Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer (7 page)

Sensing defeat
Caradog
turned his horse around and abandoned the fight, riding in the opposite
direction to his enemy. The remaining barbarian drew his large hunting knife
and ran towards
Teucer
, who still remained on the
ground from his wound. He would at least kill one of the bastards, before fleeing
too. He stood over the helpless, weakened
Adiminus
.
But rather than his blade meeting the neck of his enemy it clanged against
Oppius
’ sword. The warrior attacked the Roman but, after
parrying the Briton’s offensive,
Oppius
stepped
inside and butted his opponent in the face, disorientating him enough to then
slash the barbarian’s face, twice.

His heart raced in unison with
the tamp
of his brother’s horse upon the turf. As heavy as
his eyelids felt the biting pain in his thigh kept him conscious.
Teucer
propped himself up as best as he could upon the
ground. The grass felt cold, or perhaps it was his body growing colder, dimmer.
He took a breath and
nooked
an arrow.
Teucer
grimaced as he pulled back the bow, aiming out the
corner of his eye. He followed the course of the arrow not as it arced in the
air and lodged itself in the back of his brother’s throat.

20.

Oppius
wiped his sword upon his trousers, which he hoped he would never
have to wear again, and looked up to see
Fabius
appearing from out of the trees, along with another young recruit, clutching a
bow too.

“We were in the area, for archery
practise
of all things,”
Roscius
exclaimed, grinning.

“Well as
Teucer
says, the harder you practice the luckier you get,”
Oppius
replied whilst the two men gave each other another firm, meaningful handshake.
As ever, much remained unsaid between the two friends and soldiers. “
Fabius
, I could get used to you helping to save my life. I
may have to write a poem in your
honour
,” the
centurion called out to the recruit. “Now attend to
Teucer
,
before I have to give you another compliment.”

The youth smiled sheepishly and attended to
his comrade.

“I must thank you too, legionary,”
Oppius
remarked to the soldier who had rushed out of the
forest with
Roscius
.

The soldier turned around, after pulling his
javelin out of the barbarian. He was older than
Oppius
,
a veteran. His build was compact, his body marked with scars.

“Thank me with a drink, or four, and we’ll be
even,” the veteran replied, grinning as he found a couple of gold coins upon
the dead Briton. As he smiled
Oppius
noticed that one
of his front teeth was missing and the other one was chipped.

“
Lucius,
meet
Tiro
Casca
,”
Roscius
remarked.

“I served a little with your father. He was a
good man, tough as leather. It seems you can handle yourself in a fight too. I
also saw you on the beach. You’re your father’s son,”
Tiro
Casca
announced, nodding in approval and
respect.
 

21.

When they returned to camp Caesar assigned his
own personal physician and surgeon to attend to the wounded archer. He also
instructed his cook to muster up anything that the returning heroes wanted.
Such were the appetites of
Tiro
Casca
and
Roscius
that the cook was as verily exhausted as
Oppius
by the end of the feast. Before he could eat however
the centurion delivered his report to his commander on the success of his
mission.

“I am indebted to you Lucius. You have served
Caesar and Rome in a way that is above and beyond the call of duty. In the past
few days you have completed a mission that not even an entire cohort could have
managed. It’s only fair then that I reward you and the Briton with the
equivalent wage of a cohort for the past few days. Please do not insult me by
thinking of refusing my offer. Leave the curse of pride to Caesar,” the General
announced, finishing off a piece of correspondence whilst talking.

“Can I accept on behalf of my mother and
arrange to send any payment back home? The money will make her comfortable in
her remaining years.”

After the debriefing Caesar ordered the
centurion to
eat,
rest and return that evening for a
light supper.

Before returning to his tent however
Oppius
visited
Teucer
, who was
resting in bed after his surgery. Despite all they had shared over the past few
days – or because of it – the conversation between the two comrades was a
little stilted. Finally, after one of many pauses,
Oppius
announced,

“If you like I can petition Caesar for you
should you wish to remain here. Your tribe needs a chieftain.”

But the Briton shook his head, in a mixture of
sadness and relief.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to suffer my
company some more. There’s nothing left for me here, not even an embittered
ex-wife.”

“Britain’s loss is Rome’s gain. Now get some
rest,”
Oppius
replied, fraternally squeezing the
archer on the shoulder.

“You should give yourself the same order. You
look tired, as though you’ve been out all night with
Roscius
,
drinking.”

“I will. I’m so fucking exhausted that I won’t
even need to read some of
Fabius
’ poetry to send me
off to sleep.”

Rain began to drum upon the roof of the tent
again and both men briefly looked up, rolled their eyes and smiled wistfully.

22.

Outside the tent a bulbous moon and a treasure
trove of stars lit up the night sky, majestically and coldly imperious towards
the squalid world beneath.

Inside braziers flanked the General. Servants
continued to bring in all manner of dishes for the “light supper.” He would
definitely need
Roscius
by his side should his next
mission be to clear the table of food, the centurion thought to himself.

“Marius once said me that, rather than a great
centurion, give me a lucky one. It seems that you may be both
Oppius
,” Caesar exclaimed, popping another salted olive in
his mouth and washing it down with diluted wine. “Firstly, how is
Teucer
?”

