The Emperor's Silver: Agent of Rome 5 Read Free Page B

last death throes of resistance in Palmyra. Cassius knew he might well be safe there from whoever had tried to capture him, but it wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.
    ‘You’ve done your share of investigative work,’ said Abascantius. ‘It would be good for you to get some varied experience.’
    ‘But that would be in the field, sir. You promised me six months sitting behind a desk.’
    Abascantius frowned. ‘Sitting? As in a sitting duck? With the army you’ll be on the move. Safe.’
    ‘With respect, sir, I’ve heard that before.’
    The door flew open and Vitalian burst in.
    ‘He’s here,’ said the tribune, hurrying over to his desk.
    ‘Who’s here?’ snapped Abascantius.
    ‘The marshal.’
    ‘What? He wasn’t due until tomorrow.’
    ‘He’s here. Just coming through the gate, apparently.’ Vitalian took his sword belt off a hook and examined it.
    ‘Ah, shit.’ Abascantius got up so quickly that he kneed the desk, tipping his plate on to the floor.
    ‘Double shit.’ The agent marched over to another row of hooks where his scarlet cloak and black-crested helmet hung.
    Cassius had put his own helmet on a barrel by the door. Fortunately Simo polished it every few days but he checked it anyway; his sword belt, scarlet tunic and boots too.
    ‘Corbulo.’ Abascantius waved him over and spoke in a low voice. ‘The marshal knows your name – because of the black stone. He might talk to you. If he does, answer directly. But do not say any more than you need to – about the Service, or about me. Marcellinus is no enemy of ours but he likes to stick his nose in, sometimes where it’s not needed or wanted. Keep it simple, understood?’
    ‘Understood.’

    The officers hastily gathered outside the headquarters. A legionary dispatched by Chief Nerva returned at a run. ‘Coming across the parade ground now, sir.’
    ‘Everyone get in line,’ ordered Nerva. As chief centurion of the fortress, the portly veteran was currently the senior officer in Bostra. He stood in front of the entrance, below the two flags hanging limply in the enervating heat. One was red and bore the familiar pair of eagles and the SPQR legend. Until a few minutes earlier, the other had been the emblem of the third Cyrenaican (a lion), but after a frantic search a clerk had located the personal standard of Marshal Gaius Marcellinus, Protector of the East and one of Aurelian’s most trusted men.
    Lined up to Chief Nerva’s right were five centurions, four tribunes (including Vitalian) and assorted junior officers, with Cassius and Abascantius stuck on the end. Cassius reckoned the arrangement offered a good metaphor for the position of the Service – out on a limb and well away from those who saw themselves as real soldiers. In fact, they were only there because it had taken Abascantius so long to brush all the dirt off his cloak.
    The agent offered Cassius his canteen.
    ‘No thank you.’ Though they were standing in the full glare of the midday Arabian sun, Cassius wasn’t about to share drinking equipment with his unhygienic superior. He checked his helmet was straight then put his arms by his side, trying to ignore the chilly streams of sweat running down his flanks.
    They heard the horses coming along the avenue and watched the marshal lead the way around the hospital building and towards them. His entourage was small: eight Praetorian Guardsmen and a dozen clerks and assistants. The Praetorians carried large rectangular shields, each decorated with three white scorpions, the image assigned to the Guard upon its formation under Tiberius.
    The marshal wore a lustrous purple cloak – triple dyed by the looks of it – and, as he rode closer, Cassius noted the same strong, compact frame he’d observed the previous year when Marcellinus had overseen the return of the Persian Banner. His fair hair was cropped short, his skin a deep brown. The golden muscle cuirass looked spectacular but his physique needed little