Agent of Rome: The Far Shore

by Brown, Nick

  ‘Stay behind me, oaf,’ he whispered as Indavara sped up, keen to investigate the tables of food that lined the walls. When they reached their seats, Cassius made sure he got the chair one in from the end.

  ‘I shall take this,’ he told Indavara, ‘in fear of the prospect of having you as my only source of conversation for the next few hours.’

  Indavara shrugged and stood behind his own chair.

  Speaker Argunt entered the hall and went to speak to First Minister Vyedra.

  Cassius turned to face the man to his right. He was old, crook-backed and bald, hanging on to the chair and staring vacantly at the empty throne.

  ‘What happens now?’ Cassius asked him.

  No reaction. Cassius bent closer to his ear. ‘What happens now?’

  Again, nothing.

  Cassius sighed and glanced at Indavara. ‘You’ve nothing to say either, I suppose?’

  The bodyguard ignored him too.

  ‘By Jupiter,’ said Cassius. ‘I thought you might gradually begin to pick up the concept of polite conversation, but I see all my efforts of the last few weeks have been in vain.’

  Indavara frowned.

  ‘Look at Simo,’ Cassius continued. ‘He’s only a slave but he and I can talk about all manner of things for hours: art, politics, religion. And think about where we are – a mountain kingdom most people will never have the chance to see. And what we’re doing – playing a part in important affairs of state. Have you no observations, no thoughts to share?’

  Indavara considered this for a moment before replying. ‘Dinner smells good.’

  ‘By the gods.’

  Cassius looked down at the letter in his hand and decided he couldn’t wait any longer. Sweat prickled the skin above his mouth as he scratched away the wax with his fingernails. He felt certain it contained details of his next assignment – what awful mission had Abascantius found for him now? Keeping his hands behind the chair, he unrolled the page and started reading.

  Indavara turned round and inspected the food. There were platters of steaming roasted meat with the fat still sizzling, big wheels of cheese, bowls full of dried fruits and nuts, and silver trays piled high with cakes.

  Argunt, Vyedra and several other grandly-dressed men lined up beside the throne. The room quietened.

  ‘What does it say?’ whispered Indavara, brushing his hair from his face as he looked down at the letter.

  Cassius was smiling. ‘It’s from Master Abascantius. We have been tasked with a simple errand. We’re to journey to the island of Rhodes, pick up some important papers, then return to Antioch.’

  ‘An island?’ said Indavara. ‘Oh no. That means going on a ship.’

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’

  ‘And picking up papers? Sounds even more boring than this job.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with “boring”,’ replied Cassius, rolling up the letter and tucking it behind his belt. ‘Highly underrated.’

  First Minister Vyedra waited until there was absolute silence before he spoke. ‘Assembled guests, esteemed members of the grand council, priests of the High Temple; we gather here in the Great Hall this night to honour our new king.’

  Vyedra paused, and Argunt initiated a long round of applause.

  ‘Blessed are the gods,’ the first minister continued when quiet returned. ‘Blessed are the gods that have delivered his excellency from the jaws of death. Blessed are the gods that smile upon Karanda.’

  At this, two priests opposite the throne (whom Cassius now realised were the pair who’d earlier joined the procession) began an incantation in the local language. When they finished, the assembled city folk answered with a brief affirmation.

  ‘This will take probably go on for hours,’ Cassius whispered, ‘and not even a mouthful of wine yet.’

  Vyedra, Argunt and the others went to stand in front of the table opposite the priests, then turned round.

  ‘Now we welcome him,’ stated Vyedra in the same portentous tone he had adopted throughout. The nobles dropped down on one knee, closely followed by everyone else except the two priests.

  Cassius did so too, prompting Indavara to reluctantly comply.

  Vyedra spoke again: ‘Keeper of the Winter Crown, Guardian of the High Temple, I present to you, his people, King Orycus the Fifth.’

