The Imperial Banner (51 page)

Indavara took off the sword belt and lowered it to the ground.

The centurion backed away from the table but kept the dagger in his hand as he nodded at Abascantius’s sword belt. Abascantius straightened up and removed it, then picked up the spear-head.

‘Forget house arrest,’ growled Gordio, rearranging his robe. ‘You can go to the prison tower with the rest of the scum.’

‘What?’ Abascantius said through gritted teeth.

‘Quite apart from the fact that you dare to lay your grubby hands on me, do you think I’m going to leave you and your lackeys on the loose with the Persian delegation arriving in the morning? You’ve already done enough damage. You shall tell us exactly what happened and I shall charge General Ulpian and Magistrate Quarto with recovering what you’ve lost. You better pray it’s not too late.’

‘Nothing’s been lost. It was stolen. You can’t use Ulpian or Quarto – it must have been one of them.’

Shaking his head, the governor reached out and took the spear-head from Abascantius. ‘I’ve no idea why you think it necessary for Octobrianus to discredit you – you’ve done an immaculate job of that yourself.’

Gordio turned to the centurion. ‘Get him out of my sight.’

Like the walls of the cavern, the tunnel had been faced with plaster and moulded to resemble rock. The pool of light from the half-shuttered lantern ran over the undulating surface as Cassius led the way down the shallow slope of the tunnel. He turned every few moments to make sure Major and Simo were right behind him. The smell was growing stronger, the cold too.

The tunnel suddenly widened out. Directly ahead was the rear of the Mithras sculpture, and beyond that the darkened expanse of the cavern itself. Only two braziers were alight, close to the benches at the back. Cassius stopped; and the three of them stood in silence behind the sculpture, listening again. A faint, whistling wind blew through the cavern. Cassius noticed the holes behind the eyes of the god. Inside each one was some kind of glass or crystal. Behind was ash, where the hot coals would have been placed. There was also a jug of water on the floor below the snake’s mouth. Cassius wished Indavara could see it; and admitted to himself that, though Major seemed capable enough, he wouldn’t have minded having the ex-gladiator by his side.

He peered round the side of the sculpture, the back legs of the bull. The front of the cavern was inky black. He stepped out on to the platform, knowing he would be a clear target for anyone concealed by the darkness – but nothing happened. He walked in front of the sculpture, the lantern still in his hand.

Two green dots caught the light. Eyes – staring up at him from in front of the platform. He shrank back towards the sculpture.

‘What is it?’ asked Major.

‘I saw . . . something.’

‘By Hades, that smell,’ said the bodyguard.

Cassius walked forward again. He sheathed his sword and pulled back the shutter on the lantern. The iron was warm under his fingers. The light spilled out, filling the cavern.

Lying in the space between the front row of benches and the base of the platform were at least twenty bodies. Feeling Simo’s hand on his arm, Cassius nonetheless advanced, lantern held high.

The men hadn’t just been killed; they had been smashed to pieces. The eyes Cassius had seen belonged to a man lying against the platform. The bottom of his face – mouth, chin and jaw – had been mangled into a soggy mess of pink flesh and jutting bone.

Cassius’s stomach burned hollow. Major threw up, the vomit splashing noisily against the floor. Simo backed up against the sculpture. The Gaul turned, and saw the implacable expression on the face of the god Mithras, staring skyward as he cut the bull’s neck.

‘Who could have done this, sir? Why?’

Cassius went to the right side of the platform and down the steps. He half-wondered if there was anyone alive, but once he’d passed more of the bodies he realised the killers had left no chance of that. Most of the dead had been struck above the neck at least twice; crushing impacts that left deep wounds in their faces and skulls. His boots squelched on blood as he stepped between the corpses.

He spied a red tunic and held the lantern over the dead man. The face was battered beyond recognition but then he noticed the withered arm. Centurion Turpo. Not far away was the gold merchant. Cassius still couldn’t remember his name but he recalled the ostentatious collection of rings on both hands. The killers had left them.

Beyond the main mass of bodies was a smaller group of four. They had fallen between the first and second row of benches. One was a woman, lying face down, a ragged gash in the top of her head. Cassius knelt beside her and picked strands of hair from her face. Bacara’s eyes were open but the pupils were surrounded by black blood.

On his back next to her lay Silus; the entire right side of his face had been torn open.

Another man was lying on his side, fingers still gripping a long cavalry sword. The unkempt head was unmistakable. There was little blood on him, just a wide hole in his tunic and a puncture in the flesh over his heart. Justius Pythion – Two Fingers – had been the only one with the time, awareness or wit to get out his weapon and try to defend himself.

The last man’s sword was still sheathed. Etched on the handle was a dedication to Mars. Cassius looked closer at the man’s belt buckle. It was silver, with a name engraved upon it. Tarquinius. Cassius moved the light past the ugly rent in his neck and saw a handsome, rugged face topped by a fine head of greying hair.

Cassius straightened up and again noted the position of these four bodies. Had Tarquinius and his old comrade Pythion – along with Bacara and Silus – looked on as the others were butchered, only for the killers to turn on them?

He walked to the rear of the cavern and leaned against the wall, feeling the heat of the braziers close by. Simo and Major were talking but Cassius didn’t hear a word of it. He gazed at the morass of bodies. There was no sign of the aged frame of Ulpian, nor the distinctive bulk of Quarto. Had he been right all along? Had one or both of them taken the banner and the treasure? Used the cultists and the others for their own ends, then dispatched them once they’d ceased to be useful?

Whoever it was wanted to cover their tracks; tie off all the loose ends in one murderous frenzy. And their attempt to divert Abascantius had succeeded. Cassius cursed himself for his part in it. He had swallowed every word of what Silus had told him about Octobrianus, without even attempting to confirm or corroborate any of it. He wondered what his and Bacara’s real names had been. Not that it mattered now.

