Rome the emperor s spy rome 1

About the Book Rome is burning Only one man can save it The Emperor: Nero, Emperor of Rome and all her provinces, feared by his subjects for his temper and cruelty, is in possession of an ancient document predicting that Rome will burn The Spy: Sebastos Pantera, assassin and spy for the Roman Legions, is ordered to stop the impending cataclysm He knows that if he does not, his life – and those of thousands of others – are in terrible danger The Chariot Boy: Math, a young charioteer, is a pawn drawn into the deadly game between the Emperor and the Spy, where death stalks the drivers – on the track and off it CONTENTS Cover About the Book Title Page Dedication Acknowledgements Map Epigraph Prologue I: Coriallum, Northern Gaul, Late Summer, AD 63 In the Reign of the Emperor Nero Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen II: Alexandria, Late Spring, AD 64 In the Reign of the Emperor Nero Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine III: Rome and Antium, 17–19 July, AD 64 Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-One Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Chapter Sixty-Four Chapter Sixty-Five Chapter Sixty-Six Chapter Sixty-Seven Chapter Sixty-Eight Epilogue Author’s Note Sources A Note From The Author The Last Roman In Britain About the Author Also by M.C Scott Copyright ROME THE EMPEROR’S SPY M.C Scott For Hannah, Bethany and Naomi, with love ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thanks, as ever, to the entire team at Transworld, particularly Bill Scott-Kerr for inspired support and for saying in meetings those things an author most wants to hear; to the editorial team, notably Deborah and Nancy; to Gavin for IT; to Patsy for stepping once more into the breach; and especially to my editor Selina Walker, for the skill, sensitivity and unswerving dedication with which she takes the raw ore of a first draft and hones it to the book I was trying to write Thanks also to my agent, Jane Judd, for calm, considered unconditional support, always; and to my partner, Faith, for being all that she is and for being there And last, thanks to Inca, who died as this novel was being put to bed: none of this would have happened without her century of the last legion armed only with the blades of their ancestors, and claimed the land back for their own They fought under a storm-sky, on bloody earth, and behind them, in the west, the fortress of the Second Legion was a black void haloed with scarlet; the fires that had been lit in the early morning were feeding on whole oak limbs now, and the summer storm had not the power to extinguish them Such a simple thing to end a siege; if he had known all it would take was a good, hot fire, Hywell would have lit it far sooner But then he was inclined to think that if he had lit it sooner, the men inside would have had the wit to reach buckets down into the southern sea below the cliffs that held their backs, and empty them onto the flames, leaving the wood to smoke in useless ruin It had taken this long; four months of warriors camped around the fort, just out of missile range, so that the defending legion had to rely on their well water, and their reducing rations to eat and drink It had taken the steady flow of message birds flying into the high lofts on the fort’s roof, telling of the defeat of the Ninth legion, the fall of Camulodunum and then Lugdunum, of Suetonius Paulinus’ failure to take the stronghold of Mona, sacred to the gods, of his decision to turn back and confront the Boudica’s warriors; of his long, slow drawn-out defeat as those warriors had harried and hunted his legions so that they could not march from one night camp to the next without losing men Later, reading the smokes of camp fires and hearing the skull drums and the victory horns of night encampments in the forests beyond their fort, they had learned of his final defeat When they killed and ate their cavalry horses, when the flow of deserters grew from a trickle to a river, and each one ready to tell him of the humiliation, the desperation, the waning discipline, of the few who held out for Nero to send reinforcements, of the greater mass who knew they had been abandoned – then Hwyell had known they were ripe for the picking And when the Boudica’s brother had sent down the Eagles of the Ninth, the Fourteenth and the Twentieth legions for him to set about the fort as proof that they were alone on this foreign soil, the last legion in Britain, then he had known the time was perfect He had ordered that the biggest of logs not be used for the fire, but dragged out onto the flat plain at the dark of the moon The remnants of the Second legion had sallied out through the main gates at dawn, when the ground was still dry and they could hold their ranks in good order Under the morning light, the great, hewn trunks lay in a haphazard pattern across the battlefield, giving cover to the waiting warriors Under Hywell’s watching gaze, the first three centuries had marched forward in good order, aiming for the oaks The leading ranks only discovered the ditches that had been dug ahead of the logs by falling