Nick Brown - The Imperial Banner

Estan spoke again. The pressure eased.

‘Now listen. There is something I want you to say: “My name is Skinny. I am a Roman and I am nothing.”’

Through the fear and pain, Cassius was surprised to hear his reaction.

‘By Mars you’ll pay for this. I am an officer of the Imperial Army and I am here to-’

With a nod from Estan the two men pulled again.

‘No, no, no,’ replied the Celt. ‘That’s not what I said. You must repeat it exactly: My name is Skinny. I am a Roman and I am nothing.’

The cape slackened again.

‘I am here to see-’

Estan slapped him. ‘I might have to change your name to Stupid.’

Cassius coughed. Spit ran down his chin. Tears ran down his cheeks.

The Celts laughed, even as Telesinus again implored them to stop. Estan told the others to pull harder.

Cassius could feel the cape cutting into his skin. His windpipe felt like a stone being pushed into his throat. He was choking.

Why had he come in here alone?

Now he was going to die here. The cape bit at his neck. Black mist edged across his vision. He was choking.

‘Do you have my money?’

Cassius didn’t understand. They didn’t want money, did they?

‘Are you Corbulo? Do you have my money?’

It was a different voice; a new voice. Who here knew his name? Cassius wanted to speak but he couldn’t.

‘You Corbulo?’

The black mist was now a cloud. All the light had gone. He nodded.

‘Do you have my money?’

Cassius nodded again. The pressure on his neck eased. Light flooded back into his eyes.

Behind Estan was a well-built young man with what looked like half an ear.

The fourth Celt realised quickly that the interloper was to be considered an enemy and attacked right away.

He lined up his foe and swung a boot.

Pivoting to his left, Indavara waited until the boot was sailing harmlessly past him then gripped the heel and wrenched it forward, pulling the Celt off his standing foot. The auxiliary slipped easily on the smooth stone floor and fell on his backside. Indavara stamped down hard on his groin, twisting his boot in for good measure.

The ensuing high-pitched scream was enough to bring Telesinus’s wife and the doorman running in. Telesinus warned them to stay clear as Estan turned to face Indavara. The other two let go of Cassius and fanned out behind their leader.

The folds of the cape were still stuck to Cassius’s neck. He was too busy pulling it off and sucking in air to notice much of what happened next.

Indavara had hated having to leave his weapons by the door but he was not slow to improvise. As the three men closed, he retreated and picked up a small but sturdy stool and held it in his right hand.

Estan muttered something; the three Celts advanced.

Wielding the stool above his shoulder, as if preparing to defend himself with it, Indavara swung it back then launched it at the man to Estan’s right. It caught him high on the forehead with a sharp crack. The Celt staggered for a moment, mouth wide, then toppled like a felled tree, bringing down several shelves.

With a quick look at his injured comrades, Estan picked up a hefty chair and launched it across the room.

Indavara stuck two hands up and caught it.

To his credit, Estan didn’t let this feat put him off. He charged.

Indavara flung the chair back — at the Celt’s ankles. Estan tripped and stumbled, doubling over as he careened forward. Indavara took a single step and drove his knee straight up into the Celt’s face, catching him full on the chin. Estan’s head crunched to one side and he crashed to the floor, his body limp.

The fourth Celt looked down at his three fallen fellows, then fled.

The serving girls were all crying, hands on their faces. Telesinus, his wife and the doorman stood in a line, watching Indavara. The woman looked down at Estan.

‘Gods, he’s killed him, hasn’t he?’

With a wary glance at Indavara, Telesinus knelt down by Estan. He put a hand to his chest.

‘He’s breathing.’

Cassius pushed himself off the wall just as Indavara’s second victim dragged himself back against it. The man looked blankly up at him, then at the hand he had just placed on his head. It was wet with blood.

Indavara walked past his first victim. The man was writhing around on the floor, clasping his groin and moaning.

Indavara glanced at Cassius and gestured towards the door.

Cassius nodded; and they left.

Cassius walked towards the encampment with his head down, ignoring the legionaries and locals they passed, wholly occupied with trying to ascertain exactly how much damage had been done to his neck. It still felt horribly constricted and there was a rasping pain when he talked. Despite the presence of this bodyguard (who at least seemed well qualified to do the job), Cassius wouldn’t feel safe until he was inside the camp. He couldn’t believe such a thing was possible so close to a legion base. He felt angry and stupid; and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A few yards behind, Simo and Indavara walked side by side, leading the horses.

‘What about my money then?’ Indavara asked for the second time.

Cassius had heard him the first time but elected to ignore him. Now he spun round.

‘You, my man, bring new meaning to the word mercenary.’

Indavara shrugged.

Cassius turned to Simo. ‘Didn’t come to my aid until he was sure I had his silver. Quite happy to watch me being strangled. You’ll be paid within the hour. Quick enough?’

Indavara shrugged again.

‘That’s settled then.’

The rear entrance of the camp was narrow — no more than twenty feet across. On either side were high poles bearing the square standards of the Fourth Legion. The flags were of black cloth, with the legend and a goat (Capricorn being the legion’s symbol) embroidered in gold. Below the flags, four legionaries stood guard.

Cassius called a halt well short of the entrance, where local traders had been permitted to set up day-pitches selling snacks and drinks. Simo had already retrieved the spear-head and now offered Cassius his helmet.

‘Crest’s not straight.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Come on, Simo, I’m about to meet a prefect of the Roman Army. I must at least try to look presentable.’

Cassius looked down at his tunic. It was still dirty from his encounter with the inn floor, the cape too. As Simo dealt with the helmet, Cassius glanced over at the bodyguard.

‘What was the name again?’

‘Indavara.’

‘Unusual.’

Indavara left his horse and wandered away to investigate the food on offer.

Cassius noticed how shoddy his mount and gear were. The sides of the horse’s mouth were cut and sore; a sure sign of a bad rider. The saddle itself was ancient and poorly maintained: in several places the cover was coming away from the wood. Upon one side of the saddle was a leather bag. On the other side were a water-skin, a bow case and quiver, and a five-foot fighting stave.

Indavara had reclaimed his main weapon — a short sword sheathed on a diagonal belt — on their way out of the inn. As he approached the traders, a group of locals broke up to let him pass. Most of the men were taller and older than him but their action was instinctive. Cassius had been too distracted to notice before but he now realised that there was something undeniably impressive about the man. He wasn’t overly large, or exceptionally muscular; but there was something in the way he carried himself. Cassius had met many such men, most of them soldiers, but he didn’t recall ever seeing it in one so young.

Indavara returned. He had bought a large pastry covered with nuts and honey and devoured it at speed, eyes scanning the encampment. Cassius pretended to turn away but continued to examine him. His face, though handsome in a rather agricultural way, was marked and scarred. His eyes seemed to possess a vacant, almost innocent quality. Cassius suspected he was rather stupid. At least that would make him more biddable. Brainless but tough wasn’t such a bad combination for a bodyguard.