Nick Brown - The Imperial Banner

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.