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

by Nick Brown

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Bring some. And six of your best glasses.’

  The innkeeper nodded and shut the door behind them. The narrow corridor was lined with empty bottles of every possible size, shape and description. Beyond a stack of stools was another door on the right. Abascantius rapped on it. Shostra opened up.

  They entered a small, murky room lit only by a skylight, around which were perched several birds, chirruping away merrily. Sitting at a table facing the door was Lady Antonia. She was as well turned-out as ever: skin flawless, hair piled high; and wearing a hooded green cape over her stola. She cast an impatient stare at Abascantius, but her expression softened into a smile when she saw Cassius.

  Simo was sitting opposite her. He stood and hurried over. ‘What’s this all about, sir? Shostra fetched us from the villa.’

  Cassius shrugged and looked past the Gaul at Indavara. He was standing in the corner, one foot up against the wall, arms crossed. Under his sleeveless tunic, Cassius could see the bandages Simo had wrapped around the welts on his side.

  ‘Have a seat, Corbulo,’ Abascantius said, gesturing to the table. ‘You too, Indavara.’

  They sat down: Indavara opposite Abascantius, who remained standing; Cassius next to Simo. Shostra shut the door, retrieved a wicker basket from below the table and placed it in front of his master. There was a cloth across the top.

  ‘Are we going for a picnic?’ asked Lady Antonia.

  Cassius laughed.

  Abascantius took the jibe in good heart and removed the cloth. ‘All will be revealed, my dear.’

  ‘Quickly, I hope. I’ve been waiting in this hole for half an hour.’

  ‘If you’re happy to make our association public, we can of course choose another locale.’

  Antonia nodded begrudgingly.

  Abascantius leaned forward and planted his hands on the table. ‘It’s unfortunate that I cannot share with all of you the precise details of the events we’ve been involved in, but everyone here has been of great help to me in the last few weeks. And I was in very great need of help.’

  ‘My, my,’ interjected Antonia. ‘Humility. I do believe you’re mellowing in your old age, Aulus.’

  Abascantius continued undetered: ‘In stopping Scaurus, you not only prevented one of the most audacious crimes ever committed against the Empire, but you may also have helped secure peace in this region, possibly for years to come. I have dispatched missives describing what occurred to both Chief Pulcher and the Emperor himself, and I have no doubt that they will add their profound gratitude to mine. Now – some tokens of that gratitude. Never let it be said that the Service doesn’t reward those who do their duty.’

  Cassius felt rather thrilled by what he heard. Not thrilled enough to make any of the nightmarish last few weeks seem worthwhile but proud nonetheless. He imagined returning home to a hero’s reception back in Ravenna, the warm congratulations of family and friends. No such luck.

  Abascantius reached into the basket and pulled out three silver ingots. He passed one to Lady Antonia, one to Indavara, and one to Cassius.

  ‘I checked the prices this morning. Those are worth over two hundred aurei each. They are unmarked.’

  ‘And how did you reward yourself, Aulus?’ asked Antonia.

  Abascantius placed his hand on his heart. ‘The privilege of serving the Emperor is reward enough,’ he said, with a gusto that bordered on convincing.

  Antonia smiled.

  ‘Now – for you,’ said Abascantius, glancing at Simo. He took out a folded sheet of papyrus from the basket and handed it over. ‘Your master told me what you did.’

  Simo stood and bowed.

  ‘Read it.’

  As the Gaul did so, Abascantius caught Cassius’s eye.

  ‘A pardon for his father. Him and only him, I’m afraid, but he’s free to leave the prison. He’ll have to do some time on a work crew but no charges will be brought, and he need not pledge his allegiance to Domnus.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘That’s up to Gordio.’

  ‘You think he’ll leave?’ Cassius asked Simo.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. But I shall certainly tell him that he should.’ The Gaul turned to Abascantius. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Cassius slid his silver ingot back across the table to Abascantius. ‘Sir, would you give this to Major’s family for me?’

