The Imperial Banner

by Nick Brown

Genres: Historical Fiction; Action & Adventure; Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

272 AD

The Roman Emperor Aurelian has defeated Queen Zenobia and crushed the Palmyran revolt.

Faridun's Banner, hallowed battle standard of the Persian Empire, has fallen into Roman hands and is to be returned to the Persians as part of a historic peace treaty. But on the eve of the signing the banner goes missing.

Recalled to Syria, imperial agent Cassius Corbulo is charged with recovering the flag. Accompanied by his faithful servant Simo and ex-gladiator bodyguard Indavara, Cassius must journey across the dangerous wastes of Syria to the equally perilous streets of Antioch. He and his companions face ruthless brigands, mysterious cults, merciless assassins and intrigue at every turn.

Release date: June 7, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 448

Sample

September, AD 272

‘I slaughtered three elephants and a giraffe in the arena on one day; and I was killed by a wrestler who strangled me in the bath.’

‘Commodus, sir.’

‘I’m detecting an air of boredom. Perhaps you tire of “Guess the emperor”.’

‘Not at all, sir. My turn: I once served a meal of six hundred storks, then ate every brain myself with a tiny golden pin.’

‘Easy. Our old friend Elagabalus.’

‘Quite right, sir.’

‘Ah. Look there, a light. That must be it.’

Cassius Quintius Corbulo and his servant Simo had been riding south since morning. Night had brought a chill to the air and both men kept their cloaks clasped tight around their shoulders. The road was wide and well used, its edges marked by low banks of stones. To their left lay the sullen emptiness of the Syrian steppe; to their right a lake, its moonlit surface stretching far into the distance. There were few villages here, just the odd house built close to the water, usually attended by a small boat or two. Aside from the soft plodding of the horses’ hooves and the thump and rattle of heavily loaded saddles, the only sound was the melodic chirrup of some unseen bird.

The ride was the last stage of an exhausting three-week journey. The letter demanding Cassius’s return to Syria had made it clear his presence was required immediately. Departing from Cyzicus on the northern coast of Asia Minor, they had secured passage across the eastern end of the Mediterranean to Seleucia, the port that served Syria’s capital, Antioch. A messenger had been awaiting them at the dock with a second letter summoning them south. They had hired horses and set off, journeying past the cities of Apamea, Larissa and Epiphania, staying in a selection of less than salubrious inns.

Approaching the city of Emesa on the sixth day out of Antioch, they turned east and passed right through the middle of a battlefield. Here, three months previously, the Emperor Aurelian had led his legions against a force of seventy thousand Palmyrans, finally smashing Queen Zenobia’s military might. His army had then marched east and besieged Palmyra itself. The city now lay in Roman hands, the rebel queen on her way back to Rome in chains.

A rather overdramatic merchant’s wife had told the two travellers that the sand of the battle-site was stained red as far as the eye could see, that an eerie sense of dread pervaded the land for miles around. Cassius and Simo had noticed neither. Anything of value had already been claimed by the victors or opportunistic locals. All that remained were the rotting skeletons of thousands of Palmyran cavalry horses, still providing food for a colony of buzzards.

Two more days of riding had taken them into the middle of the bleak steppe. The instructions in the second letter directed them south from the Palmyra road, to the lake and an isolated inn – their final destination.

Cassius and Simo dismounted and led their horses towards the light. Cassius winced as he walked. His buttocks and thighs were sore, his back unspeakably stiff. He felt sure he would find dark purple bruises on his thighs later, and welts where sand had rubbed against his skin. He had never ridden so far, so fast.

Both men stopped. The light had moved. They soon realised it was a lantern, being carried towards them at speed. The horses tugged anxiously at their reins as the lamp-bearer approached. He turned out to be an unkempt, swarthy individual who perused the new arrivals with red-rimmed eyes.

‘Your name?’

His Greek held a thick local accent.

‘Corbulo.’

‘Come.’

The man turned and hurried back towards the inn.

‘A fine welcome,’ muttered Cassius as they followed.

Once through the gate, the Syrian turned left towards a two-storey building of clay brick. Opposite was a stable block. The horses inside stirred, disturbed by the new arrivals. A young lad stumbled out of the darkness, wiping sleep from his eyes. He closed the gate, then came over and took both sets of reins.

‘Careful,’ Simo told him. ‘They’re tired.’

A dim light emanated from the doorway where the Syrian now stood. He gestured for them to enter. With Simo the customary three paces behind his master, they followed the man inside, ducking under a low beam into a smoky parlour.