  Cassius and Indavara looked over the edge of the table as Orycus entered. The two guards flanking him took up positions on either side of the door. The king was wearing a long, purple cloak with a gem-studded silver crown nestling in his curly hair. Strutting slowly, he rounded the throne and stood in front of it.

  ‘Hail, King Orycus!’ roared Vyedra.

  ‘Hail, King Orycus!’ came the reply.

  The new monarch took a step backwards and sat down.

  Cassius noticed a servant close to the priests moving around. One of the holy men glared at him.

  ‘We bow to you, our king,’ announced Vyedra.

  Indavara nudged Cassius. ‘Not me.’

  All the locals bowed their heads, including the priests this time.

  Cassius was still watching the servant. The man bowed briefly, then turned and picked up something from one of the food tables. Cassius looked over his shoulder. On every plate with a joint of meat was a long, sharp carving knife.

  He pointed across the hall. ‘Indavara, there!’

  ‘Quiet,’ said someone to their right.

  The servant leapt between the two priests and on to the table. The orange light of the braziers sparked off the blade in his hand.

  Indavara was already on his feet and running.

  Cassius stood up as the assassin leapt again, this time over the kneeling dignitaries.

  Indavara pounded across the flagstones towards the throne.

  Some of the guards were moving but none stood a chance of getting there in time.

  Neither will Indavara.

  Cassius picked up a large, empty wooden jug and threw it at the assassin. The jug bounced once, then skittered into the man’s ankle. He stumbled and fell to one knee, skidding on the smooth stone floor. As he struggled back up again, he shouted: ‘For Solba!’

  King Orycus shrank back into the throne.

  The quicker guards were still yards away.

  The assassin raised the blade high and jabbed it down at the king’s neck.

  His arm froze in mid-air.

  Eyes wide, the assassin looked down at the big, scarred hand gripping his wrist. He couldn’t see the second hand but he could feel the fingers digging into his neck.

  Indavara held him there as the guards closed in around them. Before he could do anything more, the assassin cried out. Indavara watched as blood seeped from the corner of the man’s mouth. He looked down and saw the king’s red-streaked blade slide out of the assailant’s gut.

  The man shuddered then suddenly went limp. Indavara let go and the guards took hold of him. The face of the would-be assassin was impossibly young, his cheeks marked with the spots of a teenager. Indavara backed away from the throne, leaving the king standing there alone, holding the bloodied sword in his hand.

  ‘All praise the king!’ came a shout from somewhere.

  ‘All praise the king!’

  Suddenly everyone was shouting.

  Cassius hurried over to Indavara, who shook his head when their eyes met.

  ‘That was too close.’

  ‘Could have been the shortest reign in history,’ replied Cassius. ‘Good work.’

  ‘Good work by whoever threw that jug. Slowed him down just enough.’

  ‘It was me. I threw it.’

  ‘You?’

  The soldiers half dragged, half carried the assassin out of the hall, leaving a trail of blood on the flagstones.

  Speaker Argunt came over and gripped their arms in turn. It took him a while to get out any words. ‘All of Karanda thanks you both. What speed of thought and action.’

  Cassius turned to Indavara, who gave a rare nod of approval.

 
Vyedra came past and grabbed one of the older soldiers.

  ‘Four men to stand by the king. I want every one of these servants replaced. And take anything that looks like a weapon outside. The meat can be cut in the kitchens.’

  Speaker Argunt then tried to address the crowd but with his diminutive height, few people could see him, let alone hear him. One of the soldiers had taken the blade from the king, who had sat down and now looked rather dazed, his crown in his lap. After a few moments, he put it back on, stood up and raised his hand. Even the servants being herded out of the room and the soldiers herding them stood still and silent. Orycus beckoned Argunt forward, then whispered in his ear. The older man spoke:

  ‘Clear a space at the table there! The king will eat with our Roman friends.’

  The crowd answered with a roar.