  ‘I told you I’d take care of that.’

  ‘The man gave his life, sir.’

  Abascantius examined Cassius’s face for a moment, then took the ingot. ‘Very well.’

  A knock at the door. Shostra opened it and took the tray from the innkeeper.

  ‘One for all of us,’ ordered Abascantius as the attendant poured the wine.

  A rich, fruity aroma reached Cassius’s nose.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Lady Antonia as she stood, leaving the ingot on the table. ‘I can see the dust on those glasses from here.’

  ‘Come, Antonia – drink with us,’ implored Abascantius.

  ‘Aulus, it’s the middle of the afternoon. I should be asleep.’ She nodded down at the ingot. ‘Thank you for that though – an unusually timely and generous payment. But I shall not carry it around with me. Have it sent over later, would you?’

  ‘Of course. And entirely well deserved it is too. Who else could have persuaded the Emperor’s deputy to halt his column and come to our aid?’

  ‘Emperor’s deputy or not – a man is a man.’

  ‘May I?’

  Abascantius took Lady Antonia’s hand and kissed it.

  She walked towards the door.

  Cassius stood up.

  ‘Good-day.’

  ‘Good-day.’

  Antonia leaned in close and whispered in his ear. ‘Don’t forget my offer. I have my carriage outside. I shall only wait for a few moments – no longer.’

  Cassius reddened as she left. He tried to ignore the speculative glint in Abascantius’s eye as he took his drink.

  Simo declined his glass of wine.

  ‘No, no. I insist,’ said Abascantius.

  Simo took a glass, as did Indavara.

  ‘To success!’ declared Abascantius.

  They raised their glasses and drank. Cassius savoured the sweet, powerful wine. Nomentamum was one of his father’s favourites; it was extremely expensive, and very hard to come by outside Italy.

  Another knock on the door. It turned out to be Salvian; and the portly operative was carrying a letter. Abascantius went over to speak with him.

  Cassius turned to the others. Indavara put down his already empty glass.

  ‘Well,’ said Cassius. ‘As this seems to be an occasion for giving gifts – Simo.’

  The Gaul reached into Cassius’s satchel, which was hanging from his chair. He pulled out an object a little longer than his hand, wrapped in cloth. He passed it to Cassius, who then presented it to Indavara.

  ‘For you.’

  Indavara took the object and unwrapped it carefully. It was an immaculately rendered figurine.

  ‘Fortuna,’ Indavara said.

  ‘Silver leaf. Best you can buy,’ stated Cassius.

  ‘I shall still keep the old one.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Indavara with an awkward little nod.

  ‘Quite literally the least I could do. I wouldn’t be here if not for you.’

  ‘Me neither if you two hadn’t fished me out of that river.’

  Cassius shrugged. ‘Let’s call it even.’

  ‘Not quite – don’t forget the inn at Palmyra.’

  ‘But what about the baths?’

  Cassius kept up a serious expression for a moment, as did Indavara, but then they both cracked into broad smiles.

  ‘Fair point,’ said the bodyguard. ‘Even it is.’

  ‘So what are your plans?’ Cassius asked.

  Before Indavara could reply, Abascantius spoke up.

  ‘Gentlemen.’

  They turned rou
nd. The agent was holding up the letter.

  ‘It seems we have a slightly problematic situation developing in Cilicia.’

  Cassius let out a breath and rubbed his brow. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Corbulo; a trifling matter by comparison with this last outing. But I fancy you might be well suited to it. You’ll need your man Simo, of course, and a bodyguard wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Abascantius cast a speculative glance at Indavara, who said nothing.

  ‘Well, you needn’t give me an answer now,’ continued the agent. ‘Perhaps a little later.’

  ‘No,’ said Cassius. ‘I shall be otherwise occupied for the rest of the day.’

  Abascantius grinned. ‘Prior engagement, Corbulo?’

  Cassius ignored him and turned to Indavara. ‘What do you think?’

