Invader: Imperial Agent
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Synopsis
The fourth novella in the gripping INVADER series, set in Roman Britain, AD 44, from Sunday Times bestselling authors Simon Scarrow and T. J. Andrews
In the winter of AD 44, Rome's plan to install a friendly king in the most hostile area of Britannia is facing a new threat. There are rumours of a traitor close to the new king, and a new enemy is gathering strength beyond the marshes. As the king continues with his plans to Romanise his subjects, Horatius Figulus, a junior officer in the Second Legion, is charged with training up the new royal bodyguard. But when a trap is sprung on the Roman army, a secretive Druid sect seizes power and takes the king hostage.
Now Figulus must infiltrate the enemy ranks, release the king and track down the elusive leader of the Druids - before the whole of Britannia descends into bloody chaos...
(P)Headline Publishing Group Ltd
Release date: April 23, 2015
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 84
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Invader: Imperial Agent
Simon Scarrow
The bleak winter sun was struggling above the fort’s palisade as Optio Horatius Figulus and his companion, legionary Titus Terentius Rullus, marched towards the parade ground. Ahead of them stood a silent throng of Durotrigan tribesmen, shivering in the icy breeze as some stamped their feet in an attempt to stave off the numbing cold. The recruits for the king’s new royal bodyguard were watched over by a handful of Batavian auxiliaries from the garrison, their armour and helmets gleaming dully in the thin morning light. Winter had arrived in Britannia, and the main thoroughfare was covered in an early fall of snow.
‘Look at these sorry barbarian bastards,’ Rullus muttered. The veteran legionary snorted loudly and shook his head. ‘Hardly a decent specimen amongst ’em. Still can’t believe we’ve got the job to train them, sir. Why us? Why not leave it to the Batavians?’
Figulus glanced at the legionary and grinned. Rullus was the oldest soldier in the small detachment under the optio’s command, half a dozen fighting men drawn from the ranks of the Second Legion. Figulus and his men had arrived in Lindinis several days ago, detached from the legion in order to serve the imperial envoy, Numerius Scylla. They had been tasked with helping restore an exiled king to the throne of the Durotriges, one of the most war-like tribes in Britannia. After surviving an attempt on his life, Trenagasus had barely begun to consolidate his power over his restless subjects. With the tense situation in Lindinis showing little sign of easing, the optio had been ordered to train a new royal bodyguard to protect the king.
Figulus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It’s not so bad a job. Beats sitting around on our arses all day playing dice.’
‘Speak for yourself, sir,’ Rullus responded gruffly. ‘Me, I’d rather be nursing a nice cheap jar of mulsum instead of teaching these idiots how to hold a bloody sword. Speaking of which, I hear there’s a new wine merchant setting up business in the town. We should give it a try later.’ He nodded his head in the direction of Lindinis, a sprawl of round huts surrounding the larger structures of the royal compound, less than a mile to the south of the fort. ‘About bloody time there was a decent watering hole in this stinking pit.’
One of the Durotrigan king’s first acts on his return to the throne had been to open the doors of the capital to all the Roman traders, pimps and slave dealers who followed the legions wherever they went, eager to exploit the unsuspecting natives. Recently a handful of wine traders had arrived in Lindinis, looking to profit from the garrison’s bored off-duty soldiers, as well as the locals. More merchants would soon follow once the surly Durotriges had been transformed into peaceful allies of Rome.
‘Maybe another time,’ Figulus replied distractedly, carefully scanning the ground either side of the thoroughfare. Rullus shook his head.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still looking for that lucky charm of yours, sir.’
Figulus nodded and sighed. His medallion depicting Fortuna had gone missing a few days earlier. He’d searched every inch of his quarters but so far he’d had no luck in finding it.
‘It was a gift from my father. He earned it during his service as a cavalryman in the auxiliaries. He gave it to me the day I left for the legionary camp at Gesoriacum. I’ve never fought a battle without it. Last time I had it was on the parade ground.’
Rullus clicked his tongue. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up of ever seeing it again. Especially if one of those grubby natives has got their hands on it. Anyway, luck doesn’t keep you alive in the legions. It’s skill and discipline that count. I didn’t make it through twenty-two years of service relying on luck, sir.’
Figulus looked up and smiled warmly at his comrade. In a few short months Rullus would finish his term of service with the Second and retire. ‘You decided where you’re going to settle down yet?’
