by Nick Brown
When Volosus hailed them, they all spun around.
‘Sirs, please – your friend has collapsed.’
‘What?’ demanded Ampelius.
‘We can’t rouse him.’
Despite his age and size, Dolabella was the first to head back towards Lavona. Volosus made sure he kept pace with him.
‘Probably the drink,’ said Ampelius as they hurried along the track.
They weren’t far from the street when Volosus heard a thud from behind him. Dolabella didn’t seem to hear it at all.
Then came a cry, followed by a slicing sound and another thud.
‘What in Hades?’
Dolabella did hear Ampelius. When he stopped and turned, Volosus did too.
The bodyguards seemed to have disappeared.
‘Men?’
Ampelius drew his sword just as Gutha loomed out of the darkness. The centurion was twisting his blade into a parry when the enormous axe cut it in half, sending the top section spinning away. A swift thrust sent the wooden axe-head into Ampelius’s face. Stunned and tottering, he was finished by a scything blow that felled him with terrible speed.
The still-silent Dolabella turned to Volosus as the agent put a blade to his neck.
‘Not a sound, old man. Not a sound.’
They gagged him and tied his hands behind his back, then moved the three bodies off the path. Hurrying around the edge of Lavona, they soon reached the stables of The Apollo. By then, Bibulus already had the horses yoked to the carriage and the women inside. Volosus opened the carriage door and gestured for Dolabella to enter. With a tap of Gutha’s axe-head on his back to encourage him, the aged officer climbed up.
Volosus turned to the bodyguard. ‘You too. Keep him quiet.’
As Gutha followed their captive, Volosus went to get the two other horses from the stable.
‘Sir.’
Bibulus pointed towards the inn. The proprietor was walking across the courtyard that separated the two buildings, a lantern in his hand.
Volosus intercepted him. ‘Evening.’
‘Bit later than that, sir. What’s all this?’
‘Perils of my trade. I was unable to secure any interest in the girl – not even with the officers. Still, there’s a brothel in Nasciaca that stays open all night. Some very rich men. I might get lucky. Many thanks.’
Despite the earlier bribe, the innkeeper appeared understandably dubious. His face brightened when Volosus slipped a heavy aurei into his hand.
‘Sorry about the noise. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, sir.’
Ever busy, Bibulus had left the carriage and brought the horses out. He tethered Gutha’s black steed to the rear of the carriage and led the other to his master.
‘You get going,’ said Volosus. ‘I’ll catch up.’
He hauled himself up into the saddle. As the carriage trundled onto the street, he followed it out and halted. Looking back at the The White Pony and the rest of the town, he was relieved to see and hear nothing to alarm him. But there were now four dead bodies lying in the darkness and someone at the camp would soon realise that Ampelius and his party had not returned. Volosus reckoned they had no more than an hour.
The last obstacle was the two guards at the bridge. Volosus caught up with the carriage just as Bibulus reined in. He dismounted and approached the guards.
‘Good evening.’
‘It’s late,’ said a stern legionary with a pilum in his hand. ‘What’s the purpose of your journey?’
‘Business,’ said Volosus gruffly. ‘It appears my girl is not to the taste of your officers, so I shall have to go elsewhere.’
‘The girl? The beauty?’ said the other guard, a younger man.
‘Clearly not beautiful enough,’ said Volosus. ‘Though I suppose cost is always a factor.’
‘We should check the carriage,’ said the younger man keenly.
Without a word, Volosus slipped the governor’s letter from a pocket and showed it to the older man. The legionary held it under his compatriot’s lantern and studied the writing, then the seal.
‘A personal friend,’ said Volosus.
‘Let’s at least have a look,’ insisted the younger man, eyes locked on the curtains covering the carriage windows.
The older man scowled at him. ‘If you could read, idiot, you would know that the gentleman possesses a personal letter of introduction from Governor Flavius.’
‘I have been fortunate to move in some prestigious circles,’ offered Volosus humbly. ‘Though at moments like this, it’s hard to believe.’
The legionary gestured along the bridge. ‘Please go ahead, sir. Do you reside on this side of the Rhone or over there?’
‘I have two residences. One on either side.’
‘Be careful, sir. Fighting could break out at any time. You might do well to steer clear of the main roads.’
‘I shall bear that in mind.’
‘We’ll signal the other side.’
The younger legionary used the shutter and light to alert his cohorts at the far end of the bridge.
Volosus mounted up. ‘Much obliged.’
VIII
‘It’s like a city. A city with no buildings.’
Cassius couldn’t deny the accuracy of Indavara’s statement. The encampment of the Second Parthian Legion was a mass of activity. Visible from the prefect’s headquarters (a tent of impressive proportions) were a stable, a paddock, an infirmary and an armoury. At the armoury, specialists were noisily mending shields and attaching iron heads to wooden spears. At the infirmary, an orderly was assisting a patient who could barely walk.
The legion had clearly been at Axima for some time. The avenues that divided up the camp were well worn into the dry soil and a village-sized second encampment had sprung up behind it. Within would dwell the usual hangers-on: traders, merchants, whores – anyone who could offer a service to the well-paid soldiers. On the outskirts of the camp, beyond the ditch and rampart, several units of cavalry were practising manoeuvres.