  It was in fact more than an hour before Cassius and Indavara actually got to eat something. They were seated on either side of the king, who apologised for his conduct during the journey, raised a brief but heartfelt toast to them, then left. The mood in the hall became considerably more rowdy and people began to queue up to thank Cassius and Indavara personally. Some of the ladies present also offered enthusiastic kisses.

  Only when this duty was complete were they free to fill their plates. Cassius found he had rather lost his appetite after all the excitement. He managed a bit of cheese and a few little cakes, then settled for supping his wine. The local concoction was unusual – sweet and fortified with spices – but he swiftly acquired a taste for it. Indavara used the wine only to slosh down his food; he was already on to his second plateful.

  Speaker Argunt sidled up and knelt by Cassius’s chair. ‘Word is spreading across the city. The people will bring gifts and flowers for you in the morning.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  Argunt leaned in closer. ‘You not only saved the king, but also made him appear a hero.’

  ‘The gods have smiled upon us this night.’

  ‘Indeed. Though not on First Minister Vyedra, I fear. The king has had him arrested and appointed me in his stead.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘He was in charge of security.’

  With a wink, Argunt stood up and walked away. Before Cassius could take another sip of wine, a rather voluptuous woman of about forty hurried over. She was wearing a fox fur around her neck and sweating profusely.

  ‘Centurion, I am the Countess Sifke. May I too offer my profound thanks for your heroic actions.’

  Cassius’s actual title was ‘officer’ but he often chose not to correct the error.

  ‘Thank you, Countess.’

  She looked past Cassius at Indavara, who was stripping a greasy chicken leg with his teeth.

  ‘You too, of course, young man.’

  Indavara answered with a grunt.

  ‘What a throw, sir,’ the countess continued. ‘Worthy of an Olympiad.’

  ‘You should see me with a javelin, madam.’

  Indavara grunted a different kind of grunt.

  ‘I wonder, sir,’ said the countess, ‘would you like to come and join my party? I’m here with my four daughters. They would be enchanted to meet you.’

  Cassius glanced over at the girls: three black heads of hair and one red, and fair faces too, watching coyly from a corner.

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure. We will be over presently.’

  The countess smiled and wobbled her way back to her table.

  Indavara put down the chicken leg and stood up to inspect the rest of the food.

  Cassius gave him a napkin. ‘Clean yourself up.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Indavara, wiping his chin.

  Cassius aimed a thumb towards the corner.

  The bodyguard grinned when he saw the girls.

  ‘Come,’ said Cassius, grabbing his wine as he stood. ‘Time to enjoy the warm embrace of a grateful nation.’

  I

  Rhodes, November AD 272

  Even as the ship finally slid alongside the quay, as the yelling sailors tied off the mooring ropes and fixed the gangplank, the dozen passengers remained by the side-rail. They stood in a line, gazing across the harbour, though the object of their fascination had been visible for hours, soon after the island’s high mountains materialised out of the morning mist.

  ‘Half the bronze in the world, they say.’

  ‘Two hundred feet high it was.’

  ‘I heard three hundred.’

  ‘You could get a thousand men inside it.’

  ‘Probably more.’

  ‘And to think it’s just lain there like that for five hundred years.’

  ‘Five hundred and fifty, actually,’ said Cassius.

  It was a remarkable sight, but he was struggling not to be slightly underwhelmed. Hadn’t someone told him the statue once stood astride the port; that high-masted ships sailed between the sun-god Helios’s legs? Looking back at the narrow breakwaters that enclosed the harbour, he now saw how ridiculous this notion was.

  The statue was in fact about a mile back from the water, built upon an enormous stone platform. The god appeared to have been cut off at the knees. The body had fallen to the left and now lay face down on the ground. The right arm – originally held up, supposedly shielding the god’s eyes from the sun – now seemed to cover the face, as if protecting it from further assault. In the centuries since an earthquake had toppled the statue, numerous buildings had sprung up around it.