‘Syria, Judaea, Egypt …’ Rullus shrugged. ‘Somewhere warmer than Britannia, at any rate. The food’s shit, it always bloody rains, and as for the women …’ He shuddered. ‘Even the old tarts back in the Subura are Greek goddesses compared to the locals.’
The two men shared an easy laugh as they approached the waiting tribesmen. The Durotrigans cast wary glances at the Roman soldiers, and Figulus thought it strange that the men he would be training had been sworn enemies of Rome only a few months earlier. The previous summer the Second Legion had invaded the Durotrigan kingdom, determined to put an end to the resistance of their ferocious warriors and their Druid leaders once and for all. The enemy, bottled up in their vast hill forts, had been ruthlessly crushed by the Roman forces; their defences had been smashed, their troops routed in pitched battle and the Druids forced into hiding. But if the generals had hoped that defeat would pacify the Durotriges, they had been proved wrong. In the months that followed, the natives had continued to stubbornly defy Rome. Patrols were ambushed, supply convoys attacked, military signal stations and outposts razed to the ground. Now the hopes of peace in the kingdom rested on Trenagasus, and whether he could bring his people into line.
The garrison commander turned away from his auxiliaries and strode purposefully over to Figulus, an irritable expression on his face. Figulus immediately stiffened to attention in the presence of a superior officer. Prefect Titus Cosconianus nodded curtly.
‘At ease, Optio,’ he said in a cultured accent. Like many other men of his rank in the auxiliary cohorts, Cosconianus was a Roman citizen of the equestrian class in his early thirties. He had the weary expression and aloof demeanour of a man who knew that his stay in Britannia was only a brief, mud-splattered interlude in an otherwise glorious career in Roman politics.
‘Your recruits,’ Cosconianus continued as he swept an arm towards the undisciplined natives. ‘The imperial envoy sends his compliments, but says he’s busy poring over plans for the king’s new palace. Seems it’s not enough that we put the king back on his throne, now we have to build him a lavish home to go with it.’ He fixed a smile at Figulus then went on. ‘These men have all been vetted by the king personally, I’m told. We’re not taking any risks, especially after what happened at the banquet.’
Figulus swallowed. A few days earlier he’d stopped an assassin from taking the king’s life in front of hundreds of his guests, at a feast to celebrate his return to Lindinis. The assassin had revealed that there was a traitor close to the king, but had died before he could identify them.
Cosconianus continued. ‘From what I hear, Trenagasus has become rather paranoid after the attempt on his life. He’s keeping all but his most trusted advisers at arm’s length.’
‘Can’t blame him,’ Rullus muttered in a low voice. ‘Not with half the locals baying for his blood.’
The prefect glanced at the legionary then looked back to Figulus. ‘You’re free to use this parade ground for training purposes, but I’ll expect you to make sure your recruits don’t get in the way of my men as they go about their duties. Am I clear?’
Figulus nodded keenly. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Cosconianus frowned at the parade ground. ‘You’ll need training equipment. There’s plenty in the fort’s stores. It goes without saying that you’re responsible for anything this lot break. The last thing I need right now is some nit-picking clerk on the imperial staff billing me for equipment that’s been damaged by these halfwits.’
‘What about accommodation for the men, sir?’
‘We’ll billet them in one of the empty barracks. It’s not as if we are pressed for space.’
Figulus nodded. The fort at Lindinis had originally housed a much larger garrison to police the surrounding area. But with the legions’ resources badly stretched, most of the troops had been posted elsewhere in the province. Now only a single severely depleted auxiliary cohort remained. A little over three hundred Batavians. The rows of empty barracks at the fort were a grim reminder of Rome’s fragile position in this rainswept land.
Cosconianus cleared his throat and gestured for one of the recruits to step forwards. A tall, broad-shouldered man approached. He was dressed in a dark woollen cloak fastened with an ornate gold brooch, his hair cut short and his face cleanly shaven in the Roman style, unlike the unkempt beards of his wild-haired companions. He smiled at Figulus, revealing a set of small, stained teeth.
‘This is Bellicanus,’ Cosconianus explained. ‘One of the king’s inner circle. Trenagasus has appointed him as captain of the bodyguard. He’ll assist you in training the men.’
Bellicanus bowed slightly at Figulus. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Optio,’ he said in good Latin. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet the man who saved my king’s life.’
Figulus shifted awkwardly. ‘I don’t recall seeing you in the king’s ento. . .
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