“He’ll live. I am sorry again that I could not
keep the agent alive. We learned nothing.”

“There’s no need to
apologise
.
We also learned more than you might think too. The manner of his death and his
zealous devotion to stoicism has given me food for thought as to the identity
of his employer. We also confirmed the existence of a conspiracy – and doused
the flames of the treachery. It will be some time before news of his death will
reach his master back in Rome. Recruitment will dry up during that time.
Similarly it will take a while for someone to take the place of the agent.
During that respite I will look to defeat our enemies across the channel – be
they
Gauls
, Britons or Romans.”

“So are we returning to Gaul?”

“Not all of us, all at once. But you will be
returning with me. You’ve proved yourself to be of far too much use. You’ve
become a victim of your own success. Although I have promoted you to centurion
Lucius, you’re still my standard bearer. But rather than a silver eagle, I want
you with a sword in your hand – bloodied with the enemies of Rome and Caesar.
There is a storm on the horizon. Gaul has only been half-tamed,
civilised
. There are still weeds in our garden there to
pull up. The business of Britain and Rome can wait.”

Oppius
observed the
good-humoured
glint in his
commander’s eye go out again, clouded over with a furrowed brow and expression
of icy determination.

Later that evening, after the centurion had
been dismissed, Joseph looked in on his master. The braziers were still
glowing, but barely. Caesar was finishing off some correspondence, a letter to
Brutus. Caesar’s relationship with his mother had been long and intense. He
looked upon Brutus as being like a son. He had encouraged him in his studies,
taught him soldiering. As he wrote to Brutus though Caesar could not help but
sneer as he thought about the other father-figure in his life, his uncle –
Cato.

“Would you like anything before I go to bed?”

“No thank you Joseph. Get some rest. Try to
get some for me too,” Caesar replied, wearily.

As he stood by his master the old servant
couldn’t fail to notice how the map of Britain on the table had been replaced
by one of Gaul. He squinted in the half-light, attempting to read the name of
the town Caesar had recently circled.

Alesia
.

End Note.

Since the release of Augustus: Son of Rome I
have received a number of letters asking about when the follow-up will be
published. The reply has been “not yet”. I fear that the reply may remain “not
yet” for some time, due to other commitments. I hope that the Sword of Rome
series will provide some compensation though in the form of a prequel, as
opposed to sequel. For those of you who have read Standard Bearer without
having first read Augustus: Son of Rome you may be interested to know that the
characters of
Oppius
,
Roscius
,
Tiro
Casca
and Julius
Caesar all feature heavily throughout Augustus: Son of Rome too.

Thanks as always to Matthew Lynn and everyone
at Endeavour Press.

Should you be interested in some further
reading then I can recommend the works of Adrian Goldsworthy, particularly his
biography of Julius Caesar and also In The Name Of Rome. The works of Cicero,
Suetonius and Plutarch are classics for good reasons too. If interested in
reading more historical fiction on Rome then I can recommend Conn
Iggulden
, Steven Saylor, Simon
Scarrow
and Robert Harris.

Should you have enjoyed Standard Bearer or
Augustus: Son of Rome and wish to get in touch I can be reached via
[email protected]

This book is dedicated to John McGrath –
courageous, smart, stoical and fun.

Richard Foreman.

Raffles: Stumped

Richard
Foreman

©
Richard Foreman 2012

Richard
Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act,
1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

1.

“Now Bunny, I am hoping that you have had a
sufficient amount to drink to finally tell me what’s on your mind. You chewed
your nails and bottom lip more than your fillet mignon at dinner. You are also
still looking like a man whose funeral – or worse, wedding – is tomorrow,”
Raffles exclaimed whilst loosening his tie and topping us both up.

We were working our way through a fine bottle
of Madeira back at Raffles’ apartment at the Albany, after dinner at the
Savile
Club. It was a month or so before our encounter with
Sherlock Holmes (the events of which can be found in
Raffles: The Gentleman Thief
). A summer breeze wafted through the
window and cooled my flushed features.

“I am sorry A.J if I have been poor company
this evening. But there’s the rub. I am poor. Indeed to be poverty stricken may
even prove to be an aspiration right now, for I am in a far more perilous
state. I am debt ridden.”

I went on to explain how, despite my “work”
with Raffles over the past few months (as a cracksman’s accomplice)
,
I had still not wholly freed myself from my financial
straits. My present predicament stemmed from owing a significant amount of
capital to a moneylender called Alexander Cardinal. Cardinal revelled in his
nickname of Shylock. He specialised in targeting gentlemen of leisure. I was
befriended by one of his agents in a casino one evening, who introduced me to
his
well dressed
,
well spoken
employer at Cardinal’s house in Notting Hill. I borrowed a sum of money from
him to pay, at a reasonable rate of interest, certain other debts. He called it
a “quick quid” to help tide things over. Although we signed a contract, we also
had a gentleman’s agreement that I would pay off the loan – and interest – when
certain investments I owned matured. These investments were gilt-edged and
served as my security.