The Emperor's Silver: Agent of Rome 5 (52 page)

‘Why not just go alone?’ said Indavara as another squad of well-armed sergeants overtook them.

‘The gang may already have fled by the time we get there. Three of us? To check all the paths up in those hills and mountains? We need a dozen men at least. Kallikres, how far to the barracks?’

‘About a mile.’

‘There’s Simo,’ said Indavara.

The Gaul had waited for the sergeants to rush out. He entered the headquarters clutching a folded blanket.

‘In there,’ ordered Cassius.

The aid post was empty. Simo dumped the blanket on the table, then unwrapped it. ‘Anybody hurt?’

‘No,’ said Indavara.

‘Speak for yourself.’ Cassius’s shoulder ached so badly that he was convinced the arrow had stuck him, even though he could see the undershirt remained intact. He also had countless bruises and cuts from all that rolling around in the tunnels.

Inside the blanket were one spare tunic for Indavara, a choice of two for Cassius, plus his helmet and the spearhead.

‘Simo, some help here.’

Between the two of them they removed the mail shirt, undershirt and mud-encrusted tunic.

Cassius suddenly thought of something. ‘Kallikres, how many staff at the villa?’

‘At least three maids. Several other male servants and some lads.’

‘They have horses, of course.’

‘I saw a stables, yes.’

Cassius selected the red tunic; his hunch that he might again need to exploit his authority to get the help he needed had proved correct. Once that was on, Simo again assisted him with the armour. He then pulled on his sword belt, which was still filthy.

‘Can’t believe I lost it.’ Indavara was staring glumly down at Skiron’s blade, which to Cassius looked a lot more expensive than the bodyguard’s old weapon. ‘That was a bloody good sword.’

Simo unbuckled the satchel and turned it upside down, emptying muddy water on to the floor.

Cassius stuffed the spearhead inside the bag. ‘Simo, you bring my helmet.’

Indavara had also changed and was still tightening his belt as they hurried out of the building. Four guards had been stationed at the gate and dozens of cityfolk – mostly young men – had gathered outside. For now they were simply looking on.

‘These your horses?’ A sergeant walked over and pointed at the six mounts tied up in the courtyard.

‘Some of them,’ said Cassius.

When the sergeant noted the colour of his tunic, his manner changed.

‘Oh, sorry, sir – are you leaving?’

‘We are.’

‘It’s just that we need to get organised – I think we’re in for a long day.’

Cassius was already past him. He, Indavara, Simo and Kallikres untied their horses and mounted up. With the other three men watching the cityfolk, the sergeant opened the gate and waved them through.

Cassius summoned Kallikres to the front. ‘The barracks – as fast as you can.’

It was immediately obvious that the sergeant’s prediction of a ‘long day’ wasn’t far off the mark. Kallikres did his best to avoid the major avenues but whenever they neared one, it was clear to all that something was wrong. During the first hour it was no surprise to see the city busy, but no one seemed to be working. The men were in groups, either on the move or gathered at temples and statues and other meeting points. And though none seemed to be holding weapons, the anger and determination in their faces was clear. That was, the faces that could be seen; even though the sun was already warming the streets, many were wearing hoods. One group even shouted abuse in Aramaic as Cassius and the others rode past, having spied his red tunic and the crested helmet. There were few women or children around, nor any trace of either sergeants or soldiers – presumably they were all at the forum or the magistrate’s residence.

Fortunately, the barracks was some distance from the centre. As he reined in outside the entrance, Cassius offered another prayer to Jupiter. His self-imposed deadline of reaching the villa within the second hour was already looking unlikely.

The sense of unease was not helped by what he saw at the barracks. There was a man in each of the four corner towers and the pair of sentries at the gate were – unusually – inside. Now wearing his helmet, Cassius held up the spearhead.

‘Officer Crispian, Imperial Security. I need to commandeer some men. Open up, legionary.’

The nearest soldier came forward. ‘Good day, sir. I’m afraid standing orders are to only—’

‘Not for an officer with one of those,’ said the second sentry, nodding at the spearhead. An older man, he retrieved a large key from a bag hanging from his belt and opened the gate.

Two sides of the parade ground were taken up by barrack blocks – accommodation for the two centuries under Nemetorius’ command. Cassius could see only a handful of men; some at the stables and a trio cleaning a stack of shields.

‘Who’s the duty officer?’

The older legionary steadied Cassius’s horse, which didn’t seem keen on its new surroundings. ‘Guard Officer Papinian, he … ah.’

Papinian – identifiable by the single red stripe on his tunic sleeve – was coming down the ladder of the nearest guard tower. He leapt the last three rungs and hurried over. ‘Sir?’

‘Guard officer, I need some men. How many can you spare?’

Papinian eyed the spearhead. ‘Does Chief Centurion Nemetorius know about this, sir?’

‘No, but he knows I’m here in Berytus and he will expect you to cooperate. I am on an assignment for Marshal Marcellinus himself.’

Papinian chewed his lip and looked across his parade ground. ‘You need them on mounts, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got six here that can ride but only four fit horses.’

Cassius muttered a curse. Could the gods really be on the Emperor’s side? They didn’t seem to be offering much help when it came to capturing these counterfeiters.

‘Four will have to do, then. I want them assembled here, armed and ready to leave in five minutes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Pampinian jogged away across the parade ground, his old-fashioned segmented armour jangling.

Cassius turned around. Kallikres was staring out at the street.

‘What’s the best route? We should try to avoid the centre.’

‘We can follow the canal then cut across to the east gate.’

‘And about five miles to the villa, you think?’

‘Yes.’

Cassius shook his head – probably an hour or more until they got there. At least he’d have enough men to mount some kind of search if the ringleaders had escaped.

‘So you don’t even know their names, these two?’

