A smart young tribune, identifiable by the narrow purple stripe on his tunic, strode past them on the other side of the avenue. The officer was walking very quickly, so fast that the two men behind him were struggling to keep up. He wore a long cape and tapped a riding crop against his leg as he walked. Perhaps three or four years older than Cassius, he exchanged a graceful nod with his fellow officer.
‘Civilisation at last,’ Cassius announced.
After a few more paces through the heavy, ploughed-up soil, he turned and spoke to Indavara.
‘Why Abascantius thought it wise for me to meet you in that damned inn I shall never know. I should have had you come here.’
Indavara trudged on, head down.
‘Not very talkative are you? Unless the talk is of money, that is.’
Indavara looked up. ‘What?’
‘I said you’re not very talkative.’
Indavara tapped his mutilated ear. ‘I don’t always hear so well.’
‘Ah.’
The queue outside the prefect’s tent contained eighteen people. Cassius knew that because, after an hour of waiting, he’d already counted them three times. There was little else to do. He’d been determined to bypass the queue but a staff officer had intercepted him and taken him aside. After seeing the spear-head and Cassius’s authorisation, he’d promised to let the prefect know of his arrival. Cassius had caught a brief glimpse of Venator inside the tent: a tall, lean man poring over a map table, surrounded by his staff.
The Palmyrans in the queue seemed to be a mix of priests, administrators and merchants, all waiting patiently, talking in Greek or Aramaic. The sky had turned grey and now a light drizzle fell. Those with servants and parasols made use of them, others took shelter under the awning at the front of the tent.
The staff officer reappeared. He politely negotiated the Palmyrans, avoided Cassius’s gaze and headed north towards the main entrance. Cassius jogged around the queue and caught up with him.
‘Excuse me. Any news?’
The officer turned round. ‘The prefect will see you later this afternoon. He hasn’t the time now. I’m off for lunch. Do you mind?’
‘As it happens I do. This is a matter of the utmost importance. Just mention the name Gregorius to him. I assure you he will be most upset if he finds out you were obstructive.’
The question of seniority was complex. The staff officer — a man of about thirty-five — was well below the level of a tribune but the proximity of his position to the prefect afforded him considerable authority. Cassius was young but the spear-head — and his position with the Service — gave him added status. He decided on a retreat into good old-fashioned politeness.
‘Please, sir. You know the Service doesn’t occupy itself with trivial concerns.’
The officer raised an eyebrow at this but he seemed to appreciate the improvement in tone.
‘I will mention the name. Prefect Venator will make his own decision about the importance of the matter.’
He returned to the tent. Cassius walked back to where the other two were waiting. He shook his head as he watched Indavara — surreptitiously counting up the coins he’d been given. Simo was examining his horse’s injured leg.
‘There’s not much point you two staying here. Why not head back to the stables and get your mount seen to?’
Simo looked up and smacked his hands together to clean them.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You can use the spear-head if they’re uncooperative.’
‘Corbulo!’
Cassius turned to see the staff officer beckoning to him. He hurried over and was all set to head inside the tent when the officer moved aside and Prefect Venator himself appeared. He gave Cassius the briefest of nods then turned towards the Palmyrans.
‘Good afternoon to you all,’ he said in immaculate Greek. ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting. Please come in out of the rain. There are some refreshments in here for you. My men will answer any immediate questions you have. I shall return presently.’
With a politician’s smile fixed on his face, Venator stood to one side while the Palmyrans filed into the tent. A young servant appeared next to him and began unfolding a large parasol. Venator waved it away.
‘I don’t need that.’
He turned to Cassius. ‘You have your horse?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘We shall take a ride.’
The prefect, Cassius decided, was a thoroughly impressive character. He was at least forty, undeniably handsome; and the incongruous combination of thick black eyebrows and soft white hair somehow reinforced his authoritative bearing. He carried no sword and wore a long red cloak fringed with gold.
Another servant trotted forward with a big, pale mare in tow. The first attendant got a box on to the ground just in time for the prefect to use it as a step. Venator climbed up on to the saddle, then turned and glared at Cassius.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Ah, sorry, sir.’
Simo brought Cassius’s horse over. By the time he had mounted up, the prefect was already on his way.
‘I’ll meet you here later, Simo,’ Cassius said. He guided his horse on to the road then urged it into a trot until he caught up with Venator.
The prefect looked him over. ‘They say you’re getting old when legionaries start to look young. It seems the same applies to grain men. Are you one of Abascantius’s?’
Cassius wasn’t sure what to say. It all depended on the prefect’s opinion of the agent. He doubted it would be particularly favourable.
‘Not exactly, sir. I report directly to Chief Pulcher.’
‘Do you now? Then I should be careful what I say.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ Cassius replied, trying to sound humble.
‘How is the old rogue? Still wearing those awful finger-rings?’
Cassius hesitated; he didn’t want to get caught in a lie.
‘I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve never actually met him. I’ve only been with the Service two years. I was transferred here from Cyzicus. I believe the idea was to use an investigator from outside the province.’
‘An investigator? And something to do with Gregorius. Are you about to make an already bad day worse?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. He, the men and the — shipment — haven’t been seen since they left here.’
One of Venator’s hands drifted from the reins and he began rubbing the back of his neck. They came to a crossroads. A tribune left a group of legionaries loading a cart and ran over to the prefect.
‘Sir, might I have a moment?’
‘Not now,’ replied Venator sharply. As the tribune sloped off, he guided his horse across the avenue.
‘Marcellinus knows?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
Venator let out a long breath.
Cassius hadn’t really thought about the prefect’s situation, but as part of Abascantius’s scheme, he might also expect to suffer the consequences if the banner couldn’t be found. Men of his rank typically used their command of a legion as a stepping stone to a senate career. A connection — any connection — to such a disaster might set his political ambitions back years.
The prefect brought his horse to a halt by another line of tents. There was no one close by.
‘What have you found out?’
‘Nothing yet, sir. Abascantius is returning to Antioch to see if he can make any progress there.’
‘He assumes the army has something to do with it, I expect.’
‘He made no suggestion of that to me, sir. I think he just wants to find the treasure and the flag.’
‘Oh, I’m sure of it. Marcellinus will have his balls on a skewer if he doesn’t sort this mess out. Mine too, come to think of it. And yours.’