Agent of Rome: The Far Shore
Page 1
Table of Contents
Also by Nick Brown
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
Also by Nick Brown:
The Agent of Rome series
The Siege
The Imperial Banner
Short Stories
Death this Day
The Eleventh Hour
AGENT OF ROME: THE FAR SHORE
Nick Brown
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2013
By Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Nick Brown 2013
Map © Rosie Collins 2013
The right of Nick Brown to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4447 1493 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
For David Grossman
Without whom …
TIMES OF THE DAY
The Romans divided day and night into twelve hours each, so the length of an hour varied according to the time of year.
On Rhodes, in early winter, the first hour of the day would have begun at approximately 06.45.
The seventh hour of the day always began at midday.
The first hour of night would have begun at approximately 17.00.
MONEY
Four sesterces (a coin made of brass) were worth one denarius.
Twenty-five denarii (a coin made partially of silver) were worth one aureus (partially gold).
Cilicia, October AD 272
The noise reached its peak as the procession passed under the arched gate, then settled into a tumult of clapping, cheering and crying. Soldiers in gleaming bronze helmets and armour lined the road, holding back the crowd. Children clung to their parents’ legs and looked up; the lucky few able to reach a roof or high window looked down. Leading the way were four mounted soldiers carrying spears trailing red and yellow streamers. Behind them came a plump, long-haired herald, bellowing an insistent refrain: ‘People of Karanda, welcome our returning leader! Hail Prince Orycus! Hail the Prince!’
Orycus and his horse were covered in flowers thrown by the crowd. Clad in a pristine white tunic and cape, he sat high in his saddle, gracing his people with restrained smiles and nods. Close by were two attendants with heavily laden horses and two aged priests in long, flowing robes that hung close to the ground. Then came six armoured cavalrymen bearing circular shields and lances.
Bringing up the rear were three individuals who seemed entirely out of place with the rest of the procession. In the middle was Cassius Quintius Corbulo: a tall, lean, fair-skinned man who didn’t look anything like old enough for the scarlet cloak and crested helmet of an officer of the Roman Army. To Cassius’s left was his servant Simo: an older fellow of similar height but considerably more width, wearing a pale woollen tunic and a well-travelled pair of sandals. He had a kind, friendly face and looked as if he could barely resist the temptation to wave to the onlookers. Cassius’s bodyguard Indavara seemed to be the least comfortable in the saddle. He was the shortest of the three but altogether more muscular and his sleeveless tunic showed off a pair of remarkably solid arms laced with scars. His thick black hair didn’t quite cover his left ear, the top half of which was missing. He caught Cassius’s eye and nodded forward at the prince with a sneer.
‘Looks quite the part now, doesn’t he?’
Cassius shrugged as Indavara continued:
‘Lucky they didn’t see him hiding behind trees every time we met someone on the road, or starting at every sound.’
‘We all have our roles to play,’ replied Cassius, almost having to shout to make himself heard. ‘You too. Watch these windows for archers.’
‘Their man said there’d be no danger once we were inside the walls.’
‘I know numbers aren’t your strong point, but how many people do you think are here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Indavara. ‘Thousands.’
‘Exactly. And it only takes one. We’ve got Orycus this far. We don’t want to lose him now.’
The ensuing half-hour was tense and chaotic, and Cassius let out a long sigh of relief when the procession finally reached the palace. The building barely deserved the name but then Karanda didn’t seem like much of a city and – as Indavara had pointed out – Orycus certainly didn’t seem like much of a prince. The palace was a three-storey structure built of timber and reminded Cassius of a large, not particularly luxurious inn. Roughly made standards hung from poles over the main entrance, where a number of well-dressed dignitaries had gathered. More soldiers were stationed along the path from the entrance to the front of the courtyard, where the prince had just dismounted. With a final wave to the crowd, Orycus strode towards the palace. He was met by a hulking, white-bearded man who gripped the hand offered to him, then escorted the prince inside. There was a groan from the watching horde, which was soon being dispersed by the soldiers.
‘Break it up there! Off you go!’
‘Back to your homes! Back to work!’
Cassius slid wearily to the ground, then unbuckled his chinstrap and removed his helmet. ‘Thank the gods that’s over with. He’s someone else’s problem now. A good night’s rest, then we can be on our way.’
Indavara dropped down next to him and stretched out his arms. Simo dismounted and immediately set about removing saddlebags.
Tutting at the commoners bustling past, Cassius glanced up at the darkening sky and the foreboding mountains beyond the city walls. Strands of grey cloud drifted past the high, jagged crags and a light drizzle began to fall.
‘Sir? Sir?’ said a voice in Greek.