‘No.’ Kallikres looked morosely down at the ground. ‘It was always just “Master” or “Mistress”.’

He had told Cassius about the fate of the caster Florens and the way they had used both the unfortunate maid and the slave boy to manipulate him.

‘What are they like?’

‘Clever,’ said Kallikres. ‘And beautiful, I suppose.’

Cassius raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m intrigued.’

Though Cassius and the others had not been at the barracks long, Berytus now seemed almost deserted. They had seen only a few gangs of youths, a handful of messenger boys and a mounted squad of sergeants. Kallikres’ idea of following the street beside the canal was clearly a good one: with so little trade going on, both it and the waterway were quiet. Away to the left were the high buildings of the centre, from where they could hear the chants of a substantial crowd.

Kallikres was riding alongside Cassius at the front. ‘We must cross up here, then turn right.’

The bridge was a squat, single-arch structure. As they approached it, Cassius realised there was a group of men standing in the middle. Then he saw the barrier they had erected; a dense lattice of wooden poles roped between two carts.

‘Will they let us through?’ he asked as they slowed their horses.

‘Who knows?’ The sergeant pointed along the canal. ‘The next bridge isn’t far away but it’ll probably be busier.’

Cassius counted eleven men. ‘Let’s see what they do.’

He was still wearing his helmet. Affecting his most confident manner, he trotted ahead of the others and guided his horse on to the bridge, reining in only a few yards from the protesters. Some of them had quickly raised their hoods, others had pulled on actors’ masks just like Ravilla and his men. A few didn’t seem concerned about hiding their faces.

‘Remove this barrier. I wish to pass.’

‘And who are you?’ growled one man from behind the folds of his hood. He had a spear strapped to his shoulder and Cassius noted that every last one of his comrades was armed.

‘You can see who I am and I’m sure you’re well aware of the consequences of disobeying me.’

The Syrian did not reply. He and the other men were looking past Cassius and the others. The avenue behind them ran straight to the forum.

‘Something’s happened,’ said one of them.

Cassius turned and saw scores of men and boys running from the centre. Behind them was a crowd of several hundred.

Some of the horses began to snort and puff.

‘Next bridge?’ suggested Kallikres.

Cassius looked at the barrier. Even if the men cooperated it would take a while to get through. He glanced back along the avenue; some of the fleeing cityfolk were no more than a hundred yards away and dozens more had joined the flood behind them.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Indavara.

One of the legionaries had his hand over his eyes. ‘I think I can see our troops in the square. There must have been a clash with the weavers.’

‘We ain’t weavers,’ spat one of the protesters. ‘We’re just like them lot and everyone else out on the streets today. All we want is bit of justice in Berytus – not a magistrate who kills boys for the fun of it.’

‘Watch your mouth,’ warned one of the legionaries.

Cassius held up a calming hand.

The quickest of the crowd were young boys and the moment they arrived they began babbling in Aramaic.

Kallikres translated. ‘Some kind of battle. Sounds like the legionaries have used their swords.’

Cassius looked along the canal; there didn’t seem to be all that many people near the other bridge.

‘On we go,’ he ordered. ‘Next crossing.’

He guided his horse past Kallikres and Simo, who seemed fixated by the fleeing crowd. Indavara had a more practical problem; his horse was resisting his attempts to turn.

‘Pull
down
on the reins,’ snapped Cassius.

Three teenage lads had just reached the bridge. Two stopped and bent over, breathing hard. The third fell to his knees in front of Cassius. Tears streaming down his face, he shook his fist and screamed at him in Aramaic.

Cassius guided his mount past them and trotted away towards the next bridge.

Kallikres caught up with him quickly. ‘We must hurry; we mustn’t get cut off.’

Two hundred yards ahead, more running figures had appeared, converging on the crossing.

‘Yah!’ Cassius kicked his horse. As they galloped along the street, a pair of skiffs drifted past on the canal, the men inside standing up to see what was going on. Youths in twos and threes appeared from the alleys and side streets to their left, faces wracked with anger and fear.

Cassius looked back over his shoulder. The other six were spread out, with Indavara at the rear, the head of his horse jerking around as he struggled to control it.

‘Bloody idiot.’

‘Crispian!’

Cassius only just stopped in time to avoid Kallikres, who had abruptly halted. He thumped down on the horse’s neck but stayed in the saddle. The sergeant was staring at the bridge, now just fifty yards away. Some of the Syrians were running across it, away from the centre, others were moving in the opposite direction. A group of about twenty had just turned on to the street beside the canal. Several of them were wielding weapons.

‘Gods.’

More men ran out from the closest side street, one already shouting at Cassius.

He unbuckled his helmet and pulled it off, wishing he could remove the red tunic too.

‘There,’ said Kallikres, pointing at a nearby alley.

Cassius waved at the others to follow them but by the time he arrived there, Kallikres was already turning back. Yet more protesters had appeared. Cassius could now see no way out other than a charge, but that risked knocking someone down and further inflaming the crowd. Kallikres was barely maintaining control of his pale grey horse, which was snorting as it backed away from the closest men.

Cassius twisted around. The four legionaries were directly behind him, also struggling with their mounts. He urged his horse backwards and soon found himself next to the low wall that ran alongide the canal.

One man darted forward and tried to grab his reins. The horse lurched away and cracked its knee on the wall. Cassius wrenched the reins back the other way but the protesters had advanced again. He was determined to stay in the saddle but now realised they were trapped; the Syrians had surrounded them.

‘Men, dismount.’

Though two of them were shouting at the cityfolk, the legionaries obeyed.

Still holding his helmet in one hand, Cassius kept his horse side on to the crowd. Using the animal as a barrier, he dropped to the ground, let go of the reins and ran the few yards back to the legionaries. They were holding on to their mounts, desperately eyeing the crowd.