‘I think that staff officer has forgotten us,’ said Cassius, wishing he could find somewhere to sit.
They had arrived around midday. Greeted by a centurion, Cassius showed him the three-foot spearhead that identified him as a member of the Imperial Security Service. They had then been escorted to the camp headquarters. A clerk had asked him to wait for a staff officer who had taken an hour to appear and then vanished as soon as Cassius had identified himself. They were now standing – with their horses and Patch – in a narrow space between the huge tent and a row of carts.
‘Sir.’ Simo subtly nodded towards the tent.
Cassius turned to face the returning staff officer – a young tribune wearing a purple-striped tunic.
‘I’m afraid we don’t know exactly where Prefect Venator is or when he’ll be back. He was out inspecting the scout dispositions but is yet to return. I suggest you come back tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll have some time for you then.’
‘Very well. So, what now?’
‘Normally, I would send you to your superior but we’ve not had grain-men attached to the legion before – at least not recently. I’m not sure who that would be. To be honest, we didn’t even know you were coming.’
Cassius was unsurprised but still annoyed by the tribune’s attitude. Like most of his ilk, he would spend only a year or two with a legion before graduating to a senior administrative post. In theory, he outranked Cassius due to his proximity to the prefect. Cassius wasn’t particularly concerned about that; he knew he had done more for the empire than this fellow could ever dream of.
‘That is not my fault. The presence of Imperial Security officers has been specifically requested by Chief Pulcher, on the authority of the emperor himself. And Prefect Venator asked for me. I will be surprised if I am not to report to him directly.’
‘Point taken, Officer …’
‘Corbulo, Tribune Plinius.’ Cassius always made a point to memorise names. ‘I do hope I can rely on y
our help. My horses need stabling and my men and I need accommodation.’
‘Of course. I shall fetch someone.’
Indavara looked up as the wooden sword landed on the bed beside him.
‘Look what I found,’ said Cassius.
‘Now?’
‘Why not? We’ve not much else to do. We can sleep later.’
Simo was the only one who could claim to be busy. Having overseen the delivery of the mounts to the stable, he was now unpacking their saddlebags. They had been accommodated in a section of the camp allocated to specialists and officers. Most of the nearby tents were deserted. Each one was designed for eight men so they had plenty of room.
Cassius could see Indavara was reluctant. ‘Come on. I need the practice.’
The bodyguard picked up the weapon. ‘Roughly-made.’
‘They usually are.’
Indavara stood.
Simo walked over to his master and handed him an old sleeveless tunic. ‘Perhaps this one, sir. No sense getting one of your reds all sweaty.’
‘Quite so.’ Cassius undid his belt and handed it to Simo then swapped tunics.
Indavara didn’t look particularly enthusiastic but also retrieved his oldest tunic to change into. Cassius found it almost physically painful to observe the number and severity of the scars on his friend’s body. The most notable were the three trident-head marks in his back and the brand on his shoulder: both from his time in the arena. Then there were the deep cuts in his arms from where blood had been drained during his abduction.
Indavara turned, tightening his belt.
‘Ready then?’
‘Ready.’
They found a space where the component parts for a tent had been deposited but not yet used. Both men fought barefoot and began slowly; half-hearted blows that at least warmed them up.
Cassius had continued the drills Indavara had taught him and practiced whenever and wherever he could. As a Roman army officer, there was never a shortage of partners and junior ranks were invariably keen to have a go at a superior. Wooden swords could do plenty of damage and he had sustained numerous cuts and bruises, particularly on his hands, forearms and flanks. He considered all these injuries to be worthy sacrifices in the name of improving himself. With Indavara either absent or recovering for many months, he’d been determined to improve; at least be able to defend himself. He hadn’t had many opportunities of late but knew he’d made progress.
As soon as he quickened the pace, it became obvious that the opposite was true for Indavara. The bodyguard saw off every attack that Cassius tried and landed a couple of blows on his body. But what had previously been effortless for him now seem to tire him quickly. In the past, Cassius had celebrated even the tiniest victory against him, so rare was the occurrence. This contest was very different.
Indavara wiped sweat from his eyes, mouth hanging open, chest heaving. Seemingly annoyed by his weariness, he forced Cassius back with a sudden flurry of blows. Cassius blocked one lunging strike and twisted his wrist to force Indavara’s weapon down. Knowing he had a momentary advantage, he swung.
Indavara just didn’t get out of the way. Though rounded, the tip of the wooden sword cut across his chest, slicing through his tunic. Cassius saw that he’d drawn blood
‘Gods, sorry, I didn’t mean to-’
Instinct took over as Cassius threw the blade up to deflect Indavara’s angry two-handed hack. But the impact unbalanced him and he could do nothing about the full-blooded sweep that came at his head. The tip of Indavara’s sword brushed past his hair, an inch from his brow. The shock of that closeness halted them both. Had it connected, the sword would have done considerable damage.
Breathing hard, Indavara lowered his weapon. The ex-gladiator, who had always seemed so in control – even against the strongest of foes – had lost that control. Worse, he looked exhausted.