  Indavara still had the figurine of Fortuna in his hand. He gazed down at the pale, delicate features of the goddess’s face, then looked up as Cassius asked again.

  ‘Well?’

  THE END

  Historical Note

  As before, I thought it worthwhile to comment on the historical background to this story and mention a few points of interest.

  Gladiators often fought in pairs and invariably specialised in a certain fighting style, but those who staged the contests (emperors included) showed a remarkable capacity for invention, so I think the challenge concocted by Capito is within the realms of possibility. A few fighters did manage to win their freedom – through the favour of their owner, the crowd, a local governor or even the emperor himself. Logic and the information available suggests that only a few would have achieved victories in double figures but grave inscriptions do attest to a select band who defeated astonishing numbers of foes. The most impressive of these honours one Asteropaeus, who is credited with no less than one hundred and seven victories.

  The Emperor Aurelian did conclude some sort of an accommodation with the Persians in 272. Although hostilities were renewed within a few years (possibly even towards the end of Aurelian’s reign) the arrangement was undoubtedly crucial in restoring stability to the Roman east during this period.

  Faridun’s Banner is just one of the many names given to the royal standard of the Sassanid kings. The flag (most commonly referred to as the Derafsh Kaviani) was as revered and significant as I have suggested and remains an important symbol in Persian/Iranian culture. There is not – as far as I know – any record of its theft but the Palmyrans did reach Ctesiphon in about 262, though there is disagreement about whether or not the city was captured.

  Regarding the rather ‘undramatic’ siege of Palmyra, I have tried to reflect modern thinking on what actually occurred when the Roman forces reached the city. In truth, victory had effectively already been assured by the triumphs at Immae and Emesa.

  The tales of the dog-killing at Tyana and the shooting of the Palmyran defender by the Persian archer come from Roman historians.

  We do know that much of Palmyra’s treasure was claimed by Aurelian – primarily to fund the cost of the campaign – and that much of it was returned to Rome.

  There are few specific details about which legions were involved in the fighting. In this story, what I have called the Fourth Legion is tasked with keeping watch over Palmyra and eastern Syria. The Legio IV Scythica seemed a logical choice because it was based at Zeugma in the first century and was still there in the fourth century. Similarly, the Sixteenth Legion (Legio XVI Flavia Firma) was based at Samosata during the reign of Hadrian, and was still in Syria in the time of Diocletian.

  The figure of Marcellinus appears in the Roman histories. ‘Marshal’ is simply a convenient term but does something to convey the breadth of his command over the eastern empire.

  It was Marcellinus who informed the emperor of unrest in Palmyra the following year – 273. The small garrison of Romans left to watch over the city had been killed by rebels, possibly under the leadership of a Palmyran named Apsaeus (who may have had some familial connection to Zenobia). It is not clear exactly what the rebels hoped to achieve but - for the second time in a year – Aurelian marched on Palmyra. The uprising was swiftly defeated and the emperor abandoned his earlier restraint. The city was sacked, the defences dismantled; and Palmyra never recovered. The remains of the city – including the huge Temple of Bel – survive to this day.

  Although most historians agree that Zenobia was taken to Rome and presented to the people as part of Aurelian’s triumphal parade, we cannot be certain of her eventual fate. It is probable that the Emperor spared her life. According to the Historia Augusta, he even provided her with a villa in Tibur (modern Tivoli), where she lived on with her children.

  As mentioned in the historical note for The Siege, the background information concerning what I have called the Imperial Security Service is accurate. The term ‘grain men’, or frumentarii, relates to the organisation’s original purpose: supplying the legions with grain. Nothing (as far as I’ve been able to discover) is known of the role its agents played before, during and after the conflict with Palmyra. However, given Aurelian’s commitment to strict military discipline and purging of ‘disruptive’ elements within the Senate – it’s hard to believe he didn’t rely on his frumentarii as much as his predecessors. Historians have presented differing interpretations of how ‘the Service’ functioned within the military and provincial hierarchies, but given that the organisation was headed by a senior centurion in Rome – who was directly responsible to the emperor – I imagine the agents often acted with considerable autonomy.