Passing a stone staircase, they came to a wide bar stocked with all manner of bottles and amphorae. A large, bald man – presumably the innkeeper – sat there asleep, double chin resting on his chest as he quietly snored.

Opposite the staircase was a hearth surrounded by tables and stools. A raven-haired teenage girl knelt by the fire, taking logs from a woven basket. She turned to look at the men as they entered and Cassius caught sight of a fair, if rather rustic, face. Once she had checked that the innkeeper – her father perhaps – was still asleep, she gave a welcoming smile.

‘I think I might warm my hands,’ said Cassius, making for the fire.

The Syrian blocked his path. ‘He’s upstairs. Doesn’t have all night.’

‘I’m not entirely sure I care much for your manner.’

‘His orders. Not mine.’

Cassius glared down at the man, then made his way back to the stairs.

‘Not you.’

Cassius turned to find that now Simo’s way had been barred by the Syrian’s beefy arm. He poked the ruffian in the back.

‘I’ve had about enough of you, my man. Who gave you the right or rank to inform an attendant of mine where he can and can’t go?’

Before the man could reply, a deep, authoritative voice rang out from above.

‘Actually I did. Please forgive Shostra there, he’s yet to master a single social grace. Won’t you come up? There’s a mug of hot wine here for you.’

Cassius hesitated a moment, then shrugged. ‘Perhaps you can rest by the fire for a bit, Simo.’

‘I think I shall help the lad with the horses, sir.’

‘As you wish.’

Simo departed. Cassius shot the Syrian a final glare then made his way up to the first floor. To the left was a cramped corridor leading to two more rooms. To the right was a space similar to the parlour below except that instead of a bar there were two wooden booths built against the wall. The single occupant was sitting in the far booth, his body angled towards the hearth.

The man who had summoned Cassius back to Syria; a man Cassius knew only by name and reputation.

As he entered, Aulus Celatus Abascantius stood up to greet him. He was of middling height but considerable width, especially in the heavily pock-marked face. The thinning hair was a curious mix of brown and grey. He looked about fifty but might have been a decade younger. As they gripped forearms, Cassius examined his extraordinarily tatty tunic and sandals.

It was hard to believe that the fellow before him was the Imperial Security Service’s top man in Syria. Cassius knew the agent was regarded as something of a maverick but he hadn’t expected him to so closely resemble a provincial merchant.

Abascantius ran a similarly inquisitive eye over the young man in front of him. Even after more than a week in the saddle, Cassius suspected he looked rather good. Thanks to Simo, his bright red tunic was fresh on that morning – finest Egyptian cotton. His boots were brand-new, bought especially for the trip. His thick military belt and the thinner, diagonal strap that held his sword in place were also in good condition, the latter largely because it had been so rarely used. His light brown hair was well cut, his skin clear and perfumed. Of the many things Cassius appreciated most about Simo, the foremost was the Gaul’s ability to maintain high standards in trying circumstances.

Abascantius sat down again and gestured to the bench opposite him. Cassius had no wish to sit close to the man but by the time he’d folded his rangy frame under the table, their knees were almost touching.

‘Latin or Greek? Which shall it be?’

Cassius found the question odd. His Greek was fluent but officers of the Roman Army rarely used anything other than Latin.

‘Up to you, sir.’

‘Latin, I think. I need the practice.’

Abascantius switched languages.

‘Perhaps I’ve been here too long.’

He took up an iron pot from close to the fire and filled a large wooden mug with steaming wine. Cassius pulled it closer as Abascantius topped up his own drink. The spices smelled good.

‘Well, young Master Corbulo, it’s taken me quite a while to track you down.’

Cassius had his answer ready. ‘I can see how things might look, sir, but after what happened at Alauran, General Navio offered me a position with him. I remained with his staff when he was transferred to Cyzicus.’

‘Transferred. An interesting choice of word. Demoted might be more apt.’

‘I’m not aware of the intricacies of that situation, sir.’

Cassius tried not to look at the cluster of pale moles on Abascantius’s left eyelid.

‘You are aware though, I presume, of the events that have occurred in this province since your departure?’

‘Of course.’

‘And at no point did it occur to you to notify the Service of your new post, or your location?’

‘It did, sir. But there was no one in Antioch for me to report to, what with the revolt. You yourself were . . .’

Abascantius leaned forward over the table. Cassius shifted back, not only because of the whiff of meaty breath.

‘My location was, and is, no concern of yours. Do you know how many men the Service has this side of Cyprus? Eleven, including myself. Eleven men to guard the interests of the Empire and the Emperor. Eleven, though we should have had twelve. And all because you decided to take yourself off to sunny, peaceful Cyzicus!’