into them, losing men to the stakes and loose boulders set beneath the latticework of willow and turf The centurions were seasoned men, used to acting in adversity They pulled their troops back and sent them forward again in narrow columns, testing the ground, in the course of which, they discovered that there was method in the chaotic patterns of the logs Thus they advanced in a long, winding snake – not line abreast, which was their strength Hywell’s warriors had waited and waited, and only when he had set the bull horn to his lips and sounded the note had the first hundred risen from behind the felled trees The battle had not been fast or clean; the legionaries of the Second legion had fought with the ferocity of men with nothing to lose, slashing out like cornered stags, calling on Jupiter, Mars and Mithras to help them to die with honour, and to kill as many as they might while doing it, but they were against warriors who had nursed their hatred for twenty years, who cared not if their lives were the cost of victory The men and women of the Dumnonii fought for the future of their children and the land under their feet They fought for their gods and their ancestors and their language They fought for their roundhouses and the chance once again to bear weapons in the open They fought with their hounds at their sides and their children at their backs and they were winning with such ease now because they had worked through the night to drag forward the trees on Hywell’s orders, for he had the best understanding of Rome and its legions Which was why he was lying here on the warm, wet earth with the stench of blood and entrails rolling over him in steaming waves And why the Boudica’s daughter had come to find him She turned to him now Her grey eyes rested on his face ‘Your warriors need no help,’ she said, ‘The Romans will all be dead by dusk.’ A shadow crossed his soul, stirred from a darkness he had not explored in all his time with the Dumnonii Her eyes saw all of him ‘You’re Gunovar’s father?’ she asked ‘Aerthen is her mother?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘And yes.’ Aerthen, love of his life, was on the battlefield The hardest part of his morning had been their parting He carried her scent in his nostrils, flavoured with sweet apple smoke from the first fire Gunovar was safe, away from the carnage His daughter was three years younger in her body and a thousand years younger in her soul than this child who had come to find him He said, ‘You are Graine, the dreamer.’ He did not say, You are Graine, the Boudica’s youngest daughter who was raped by an entire century of men and nearly died You are Graine, who held her mother as she died on the battlefield, leading the charge that broke the shield wall when the last three centuries of the Twentieth finally turned at bay It did not help to speak such things aloud, but she read them anyway, in his face ‘I am both of those,’ she said, nodding ‘My brother and my uncle are here now, waiting at the forest’s far edge They wish to speak with you.’ He made himself smile for this small, terrifying child ‘They wish to ask how best to find the lost Eagle of the Second?’ She smiled back, teasing, and raised a brow ‘Mostly.’ The storm ended as Hywell stepped out of the forest and into the Eceni camp The clouds cleared on the back of a freshening wind The stench of battle swept eastwards, leaving rain-cleaned air and the mellow autumn scents of forest, horse and hound It was not the whole of the Boudica’s army; most of them had gone now, to bring in a late harvest But a few hundred had gathered, bringing with them wagons of corn and hunting hounds, and had dug their own fire pits and latrines as if they were a Roman unit on scouting duty The Boudica’s brother, Valerius, had fought for twenty years for the legions before he came back to his people: his hand showed in everything Hywell counted the numbers of horses, of standards, planted in the earth, of men and women mending harness or hammering swords and it crossed his mind that if ever they wanted to assault Rome itself, this was the time to it Two men waited among the tethered horses on the camp’s margins The younger was blond and naked to the waist, with the marks of the bear- warriors on his back and arms His right ear was missing and his hair had been shaved back on both sides to show it Hywell did not kneel, but only because such things were not done here He said, ‘Son of the Boudica, the Dumnonii are honoured by your presence.’ It was safest to say these things; the bear-warriors of the Eceni were known from one land’s end to the other and their leaders were chosen by prowess, not by age or standing or lineage Legend said they could not be killed, and their presence on a battlefield assured victory Their trackers were said to take the guise of a bear and to move through a forest so silently that the grazing deer would not move out of their way The Boudica’s son was said to have crushed the Ninth legion single handed, and while that could not possibly be true every single report said that he went bear-mad in battle and was not entirely sane the rest of the time It was wise, therefore, to honour him The youth smiled, and was clearly Graine’s brother ‘We have come too late, it seems, to be of much assistance.’ Cunomar His name was Cunomar; Hound of the sea ‘You kept the Fourteenth and the Twentieth Legions from our backs while we held the siege,’ Hywell said ‘That was all that we needed We … owed a great deal to the Second It’s good to have been able to pay.’ ‘We need to look ahead, though.’ Cunomar wore a knife at each hip He drew one now and, knelt, smoothed the back of it across the mud to make a smooth plate and drew a circle with the tip thereon Beside it, separated by a hand’s breadth of mud, he drew another, smaller circle ‘This is us,’ he said, ‘Britain And this—’ His knife stabbed the larger circle, ‘is Gaul and the Germanies, with Rome behind them We’ve defeated the legions now But we have to keep them away How can we that when they have already crossed the water twice?’ Cunomar drew a few lines on the mud that became troopships under full sail When he looked up, his eyes were amber, not at all like his sister’s, but frank and open Hywell said, ‘Is it true that the bear warriors of the Eceni must fight a she-bear in her den before they are allowed to bear the scars in battle?’ ‘No.’ Cunomar shook his head ‘But it is useful to have the Romans think so Is it true that Hywell of the white scar can kill with the stealth of a hunting cat so that the enemy souls walk the earth, not knowing they have died? Is it true he knows more about Rome than the Romans, and that he can set traps that even the wiliest of centurions may not escape from?’ ‘No,’ Hywell said, ‘but it is useful to have the warriors think so.’ ‘So!’ Cunomar rose, grinning, and took a step back ‘They said you were clever It’s good to know that much at least was right So, with your cleverness and your knowledge of Rome, what would you to stop the Emperor from attacking us afresh next year, or the year after?’ ‘I would change the Emperor for someone who understood the foolishness of such an act,’ Hywell suggested, and waited for them to laugh at him Nobody did ‘How very strange,’ Cunomar said, softly ‘That’s exactly what Valerius said.’ The Boudica’s son looked to his left, where stood the man whom Hywell had been avoiding since he stepped out of the forest This man was taller, leaner, older, and altogether less open than his companion A black and white colt stood behind him, resting one hind leg He leaned on its haunch with his arms folded across his chest His eyes were black, and if the girlchild’s grey gaze had troubled Hywell’s soul with its touch, under this man’s look, his soul burned bright as the fires around the fortress Valerius, the Boudica’s brother, had served half his life in the Roman Auxilliary Once, he had been a Lion in the service of Mithras In Camulodunum one summer when Britain had seemed at peace, this man had acted in rites for the god, bringing novices to an underground temple where they knelt in darkness for the brand, and through the pain, came to know the light It had been dark in the temple There had been forty novices, and the Lion had been masked It was one rite in dozens, maybe hundreds, he had conducted over ten years It was possible, therefore, that he might not recognise one of his initiates if that man was wearing different dress and speaking a different language than the one he spoke now Hywell, who had not always been Hywell, prayed that it was so ‘How did the Boudica’s brother imagine he might achieve the change of an Emperor?’ he asked ‘I had hoped to ask you.’ Valerius said, ‘Will you walk with us? I believe the fortress of the Second is safe now, for such as we three to enter.’ The fortress of the Second lay with its back to the sea Cliffs held its southern and western borders with the bowl of the battlefield stretched to north and east It was quiet now, all fighting done Children moved across the bloodied turf, stripping the dead Warriors made fires at the edges and honed their weapons out of habit, more than need If a new legion came at Nero’s behest, it would have to land somewhere safe, and this coast was not that Valerius said, ‘We’ve set watchfires all along the coast If a galley tries to land, we’ll know before the first horses hit the water.’ ‘Was I thinking aloud?’ Hywell asked ‘No But you were looking at your wife and your concern was clear.’ Hywell waved Aerthen waved back and, after her, Gunovar, three years old now, light of his days and his nights He wanted to be with them He made signals that he would join them presently and hoped that it was true The two fires either side of the entrance gate to the Fortress had been quenched, which made it possible to enter Inside, dead men leaked blood and urine and gut-spill onto the earth Each wound told a story, each starved body a lifetime’s tales The stench of ordure and old sweat told of the months under siege ‘There’s no wood,’ Valerius said, turning to look ‘They’ve burned everything they could take without actually dismantling the fortifications I wonder what they cooked?’ ‘Their horses,’ Hywell said ‘Some of them defected They told us.’ ‘Did you kill them?’ ‘Of course They knew we would, but it was a faster, more honourable death than if they’d stayed in here and died of hunger.’ The fortress was twenty years old and had been built, layer on layer, like an onion The outer wall was hollow, containing rooms on three floors Within it were barracks, stables, feed rooms, harness rooms, workshops, the central headquarters, with parade grounds on three sides, and a locked room on the fourth for legionary pay Its doors were barred and locked In silence, Valerius and Hywell lifted the bars and stood back to let Cunomar kick in the doors Inside, eight chests gaped open, wide as a dead man’s breath Every other piece of wood in the room had been torn up to use as firewood Hywell said, ‘Where’s the gold? They haven’t left this place in three months so they haven’t spent it.’ ‘Buried?’ Cunomar offered ‘With the Eagle?’ ‘Or in the officer’s rooms,’ said Valerius ‘We must at least look.’ It took longer to break open the doors to the headquarters, and they had to use a broken sword as a lever Inside was empty and dry The echoes of men’s prayers hugged the corners, causing the shadows to move The standards of the centuries were there, and the genius of Nero, stacked in a corner ‘No Eagle,’ Cunomar said Valerius caught Hywell’s arm ‘Where would you put it, if you had to hide the thing you valued most?’ ‘It wouldn’t be in here,’ Hywell said Valerius turned on his heel ‘If I were under siege here, in this fort – and I might have been if things had been different – I would put the Eagle in the Mithraeum if I wanted to hide it But if I were alive, and wanted to keep it at all costs from the enemy I would—’ ‘The battlements!’ Hywell was already running ‘I’d take it up to the battlements and, if someone came, I’d throw myself into the sea.’ At the foot of the stairwell, a cluster of dead warriors waited for someone to take them away Further up, beyond the open door, a tighter knot of legionaries lay in their armour, still warm Cunomar reached them first He was rising as Hywell came up, wiping his knife on a dead man’s cloak One of the fallen had a newly opened throat *** ‘Stop!’ Valerius called out in Latin while Hywell and Cunomar were still on the steps In Latin ‘Don’t leap There is no need We will send you to Nero with your Eagle.’ ‘Will we?’ Cunomar asked, as they stepped up the last few wooden steps onto the high battlements of the fortress, where they looked over the sea Hywell looked down He had never felt safe at great height The waves dashing to their deaths on the rocks below looked tiny, no bigger than a child’s finger, when in life they were the height of a bull He stepped back from the edge and looked elsewhere Valerius was standing just in from the stair head Opposite him, the Prefect of the Second legion, stood with one knee on the battlements ‘One step closer and I’ll go,’ he said ‘You can go if you wish,’ said Cunomar, in perfect Latin, ‘But we just offered you your life, your Eagle and a safe conduct to the Gaulish coast Might you not wish to ask my uncle his reasons for offering that?’ He leaned his back against the grey stone that looked down over the sea and folded his arms In the language of the Eceni, he said to Valerius, ‘What you plan?’ Possibly it was the language that pushed the Prefect, or simply that the Prefect could not face returning to Rome as the last of his legion Whichever, he spoke his last word to his god and, in that same breath, abandoned the battlement and threw himself on his upended sword ‘No!’ Three men said it, in three languages Cunomar reached the Prefect first and slid his own knife up, into the man’s heart Death came faster like that than the ragged, imperfect sword wound that had opened the liver, but not his chest They were quiet after Valerius sat a while, holding the dead man’s hand with his eyes closed, his lips moving in a prayer to Mithras that Hywell knew without hearing the words Cunomar bit his lip and looked down at the crashing sea below; the Eagle was already gone beyond reach and the coast was too treacherous for swimmers to try for it Hywell moved away, softly, to the small stone hut set back from the battlements where the message birds were kept He was not one of those who could see a spirit leave this life and move to the next, but he knew when it was happening, and the closeness of this, the intensity, brought him to a decision ‘The Prefect was not only here to throw the Eagle out of our reach, he was trying to send a message-dove to Rome,’ he said, presently With the other two watching, he reached for the pouch at the dead man’s belt and lifted from it the small quill and the block of ink and the tiny cylinders that were the tools of his trade ‘There are three birds left in the loft,’ he said ‘Two are pied black and white, from the Emperor’s dovecote One is the colour of red sandstone That one goes to the spymaster, Seneca.’ ‘Seneca?’ Valerius’ gaze met Cunomar’s over Hywell’s shoulder ‘I thought you might know how he could be reached.’ Cunomar smiled, and shrugged, as one who had just lost a substantial wager His amber gaze studied Hywell with a fresh intensity ‘So if we wished to send a message to Rome, who should we send it to, and what should it say?’ To the Emperor Nero from the Boudica: greetings Your legions are defeated Britannia is no longer a province of Rome We hold the Eagles of the Second, Ninth, Fourteenth and Twentieth legions Do not attempt their rescue unless you wish to lose more Hywell released the pied dove It rose fast, startled by the unfamiliar touch and turned south across the water Its wings clapped a staccato tattoo and it was gone, fast as an arrow Valerius held out the fine-pared quill to Hywell ‘I have written to Nero Would you care to write to your spy-master?’ Hywell looked at his feet, at the sea, at the two men, armed, waiting He thought of Aerthen, and Graine and how much he wanted to live He thought of running, and unthought it; the bear-warriors of the Eceni were the best runners in the land and Cunomar led them: he was best of the best He said, ‘How did you know?’ ‘I branded you for Mithras Did you think I would forget?’ ‘I had prayed that you would.’ ‘I might have done, but then I burned the brand away less than six months after it was done, so that you could join the tribes, as if you were one of them It was dark then, and you were looking away Did you know it was me?’ Hywell closed his eyes ‘No.’ ‘Pain does that, sometimes,’ Valerius said ‘It robs a man of knowledge he might need And it was dark.’ ‘Am I to die?’ ‘You might if one of you doesn’t tell me exactly what has just happened,’ Cunomar said, from his other side ‘Who is this man?’ ‘I knew him as the Leopard,’ Valerius said ‘He was one of Seneca’s foremost agents, sent to spy on the southwestern tribes He lived with us in Camulodunum for six months, learning the languages of Britain In that time, he came to follow Mithras, but we had to burn the brand away when he left us.’ He turned to Hywell In Latin, he said, ‘What did you tell the Dumnonii when they found you?’ In the language of Britain, Hywell answered, ‘That I had been held down by four Roman cavalrymen and a fifth had poured fire on my chest It is always best to tell the truth.’ Cunomar blinked ‘You’re Roman?’ Hywell shrugged It was easier now that the truth was out to look him in the eye ‘My father was an archer in Judea, my mother was a Gaulish slave I don’t have Roman citizenship, but I spied for years for Rome So yes, in terms of your question, I was Roman.’ ‘And now you are a Dumnoni warrior,’ Valerius said, helpfully, against Cunomar’s amber glare ‘I am I have a Dumnoni wife and a daughter who knows me as her Dumnoni father When the revolt began, I could have walked into the fortress and told the Legate of the Second everything I knew I did not When Paulinus marched his men south and your scouts were following him, sending word to us, I could have told them what was happening and the legionaries of the Second could have marched out to meet him: he might not have lost his last two centuries then I did not I am Hywell of the white scar The Leopard is gone.’ ‘But will you write to Seneca now? Will you tell him what he needs to know to help him become Emperor?’ He could have wept, for relief, for joy greater than any the god had brought him In this company, it would have been acceptable He bit his lip and shook his head, and found words that said enough ‘I will try.’ To the spymaster Seneca, from the Leopard, greetings Britain is lost Your wealth is not The Eceni have no use for gold, except to give it to the gods Of the twenty-six million sestertii you lost here, eight tenths might be returned to you – if you provide the means If, in addition, you undertake that Rome shall never again send her legions against us, trade might resume to the benefit of both Britain and Rome ‘Is that it?’ Cunomar was reading the first unencoded draft Hywell wrapped the second in a cylinder of ivory and bound it to the leg of a bird the muted red of soft sandstone ‘You haven’t said he should make himself Emperor.’ ‘If I did and someone else read it, Seneca would die But only the Emperor can give an undertaking not to send the legions anywhere Seneca knows that and he knows that I know it And with twenty million sesterces in his hand, with Nero facing the loss of four legions, he can take the throne If I were a betting man, I’d say Nero will be dead by his own hand before the winter.’ ‘You said that Seneca should not send his legions against “us” Will he know now, that you are … not who you were?’ ‘That is the first thing he will know, and the most dangerous He thought of himself as my father It will not be an easy loss.’ The rock-red message-dove winked one ice-blue eye Hywell held it a moment more, counting the heartbeats against his fingers, before he raised both his hands and opened them, letting it go ‘What now?’ he said to Valerius ‘We won’t have an answer this side of the full moon Maybe not next.’ ‘Now we must gather the warriors and march again Cogidubnos holds the lands of the Belgae east of here, where the legions first landed He was reared in Rome He thinks of himself as Roman There was a time when Britain was big enough for those who loved Rome and those who hated her and those who simply didn’t care, but that time is over; his people need a new ruler To a similar end, Ardacos has gone north with half a thousand warriors, to rid us of Cartimandua who was Rome’s whore in the north We shall the same in the south.’ ‘I’ll come with you,’ Hywell said, ‘If I may?’ ‘You would be welcome But should someone not stay here and wait for a dove to return with Seneca’s answer?’ ‘Seneca is Rome’s spymaster If it matters to him, he’ll get us word We don’t have to stay here waiting.’ From the Emperor Seneca to his son, the Leopard, Greetings A ship named The Sun Horse has lately sailed from Gaul to Mona bearing the father of the bear If that same ship were to return with an investment, we would have an accord There is much that could be traded to our advantage, and Rome does not need to extend her northern boundaries if those boundaries are not themselves under threat ‘The father of the bear?’ Hywell stood alone with Valerius on the southern shore, at a place where an island of white cliffs lay within site of the headland The last warmth of summer lifted up off the sea Cormorants fished from the rocks below Gulls mewed overhead The late autumn air smelled of frost, and life, and hope Valerius said, ‘Cunomar’s father His name is Caradoc Cartimandua betrayed him to Rome He escaped death, but he was injured and chose not to return to the warriors less than whole He has been sheltering in Gaul ever since A man named Luain mac Calma took ship to bring him home as soon as we knew the land was secure.’ He took Hywell’s note and read it again ‘If those boundaries are not themselves under threat Will Seneca keep the peace if we keep it?’ ‘As long as he can levy taxes on trade, he will keep the peace It’s not in his interests to wage expensive wars.’ ‘What if Gaul and the Belgae see Britain free and seek the same for themselves?’ ‘Seneca needs to be well rooted in his power before he can give up land If Gaul would have her freedom, she would well to wait – ah, I think the bear himself has found his prey.’ There, in the red-blood sunset, stood Cunomar, with his spear held aloft At its top, lolled a human head, with fresh wounds to the crown ‘Cogidubnos is dead.’ Hywell said it to hear it spoken, rather than because there was doubt ‘After Cartimandua’s death, he called himself the last Roman in Britain.’ ‘But he didn’t know us.’ Valerius looked south, across the water, to the white island ‘What was your name, before you were the Leopard?’ ‘My given name was Sebastos Abdes Pantera But that man died in the forests of the west Now, I am Hywell of the white scar, father to Gunovar of the Dumnonii, who will grow to be a warrior one day, in a roundhouse kept safe by her mother’s people So that leaves you,’ Hywell faced him ‘You were Bán, brother to the Boudica long before you were Valerius.’ ‘But it was as Valerius that I lived and saw the Boudica die and it is as Valerius that I shall remain There needs to be one Roman left alive in Britain, to speak with the spy-master who will be Emperor, and whoever comes after him As long as the legions stay away from these shores, I am happy to be that man.’ Valerius turned, shading his eyes against the low Western sun ‘Shall we go now, to join the warriors? They will want to celebrate the news that our island is ours once again About the Author Manda Scott was a veterinary surgeon and taught at the Universities of Cambridge and Dublin before taking up writing as a full time profession Now founder and Chair of the Historical Writers’ Association, her novels have been shortlisted for the Orange Prize, nominated for an Edgar Award and translated into over twenty languages In addition to the bestselling Boudica series, she is the author of an acclaimed sequence of Roman novels featuring the Emperor’s Spy, Pantera For more information on her work, please visit: www.mcscott.co.uk Also by M.C Scott HEN’S TEETH NIGHT MARES STRONGER THAN DEATH NO GOOD DEED BOUDICA: DREAMING THE EAGLE BOUDICA: DREAMING THE BULL BOUDICA: DREAMING THE HOUND BOUDICA: DREAMING THE SERPENT SPEAR THE CRYSTAL SKULL ROME: THE COMING OF THE KING TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA A Random House Group Company www.transworldbooks.co.uk ROME: THE EMPEROR’S SPY A BANTAM BOOK: 9780553817676 Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781407093635 First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers Bantam edition published 2011 Copyright © M.C Scott 2010 Map copyright © Tom Coulson at Encompass Graphics M.C Scott has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk The Random House Group Ltd Reg No 954009 ... almost-silver across the stained oak boards Two ingots slid noiseless into the sea, too heavy to splash The merchant whose crate it was screamed as if the stevedores had stabbed him The slight, slouch-shouldered... that Rome will burn The Spy: Sebastos Pantera, assassin and spy for the Roman Legions, is ordered to stop the impending cataclysm He knows that if he does not, his life – and those of thousands... governor s retinue, sent with the endless quartermaster s lists, of weapons, corn, hides, horses, men, hounds and slaves, and most particularly of the taxes with which Roman officialdom was obsessed