The Siege: Agent of Rome (The Agent of Rome) Read online

  AGENT OF ROME: THE SIEGE

  Nick Brown

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Nick Brown 2011

  Map © Rosie Collins 2011

  The right of Nick Brown to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Epub ISBN: 9781444714876

  Book ISBN: 9781444714852

  Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Mum and Dad

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Summer, AD 270

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Alauran

  Summer, AD 270

  Marcus Aurelius Valerius Claudius, Emperor of Rome, rules a divided domain threatened by invasion and revolt.

  In the East, the Persians have long posed the greatest challenge to Roman dominance. Control of the eastern provinces has been ceded to Odenathus, Roman ally and emperor of the Syrian city-state, Palmyra. Having won the second of his major victories against the Persians, Odenathus has been mysteriously murdered.

  His ambitious and charismatic widow, Queen Zenobia, takes command of his empire and army. Not content to remain guarantor, she unleashes a rebellion against Rome. Having already attacked Arabia, Palestine and Egypt, she now looks north to the mighty Syrian capital: Antioch.

  I

  Cassius Quintius Corbulo nudged his horse towards the side of the alley, taking them both out of the glare of the bright morning sun. He sighed impatiently, twisted in his saddle and stared down the line.

  Some of the men were mounted, others were on foot. There were more than a hundred of them, but they were an unimpressive bunch: mainly clerks, engineers and slaves. The handful of legionaries were mostly injured and unfit for service. Supplies hadn’t reached the area in months; not one soldier had a full set of equipment.

  Cassius had made a note of every name and occupation. He also knew each man’s age and had checked three times to confirm what he already suspected: at nineteen he was the youngest in the column.

  Unfortunately, he was also in charge of it.

  The alley ran alongside a walled square in the centre of Nessara, an isolated town on the edge of the Syrian desert. Until that very morning, the compound had housed a tiny garrison, now part of the column. Though long neglected and soon to be abandoned, the compound retained its most valuable feature: a working well. The Romans would not depart until every last man had filled every last barrel, canteen and gourd. They faced a long march, and if the previous week was anything to go by, it would be conducted in blistering, unrelenting heat.

  ‘Give that back!’

  A local man hurried past, in pursuit of a burly Roman heading for the end of the alley. Opposite Cassius was the Syrian’s stall, a meagre selection of fruit laid out beneath a sagging awning.

  The Roman turned round. It was Ammianus, the man in charge of the Nessara garrison. He held no rank but had assumed command on account of his age and years of service. Cassius had not enjoyed working with the vulgar Thracian over the last two days. He was by trade a stable master and seemed ill-equipped to deal with men, maintaining a particular antipathy for the locals.

  In his hand was a palm leaf full of dates.

  ‘Give it back!’ repeated the stall owner, now switching from Greek to passable Latin.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Ammianus with a mocking smile, ‘an educated peasant. But not educated enough to know when to bite his tongue. Back to your stall now or I’ll slice it off!’

  The Syrian was dark and well built. He squared up to Ammianus.

  The other legionaries watched with interest, absorbed by the prospect of an impending fight.

  Across the street was a group of six local men. They too looked on, heads bowed, jabbering excitedly. The departure of the column meant freedom from their Roman masters, for the time being at least. Most of their compatriots had been conscripted as Roman auxiliaries while others had elected to fight alongside the Palmyrans.

  Had there been more men of fighting age, Cassius might have worried about some kind of uprising. He was still wary of having such a large group gathered together in the centre of the town. Ammianus and his like had done little to enhance relations. Tensions were running high; even the smallest incident might get out of hand.

  Sighing again, Cassius patted his horse’s neck, slid off his saddle and walked towards the quarrelling pair. The dull ache that had been building in his head all morning was rapidly worsening.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Nothing to concern you, centurion,’ answered Ammianus with an oily smile.

  As usual, Cassius felt a pang of unease when so addressed. Technically speaking, he was not a centurion at all.

  The Syrian spat a burst of invective in his native Aramaic. Cassius held up an appeasing hand and quietened him down before speaking to Ammianus again.

  ‘Perhaps you should return the fruit. Or at least pay for it.’

  ‘Since when do Roman soldiers take orders from locals, sir?’

  There were a few murmurs and nods from the other legionaries.

  Cassius had lost count of the times his instructions had been questioned since arriving in Syria. Most of the soldiers had never encountered such a youthful officer; they were used to experienced veterans promoted after years of service. Cassius had given up explaining to them that the army was now recruiting young, educated men to bolster the hard-pressed forces in the East. If not for the stripe on his tunic, the crest on his helmet and his signed set of orders, he doubted he would have got anything done.

