by Nick Brown
Contents
About the Author
The Agent of Rome series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
August, 273 AD …
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
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Nick Brown grew up in Norfolk and later studied history at the University of Sussex. In 2000 he embarked on a PGCE course at the University of Exeter and began a career as a teacher of humanities and English. Having taught in England and Poland, he has recently returned to his home town, Norwich.
The Agent of Rome series
The Siege
The Imperial Banner
The Far Shore
The Black Stone
The Emperor’s Silver
The Earthly Gods
Agent of Rome short stories
Death this Day
The Eleventh Hour
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Nick Brown 2016
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 1 444 76274 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
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For Matthew and Becky
TIME
The Romans divided day and night into twelve hours each, so the length of an hour varied according to the time of year.
The seventh hour of the day always began at midday.
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).
August, 273 AD
Indavara had stopped praying after ten days. He wasn’t sure how many had passed now: eighteen, maybe twenty. For the first of those days he’d been inside a building: gagged, blindfolded and with his hands and legs bound so tight that he’d been unable to stand when they tried to move him. The next day was spent inside a covered cart. Then they put him on a ship and after a few hours the blindfold and the gag were removed.
Warty – who he’d named on account of the bumps all over his nose – had told him there was no point screaming or shouting; they were at sea and would be for many days. Indavara asked where they were going; why he had been taken. Warty did not reply and neither did Narrow Eyes, the second guard who brought him his food and water.
The pair were always together when it was time for Indavara to exercise and they never took any chances. One was always armed with a sword: close enough to strike if needed, too far for Indavara to make a grab. The captive’s hands were manacled at the wrist; his legs at the ankle. The manacles were never removed, only the chain connecting the bottom pair to a huge iron ring embedded in the ship’s hull. For about half an hour every day, they would make him walk around the hold, which was no more than five yards from corner to corner. Even then, they hardly spoke. Indavara had been unable to pick up a single clue about who had taken him or why.
He and Corbulo had made the same mistake: assuming the men who had first attacked them in Arabia had been after the Roman officer, not his bodyguard. Indavara had foiled that first attempt, killing three of them, but they had struck with numbers in Berytus, surrounding him and catching him completely off guard. At least Mahalie had got away.
Indavara often thought of the Christian girl he had met in Berytus. He and Corbulo had freed her from her vicious owners and he’d hoped to help her settle into a new life. At least Simo was there to look after her. The Gaul would be praying for him, Indavara knew that. And Corbulo? Corbulo would be looking for him. And the fact that the resourceful army officer hadn’t found him confirmed what Indavara suspected; these people didn’t make many mistakes. But they had made one, and he intended to exploit it.
The nail had probably been there for years. When there was enough light coming through the holes in the higher timbers, he could clearly see the floor and had nothing much else to look at. The nail had been embedded in a thick mud-like substance between two planks. He had levered it out, then cleaned it. It was large, about two inches long with a rough, square head.
During his time as a gladiator, Indavara had occasionally spent time chained up with his fellow fighters. He’d heard men talk about how locks could be picked but he’d never actually seen anyone do it. It was physically impossible to try the manacles on his wrist and he made no progress with those on his ankles.
But the chain that connected the lower set to the iron ring was padlocked; and this was a different design. While working in daylight, he got nowhere. But when night came, he found that by focusing solely on the sounds of the nail pushing and prodding at the mechanism, he was eventually able to pry it open.
Yet the ship was still at sea, and there was therefore no reason to free himself and let his captors know what he had done. So he’d locked the chain and tried again. After three more nights of practice, he could now pick the lock in what he estimated to be less than a minute.
And on this day – when the ship seemed to have wallowed in the same place for some time and he’d heard unfamiliar voices – he reckoned his chance had come. The nail was safely wedged between two planks beneath his right thigh. Indavara was considering a return to prayer when he heard footsteps outside the hold.
Having unlocked the door, Warty and Narrow Eyes walked in. This time it was Narrow Eyes who had the sword.
‘No walk for you today, boy,’ said Warty. ‘Quick stop for us – so you’re going to have to stay nice and quiet.’
Indavara thought it best to persist with the impression he had been presenting for the last few days; that of a man who had given up.
‘Water?’ he said. There was none left in his bowl.