Well before the tirade was finished, Cassius had decided to stay quiet. It certainly didn’t seem worth mentioning that the Palmyrans had actually got dangerously close to Cyzicus. Humility seemed the best option.

Abascantius stared at him a while longer, then the expression suddenly softened. He stood up and took his mug with him, knocking the table and spilling some of Cassius’s wine. Abascantius looked down at the fire, his grinning face lit by the orange glow.

‘I’ve waited a long time to say that. But I must admit I can’t help admiring your gall. I doubt there’s many of your rank between here and Rome who escaped action in the last two years. I suspect that week in the desert was more than enough for a fine young gentleman like yourself.’

Cassius looked down at the floor as Abascantius continued.

‘Quite a triumph though. News of it spread right across the province. Outnumbered five to one, and it all came down to a duel between a guardsman and a master Palmyran sword-hand. What a tale!’

Cassius shrugged. ‘Hardly mattered in the end, sir. The enemy took the fort a few months later anyway.’

‘But you raised the spirits, Corbulo. Navio and his cronies made much of your victory. I dare say it bought him another few weeks. Clearly he was grateful.’

‘I won’t deny I was happy to find a way out of Syria, sir.’

Abascantius tilted his mug towards Cassius’s chest. ‘They gave you the silver medal, didn’t they? Why don’t you wear it?’

Cassius replied quickly. ‘That battle was won by better and braver men than me. I do have the medal. But it’s theirs, not mine.’

With a faint smile, Abascantius drank his wine.

‘I have another question for you. Was she worth it?’

‘Who, sir?’ Cassius asked, though he knew.

‘The magistrate’s daughter. Welcomed you with open legs, by all accounts.’

Cassius felt his face reddening.

‘Sorry,’ said Abascantius unconvincingly. ‘The provinces roughen one so.’ He paused, tapping his fingers against the mug. ‘Surely you must have known it would get back to Navio eventually?’

Cassius had known that. He had always known he was taking a massive risk that night in the governor’s garden. Still, he thought of it almost every day, and couldn’t quite bring himself to condemn his choice. He had found Marta alone, well away from the rest of the party-goers. He had been after her since arriving in Cyzicus. She was pretty rather than beautiful, but both elegant and voluptuous – a combination Cassius had never been able to resist. He really should have known better; it was the second time an ill-advised dalliance had set in motion a chain of events that had led him to Syria; and into danger. He stared gloomily down at the wine.

‘Navio protected you,’ Abascantius continued. ‘Once I found out where you were, I wrote to him several times, but never once received a reply. You must have become quite useful to him.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Oh, I’m certain of it. He’s not the only person in Cyzicus I wrote to.’

Abascantius picked up a poker and shifted the burning logs around.

‘Womanising aside, you were well thought of there. Some considered you a touch precious, arrogant even, but you completed your duties well. You refused the offers of several patrons and made no attempt to endear yourself to any particular faction.’

Cassius reddened again. Abascantius’s sources were alarmingly accurate.

‘And when the general called on you for some . . . special duties, you did very well. That’s from him, by the way. Only when you disgraced yourself with the girl did he become amenable to the prospect of your departure.’

Abascantius paced in front of the fire, the poker still in his hand.

‘Officially you were in charge of supply procurement and pay but on three separate occasions you solved some rather thorny issues for him: a hole in the accounts that led all the way to the top of the treasury; an arsonist you collared in less than a day; and a murderer you finally identified after personally interviewing every urchin on the city’s streets. Quite the investigator.’

‘I simply did what I was asked to do, sir.’

‘The thing is, Corbulo, I have some able men under my command here – crafty, tough, unpleasant men. But they’re all ex-legionaries. Not what one might describe as university material. Now – two years ago – when I heard I’d been given some cowardly young dolt simply because his father wanted to keep him out of trouble, I was less than enthusiastic. In fact, I was inclined to send you to the nearest available legion as a rank and filer. But it seems that you are not entirely unintelligent, and that you have a knack of getting to the bottom of things. Better still, your face is not known in these parts. I can make good use of you.’

‘I don’t know what you have in mind, sir, but—’

‘We’ll get to that.’

Abascantius hesitated a moment, then jabbed the poker towards Cassius. ‘It sounded like you were about to protest then, Corbulo. I advise against it. You have absented yourself from the Service for over a year and a half. Chief Pulcher knows I’ve found you but it’s up to me how I present your story to him. One explanation might be an administrative foul-up: lost orders, a miscommunication perhaps. You weren’t with us but you were doing your duty nonetheless. Happens all the time. Perfectly feasible. After all – there was a war on.’