  ‘Men made that?’ Indavara enquired, his hands resting on the side-rail.

  ‘No,’ said one of the other passengers, a fat-necked merchant in a garish green tunic. ‘The locals try to claim credit for it, but it was the gods. And it was them that brought it down too.’

  Cassius glanced at Indavara and shook his head.

  ‘How? How could men make that?’ asked the bodyguard.

  ‘I don’t know the specifics,’ Cassius replied. ‘I’m no engineer. But it was a man named Chares who designed the whole thing. I think he was a sculptor.’

  ‘Must have had big hands,’ scoffed the merchant. Several of the others laughed.

  Cassius turned to him. ‘Tell me this then: why would the gods create such a statue of just one of them?’

  ‘Perhaps it was Helios himself – to remind the people of his power.’

  ‘Then why create it only to bring it down fifty years later?’

  ‘Perhaps that was the work of another god. A jealous god.’

  Cassius gave an ironic smile, then nodded at the sparkling white columns of the ancient citadel on the hill above the city. ‘So who built that?’

  The merchant shrugged.

  Cassius gestured at an equally impressive temple lower down the slopes. ‘And that?’

  ‘Men. But those are just buildings. Look at it!’

  The merchant pointed at the statue – the vast expanse of gleaming bronze that shone out among the pale buildings. ‘That is the work of a higher power! How could a man – or even hundreds of men – create such a thing?’

  ‘I don’t know how, but they did it. Mainly because they wanted to outdo the Athenians, as I recall. Haven’t you read Pliny?’

  The merchant said nothing.

  ‘You must have visited Rome at least – seen the Colosseum? Why it’s ten times the size!’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. Rome, Rome, Rome. You must always have the biggest and best of everything.’ The merchant pointed at the statue again and smiled smugly. ‘But there’s nothing like that in Rome, is there?’

  The conversation had been in Greek. As the merchant walked away across the deck, Cassius switched to Latin:

  ‘Bloody provincials.’ He turned to the others. ‘Come, you two.’

  Simo already had a saddlebag over each shoulder and now picked up several empty water skins.

  Indavara was still at the side-rail, staring at the statue. ‘How? How could they build it?’

  ‘By Jupiter. Listen, what about the arena you fought in? Who built that?’

  Indavara lo
oked down at the water, and the clumps of weed and driftwood that littered the harbour. ‘I never really thought about it.’

  ‘I daresay. Come on.’

  Cassius and Indavara picked up the remainder of their gear. The three of them had to wait for a gap in the stream of porters and sailors lugging bales of wool and heavy clay pots. Cassius was first on to the gangplank.

  ‘I think that temple halfway up the hill is for Asclepius,’ he told Simo over his shoulder. ‘I shall have to take a look at that too.’

  ‘You do seem excited to be here, sir.’

  ‘Well why not, Simo?’ replied Cassius, stepping on to the quay. ‘This city is a seat of fine culture, philosophy and art in particular. There are some wonderful—’

  He stood still, waiting for the strange feeling in his legs and the dizziness to subside. It had taken them seven long days to reach Rhodes from the Cilician port of Anemurium. Considering the season, the weather had been kind but – as ever – Cassius was glad to be back on dry land. He moved away from the sailors and sat down on a barrel on the far side of the quay.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Simo.

  ‘Better than Indavara, by the looks of it.’

  The bodyguard dropped his bags next to Simo. He staggered, put his hands out to steady himself and took some deep breaths. It had been his longest trip on a ship. He didn’t suffer from the seasickness that usually afflicted Cassius but had made little progress in overcoming his fear of large expanses of water.

  Simo, meanwhile, remained utterly unaffected. He had eaten and slept well and maintained his usual healthy glow. Though he’d little experience of sailing, he put his affinity for the sea down to his Gaulish forefathers; they’d been fishermen.

  Cassius took a drink from his canteen and surveyed their bags.

  ‘Look at all this. I doubt we’ll get it all on three horses.’