  Cassius was
naturally rangy and his long, slender limbs made it impossible for him to pass for an older man. Even the rigours of training had added only a limited amount of bulk and this added to his sense of inadequacy. In truth, he felt very much like an actor playing a role and, as he had a little experience of theatre, he had decided early on that he should at least put considerable effort into his performance.

  He gestured towards the horses.

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Ammianus, we are leaving. Retreating, in fact. Hardly the time to antagonise our hosts.’

  Cassius spoke in Greek so that all present would understand what was being said. Most Syrians knew enough of the language to get by. Only those who dealt closely with the Romans picked up any Latin.

  ‘Hosts?’

  One of the legionaries laughed.

  ‘I’ve been stationed here almost a year, sir,’ continued Ammianus, ‘and I have always taken as I pleased.’

  The Syrian suddenly stepped forward and made a grab for the fruit. Cassius blocked his way.

  ‘Try that again. Please,’ said Ammianus, one hand on the horsewhip hanging from his belt.

  A couple of the Romans cheered. More locals had gathered at the end of the alley, including the men from across the street.

  Someone brushed past Cassius’ shoulder. He turned to find a tall legionary beside him, one arm bound by a bloodstained bandage, the other holding a gleaming five-foot throwing javelin.

  ‘Why not let them fight, sir? We could do with some entertainment.’

  There were more cheers. Some of the Syrians pressed into the alley. One of the mounted soldiers spat into the dust at their feet.

  ‘Move back,’ Cassius said to the tall legionary. The man smiled contemptuously and took a quarter-step backwards.

  ‘Damn all you Romans,’ said the stall owner through gritted teeth, eyes locked on Ammianus.

  ‘That’s enough out of you!’ snapped Cassius.

  ‘Let me teach him some respect,’ suggested Ammianus. ‘These dogs only understand a good thrashing.’

  ‘Drop that and I’ll fight you right here,’ countered the Syrian, nodding at the whip.

  ‘Any way you want it.’

  The Romans roared again. The tall legionary clapped his hands and waved to another man who had dismounted close to the end of the alley.

  ‘Cinna! Come quickly or you’ll miss the action! I’m betting on the Syrian.’

  The legionary laughed. Ammianus frowned.

  Some of the bolder Syrians pushed their way into the alley. As Cinna passed them, comments were made. Though spoken in Aramaic, their mocking tone was unmistakable.

  ‘Say that in Greek!’ Cinna barked.

  Cassius’ headache was now an ever-enlarging ball of pain above his eyes. Beads of sweat had popped out across his face and back. His fingers, gripping the top of his belt, were wet against the slick leather.

  He knew he had to act.

  ‘You!’ he shouted, pointing at Cinna. ‘Back on your horse! That’s an order!’

  After a brief hesitation, the legionary removed his hand from his sword pommel and reluctantly retreated. Two others who had dismounted got back on their horses.

  ‘And you,’ Cassius said, speaking over his left shoulder, ‘can do the same.’

  Cassius was taller than most legionaries but this man had a good three inches on him. He was bulky too, with thickly muscled forearms criss-crossed by scars.

  Cassius waited, trying to look unperturbed.

  The soldier didn’t move.

  ‘Alternatively, I can take your name. And you can prepare yourself for a lengthy discussion with your commanding officer upon our return to Antioch.’

  The legionary tapped the javelin lightly against his shoulder, then finally backed away.

  Cassius let out a breath. After a moment’s thought, he struck on a solution and turned towards Ammianus.

  ‘What if I pay for the dates?’

  Ammianus looked surprised, then his face broke into a grin. Cassius imagined he was thinking of future drinking sessions, of boasting about the time a centurion bought him his lunch.

  ‘Fine by me, sir.’

  Cassius reached into the small leather bag tied to his belt and pulled out a couple of bronze sesterces.

  ‘That should cover it,’ he said, handing the coins over. The stall owner looked satisfied; he’d been paid well over the odds. As he hurried back to his stall, a couple of the legionaries groaned with disappointment.

  ‘Caesar himself wrote about the importance of feeding an army,’ Cassius announced loudly. ‘And it is my responsibility to ensure that the most important individuals in our group are well nourished.’ Then, before Ammianus could react, he snatched the palm leaf from his hand, walked back to his horse and held the dates under its muzzle. The animal noisily devoured the fruit.

  Cassius stared back at the dumbstruck Ammianus and smiled genially.

