to the far edge of the table, close to the window. He dragged it back towards him and smoothed the edges down. Then he placed it carefully in front of Cassius, shifting it around until it was parallel with the side of the table.
‘I make no claim to be infallible. You are right to put such questions. And now you must seek some answers.’
‘Sir, I should explain that I do not really consider myself a man of action. I have been in battle, yes, and I took on the odd criminal case for the general, but any group well-informed and well-organised enough to carry out this theft represents a considerable threat. What am I to do if I actually track them down?’
‘In the first instance contact me – but that will take time. Remember that you can take command of any nearby units if you need them.’
‘That entitlement sounds impressive on paper, sir; the reality might be somewhat different.’
‘I am also providing you with some additional help: a professional bodyguard, also from outside the province. Bit dense but he knows how to handle himself. He was on a job for me in the north but should be down here by now. You are to meet him the day after tomorrow, at an inn called The Goat’s Leg. It’s in the village of Galanea, just south of Palmyra – run by an old ex-legionary. Close by is the encampment of the Fourth Legion; they’re stationed there to deter any chance of an uprising. I suggest you go straight to Prefect Venator.’
‘Does he know about the theft?’
‘Not yet. You will have to tell him.’
Cassius rubbed his brow.
‘Don’t worry. Venator’s a good old-fashioned aristocrat, I’m sure you’ll get on fine. I doubt Gregorius told him much of his plans but he used his men so he may have let something slip. You have to start somewhere. Chief Pulcher has a saying: “Someone always knows something.”’
Abascantius pushed the leather satchel towards Cassius.
‘For you. Information. If you’ve any more questions, you’ll need to be up early; I shall head off soon after dawn. I suggest you do the same – you’ve another long ride ahead of you.’
Abascantius stood. He glanced thoughtfully around the room for a moment, then ran a hand across his paunch.
‘The handover ceremony takes place in nineteen days. I don’t even want to think about the consequences of Marcellinus having nothing to hand over. Goodnight, Corbulo.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Cassius sat motionless as Abascantius left and made his way downstairs. He eyed the satchel and was struck by an almost irresistible desire to throw it into what remained of the fire. A cool draught whispered through the shutters and across the back of his neck. He shivered, then slowly shook his head. He felt numb, overwhelmed by what he’d heard.
There had been time to get used to the prospect of a return to Syria, of working for the Service; but nothing could have prepared him for the magnitude of the task he’d been charged with. How he wished he’d never heard the name Abascantius. It would have been far more convenient if the accursed man had somehow perished during the Palmyran revolt. The loss of the banner was his fault, yet now he expected Cassius to tidy up his potentially disastrous mess? If it couldn’t be done, Abascantius wouldn’t be the only one to suffer, he was sure of that. And who did he have to help him? Some brute of a bodyguard he was sure to detest.
With one elbow on the table, hand propping up his chin, Cassius took a deep breath and tried to find a way through the mass of thoughts about what he faced; but his tired, addled mind soon gave up, and in the darkness he closed his eyes.
He drifted back to Cyzicus – to the idyllic atrium at his villa on the edge of the city, where he’d often look out beyond the grey-barked fig trees to a village well and watch the people come and go. He would get most of his work done by lunchtime, then spend the afternoons there with books from his neighbour’s library. He had
‘I make no claim to be infallible. You are right to put such questions. And now you must seek some answers.’
‘Sir, I should explain that I do not really consider myself a man of action. I have been in battle, yes, and I took on the odd criminal case for the general, but any group well-informed and well-organised enough to carry out this theft represents a considerable threat. What am I to do if I actually track them down?’
‘In the first instance contact me – but that will take time. Remember that you can take command of any nearby units if you need them.’
‘That entitlement sounds impressive on paper, sir; the reality might be somewhat different.’
‘I am also providing you with some additional help: a professional bodyguard, also from outside the province. Bit dense but he knows how to handle himself. He was on a job for me in the north but should be down here by now. You are to meet him the day after tomorrow, at an inn called The Goat’s Leg. It’s in the village of Galanea, just south of Palmyra – run by an old ex-legionary. Close by is the encampment of the Fourth Legion; they’re stationed there to deter any chance of an uprising. I suggest you go straight to Prefect Venator.’
‘Does he know about the theft?’
‘Not yet. You will have to tell him.’
Cassius rubbed his brow.
‘Don’t worry. Venator’s a good old-fashioned aristocrat, I’m sure you’ll get on fine. I doubt Gregorius told him much of his plans but he used his men so he may have let something slip. You have to start somewhere. Chief Pulcher has a saying: “Someone always knows something.”’
Abascantius pushed the leather satchel towards Cassius.
‘For you. Information. If you’ve any more questions, you’ll need to be up early; I shall head off soon after dawn. I suggest you do the same – you’ve another long ride ahead of you.’
Abascantius stood. He glanced thoughtfully around the room for a moment, then ran a hand across his paunch.
‘The handover ceremony takes place in nineteen days. I don’t even want to think about the consequences of Marcellinus having nothing to hand over. Goodnight, Corbulo.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Cassius sat motionless as Abascantius left and made his way downstairs. He eyed the satchel and was struck by an almost irresistible desire to throw it into what remained of the fire. A cool draught whispered through the shutters and across the back of his neck. He shivered, then slowly shook his head. He felt numb, overwhelmed by what he’d heard.
There had been time to get used to the prospect of a return to Syria, of working for the Service; but nothing could have prepared him for the magnitude of the task he’d been charged with. How he wished he’d never heard the name Abascantius. It would have been far more convenient if the accursed man had somehow perished during the Palmyran revolt. The loss of the banner was his fault, yet now he expected Cassius to tidy up his potentially disastrous mess? If it couldn’t be done, Abascantius wouldn’t be the only one to suffer, he was sure of that. And who did he have to help him? Some brute of a bodyguard he was sure to detest.
With one elbow on the table, hand propping up his chin, Cassius took a deep breath and tried to find a way through the mass of thoughts about what he faced; but his tired, addled mind soon gave up, and in the darkness he closed his eyes.
He drifted back to Cyzicus – to the idyllic atrium at his villa on the edge of the city, where he’d often look out beyond the grey-barked fig trees to a village well and watch the people come and go. He would get most of his work done by lunchtime, then spend the afternoons there with books from his neighbour’s library. He had
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