Nick Brown - The Imperial Banner

‘Careful,’ he said as he led the way down the hatch. ‘This could be dangerous.’

Lying next to the still motionless form of Scaurus was the overseer. The slaves had somehow overcome him but were all still shackled. One man was stretching for the key on the overseer’s belt as Cassius came down the last step.

‘We should free them,’ Indavara said.

‘Why?’ Cassius asked.

‘Look at them. What life is this for a man?’

‘The life of a galley slave.’

Indavara looked again at the Africans; and when Cassius saw the expression on his face, he lost interest in arguing about it. He took the key off the overseer’s belt and passed it to him.

‘All right, Spartacus, do as you wish. But tell them to head for the south side of the river or the legionaries will round them up. And don’t blame me if they turn on you.’

Cassius checked Scaurus and the overseer. They were both still breathing. He found Scaurus’s key in a bag on his belt.

The slaves strained at their chains, trying to get close to Indavara.

Cassius pointed at the two unconscious men. ‘Drag them out of the way, Simo.’

He hurried past the slaves and down the steps to the forward hold. He unlocked the door and went inside. Using Scaurus’s knife, he set about taking the lids off the barrels. As he worked he heard the cries of the slaves; then Indavara and Simo trying to talk to them; then their footsteps as they hurried up the stairs, across the deck and on to the barge.

He had opened nine of the barrels — scooping aside the old coins to see what was underneath — before he came to one that didn’t contain either silver, gold or jewellery.

The flag had been rolled up and stuffed into the barrel. Cassius pulled it out and spread it across the floor. The gems had been removed and the purple had faded, but he recognised the star in the middle and the swirling patterns of golden thread from the sketch Abascantius had given him. He smiled as he ran his hands across it.

‘Now I understand,’ said Indavara as he walked into the hold and gazed down at the barrels. He picked up one silver ingot and one gold and weighed them in his hands. Then he glanced quizzically at the imperial banner.

‘What’s that old thing?’

‘Just a flag.’

‘Worth anything?’

Cassius nodded. ‘Priceless.’

The old man could barely walk. Despite the attendants either side of him — each with a hand on an elbow — every step seemed to require a huge effort. His head was bent so far forward that his chin touched his chest, and the parched skin of his hairless head was marked by liver spots and freckles. His pale robes reached down only as far as the knees of his gnarled, nut-brown legs.

Coming to a stop by the table, he rested his hands on the edge and took a few breaths. The attendants moved aside. He raised his head a little and looked around. There were no pupils in his eyes: they were milky white.

Sliding a bony hand across the table, he grabbed a handful of cloth and dragged the flag towards him. He ran his fingers down one side, then let his hands wander over the material. He traced the patterns of the thread, the faces of the recently restored gems.

Ten paces behind him, the small Persian delegation looked on: four middle-aged ministers in modest robes and — standing slightly ahead of them, looking over the old man’s shoulder — the young Emperor himself, Hormizd Ardashir. The delegation’s presence in Antioch was a secret so he had forgone regal apparel, and wore only a dark cloak over his tunic; yet he somehow still projected the composed confidence of a man born to power. He was tall and slender, and his sleek black hair hung far below his shoulders.

On the other side of the table were the Romans. They too were dressed in normal attire, with only Governor Gordio in a toga. He glanced nervously at the imposing figure next to him. With his cropped brown hair, bronzed skin and compact physique, Marshall Marcellinus looked every inch the man of action. Only the purple edging on his tunic hinted at his status as Aurelian’s second-in-command.

To his left were General Ulpian, and the slight, rather incongruous figure of Procurator Octobrianus. Both men looked on anxiously. Magistrate Quarto completed the party, hands clasped together over his stomach as he peered down at the old Persian. The only other men in the meeting chamber were five Persian soldiers, eight Praetorian guardsmen, and one African bodyguard.

The old man seemed to have checked every last inch of the flag. He laid it flat on the table; pushing down each fold, straightening each edge. Then he turned round and nodded.

Hormizd smiled. Marcellinus started clapping. The rest of the party joined in; and then Marcellinus and Gordio came forward to talk with the Persian Emperor and his ministers. At a click of the fingers from Octobrianus, two clerks came trotting in carrying a leather case and writing equipment.

Abascantius turned from the scene below, mimicked wiping sweat from his brow, and grinned. He moved away from the thick column he and Cassius had been standing behind and tiptoed towards the doorway at the corner of the first-floor gallery. He was — by his own standards — dressed smartly, in a largely stain-free tunic and a light cape.

He had insisted they both take off their sandals, and not a word was said as they made their way down the stairs, then sat down and put them on again, watched impassively by two more Praetorian guardsmen. A long, empty corridor took them to the door at the rear of the forum, where another guardsman let them out, locking the door behind them. Abascantius tapped his fingers against his belt as he looked up at the cloudless blue sky.

‘Thank the gods.’

He glanced at Cassius as they started away along the street.

‘You did well, Corbulo. It’s a shame you won’t ever be able to tell anyone about this little venture, but by Jupiter you did well.’

‘Thank you, sir. I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure but this has quite easily been the second worst month of my life.’

Abascantius chuckled as he led Cassius around a corner. It was mid-afternoon and the warm city streets were quiet. He shook his head. ‘A robbery. A simple robbery.’

‘Not that simple, sir.’

‘You know what I mean. I was so convinced we were investigating some dire web of intrigue, I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. Perhaps I’ve been in this job too long. How’s the head?’

Cassius touched the hard bump and scabbed skin on the left side of his skull. ‘Your surgeon friend seemed to think it will heal well, sir. Thank you for sending him along. He gave Simo an entire page of instructions.’

‘You’ve a good man there, Corbulo — Christian or not.’

‘I know it, sir.’

‘You must at least be a little refreshed after a few days of rest. What did you do with yourself?’

‘Slept mostly. Indavara too. He’s been even quieter than normal. I think being dunked in the Orontes shook him up more than taking on those Palestinian brutes.’

‘He really is quite exceptional. Alikar and his men were notorious, known in every city from here to their homeland. To think he took them on alone and came out on top. And jumping out of that tower window — by the gods — he must have balls the size of ostrich eggs. I do hope we can keep him on.’

‘What about Scaurus, sir?’ Cassius asked as they ducked under a low awning. ‘I heard his execution has been announced.’

‘He’ll be lunch for the beasts at the next games. Quarto and Ulpian are personally taking charge of the arrangements — wild dogs, I gather. Would you like a ticket? I’m planning to make quite a day of it.’

Cassius’s stomach churned. He wouldn’t spare a moment to sympathise with Scaurus, but he’d had more than his fill of violence and death over the last few weeks.