  There is general agreement that the frumentarii were widely disliked for their shadowy activities, and that in later years the organisation was plagued by corruption and venality. I remain wary of accepting this characterisation as ‘the whole truth’. Alexander Severus (emperor from 222–235), for example, was praised for choosing only honest individuals for his ‘grain men’. Additionally, when we consider that the agents were primarily dedicated to serving the emperor’s interests, we might assume that their conduct often reflected the rule of the commander-in chief: in the case of Aurelian, a strident – but by the standards of his day – relatively benevolent figure. It must also be acknowledged that rank corruption was virtually a defining feature of the entire army by the end of third century.

  The representation of Paul of Samosata within the story reflects what it known from the sources. Historians disagree on the nature of his association with Zenobia but he was certainly Bishop of Antioch during the Palmyran occupation. The subsequent events were significant because it was the first time the Church invited a Roman emperor to make a judgment on their affairs.

  It should be noted that the Christian community featured are seen generally from Cassius’s point of view; that is to say the point of view of an upper-class Roman. During these years, Christians were not subject to the widespread persecution carried out by earlier and later emperors, but life was rarely easy for them. The Romans were well used to tolerating a plethora of belief systems alongside their own, but they did insist on some adherence to ‘state religion’, in particular the worship of the emperor. It was the ‘exclusive’ nature of the Christian faith that engendered such frustration and hatred.

  Some other issues:

  Symbolic spear-heads – or ‘spear-standards’ – like the one issued to Cassius were exclusively the preserve of officers representing the governor’s staff in a given province. Some actual examples have survived. These officials were also often in possession of a diploma, an authorisation document that enabled them to use the cursus publicus – the postal system which allowed officials to communicate messages along military roads. The way-stations were established to facilitate this.

  Although I have featured a single magistrate for the city of Antioch, there were in fact usually several aediles, whose responsibilities included the policing of roads, markets, baths and so on. I have chosen not to use Latin terms in this series, so I decided on ‘city sergeants’ for the magistrate’s men. These were
of course the lictors, whose clubs or fasces (later the symbol of Mussolini’s Fascists) represented the magistrate’s power to punish.

  I describe Lollius as ‘legion quartermaster’. The correct Latin term is praefectus castrorum (camp prefect).

  The records office at the basilica may seem anachronistic but historians have shown that Roman military ‘filing systems’ were very sophisticated. There is clear evidence of cataloging, annotation and cross-referencing. It is probable that details on every soldier would have been recorded in some form or another.

  It may seem odd that a city of Antioch’s size had no permanent prison, but incarceration wasn’t generally used as a form of punishment. Those behind bars would mainly have been awaiting either trial or execution.

  Mithraism was indeed very popular amongst the military, particularly the lower ranks. Mithraeums like the one described can still be seen at numerous sites. They seem to suggest secrecy and mystery, but in fact many followers would have worshipped openly. After Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, Mithraism suffered its own persecutions and eventually ceased to exist as a significant religious movement.

  The mercenaries featured in the story are based on the Palestinian ‘club-men’ – the fearsome auxiliaries said to have played an important part in Aurelian’s victory over Palmyra.

  Novels such as this are not possible without the work of historians, and I am indebted to all those whose texts I used.

  I have tried to be as accurate as is possible within the bounds of a fictional work. Any perceived mistakes or inaccuracies are mine.

  Acknowledgements

  The Imperial Banner was completed between January 2010 and November 2011, a much shorter period than the (rather excessive) five years it took to finish The Siege. It is a pleasure to acknowledge the professional and personal support I have received during that period.

  Thanks again to ‘the readers’ – the people who took the time to look at early drafts and provide me with some very useful feedback – my dad Neil Brown, Adrian Smith, Becky Amiss, Matthew Amiss, Neil Harrison and Lindsey Roffe.