‘Nah,’ said Warty, adding a giggle. ‘Actually, that’s why we’re here – now you know what it’s like to go without. And if you make so much as a peep there’ll be none for three days. Understood?’
Indavara nodded. He had occupied much of hi
s spare time imagining how he would kill the pair of them but he presently had other matters to consider.
They left, locking the door behind them.
Indavara waited: until they had gone; until he heard more shouts; until ropes landed on the deck above him; until the hull knocked against something solid. In the distance he could hear vendors plying their wares. There were people close; people who could help him.
There was no time to start praying again. He shifted backwards and plucked out the nail.
He almost couldn’t do it. The task somehow seemed more difficult in daylight and he had dropped the nail five times and rubbed two of his fingers raw by the time he finally heard the click.
Indavara removed the lock from the chain and quietly pulled it off, almost one link at a time. Now free to move, he manoeuvred himself on to his knees, then stood and stretched out his aching limbs.
With ankles and wrists still locked together it was difficult to walk without noise, but he turned and hobbled closer to the side of the hull. He put his eye to one of the wider holes in the timbers and looked out.
The view was limited. All he could see were a few masts and high land beyond wherever the harbour was located. He saw a cleared area surrounded by trees where a sparkling white temple looked out over a steep slope. It seemed familiar.
And when he moved his view to the right and saw the huge slab of bronze amidst a collection of houses he knew exactly where he was. The metal was the flank of the fallen statue – the Helios. He had been to this island the previous year with Corbulo and Simo.
Rhodes.
The thought of it brought on rapid breaths. Help – real help – was close. Annia, the girl who had accompanied them while they pursued her father’s killer, lived just miles away. Here in the harbour were legionaries he had worked alongside for several days. They would know him. They would help. What was the name of that officer?
The sound of movement from the rear of the ship galvanised him into action. He had heard lots of men leaving when they first arrived; that’s what always happened when you reached harbour. They might have left only a few to watch the ship and its secret cargo. He had to go now.
Like most hatches he’d seen, the one in the hold’s roof was covered when not in use to prevent the ingress of water. This one was protected by a heavy, leather cover. Indavara shuffled over to the closest corner, grimacing at every clink from the manacles.
He immediately went to work on the panels stitched together to form the cover. By pushing the nail up and severing the threads, he soon had enough of a hole to push his finger through. And once he could get a proper grip, he could tear the panel open. This was loud; but so was the noise from the harbour, and nobody came.
Though his fingers and wrists and arms began to ache he kept going: pushing the nail up, breaking the stiches, pulling open the panels. Before long he could get both hands through. Assuming that if any of the sailors could see him they would have stopped him by now, he grabbed the cover and hauled it downwards, tearing a hole big enough to climb through.
Indavara stepped into the light, gripped the edge of the hatch with both hands and swung himself upwards. Once his feet hit the deck, he levered himself up and rolled on to the timbers.
The light hurt his eyes. But once he could open them properly, he found himself sitting close to the bow of a small galley. The vessel was tied to a high stone breakwater to his left, some way from the main quay. He recognised the buildings less than a hundred feet away. He saw the fish market and remembered that the legionary way station was close. What was the name of that officer?
Now on his knees, he looked up at the breakwater and saw a gull land and peck at some morsel. A pair of sailors with coils of rope over their shoulders were walking towards the quay. Tied up in front of the ship was another vessel but it seemed to be unoccupied.
Indavara crawled towards the breakwater and looked back along the side of the ship. Some of the crew were gathered close to the stern, talking. He recognised only Warty but there were four others. The gangplank was roughly halfway between him and them.
‘What are you doing?’ said a refined voice.
A wealthy-looking couple were looking down at him from the breakwater. The man was wearing a fine cloak, the woman was holding a parasol over her head to shield herself from the sun.
‘Must be a slave or something,’ added the man.
The woman looked at Indavara with something close to pity in her eyes.
The man turned to the sailors. ‘You there! You seem to have an escapee on your hands.’
The woman shook her head and cast a despairing glance at Indavara.
As the sailors came at him, he turned and hobbled towards the bow. The longer he could fight, the better the chance that someone might see him and help. He already knew who the best source of help was.
‘Please, mistress, I’m a free man and a soldier of Rome. My name is Indavara. Please tell—’
What was the officer’s name?
