The Imperial Banner (18 page)

Indavara took up his reins, turned his horse around and walked away up the road.

‘Come on!’ shouted Ruso. ‘Just a trick or something!’

‘Miserable sod,’ muttered Sita when Indavara was safely out of earshot.

The third legionary turned his attention to Cassius. ‘Is he your bodyguard, sir?’

‘He is.’

‘Must be costing you a fortune.’

Sita grinned mischieviously. ‘Just don’t get on the wrong side of him, sir.’

The cavalrymen went on their way.

Cassius and Simo looked up the road. Indavara glanced back at them for a moment, then kept walking.

Following the trail turned out to be surprisingly easy. Gregorius had kept to the track and only on very dry, hard soil did the wheel marks become unclear. Simo knew enough Aramaic to communicate with the goat-herder, who seemed thrilled to have a pony to ride and kept up a good pace throughout the day.

As evening approached, the track edged past a mountain; the western flank of a range that stretched forty miles to the east. The steep sides of the crag were striated by horizontal bands of yellow, brown and black; and the top seemed to have been cut away, forming a huge escarpment.

Cassius looked up at a pair of broad-winged eagles, circling hundreds of feet above. He knew from his map that the Antioch road followed a pass through the mountains, then struck north for the town of Seriane. Gregorius’s route cut between this range and a smaller one to the west.

As his decision to follow the trail seemed to have turned out well, Cassius’s spirits had lifted throughout the afternoon. He’d even had time to read the records of the other four legionaries – some of the men who had walked this very path two weeks earlier. Again, nothing of note stood out: four more highly decorated Italian veterans and no reason to believe they were anything other than reliable, honest soldiers.

‘Well,’ he said, turning to Simo. ‘They got this far.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

Cassius had told Simo and Indavara only the basics. They knew nothing of the banner – only that they were following a group escorting a precious cargo.

‘Would you like your cape, sir? It is rather chilly now.’

‘No, no. I’m fine.’

Cassius looked at the sun. ‘Another two or three hours of light. If we see another suitable building we’ll stop there.’

Even though they were now venturing deep into the Syrian desert, there always seemed to be some kind of structure in view. They had already seen three hamlets and several isolated stone-built houses, all long since abandoned. There had been no time to arrange tents, nor was there space to carry them; one of these old buildings would have to provide shelter for the night.

Cassius nodded over his shoulder. ‘I don’t think our ex-gladiator friend is enjoying himself.’

Though they’d already noted his lack of riding ability, only now did Cassius and Simo realise just how uncomfortable Indavara was in the saddle. He constantly berated his horse, though he hardly ever struck it; and was often seen squirming around, unable to find a comfortable riding position. They’d both offered a few words of advice but it was evident he’d never been taught properly.

So now Indavara was walking, towing the horse by its reins, trudging along with his head down.

‘It’s quite common for gladiators to become bodyguards,’ Cassius continued. ‘Certainly explains a lot.’

‘The scars, you mean, sir.’

‘Not just that, Simo. His demeanour. He was probably a captured prisoner of war, or – if our bad luck’s still with us – a criminal. Those men are kept alive only to fight. They are utterly brutalised. And he’s not been out that long. Two years ago that soldier said he saw him in the arena. No wonder he struggles with the niceties of everyday life.’

‘I suppose he must have killed many men.’

‘There’s no suppose about it. And with great efficiency judging by what I saw at the inn. Gods, to think we’re to spend nights out here alone with him.’

‘Do you really fear him, sir? He did help you yesterday.’

‘Only when he knew he would receive his money. You must keep our coins well hidden, Simo. Be on your guard around him. He may seem quiet, shy even – but don’t forget what he is.’

A sudden gust of wind blew around the base of the mountain. Cassius shivered.

‘I think I’ll take that cape after all.’

As the sun sank close to the horizon, the track led past a small farmhouse. Its uneven walls were formed of dark basalt blocks. It might have been twenty years old or a hundred. As Cassius, Simo and the Syrian dismounted, the Gaul translated the old man’s words.

‘He says they stopped here too.’

Cassius examined the disturbed ground in front of the doorway.

‘So I see.’

Recalling that Gregorius had set off at dusk (and had intended only to travel during the night) Cassius imagined they stopped at dawn; the darkness and the cart would have slowed them. The two parties had covered the same distance on the first leg of their journey.

He wandered inside the farmhouse. In one corner, close to the only window, were the remains of a small fire. The dusty floor was criss-crossed by footprints. Cassius imagined it must have been a squeeze to get them all in. Despite the gloom, he took the time to inspect every inch of floor while there was still enough light. He found only a few crusts of bread.

Outside, the Syrian was distributing fodder to the horses. Simo had removed his and Cassius’s saddles and was unpacking them in front of the farmhouse. Indavara arrived, still on foot. He dropped the reins and left his horse where it was, then sat below the window and undid his boots.

After all the talk of his violent past, and his concerns about the man, Cassius decided he would feel happier if he could at least strike up some kind of rapport with him.

‘I’ll have to give you some proper riding lessons.’

Indavara pulled off one boot and examined a nasty set of blisters on his heel.

‘I’m serious,’ Cassius added, standing over him. ‘I need you fit and fresh, and we’ve many a mile to go. You have to learn some time.’

‘Not now.’

‘Of course not now.’

‘I mean I don’t want to talk about it now.’

Indavara pulled off the other boot.

Cassius shrugged, then headed back inside.

‘Well, a rude bodyguard I can accept. A lame one I cannot.’

