Cassius took a sheet of paper from a thin leather folder and handed it over. Vyedra held it up to the light as he read. Cassius sipped on his wine (not watered enough considering the early hour) and glanced at the badly stuffed stag’s head mounted on the wall behind the minister. Though cross-eyed, it seemed to be staring right at him.
Vyedra read aloud: ‘We are to send a monthly report on the activities of the bandits to the north of our territory; hand over any prisoners captured for interrogation; and take action if their activities present a serious threat to communications or trade.’
‘Rome faces many threats from without its borders. We simply haven’t the resources to address all the problems within.’
Vyedra showed no sign that he had heard Cassius. His breathing — already laboured — became even louder. ‘Our annual tribute is also to be increased? And our commitment of men?’
The first minister lowered the sheet and glared at his guest. Strictly speaking it was none of Cassius’s concern; he was simply the messenger, but he knew that if the agreement wasn’t signed, his commander — Aulus Celatus Abascantius of the Imperial Security Service — would be less than impressed.
‘With the greatest respect, First Minister, I shall remind you that if it hadn’t been for the intervention of the Roman Army, your royal family would be without an heir.’
‘And I shall remind you, Officer Corbulo, that it was the failure of that same army to provide an escort for the royal party — through an area known for brigandage — that resulted in the death of the prince’s father and brother. If the king hadn’t been summoned to Tarsus by the governor, this whole disaster could have been avoided!’
Vyedra’s cheeks were turning red.
Cassius had strict orders not to reveal that four-fifths of the province’s forces were tied up in a crucial campaign against the Goths, nor that Imperial Security had organised Orycus’s return because there were no legionaries available to do it.
‘Will you sign the agreement, First Minister? And advise Orycus to do the same?’
Vyedra shook his head. ‘His Majesty King Adricus would never have accepted these conditions.’
Cassius took a last sip of wine, then replaced the glass on the table. He’d overheard an interesting conversation in Tarsus when they’d taken charge of the prince. He hadn’t intended on making use of the information unless the first minister proved recalcitrant, but it seemed that moment had arrived. He hunched forward and spoke quietly so that the servants wouldn’t hear him.
‘I’m told that the prince was found hiding in a latrine — unarmed and shivering in his nightshirt. He admitted to the tribune who found him that he’d fled as soon as the raiders struck.’ Cassius turned towards the window. ‘I’m sure you agree it would be most unfortunate if such a tale were to reach the people.’
Vyedra pursed his lips. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. After a moment, he glanced down at the agreement and sighed.
Cassius smiled. ‘Is there a pen around here anywhere?’
The coronation took place that afternoon, in what was known locally as the Great Square. Cassius slept through the whole thing, only to be woken by an impressive cheer when the deed was done. Half an hour later, a scowling First Minister Vyedra returned the agreement, now complete with Orycus’s signature.
Cassius was glad there had been no invitation to the coronation, but later a messenger arrived with a note from Speaker Argunt, requesting that he join the celebratory banquet in the palace’s Great Hall.
‘Great? It’s not even that big,’ observed Indavara as they joined the end of the queue.
‘Everything’s relative, isn’t it?’ replied Cassius, yawning. ‘It’s probably the biggest chamber in the city, so to these people it’s the Great Hall. Or — to take another example — I don’t feel especially proud of knowing my times tables up to fifty, whereas you’d be happy if you could manage four times three.’
After a considerable pause, Indavara said, ‘Twelve.’
‘Very good. Simo’s getting somewhere with you after all.’
Ahead of them were guests in bright tunics and thick furs; many of the women had elaborate floral arrangements woven into their hair. Silent attendants waited outside as their masters and mistresses filed through the door.
‘Anyway,’ added Cassius, ‘you should count yourself fortunate to be here at all. I was offered only two seats. Lucky for you Simo’s busy mending my saddle.’
‘Should be a good feed at least.’
Cassius noted how grimy Indavara’s tunic was. ‘Don’t you have anything cleaner?’
‘Hardly a mark on it.’
Cassius couldn’t wear his helmet in most of the low-roofed chambers and corridors of the palace, so he’d left it in his room. Assuming the hall would be hot, he’d left his cloak there too, and wore only his best long-sleeved scarlet tunic. Simo had also given his boots a good shine and fished out one of his favourite belt buckles — a circular silver plate with an image of the goddess Tyche, a memento from Antioch.
By the time they reached the door, Cassius realised all the men were removing their weapons. Two soldiers were taking the sword belts and knives and hanging them on wall-mounted pegs. Speaker Argunt was overseeing operations and coaxing the last of the guests inside.
‘A tradition, you understand,’ he explained as Cassius and Indavara handed over their daggers. ‘The Great Hall is where views are exchanged, not blows. Only the monarch may bring his blade into the room.’
Just as they were about to enter, a youth trotted up to Speaker Argunt. He bowed his head, then offered a rolled-up sheet of paper wrapped in cloth. ‘Just arrived by army dispatch, sir. For the officer.’
Argunt slid the letter out of the cloth. It was tied with twine and the wax seal remained intact. He read the single line of writing on the outside. ‘So it is.’
Cassius took the letter and examined the wax seal. It carried the emblem of the Governor of Syria — almost certainly from Abascantius.
‘I trust that the rider and his mount will be accommodated?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ replied Argunt.
‘Good. I have some post requiring delivery to the capital. He’ll need to leave first thing.’
‘As you wish,’ said Argunt, gesturing towards the doorway.
They were the last guests to enter. The hall was lit by a multitude of glowing braziers mounted on three-legged stands. In the middle of the chamber was an impressive wooden throne facing a long row of tables that extended around on both sides to form a U. The guests — perhaps fifty in all — were standing behind their chairs, speaking excitedly. A dozen soldiers had been stationed around the hall. They were wearing tunics striped with red and yellow and, without any weapons to wield, held their arms stiffly by their sides. A serving girl directed Cassius and Indavara to their seats — the last two on the right side of the U. Feeling the eyes of the local elite upon him, Cassius clasped his hands behind his back and moved at a stately pace.
‘Stay behind me, oaf,’ he whispered as Indavara sped up, keen to investigate the tables of food that lined the walls. When they reached their seats, Cassius made sure he got the chair one in from the end.
‘I shall take this,’ he told Indavara, ‘in fear of the prospect of having you as my only source of conversation for the next few hours.’
Indavara shrugged and stood behind his own chair.
Speaker Argunt entered the hall and went to speak to First Minister Vyedra.
Cassius turned to face the man to his right. He was old, crook-backed and bald, hanging on to the chair and staring vacantly at the empty throne.
‘What happens now?’ Cassius asked him.
No reaction. Cassius bent closer to his ear. ‘What happens now?’
Again, nothing.
Cassius sighed and glanced at Indavara. ‘You’ve nothing to say either, I suppose?’
The bodyguard ignored him too.