‘There,’ cried Simo, nodding at the thick timbers that supported the jetty.
Cassius could move now. Between them, he and Simo manoeuvred Indavara over to the nearest support. They propped him against it, then wrapped their legs around the wood. The three of them just hung there, recovering.
After a time, Indavara’s eyes opened. He stared blankly forward, his breaths coming in convulsive gasps. Simo smacked him on the back a couple of times to clear all the water out. The bodyguard couldn’t even keep his grip on the support. Cassius and Simo put their arms under him to keep him out of the water and he laid his head against the wood.
Cassius had no idea how long they stayed there. At some point he realised he could hear the slaves, still shouting to each other in their own language. And once he turned towards the ship, he thought of Scaurus and the barrels; and the imperial banner. He had to know.
‘You all right, sir?’ Simo asked. A thick clump of weed lay across his forehead.
‘I will be,’ replied Cassius. He turned to Indavara. ‘Can you move?’
Indavara nodded.
Again they took one of his arms each, and swam to the bank. They hauled themselves up through thick, clinging mud until they were above the level of the jetty. Then they collapsed on to a bed of reeds and lay out on their backs for a moment, eyes shut against the sun.
‘By the great gods,’ breathed Cassius. ‘To think I used to love swimming. After today and yesterday, I don’t ever want to leave dry land.’
‘Me neither,’ spluttered Indavara.
It was the first thing he’d said; and Cassius and Simo laughed long and hard, mostly out of relief.
Indavara turned on his front and continued to spit out water. He looked as if the river had washed all the colour out of his face.
‘Can you take this off?’ he said.
Simo crawled over to him and, after several attempts, managed to wrench the mail-shirt off over his head.
‘Thank you,’ said Indavara. ‘Both of you.’
Cassius dragged himself to his feet. ‘Our pleasure. Come, you two, I hope to show you what this terrible affair has been all about.’
Walking along the jetty, they could still see some of the sailors — now all running back towards Antioch. A glance along the northern side of the river confirmed why they were leaving at such a pace. About half a mile away, a column of horsemen with a standard-bearer leading the way were riding along the towpath.
‘About time,’ said Cassius. ‘I wonder who they are.’
‘Marshal Marcellinus’s men probably,’ suggested Simo. ‘Shostra was to take a message to him.’
‘Better late than never, I suppose.’
They made their way back out along the barge — Indavara taking special care — and on to the galley. The slaves were still babbling away to each other below.
They passed Indavara’s first victim. The bodyguard went to recover the sword, and was barely able to summon the strength to dislodge the blade.
Cassius retrieved Scaurus’s knife from the deck and tried not to look at the second fallen mercenary.
‘Careful,’ he said as he led the way down the hatch. ‘This could be dangerous.’
Lying next to the still motionless form of Scaurus was the overseer. The slaves had somehow overcome him but were all still shackled. One man was stretching for the key on the overseer’s belt as Cassius came down the last step.
‘We should free them,’ Indavara said.
‘Why?’ Cassius asked.
‘Look at them. What life is this for a man?’
‘The life of a galley slave.’
Indavara looked again at the Africans; and when Cassius saw the expression on his face, he lost interest in arguing about it. He took the key off the overseer’s belt and passed it to him.
‘All right, Spartacus, do as you wish. But tell them to head for the south side of the river or the legionaries will round them up. And don’t blame me if they turn on you.’
Cassius checked Scaurus and the overseer. They were both still breathing. He found Scaurus’s key in a bag on his belt.
The slaves strained at their chains, trying to get close to Indavara.
Cassius pointed at the two unconscious men. ‘Drag them out of the way, Simo.’
He hurried past the slaves and down the steps to the forward hold. He unlocked the door and went inside. Using Scaurus’s knife, he set about taking the lids off the barrels. As he worked he heard the cries of the slaves; then Indavara and Simo trying to talk to them; then their footsteps as they hurried up the stairs, across the deck and on to the barge.
He had opened nine of the barrels — scooping aside the old coins to see what was underneath — before he came to one that didn’t contain either silver, gold or jewellery.
The flag had been rolled up and stuffed into the barrel. Cassius pulled it out and spread it across the floor. The gems had been removed and the purple had faded, but he recognised the star in the middle and the swirling patterns of golden thread from the sketch Abascantius had given him. He smiled as he ran his hands across it.
‘Now I understand,’ said Indavara as he walked into the hold and gazed down at the barrels. He picked up one silver ingot and one gold and weighed them in his hands. Then he glanced quizzically at the imperial banner.
‘What’s that old thing?’
‘Just a flag.’
‘Worth anything?’
Cassius nodded. ‘Priceless.’
XXXVII
The old man could barely walk. Despite the attendants either side of him — each with a hand on an elbow — every step seemed to require a huge effort. His head was bent so far forward that his chin touched his chest, and the parched skin of his hairless head was marked by liver spots and freckles. His pale robes reached down only as far as the knees of his gnarled, nut-brown legs.
Coming to a stop by the table, he rested his hands on the edge and took a few breaths. The attendants moved aside. He raised his head a little and looked around. There were no pupils in his eyes: they were milky white.
Sliding a bony hand across the table, he grabbed a handful of cloth and dragged the flag towards him. He ran his fingers down one side, then let his hands wander over the material. He traced the patterns of the thread, the faces of the recently restored gems.
Ten paces behind him, the small Persian delegation looked on: four middle-aged ministers in modest robes and — standing slightly ahead of them, looking over the old man’s shoulder — the young Emperor himself, Hormizd Ardashir. The delegation’s presence in Antioch was a secret so he had forgone regal apparel, and wore only a dark cloak over his tunic; yet he somehow still projected the composed confidence of a man born to power. He was tall and slender, and his sleek black hair hung far below his shoulders.
On the other side of the table were the Romans. They too were dressed in normal attire, with only Governor Gordio in a toga. He glanced nervously at the imposing figure next to him. With his cropped brown hair, bronzed skin and compact physique, Marshall Marcellinus looked every inch the man of action. Only the purple edging on his tunic hinted at his status as Aurelian’s second-in-command.
To his left were General Ulpian, and the slight, rather incongruous figure of Procurator Octobrianus. Both men looked on anxiously. Magistrate Quarto completed the party, hands clasped together over his stomach as he peered down at the old Persian. The only other men in the meeting chamber were five Persian soldiers, eight Praetorian guardsmen, and one African bodyguard.
The old man seemed to have checked every last inch of the flag. He laid it flat on the table; pushing down each fold, straightening each edge. Then he turned round and nodded.
Hormizd smiled. Marcellinus started clapping. The rest of the party joined in; and then Marcellinus and Gordio came forward to talk with the Persian Emperor and his ministers. At a click of the fingers from Octobrianus, two clerks came trotting in carrying a leather case and writing equipment.