Cassius saw a small man pushing his way through the crowd. ‘Officer Corbulo?’
‘Yes.’
The man straightened his tunic and the thick silver chain around his neck. ‘I am Speaker Malacus Argunt of the grand council. Karanda welcomes the envoy
of Rome.’
Cassius rather liked the sound of that. He gripped forearms with Argunt, who, like most provincials, was too delicate and too quick with the gesture.
‘Thank you, Speaker Argunt.’
Cassius always made a point of repeating back the names of anyone he met who occupied a position of authority. It created a good impression and invariably ensured he would remember the name.
Argunt waved a pair of servants forward. ‘We shall stable your horses at once. I’ve arranged a room for you in the palace.’ He cast a vaguely distasteful look at Indavara. ‘Three wasn’t it?’
‘Three, yes.’
‘If you come with me, sir. First Minister Vyedra would like to see you now.’
‘Of course.’
Cassius turned to Indavara, who was already removing his weapons from his saddle. ‘Help Simo with the gear, would you?’
Indavara nodded.
Cassius followed Argunt back through the crowd.
First Minister Vyedra turned out to be the white-bearded man who had greeted the prince. Speaker Argunt completed the introductions then left the large reception room, which was on the second floor of the palace, overlooking the courtyard. As a servant took Cassius’s cloak and helmet, Vyedra gestured to two couches by a broad window.
‘Thank you. A moment,’ said Cassius. He took off the leather satchel he carried over his left shoulder and put it down on the floor, then removed the diagonal sword belt from his right shoulder. ‘Don’t think I need this.’
The servant added the heavy sword to his load and hurried away into an anteroom. Cassius waited for Vyedra to lower his substantial frame on to one of the couches, then picked up the satchel and sat opposite him. Another servant – a middle-aged woman – appeared and placed a wooden tray on the table between the couches. She took from it a plate of cakes, a jug and two fine glasses. Her hand was shaking as she poured wine into each glass, then handed them to the men.
Cassius looked down at the street beyond the courtyard, where scores of the city folk were still gathered. ‘They seem reluctant to leave.’
‘All of Karanda rejoices,’ replied Vyedra. ‘We owe you a great debt. With the prince returned to us, the House of Tarebe will live on.’
‘All of Karanda?’ queried Cassius, resting the glass on his knee. ‘I was told the people of this enclave – Solba – oppose his family’s rule. Isn’t that why we had to escort him home in secret?’
‘The threat from Solba has been somewhat overstated in certain quarters. But it is better to be safe than sorry, is it not?’
‘Indeed. I did try to explain that to the prince, but he took a rather dim view of my methods.’
‘Staying in out-of-the-way inns with beds crawling with mites?’
‘Those sound like his words.’
‘And having him dress as your clerk until you were close to the city?’
‘Rather inventive that, I thought.’
Vyedra made a valiant attempt not to smile.
The servant offered each man the plate of cakes but both refused. She replaced the plate on the table and left.
‘So, regarding the new arrangement with the governor in Tarsus,’ continued Cassius. ‘Tragic that the king wasn’t able to sign it before his death, but now that the prince has been safely returned, it is essential that the agreement be ratified.’
Cassius unbuckled the satchel. ‘I have it here. I require your signature and – once he is king – Orycus’s too. I shall then have it sent back to the governor, for immediate implementation.’
Cassius took a sheet of paper from a thin leather folder and handed it over. Vyedra held it up to the light as he read. Cassius sipped on his wine (not watered enough considering the early hour) and glanced at the badly stuffed stag’s head mounted on the wall behind the minister. Though cross-eyed, it seemed to be staring right at him.
Vyedra read aloud: ‘We are to send a monthly report on the activities of the bandits to the north of our territory; hand over any prisoners captured for interrogation; and take action if their activities present a serious threat to communications or trade.’
‘Rome faces many threats from without its borders. We simply haven’t the resources to address all the problems within.’
Vyedra showed no sign that he had heard Cassius. His breathing – already laboured – became even louder. ‘Our annual tribute is also to be increased? And our commitment of men?’
The first minister lowered the sheet and glared at his guest. Strictly speaking it was none of Cassius’s concern; he was simply the messenger, but he knew that if the agreement wasn’t signed, his commander – Aulus Celatus Abascantius of the Imperial Security Service – would be less than impressed.
‘With the greatest respect, First Minister, I shall remind you that if it hadn’t been for the intervention of the Roman Army, your royal family would be without an heir.’
‘And I shall remind you, Officer Corbulo, that it was the failure of that same army to provide an escort for the royal party – through an area known for brigandage – that resulted in the death of the prince’s father and brother. If the king hadn’t been summoned to Tarsus by the governor, this whole disaster could have been avoided!’
