Nick Brown - The Far Shore

‘What was it like? The arena?’ Cassius asked. ‘You never really talk about it.’

Indavara cast a weary sideways glance at him but eventually relented. ‘Quick. It was always over so quick. For months you’d just wait and train. Then suddenly you were told you were fighting — in a few days, or even the next day. You had to be ready. And not just your body.’ Indavara tapped his head. ‘I saw men shout at themselves for hours before a contest, even bang their skulls against the wall until the blood ran. Others would just sit and cry. By the time they had to actually fight, they had nothing left in them. I remember one man killed himself just before he was to go up. Shoved a latrine sponge down his throat.’

‘By the gods. And you — how did you prepare?’

‘Did as little as I could. The night before there was always a big meal — drink too if you wanted it. I never even went. Once the day came, I’d try and sleep, do a few exercises just before I was taken up.’

‘Sleep? How could you sleep?’

‘As long as I’m not on a boat I can always sleep.’

‘But thinking about it, what you faced …’

Indavara shrugged. ‘It was coming — whatever I thought. Nothing I could do except try to get through it. One old boy, he said to me: “They’re the cats. We’re the mice. They’ll play with us, then leave us in pieces, bleeding on the ground.”’

Cassius eased his horse closer to Indavara’s. It was rare for the bodyguard to string more than a few sentences together, especially about himself.

‘Must have been terrible.’

‘You’ll never know.’

‘I’m not a complete innocent. I have been in combat. I told you about the fort.’

‘Not the same.’

‘I saw a lot of death. And I thought I was going to die.’

‘Not the same.’

‘Neither is it entirely different.’

Indavara shifted in his saddle so he could better face Cassius. ‘Why were you there?’

‘We were defending the province against rebels. I told you before.’

‘So there was a reason. A reason to fight.’

Cassius conceded with a tilt of his head. ‘Point taken.’

It was a while before he spoke again. ‘Have you ever thought about joining the army?’

‘Trying to get rid of me already?’ replied Indavara.

‘I mean in the future. I’m sure they’d be glad to have someone with your abilities. Money’s pretty good, and there’s no shortage of enemies to fight. Good way to stay sharp.’

‘I’m a freedman now. Isn’t a soldier just another type of slave?’

Cassius wasn’t about to argue with that. One of the few benefits of life in the Service was that he enjoyed far more personal freedom even than a senior field officer with the legions.

‘Another good point, Indavara. We’ll make an orator of you yet.’

The Via Alexandria took them through rows of closely packed town houses and past several pretty sanctuaries. They saw the Temple of Dionysus too, and a hundred followers gathered in the courtyard, reciting chants led by a quartet of priests.

The houses began to thin out as they continued along the wide, paved road and into the countryside. The wind increased and the high poplars that lined the road began to rustle and sway. Cassius shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him. Indavara, who owned a cloak but never seemed to wear it, was still in his sleeveless tunic.

‘You have to be cold.’

Indavara shook his head.

‘Showing off your muscles more important, eh?’

‘That’s good coming from a man with that sword.’

Cassius reckoned Optio Clemens had got his distances correct. He could see the village square up ahead as they came to a big property on the left. The plot must have taken up a square mile and was separated from the road by a three-foot stone wall. The villa reminded Cassius of his family home: a sprawling structure made up of different blocks, all with dazzling white walls and immaculate tiled roofs. In the middle of the central section facing the road was a grand doorway flanked by columns. A meandering path led from the door through the peach trees Clemens had mentioned and down to a gate. The trees were bare, but still identifiable by their dark, spindly limbs. The gate was narrow and set under a high arch built into the wall. Further down the road was a second gate, broad enough for carts and leading to a wide track that ran round to the rear of the villa.

As they dismounted beside the arch, a young servant opened the gate. ‘Sir, are you from the magistrate’s office?’

‘No,’ Cassius replied, putting on his helmet. ‘My name’s Corbulo. I’m here to see Master Memor. Is he at home?’

The servant chewed his lip and examined both Cassius and Indavara before glancing back at the villa. ‘Would you wait here a moment, sir?’

‘If I must.’

The servant hurried back through the gate, securing the latch before running up the path through the orchard. He suddenly stopped and shouted back at Cassius. ‘Sir, sorry, what was the name again?’

‘Corbulo!’

Cassius looked over at Indavara and shrugged as he retrieved the spearhead from the single saddlebag Simo had attached. Indavara took the horses over to a patch of lush grass to graze.

The lad soon returned in the wake of a much older man wearing a pale blue tunic. As he came closer, Cassius saw that he was at least fifty: short, dark-skinned, with as much white in his beard as black.

‘Officer, please,’ said the man, opening the gate wide. As Cassius came forward, he bowed. ‘My name is Trogus, I am steward of this household.’

‘Corbulo, Imperial Security. Is Master Memor here? Will he see me?’

‘That … will not be possible, sir.’

‘Might I ask why?’

Trogus looked up. His eyes were swollen and red. ‘Master Memor was found dead this morning, sir.’

Cassius took a breath. ‘Great gods. What happened?’

‘They — they got inside the villa.’ Trogus’s eyelids flickered as he spoke. ‘Last night.’

‘They? What do you mean “they”?’

‘Whoever they were. They — they — cut off his head. They cut off his head and they took it.’ Trogus’s voice dropped to a shaky whisper. ‘Why would they take his head?’

It took a while for the steward to regain control of himself, during which time the young servant began to weep.

‘You’d better come inside, sir,’ Trogus said eventually. ‘We shall put your mounts in the stable.’

Without being told, the lad trotted over to Indavara and took the reins, then led the horses up the road towards the other gate.

‘What’s going on?’ Indavara asked as they followed Trogus through the orchard.

‘Memor’s dead,’ Cassius replied, rubbing a knuckle against his brow. ‘Murdered.’

‘What? Why?’

‘How in Hades would I know?’

Cassius stared up at the grey sky. How long had he been on the island? Two hours at the most. And already the prospect of a pleasant, uneventful stay had gone up in flames.

But his mind was already working, and there was in fact one unavoidable answer to Indavara’s question. As second in command of the Imperial Security Service, Memor’s list of enemies would be long and varied.

Cassius took off his helmet and cradled it under his left arm, the spearhead still in his right hand. As they approached the open door, he noticed the veins of gold leaf running down the marble columns. Whatever problems Augustus Marius Memor had faced, financial trouble didn’t seem to be one of them.

Trogus stood aside and gestured for Cassius and Indavara to enter, but then came a noise that froze the men where they stood: a terrible, high-pitched wail. For a moment, nothing was said; Cassius was stunned by the desperation and pain he’d heard.