He lurched out of the cavern and into the anteroom, looking for some water. There was only a dusty old wine bottle. But he had to drink something; fill the bitter void in his guts.

Before he could pick it up, he heard a metallic clang. Stepping outside, he now noticed that the woodpile that had occupied the other end of the corridor had been pulled down. Timber lay scattered across the floor. Beyond was a darkened tunnel. The sound had come from there.

Major and Simo arrived.

‘Gods, they were just here,’ Cassius breathed. He pushed past the others and started at once along the tunnel. It sloped downward for about forty paces, then became level as it curved to the right. Cassius smelled the tang of river water; it was heading back towards the Orontes.

From the footmarks in the grey mud that lined the floor, Cassius guessed there must be at least five or six of them. When he saw light ahead, he shuttered the lamp and stopped.

‘We shouldn’t follow,’ whispered Major as he came up behind him.

‘Sir, I think he’s right,’ added Simo. ‘You saw what they did.’

Ignoring them both, Cassius pressed on. Another fifty paces and he spied a gate. The light was in the distance, on the other side of it. The tunnel was low here and he had to bow his head.

He came up to the gate; and saw that the tunnel emerged just above a jetty. The light was a lantern swinging in the hand of a man at the back of the group. In a moment they were gone, striding along the jetty back towards the square. Cassius could hear the festival-goers singing and shouting.

He opened the lantern shutter and examined the gate. It was locked and had been set deep into the walls.

‘They’re there,’ he hissed as Major and Simo caught up. He gripped the bars of the gate and shook them. ‘They’re right there!’

He turned and pushed past the others once more.

‘Come on!’

When he later recalled that night, Cassius remembered nothing of charging back up the tunnel and across the cavern, then through the villa and out into the garden. Nor did he recall clambering up the ladder or dropping down to the street. But he could always picture the scene that faced him after he sprinted down to the waterfront.

Every single square foot seemed to be occupied. The rain had now stopped; and torches bobbed above the heads of the revellers as they threw dried flowers in the air or danced to the cacophony of uncoordinated drumming. Gangs of young men drank from bottles of wine, laughing and singing and pushing each other around.

Cassius darted to the side of the street and leapt up on to a barrel. He looked out into the sea of bodies and faces. There must have been close to a thousand people there. If the killers were heading back into the city, they would have to pass through the crowd.

Major was next to arrive. He had sheathed his sword and was breathing hard. Simo was still trotting down the hill, hand on his chest. Cassius had left the lantern on the ground. Major stopped right next to it; and as Cassius jumped down, he noticed the blood on the bodyguard’s boots from where he’d twice crossed the cavern. His own boots were in a similar condition.

‘They’ll have blood on them too,’ he told the others. ‘They’ll be in a group, carrying weapons.’

Without a second thought, Cassius picked up the lantern and hurled himself into the crowd. He forced himself left, squeezing past body after body; and in moments he was covered in wine and flowers.

His eyes were drawn to two figures about twenty feet ahead, close to the river, ploughing through the mob with lanterns held high. Cassius pushed a slight, older man out of the way to gain a better view. There were others behind the front two, also moving purposefully, clearly not part of the festivities.

Cassius steeled himself and shoved his way forward once more. It was difficult to make progress but his height helped him see over the crowd and follow the lanterns. The man at the front turned and yelled something at the others. Then he changed direction; towards the street and the city beyond.

Cassius tripped. Flinging his hands out as he fell, he dropped the lantern. It smashed as he landed, and he found himself stretched out on the ground, staring at the shards of glass flickering with the light from the torches above. He got to his knees. Then a big man standing nearby grabbed his belt and helped him to his feet.

‘Here you go, mate.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Take a swig for Apollo!’ said the reveller, offering a bottle of wine.

Ignoring him, Cassius moved away. He looked over the sea of heads and saw the group passing left to right just in front of him. He squeezed past two men singing at the top of their voices, and suddenly found himself right in the path of the leader. His face was set with grim determination as he led his fellows through the crowd.

Cassius stopped as the man passed within a yard of him and noted his thick belt and well-maintained scabbard. The others were similarly attired. Cassius looked down at their hobnailed boots. There was not a trace of blood, nor the grey mud of the tunnel. The squad of legionaries continued on their way.

He turned in every direction, searching desperately for some tell-tale sign. How long had it been since he’d seen the men leave the tunnel? Were they already past him? Could they have got through the crowd even before he’d arrived?

Then he saw the staves – three of them. He couldn’t see the men holding them but he followed anyway. His way was soon barred by a group of twenty or more standing in a circle. In the middle was a drummer. The others had linked their arms and were kicking their legs up in time with the beat.

Cassius tapped one of the men on the shoulder. ‘I need to get through!’

The reveller shook his head. Cassius tried to force his way through anyway. The man shoved him in the shoulder.

‘Go around, fool!’

Cassius got up on his tiptoes. The staves were moving to his left, away from the river. He ducked down, and tried to burrow between two of the men. He thought he was through but then felt himself being hauled backwards by his belt. He twisted round and saw the same man staring at him. The Syrian was short but well-built; and he suddenly looked very, very drunk. He grabbed Cassius by the tunic with his left hand, then drove his right fist into his stomach. Winded, Cassius staggered backward. He couldn’t catch his breath. He fell on to his backside.

Then he felt hands under his arms.

‘I’ve got you, sir.’

Simo helped him to his feet and held him up while he recovered himself. Major appeared too, which was enough to drive the drunk swiftly away through the crowd. The bodyguard cleared a path as Simo helped Cassius towards the river. There was a little space at the edge of the square, by the wall above the jetty. Simo helped Cassius sit down on a wide stone bollard.