The Eleventh Hour

by Nick Brown

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

Syria, 262 AD. Imperial agent Abascantius has failed his superiors and now faces the unwelcome prospect of a return to the legions. With only hours to work with, he will need resourcefulness and ruthlessness in equal measure if he is to salvage the situation and save himself. From Agent of Rome author Nick Brown, this compelling short story is set in the violent, corrupt underbelly of third century Antioch.

Release date: June 20, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 46

Sample

Who will get it? Who? WHO?

Aulus Celatus Abascantius threw the sheet aside and rolled his bulky frame to the side of the bed. He sat there for a moment, yawning and scratching his shoulder. He reached for the cup of water he’d left on the floor but the bedroom was dark and he succeeded only in knocking it over. With a sigh, he flicked water off his toes, stood up and shuffled over to the window.

Once the shutters were open, he leaned against the sill. Below, a drunk was reciting a children’s rhyme punctuated with the crudest of oaths. Over on the avenue, hooves tapped against paving stones as traders took advantage of the quiet streets to bring in fresh produce for the morning markets. The brightest lights were the glowing braziers atop every tower of Antioch’s high walls. Half a mile to the west was an army barracks, and here Aulus could see a line of flaming torches traversing the parade ground. Probably some over-keen centurion readying his men for a dawn march or perhaps on a job for Fructosis – off to break down a door and drag some traitor from his bed.

Aulus had come to hate that name. He’d only been in Antioch for six months but the local chief of the Imperial Security Service had seemingly taken every possible opportunity to make his subordinate’s life a misery. Always another nasty, awkward job and never a word of encouragement or thanks.

Even so, working for the Service remained a vast improvement on regular soldiering. Watching the line of torches move away from the barracks, Aulus thanked the gods he wasn’t holding one of them. How many times had he been roused from a welcome slumber by some bellowing cretin? Pulled on his boots and belts, grabbed his shield and sword and marched off on some pointless patrol?

No – a decade of that had been more than enough. And all things considered, his first couple of years with the Service had gone well. It had been a tribune who’d first noted his sharp mind, ruthless streak and ability to cultivate useful contacts. Plucked from his century, Aulus had been tasked with running a group of informers in the eastern towns of Syria, learning what he could about the machinations of the Persian court and the movements of the Emperor Shapur’s armies. An exciting duty but a perilous one, and he much preferred his current posting, even though he had to work under Fructosis – a rising star of the Service with responsibilities stretching across the province and beyond.

Aulus felt the man had taken against him from the start, viewing him as an inexperienced, unsophisticated liability operating well above his station. He had perhaps gained a little ground over the last few weeks but that would all be forgotten if things didn’t go his way tomorrow. Everything depended on the contents of a written notice to be posted outside the forum at dawn.

Aulus had done all he could to get the right result but still he couldn’t sleep. Even after a weighty plate of tripe and mushrooms. Even after half a jug of wine. Even after an hour rolling around with Big Drusilla, the Thracian whore from a few doors down. Despite his black mood, Aulus turned from the window and grinned in the darkness. He reckoned she liked what he did with her – inflation was rampant yet the silly cow still only charged him three sesterces.

With the shutters open, there was just enough moonlight for him to find his way safely back to the bed. He lay down, nestled into his pillow and pulled the sheet over him. If he couldn’t sleep, at least he could rest.

But the question was waiting for him. Who will get it? Who? WHO?

Somehow, he slept. Only an hour or two, but a welcome respite from the turmoil, the worry. His attendant roused him with a sharp rap on his door.

‘Yes.’

In came Shostra. He was a big man – broader even than Aulus – with the long, thick arms of the wrestler h. . .