Free The Sword of Damascus by Richard Blake Page A

We’ll have no trouble here.’
    From his accent and his faintly Germanic appearance, I guessed he was a local man. He was also very young. If he was twenty, I’d have been surprised. This had its advantages. A sharp little Greek seconded from somewhere that mattered might have been more sceptical. The hall of audience had been piled high with smashed furniture, so I was being received in the man’s office. I pointed at the water jug and sat myself unbidden on the other side of his desk. A dark slave looked at the Prefect. There was a moment of uncertainty. Then he nodded. I drained the cup and put my hands together on the stained wood.
    ‘I am on a mission from the Emperor himself,’ I opened. ‘It brooks no delay.’ I stared into the man’s confused face. Keeping a strongly Greek accent, I switched into Latin and repeated myself. ‘I think you have the Captain of my ship. If so, I need him back at once.’ While the Prefect took this in, I glanced about the room. Plaster had come off the upper reaches of the wall behind him, showing the remains of a mosaic. Over on my left was a filing rack that contained perhaps a dozen dust-covered circular letters. With a little shock, I found myself looking at the icon of the Emperor. This wasn’t in its proper place on an easel beside him. It was instead propped against the far wall.
    So, Constantine is out! I thought. Imperial images are never true to life, and the face that looked stiffly back at me might have been of almost anyone. But it wasn’t of Constantine: I’d commissioned that portrait myself. Most likely, this one was of his boy, Justinian. He must now be only seventeen, I calculated. Still, he was no fool. More to the point, unless all his tutors had been changed after my fall, he’d not be so hostile as his father had been to finishing off the old nobility and handing out their land to the people who actually defended the Empire.
    ‘The Augustus Justinian is not a man who tolerates interference in his business,’ I said with more confidence. ‘You have held me up outside your harbour for an entire day. Do therefore release my men and ensure that we have the supplies needed for an immediate departure.’
    The Prefect glanced uncertainly at his secretary, who pulled a face and shrugged. I didn’t like the look of him. He was probably a Greek. Though not bloated, he might have been a eunuch. His face streamed suspicion. There was a long silence as they looked at each other. While I drank again, the secretary scribbled a note and brushed it in front of the Prefect. He read it and sat in silence a while longer.
    ‘Your orders,’ he said eventually. ‘I shall need to see your orders.’ I could feel the tremor going out of my hands. Whatever else he’d been made to say, at least Edward hadn’t shared anything material in Cartenna.
    ‘My orders are here,’ I said haughtily, tapping my head. ‘Your orders are to follow my instructions without further question.’
    There was another long silence. I sat placidly while the Prefect stared at nothing in particular and his secretary scratched away at another note.
    ‘Your name at any rate,’ he stammered.
    ‘There is no need for you to know that,’ I said. I had turned over various possibilities. Leontius of Smyrna had seemed a good idea before I’d seen the Imperial icon. But when a new emperor comes in, you never know what names might have found their way on to the list of the purged. I’d been out of things too long. Who could tell if some Leontius wasn’t on the list that would have been transmitted to every provincial authority? I glanced again at the filing rack. If any of those circular letters had been consulted in a year, I’d have been surprised. I looked up at the tatty, smoke-darkened ceiling. I gave a bored yawn and looked at my fingernails. I’d forgotten how shameful they were and put my hands hurriedly down.
    ‘Look, my dear young fellow,’ I drawled, ‘there really are just two