Vyedra’s cheeks were turning red.
Cassius had strict orders not to reveal that four-fifths of the province’s forces were tied up in a crucial campaign against the Goths, nor that Imperial Security had organised Orycus’s return because there were no legionaries available to do it.
‘Will you sign the agreement, First Minister? And advise Orycus to do the same?’
Vyedra shook his head. ‘His Majesty King Adricus would never have accepted these conditions.’
Cassius took a last sip of wine, then replaced the glass on the table. He’d overheard an interesting conversation in Tarsus when they’d taken charge of the prince. He hadn’t intended on making use of the information unless the first minister proved recalcitrant, but it seemed that moment had arrived. He hunched forward and spoke quietly so that the servants wouldn’t hear him.
‘I’m told that the prince was found hiding in a latrine – unarmed and shivering in his nightshirt. He admitted to the tribune who found him that he’d fled as soon as the raiders struck.’ Cassius turned towards the window. ‘I’m sure you agree it would be most unfortunate if such a tale were to reach the people.’
Vyedra pursed his lips. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. After a moment, he glanced down at the agreement and sighed.
Cassius smiled. ‘Is there a pen around here anywhere?’
The coronation took place that afternoon, in what was known locally as the Great Square. Cassius slept through the whole thing, only to be woken by an impressive cheer when the deed was done. Half an hour later, a scowling First Minister Vyedra returned the agreement, now complete with Orycus’s signature.
Cassius was glad there had been no invitation to the coronation, but later a messenger arrived with a note from Speaker Argunt, requesting that he join the celebratory banquet in the palace’s Great Hall.
‘Great? It’s not even that big,’ observed Indavara as they joined the end of the queue.
‘Everything’s relative, isn’t it?’ replied Cassius, yawning. ‘It’s probably the biggest chamber in the city, so to these people it’s the Great Hall. Or – to take another example – I don’t feel especially proud of knowing my times tables up to fifty, whereas you’d be happy if you could manage four times three.’
After a considerable pause, Indavara said, ‘Twelve.’
‘Very good. Simo’s getting somewhere with you after all.’
Ahead of them were guests in bright tunics and thick furs; many of the women had elaborate floral arrangements woven into their hair. Silent attendants waited outside as their masters and mistresses filed through the door.
‘Anyway,’ added Cassius, ‘you should count yourself fortunate to be here at all. I was offered only two seats. Lucky for you Simo’s busy mending my saddle.’
Cassius noted how grimy Indavara’s tunic was. ‘Don’t you have anything cleaner?’
‘Hardly a mark on it.’
Cassius couldn’t wear his helmet in most of the low-roofed chambers and corridors of the palace, so he’d left it in his room. Assuming the hall would be hot, he’d left his cloak there too, and wore only his best long-sleeved scarlet tunic. Simo had also given his boots a good shine and fished out one of his favourite belt buckles – a circular silver plate with an image of the goddess Tyche, a memento from Antioch.
By the time they reached the door, Cassius realised all the men were removing their weapons. Two soldiers were taking the sword belts and knives and hanging them on wall-mounted pegs. Speaker Argunt was overseeing operations and coaxing the last of the guests inside.
‘A tradition, you understand,’ he explained as Cassius and Indavara handed over their daggers. ‘The Great Hall is where views are exchanged, not blows. Only the monarch may bring his blade into the room.’
Just as they were about to enter, a youth trotted up to Speaker Argunt. He bowed his head, then offered a rolled-up sheet of paper wrapped in cloth. ‘Just arrived by army dispatch, sir. For the officer.’
Argunt slid the letter out of the cloth. It was tied with twine and the wax seal remained intact. He read the single line of writing on the outside. ‘So it is.’
Cassius took the letter and examined the wax seal. It carried the emblem of the Governor of Syria – almost certainly from Abascantius.
‘I trust that the rider and his mount will be accommodated?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ replied Argunt.
‘Good. I have some post requiring delivery to the capital. He’ll need to leave first thing.’
‘As you wish,’ said Argunt, gesturing towards the doorway.
They were the last guests to enter. The hall was lit by a multitude of glowing braziers mounted on three-legged stands. In the middle of the chamber was an impressive wooden throne facing a long row of tables that extended around on both sides to form a U. The guests – perhaps fifty in all – were standing behind their chairs, speaking excitedly. A dozen soldiers had been stationed around the hall. They were wearing tunics striped with red and yellow and, without any weapons to wield, held their arms stiffly by their sides. A serving girl directed Cassius and Indavara to their seats – the last two on the right side of the U. Feeling the eyes of the local elite upon him, Cassius clasped his hands behind his back and moved at a stately pace.