Abascantius tilted his head from one side to the other.

‘Another explanation might be plain, simple, good old-fashioned desertion. The wilful neglect of a soldier’s sworn duties. Also happens all the time.’

Abascantius replaced the poker by the fire, returned to the table and stood over Cassius.

‘So which is it to be?’

‘The former sounds preferable, sir.’

‘Infinitely, I should say.’

Abascantius moved closer.

‘Do you know how I have spent the last two years, Corbulo? Riding. The Palmyrans pushed us back a thousand miles, then we pushed them back. The lines could change in days, hours. And all the while, someone had to keep the governors and the generals and the Emperor advised of what was happening. And then do their bidding; even though they disagreed more than they agreed. And every single day there was someone to see, something to do, somewhere to go. Riding, riding, riding. I’m getting old. My stomach gets fatter and my arse just gets bonier – so I don’t like to ride.’

He pointed at Cassius. ‘You owe the Service, Corbulo. And you owe me. You should be grateful that I am offering you a chance to redeem yourself.’

Cassius slid off the bench and stood. Even during his most relaxed, peaceful periods in Cyzicus, he had always known this moment would come. He pressed his tunic down and nodded formally to Abascantius.

‘What is it you require of me, sir?’

‘We’ll get to that. First we shall eat.’

Midnight was long past when Cassius finished his meal. It was simple but tasty fare: cold lamb with bread and cheese, then some dried pears and pistachio nuts – one of his few pleasant associations with Syria. Abascantius had wolfed down his food, then disappeared downstairs. The young girl had brought up wood for the fire, but Cassius had felt too morose even to strike up a conversation. Simo came later, carrying their saddlebags. The Gaul announced that the horses were settled for the night, then set about preparing the rooms reserved for them – the two chambers on the other side of the stairs.

Cassius pushed his plate away just as Abascantius returned. The agent was clutching a leather satchel and a long object wrapped in cloth. He thumped both down on to the table as he reclaimed his seat opposite Cassius.

‘To the matter at hand then. You must consider what I will tell you most secret. On occasion you may have to disclose parts of it – then you must use your own judgement. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In Antioch, on the last day of this month, I am to meet with Marshal Marcellinus and the four members of the city’s council. Like most of our esteemed military men, Marcellinus despises the Service and – for various reasons – me in particular. He’s been given complete autonomy over the eastern provinces and will tolerate my involvement only because the Emperor charged me with one important task.’

Cassius found it hard to imagine Aurelian entrusting any job whatsoever to the dishevelled character in front of him, but he reminded himself that Abascantius had been in Syria for more than a decade. He had served under four emperors and outlasted three governors. Perhaps his appearance worked to his advantage; it was difficult to overestimate him.

‘Aurelian left for Rome as soon as he’d finished treaty negotiations with the Persians. Gifts were exchanged, a few clauses agreed; all remarkably smooth. With the Palmyrans taken care of, the last thing we need is another conflict with our old adversaries to the east. Now, most of Zenobia’s treasures went with the Emperor – some thirty cart-loads I’m told. All that was left in Palmyra was a cache of jewels, trinkets, silver and gold for the provincial coffers in Antioch. It was to be returned inside one large cart, packed in barrels. But one of the barrels contained something more valuable than the rest of the booty put together. It is a flag, but no ordinary flag. Does the term Faridun’s Banner mean anything to you?’

‘The Persian imperial standard.’

Abascantius nodded approvingly. ‘Very good.’

‘One of my neighbours in Cyzicus had a fine library, with several translated tomes on the rulers of the east.’

‘What else do you know?’

‘Not much. Faridun was an ancient king. A hero who embodied the virtues of courage, justice, nobility and so on. A familiar tale.’

‘Indeed. And a sacred one to the Persians. They believe the standard represents their destiny, their fate. I’ve never seen it myself but apparently it’s a great purple thing of the finest silk, with jewels the size of apples. It’s been carried at the head of their army since the time of Ardashir I. But when Odenathus of Palmyra’s forces overran Ctesiphon ten years ago, his armies looted the city and took the flag back with them.’

Abascantius paused to take another swig of wine.

Cassius nodded. ‘Let me guess: the return of the banner is part of the treaty.’

‘A crucial part. And a secret one. I’m told that only a few men close to the royal family even know the flag was taken by the Palmyrans. We think they may have been using a replica; the people certainly don’t know of the loss. The young Emperor, Hormizd, is desperate for its return. His position is far from secure and he’s paranoid that the truth will come out. A closed ceremony is being planned for the day after my meeting. Marcellinus is to hand the flag over to Hormizd himself. Without it, the Persians won’t sign the treaty.’