He passed the hatch and turned round. They were advancing from both sides. Warty was leading the way, a heavy cudgel in his hand. Indavara wished he had conquered his fear of water but he could not jump – it would kill him, manacled or not.
One of the sailors dived at his legs. He came down hard on his left shoulder.
What’s the name?
‘Very bad idea, boy,’ spat Warty. ‘Very bad indeed.’
His boot crunched into Indavara’s knee.
Name!
‘Mistress, it’s Clemens! Optio Clemens!’
Warty’s bulky body had blocked out the sun. He drew back the cudgel.
‘Mistress, I beg you, I beg you. Please tell—’
I
Antioch, September, 273 AD
With every morning came a little hope.
It was the responsibility of the clerks at the basilica to collect all post received and hold it for those officers assigned to the governor’s staff. Each morning, the administrators would place the letters and notes in the rack of pigeonholes mounted on the wall in one corner of the enormous main chamber. Technically speaking, Cassius Quintius Corbulo was still part of the governor’s staff of Arabia – not Syria – so he didn’t merit a pigeonhole. This meant that he had to ask the clerks whether any correspondence had come in for him the previous day.
‘Anything?’
‘Morning, Officer Corbulo,’ said Vibius, the youngest and most enthusiastic of the clerks. ‘I’ll just check – I believe there was something.’
Cassius had sent letters to no less than forty officers of the Imperial Security Service and a similar amount of provincial governors. The missives described Indavara and the circumstances surrounding his capture. Cassius had also pestered the local governor for a week to ensure that the official stamp of his office went on every letter. They had been dispatched thirty-three days ago. Although the reliability of the imperial post gave him confidence that the majority would have reached their intended recipient, he was yet to receive a single reply. Just as he had found in Berytus in the days after the bodyguard’s capture, Indavara seemed to have completely disappeared.
Vibius had already checked the box of scrolls (usually official correspondence) and had now moved on to the box of notes. Tellingly, the former was constructed of a polished hardwood, the latter of wicker.
Cassius felt his spirits sink: it was highly unlikely that anything regarding Indavara would arrive via this route. He placed his helmet on the front desk and idly watched two other clerks trying to get ink out of a bronze pen.
‘Ah, here it is. Just another of these, I’m afraid.’
Vibius handed him a tiny sheet of worn paper with the familiar note on it, scrawled in poorly rendered Latin.
For Officer Cassius Corbulo,
Sir, I need your help. Please meet me at the statue of Hadrian at midday.
Kabir, Alauran.
Cassius had received two identical notes in the last week. At any other time he would have complied wi
th the request. Three years ago, when he had led the defence of the fort at Alauran, the contribution of the charismatic Syrian and his auxiliaries had been crucial. Kabir had lost many men, including family members. The last time he had seen him, the nomad chieftain had been riding north, to return at long last to his people. Cassius owed the man. But he could do nothing for him; not at the moment.
As he tucked the note into the money bag attached to his belt, he noted two tribunes standing by one of the basilica’s colossal main columns. They had clearly been looking at him but now turned away. He had observed similar incidents before. Curiosity was to be expected. He was something of an anomaly – an officer of the Imperial Security Service without any assigned role who seemed obsessed with tracking down his missing bodyguard.
Cassius couldn’t have cared less about what they said or what they thought.
Typically, he spent his mornings exercising. It helped counter the drinking later in the day and he somehow felt he owed it to Indavara to keep up with his running and his sword work. The inn where he and Simo were staying was close to the Baths of Tiberius. He would practise his blade routines for twenty minutes, walk to the baths with his attendant, then run for forty minutes before entering the baths.
While he lay in the hot room, or swam in the cold pool, he would think: mainly about who could have taken Indavara and why. Sometimes he came up with a new angle or thought, which he would discuss with Simo while being cleaned and dried. Of late, he’d been considering the bodyguard’s mysterious past. The man had suffered a blow to the head before being captured and made a gladiator. He could remember nothing of his life before. Was it possible that some event from his earlier years could explain why he had been taken?
When they returned to the inn, Cassius would go over his notes and consider anything promising from the day. Once he had eaten, he would then start drinking until he fell asleep. It was the only workable way he had found to get through his waking hours.
But today would be different: today he had a meeting to attend.