Cassius gestured at his tunic, where a red line now showed between the torn material. ‘Sorry.’
‘My fault.’
‘Maybe this was a bad idea.’
‘You’ve improved,’ said Indavara between breaths. ‘I see it.’
‘A little, perhaps.’
Two legionaries walked past, regarding the pair curiously.
Indavara shoved the tip of the wooden sword into the ground. ‘Still want me as your bodyguard?’
‘Of course. Let’s get you back to the tent – Simo can see to that cut.’
He set off for the nearby track but stopped when he realised the bodyguard hadn’t joined him.
Indavara looked up. ‘I’ll get there, Corbulp. Just need a little time.’
‘I know.’
Cassius waited for Indavara as he trudged across the mud, unable to escape the thought that neither of them believed their own words.
He had finally drifted off to sleep when he heard – and felt – the arrival of a significant number of men and horses. With no beds, he, Indavara and Simo were lying on blankets; and the other two also stirred. After an hour or so, the noise died down. Feeling rather chilly, Cassius crawled over to their luggage and felt around a bit before locating his cloak. With this on top of him, he was warm enough and managed to sleep for a couple of hours before the light of dawn woke him.
Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he saw that Simo was as usual pottering around, tidying up the tent. Indavara was asleep and Cassius found himself rather close to the gladiator’s mangled left ear, the top half of which had been sliced off in the arena.
Simo approached. ‘Morning, Master Cassius. I shall see if I can locate some hot water; perhaps some milk too.’
Cassius pointed at his tunic. ‘Your badge.’
‘Ah, yes.’
Simo picked up his money bag and took out the two-inch long badge. Cassius and Indavara also had their own: a miniature version of the spearhead Cassius had first been given in Syria by Abascantius. The symbol afforded him the right to requisition equipment and troops; and use the imperial post system and the accompanying network of way-stations. The badges were a convenient way of identifying Indavara and Simo as functionaries of the Service. Any troops that saw it would likely curse under their breath but almost certainly cooperate. The Service was not liked but it was respected, and occasionally feared. In his first months carrying the spearhead, Cassius had often resented the reactions it provoked, but it had worked to his benefit more times than he could remember.
With his badge attached, Simo departed carrying two iron pots. Cassius sank back into the blankets and had almost drifted off again when the attendant returned, a concerned look on his face.
‘What is it?’
‘Sir, I saw Tribune Plinius. He was on his way here. Prefect Venator has returned. He would like to see you – immediately.’
Cassius threw on his red tunic and the boots Simo had cleaned and polished the night before. He also selected a belt with an eagle-head buckle and held his red-crested helmet as he strode through the encampment to the prefect’s tent. Plinius had told Simo that they should also be prepared to travel quickly so the other two were already re-packing their bags before fetching the horses. Though the morning was not warm, Cassius could feel sweat prickling his back and his armpits. He had only just arrived; what could possibly be so urgent?
Matching salutes with a pair of centurions marching the other way, Cassius turned off the main avenue and approached the prefect’s tent. Flying outside the entrance was a flag displaying a red and gold centaur: symbol of the Second Parthian. A trio of staff officers were deep in discussion nearby and four legionaries were on guard. Another officer emerged from the tent and eyed Cassius.
‘Here for the prefect?’
‘Corbulo, Imperial Security.’
‘Ah yes. Go straight in.’
The officer stood aside but the oldest of the soldiers held up a hand.
‘Excuse me, sir. No weapons about your person at all?’
With urgency in mind, Cassius had left his dagger and sword-belt back at the tent.
/> ‘None.’
The soldier nodded politely and held back one of the thick curtains of cloth across the entrance. Once inside, the only individual Cassius could see was Prefect Venator’s servant. The aged attendant was arranging breakfast on a large table and clearly hadn’t noticed the new arrival. Cassius remembered him from Palmyra.
‘Amandio, isn’t it?’
The old attendant turned but the reply came from beyond a wooden screen. Cassius could see steam rising and escaping from the tent via the ventilation holes.
‘Who’s that?’
Even in those two words, Cassius recognised the distinguished tone of Prefect Oppius Junius Venator.
‘Corbulo, sir.’
‘Ah. I hope you’re packed? Horses ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Other than the implications of the words themselves, Cassius detected a grave tone in the prefect’s voice.
‘A refreshment, sir?’ enquired Amandio.
‘No thank you.’
‘Is the scout here?’ asked Venator.
‘Not yet, sir.’
Before Cassius could consider what this might mean, the prefect emerged from behind the screen wearing only a sleeveless tunic. He was still drying his hair with a towel and Cassius was struck – as he had been on their first meeting – by the contrast between that white hair and Venator’s thick, black eyebrows. Still holding the towel in one hand, the prefect hurried past a row of chairs and offered his forearm.
‘Good to see you, young man,’ said the aristocrat. ‘I wish it were in less trying circumstances.’
‘The pleasure is mine, sir.’
Back at the tent was the letter of introduction from Venator that had helped Cassius out of almost as many scrapes as the spearhead. Other than being an experienced and highly respected commander in charge of over five thousand men, the prefect belonged to the one of the most established and influential families in all of Rome.
