer. He’s just been found. Dead.’

  Cassius and Congrio marched along the street, with Indavara and two of the sergeants behind them. The other men had been left behind to search the apartment, then stand guard.

  ‘Someone knew his face,’ said Congrio. ‘Told us where he lived. When we got to the apartment block the old crone downstairs said you two were already in there.’

  ‘Can’t blame you for assuming the worst,’ replied Cassius.

  ‘Why’s the Service interested in him?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that, I’m afraid. He was known to you?’

  ‘I didn’t recognise him, nor his name. We get bodies turn up all the time.’

  Congrio pointed across the street to a low-walled enclosure full of overgrown bushes and trees. A group of women – rag-pickers with woven baskets on their shoulders – made way as Congrio hurried into the enclosure and along a gravel path. They passed an ornamental pool that was no longer very ornamental. Cassius doubted if any water had flowed in the little sanctuary for years; it had probably been established by some generous benefactor who’d died or fallen on hard times.

  A group of young boys and girls had gathered where the body lay, chattering in Hebrew and Greek. Some of them had climbed up on to a fountain to get a better look over the shoulders of Congrio’s men. The children – and to a lesser extent the four other sergeants there – were dwarfed by the hulking figure of Magistrate Quarto. Congrio accelerated when he saw his superior there. Quarto turned round and stared down at the new arrivals with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Ah. There you are, Congrio.’

  Quarto’s beard and multiple chins completely obscured his neck.

  ‘I haven’t sent a runner yet, sir,’ said Congrio. ‘How did you—’

  ‘I was down on the avenue. One of these brats came past jabbering about it.’

  ‘This gentleman is with Imperial Security, sir; we found him at the dead man’s apartment.’

  Quarto took a step closer. Cassius was six feet tall, but the magistrate towered over him. His mouth seemed to be set in a permanent sneer.

  ‘You one of Pitface’s then?’

  All things considered, Cassius didn’t really feel the magistrate was in a position to be picking on the physical deficiencies of others.

  ‘If you mean Officer Aba
scantius, the answer is no. I work directly for Chief Pulcher, though I do liaise with Abascantius from time to time.’

  ‘What’s your concern? What were you doing at this man’s apartment?’

  ‘Looking for him.’

  Quarto scratched at his beard. ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that.’

  For a moment, anger flashed in the magistrate’s eyes. But then he shrugged. ‘Then you shall receive no assistance from my office. If Pitface has a problem with that, tell him he can come and see me.’

  ‘May I at least look at the body?’

  ‘You have until the cart arrives.’

  Quarto turned to Congrio. ‘Anybody see anything?’

  Congrio shook his head. ‘The children found him.’

  ‘You’re in charge; get this mess tidied up quickly.’

  Tucking his thumbs into his belt, the magistrate sauntered away past the fountain. Cassius could see a servant waiting with an enormous horse on the other side of the sanctuary.

  He walked over to the body. Nabor was lying on his back next to a row of flowerless bushes, his arms and legs splayed wide. Cassius recognised the dark hair and lanky frame. His eyes were shut, his lips twisted in an eerie half-smile. Blood had soaked most of his neck and the top half of his tunic. On his belt was a knife, still sheathed. Cassius looked down at the wounds: two ragged punctures in his throat.

  Indavara and Congrio joined him.

  ‘Dagger, probably,’ observed Indavara.

  ‘Was anything else found here?’ Cassius asked Congrio.

  ‘I’m not supposed to cooperate with you.’

  ‘Believe me, I wish I could be open with you, but my hands are tied.’

  Congrio stared at Cassius for a moment, then turned to one of the sergeants and gestured to him. The man picked up a small sack with a length of twine around it. He handed it to Congrio, who showed it to Cassius.

  ‘Just this. Clothes. No money, nothing else.’

  ‘It was like this when you found it?’

  ‘No, the clothes were all scattered around.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Cassius and Indavara moved away from the body, under the branches of an apricot tree.