  The tall legionary was first to react, chuckling at the sour look on the Thracian’s face. Some of the other soldiers joined in, adding a few quips at Ammianus’ expense. Then the Syrians began laughing too, and in moments the air of tension had been dispelled.

  Cassius wouldn’t have sided with the Syrian had Ammianus been more popular, but the man had brought it on himself. Still scowling, the Thracian stalked back along the alleyway. A couple of the locals shouted at his back. Cassius hurried over to them.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he said, quiet but firm. ‘Please move along. We shall be leaving soon.’

  The crowd broke up. Cassius found himself gazing at a shapely young girl carrying a clay amphora. She had the same smooth brown skin and flashing white teeth he’d noticed all over Syria. His stare lasted a moment too long and he realised some of the locals and legionaries were watching him.

  ‘Hurry up there!’ he shouted to no one in particular, feeling his face redden. Returning to his horse, he climbed up on to the saddle, cursing quietly and reminding himself to keep control of his baser instincts. It was just such interest in the female form that had landed him in his present predicament.

  ‘A moment of weakness’ was how he’d described it to his father. Up to that point, the old man had tolerated his drinking and dalliances, happy at least that his only son’s studies seemed to be progressing. Cassius had been working towards a career as an orator in his native Ravenna, hoping eventually to graduate to the forums of the capital.

  However, when he had been discovered enjoying one of his aunt’s handmaidens (by his aunt, at her villa, during her fiftieth birthday party), his father’s patience had finally run out. Cassius’ protestations that the serving girl had ‘enjoyed it too’ did not help and over the next week he had been dismayed to find that his persuasive powers were not as far advanced as he thought. Corbulo senior was an ex-army man and he had decided that Cassius could only be deterred from a wasteful life of excess by ‘discipline, discipline and more discipline’.

  Cassius cursed again and rubbed his fingers against his warm, aching brow. He still found it almost impossible to believe that such a small indiscretion had led to this. Here he was, stuck in this pit of a town; in a province facing imminent annexation; deprived of cultured company and all the finer things in life; and surrounded by barbarians, thugs and idiots.

  Worse still, according to his father’s terms, he had five years left in the army.

  Two weeks earlier, Cassius had stood in the office of General Marcus Galenus Navio, the commander charged with the defence of Syria.

  ‘So – a grain man, eh?’ the general said, examining the sheet of papyrus as he sat behind his desk.

  Cassius didn’t reply. He was beginning to tire of the nickname used for agents of the Imperial Security Service. An independent wing of the military, the Service had been established during the time of the Emperor Domitian. Originally concerned with the supply and distribution of grain to the legions, its officers were spread far and wide across the Empire. Dealing so closely with the provincial populace, they wer
e uniquely well placed to report back to Rome on all manner of issues. Over time they had become the ‘eyes and ears’ of the emperor and his general staff. The original name had stuck.

  The Service maintained a headquarters in Rome known informally as ‘The Foreigners’ Camp’. Most legions were assigned several officers and, though their duties sometimes still included the procurement of supplies, Service men could find themselves acting as emissaries, tax collectors, investigators or spies.

  Cassius had heard of his first posting via a missive from the Service chief, Spurius Sestius Pulcher: the same letter now in Navio’s hand.

  ‘You’re a little young,’ the general continued. ‘Usually a man has to prove himself a lying, scheming, underhand devil before being recruited to the Camp.’

  Cassius stifled a grimace. He knew that the Service suffered from what could at best be described as a mixed reputation. Several friends had advised him against accepting the post. Some suggested that the Service was riddled with corruption, others that it was an impossible job – with loyalties divided between headquarters, local governors and the military hierarchy.

  ‘It is a rather unusual arrangement, sir, I know. My father was able to secure me a position commensurate with my level of education.’

  Cassius chose not to add that only weeks of pressure from his mother had persuaded his father to call in a few favours and keep his son from front-line service.

  The general grinned. Cassius noticed the thick, lined pouches of skin beneath his eyes. Though broad-shouldered and upright, Navio was quite overweight and this extra bulk sat unnaturally on the frame of what had once been an exceptionally fit man. Above his forehead was an island of grey fluff abandoned by the rest of his receding hair.

  ‘Well, unless your education extends to the dark arts of diplomacy, espionage and assassination you may find it a post more suited to a career criminal than a scholar.’

  As Navio continued reading, Cassius looked around. Considering the general was responsible for the defence of Rome’s third city, his office was surprisingly modest. Well lit by a large window behind the desk, the only other items of furniture were four unused lamp stands, a neglected brazier and a holed rug. There was nothing for visitors to sit on. Cassius wondered if the general had problems with his eyes. He was taking a long time to read a short letter.