Abascantius looked at the ceiling and rolled his tongue around his mouth.

Cassius said, ‘I presume that the banner is not where it should be.’

‘The cart should have left Palmyra twelve days ago. In command was my senior man – Gregorius, accompanied by ten hand-picked legionaries. They were to travel in local garb, just another merchant’s load on its way to Antioch. There is a good road, but he planned to use a quieter route. Should have taken them eight days. But there has been no news, no sighting, no reports. The men, the treasure and the banner have disappeared.’

Cassius leaned back and exhaled. ‘I hardly need ask what you expect of me.’

‘Actually I originally had something else in mind for you, but it seems the gods have delivered you to me at a fortuitous moment.’

‘Sir, I don’t know why you imagine I might be suited to such a task. Surely you yourself—’

Abascantius held up a hand. ‘The loss of the banner is my responsibility, yes. And believe me, I will do my part. But you must understand how it is here. My face is known on every street and in every inn and barracks from Seleucia to Dura. The legionaries call me “Pitface”, and they – along with many of the locals – would no sooner divulge anything useful to me than eat their own shit. You, on the other hand – a fresh-faced young gentleman from outside the province – should fare much better.’

Abascantius tapped the satchel. ‘I have an authorisation here for you, signed by Chief Pulcher. And there’s this.’

Abascantius reached over to the covered item and removed the cloth. What he held up on the table could easily have been mistaken for a weapon: it was a three-foot length of solid silver topped by a spear-head, with two circles beneath hung with golden thread. Just below the circles was a square iron badge, engraved with the emblem of the Governor of Syria.

‘These are carried by every senior agent in the Service. It identifies you as a member of the governor’s staff and entitles the bearer to certain privileges. While in possession of it, you hold a rank equivalent to a centurion; you may use way-stations and the imperial post; and you can requisition troops when you need them. There are fewer than a hundred of this particular type in existence. This belongs to Gregorius. He left it with me.’

Cassius took the spear-head and laid it down on the table. ‘I hope I get a chance to return it to him.’

‘Look after it, and don’t be afraid to use it. I suggest that you avoid mentioning me if at all possible; pretend you’ve been dispatched straight from Rome by Chief Pulcher.’

‘Marshal Marcellinus knows of the theft?’

‘Not yet, though I may have to inform him at some point.’

Cassius could understand his reluctance. The Emperor’s deputy would surely be delighted to hear of a ready-made reason to discredit Abascantius. Emperors had been using the Service to spy on the army for years, the main reason why most military men regarded its agents with such contempt. Though the strength of the bond between Aurelian and Marcellinus was well known, the fact that the Emperor had used Abascantius for this assignment reinforced a historical truth: the Service had a far better record of loyalty to Roman emperors than the army did.

Abascantius sighed loudly. ‘I fancy the ultimate solution to this may lie in Antioch, so I shall return there tomorrow. Aside from myself, Gregorius and Prefect Venator – who supplied the legionaries – the only men who knew about the cart were Marcellinus himself and the four members of the council. He swore them all to secrecy – on pain of death if I know him – but I’ve little doubt one of them is involved somehow.’

‘In a theft of imperial property?’

‘Stranger things have happened. The council may resent my interest in their personal affairs but at times like this it becomes extremely useful.’

‘And what of this Gregorius? Isn’t it possible that he—’

Abascantius shook his head vigorously. ‘Not a chance. His loyalty is not in question. Besides, he’s worked for me long enough to know the consequences of betrayal.’

‘How much were the contents of that cart worth?’

‘Not including the flag – over ten thousand aurei.’

Cassius blew out his cheeks. It was an astronomical sum – enough to buy an army or a fleet of ships. ‘Sufficient to risk the consequences of betrayal then.’

‘You don’t know Gregorius. I do. He would have taken every precaution necessary. He has never let me down.’

‘What about the legionaries he used, couldn’t they have decided to do away with him and take the treasure for themselves?’

‘I gave strict instructions. They were to be strangers from different cohorts: none of the men knew each other. They were all to be Italians, decorated veterans only, each personally recommended by their centurions. No, the answer doesn’t lie there.’

‘What about locals? Brigands? There must still be Palmyran soldiers scattered all across Syria.’

‘They were to travel only at night, they were to—’ Abascantius abruptly halted his explanation. ‘Do you think I didn’t consider all this?’ he yelled, slamming his hand on to the table. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday?’ He stared at Cassius, bloodshot eyes wide.

‘Of course not, sir. My apologies.’

Abascantius took a few breaths. The impact of his hand had sent the satchel 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 hi