Cassius grabbed two blankets and lay down in a corner while Simo brought in their gear. He thought again of the legionaries. So they all had spotless records. But what if they’d found out what they were guarding? A lot of men had died in the last few months. The campaign against the Palmyrans had been difficult and costly and – with the state the Empire was in – few legionaries could expect a peaceful life over the next few years. Had one of them seen an opportunity for a way out? And what of Gregorius? Had he been the one tempted or coerced into an act of betrayal? Perhaps they were all innocent; victims of some unforeseen raid.

Despite these dark thoughts, Cassius was weary and he soon dozed off, only waking when he heard the metallic clank of pans.

Outside it had grown dark. The other three were inside: Simo had an oil lamp lit and was taking food out of a sack; Indavara and the Syrian were setting up their beds.

‘Ah, you’re awake, sir,’ said the Gaul. ‘What do you think about a fire? Nice to have something hot – I’ve a pot of stew here. I can warm you some wine too.’

‘I don’t see why not. The other party did.’

‘Perhaps that was their first mistake,’ observed Indavara.

‘Go ahead, Simo,’ said Cassius. ‘We’ve not seen anyone for hours.’

Simo nodded and reached into the little bag where he kept his fire-starting equipment. The old man said something, stood up and walked outside.

‘He’s checking on the horses,’ explained Simo as he laid some kindling – dry grass and bark – in a circle next to his firewood.

‘Tell him to make sure they’re well roped,’ said Cassius. As the Gaul did so, Indavara picked up his quiver and moved close to the oil lamp. He selected an arrow and began checking the shaft and feathering. Cassius sat down next to him.

‘Those men said they’d seen you fight at Pietas Julia. That’s where you won your freedom?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’ asked Cassius, looking on as Simo wrapped a square of char-cloth around one end of a knapped flint.

‘It was promised that any fighter who survived twenty matches would be set free.’

‘Twenty. That’s a lot, isn’t it?’

Cassius didn’t know much about the games; his family rather disapproved of them. He shared their view that it was a barbaric practice but he’d always been curious about what went on inside the arena.

‘It is,’ replied Indavara.

Simo now brought out the fire-striker: a c-shaped implement made of iron.

‘When was this?’ Cassius asked.

‘About a year and a half ago.’

‘And how did you end up in Syria?’

At last Indavara met Cassius’s gaze. ‘Why are you asking me so many questions?’

Simo set himself, then brought the striker down against the flint. He got a good spark, but the char-cloth didn’t take light and it eventually took him five attempts to get a flame. He delicately set light to the kindling and was soon adding the first pieces of wood.

Cassius answered: ‘It seems we shall be spending a good deal of time together. Perhaps it would be nice to know a little about each other. You may ask questions of me if you wish.’

Indavara thought about this for a moment. He ran two fingers down the arrow’s feathers to straighten them.

‘At the inn yesterday. Why did those men attack you?’

‘There was a misunderstanding.’

Indavara frowned. ‘Must have been a big one.’

‘It’s complicated,’ Cassius replied, thinking that a genuine explanation of what had occurred would make him seem extremely foolish.

Simo was now setting up the arrangement of iron rods that would support the spit above the fire.

‘They can be dangerous,’ said Indavara.

‘Who? Celts?’

‘No. Inns.’

‘Occasionally.’

‘That’s why I had to leave Pietas.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The inns.’

Exasperated, Cassius threw up his hands. ‘Stop speaking in riddles, man. Explain yourself.’

Indavara frowned and rubbed the back of his neck but then continued: ‘The inns. Every time I went in one, somebody would want to fight me.’

‘Ah, I see – to prove themselves. Test you. You grew tired of it.’

‘Yes. And I killed a man.’

Cassius only just managed not to look at Simo.

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t mean to. But there were four of them. I was in a corner. Nobody would help. Other people were betting money on who would win. Afterwards, the magistrate’s men came looking for me.’

‘So you left, headed east?’

‘I used up what money I had to get to Byzantium.’

‘And what happened there?’

‘A man recognised me from the games. Said he had a job for me.’

‘Abascantius?’

‘No, someone else. I worked for him for a few months. He recommended me to Abascantius. From Byzantium we went to Tarsus, then Aleppo. I had to guard a man and his wife at their villa. That job finished. Then I was sent to meet you.’

‘How do you like it? The work?’

‘Usually it’s easy.’

‘Apart from when you have to ride.’

Indavara shrugged. He replaced the arrow in the quiver, then took out another.

‘How is it that you’ve never learned to ride?’ asked Cassius. ‘What about before? Were you taken as a prisoner?’

Indavara said nothing.

‘I assume that’s how you came to be a gladiator?’

Indavara ran his fingers along the arrow.

‘Well?’

‘How hungry are we all?’ asked Simo. ‘Sir?’

Cassius dragged his eyes away from Indavara, who was holding the arrow just inches from his face. Simo showed him a large glass jar full of stew.

‘What’s in it?’

‘Lamb and vegetables, sir. Made just yesterday.’

‘Plenty for me.’

Simo turned towards Indavara. ‘Sir?’

‘You don’t have to call him sir, Simo. It’s Indavara to you.’

Indavara seemed utterly uninterested in how he was to be addressed; he was staring at the stew.

‘As much as you have.’

Simo emptied the entire jar into a deep pan, then hooked the handle on to the spit over the fire.

Cassius glanced at Indavara again. He thought about persisting but decided against it. At least he knew something now.

‘So what about that riding lesson in the morning?’

Indavara was wrapping twine around the end of the arrow. After a while, he nodded.