by Nhys Glover
I tried my voice again, speaking Greek, just in case this was an island in the Aegean. The boy’s thick black brows rose, as if recognising the language. He spoke again in his rapid babble and motioned for me to follow him. The dog yapped noisily at his side, agreeing excitedly that I should go with them.
Once more, I began my shambling steps forward. My whole body felt like pulverised meat. It surprised me that none of my bones seemed to have been broken, though from the feel of it, my ribs were bruised and maybe even cracked. It was difficult to draw breath into my lungs without pain casting me to my knees.
Even though my body complained bitterly, I kept putting one foot in front of the other. The boy and dog kept running ahead and then doubling back, as if impatient for me to keep up.
We left the beach and followed a sandy trail up an olive-green verge. There were no trees here, nothing but stunted bushes, but from the sound coming from those bushes there was plentiful wildlife. If I had a bow I might shoot myself a meal...
The weather beaten shack appeared over the rise. Assured I could now journey the rest of the way myself, the boy took off for the hut, calling to whoever lived there.
An ancient hag appeared at the door and lifted her hand to her brow, trying to see me more clearly. Dawn had come and gone, and the sun rose steadily, as did the temperature. My tattered tunic was dry and caked with salt. My sandals rough and rasping on my skin. It amazed me they hadn’t been torn off during my ordeal.
What about my documents? My gold? I felt for the pouch at my neck and sighed with relief when I found it. The gold weighed heavy on the leather cord.
We had decided to divide the wealth between us. And, for safety’s sake, both myself and Asterius had letters of introduction to the priests of the temples at Antiochia and Tyrus. If we needed more money we could get it.
The boy was gabbling at the ancient woman and she was nodding. When I finally staggered up to her, she spoke to me in Greek.
“You were lost at sea, stranger?”
I nodded, rubbing at my stiff brow and dislodging some of the salt.
“Wh...Where am I?” I said in my reasonable Greek. Of all my second languages, Greek was my best.
“Just north of Tripolis.”
When I shook my head in ignorance she went on. “Tyrus is several days to the south.”
Tyrus? I breathed my first breath of free air. I was on the Syrian coast. I was not too far off track. Using my foggy brain, I tried to remember the map the Master had given us. I no longer had it, if I’d had it at all. I couldn’t remember who had taken it. My memory was still too patchy. Blows to the head could do that to you, I knew too well from experience.
Scrunching my eyes, I tried to call up the details of the map. Seleukeia Pieria was to the north and Antiochia not far inland from there. At the other end of Syria was Tyrus. Was this Tripolis half way down the coast between them? I thought it might have been.
“You need food and water. Come inside. You look ready to fall flat on your pretty face.” The crone spoke with sharp, precise words, her voice scratchy with age, but I thought I saw softness in her rheumy eyes.
I let her lead me inside the small, musty hovel.
Before my legs gave way under me, I dropped to the sandy floor. A fire burned in the grate, a blackened caldron hung over it. The smell coming from it had my belly grumbling. It smelled like spiced fish.
The crone handed me a wooden cup she had filled with water, and I drank it down quickly, holding it out for more when I’d finished the last gulp.
She shook her head.
“Let that settle for a few moments. You will bring it back up if you are too greedy.”
Chastised and grateful for her warning, I sat back and waited for more. My belly growled again so loudly that the boy pointed at it and laughed.
I grinned sheepishly at him, rubbed at my belly and rolled my eyes. The boy laughed again. All the while the crone watched us with a speculative gleam in her eyes.
She finally handed me another cup of water, which I drank more slowly this time. The last thing I wanted was to waste the precious substance by vomiting it up.
When it was almost gone, the crone handed me a wooden bowl filled with the fish stew. It was chunky and rich, seasoned with wild onions and spices from the east. It tasted better than any food I could remember eating in the last few years.
After devouring the whole bowlful, I sat back as if replete. I wasn’t. Nowhere near it. But I couldn’t take too much of this woman’s small supply of food. These were not rich people, and spices were expensive. It amazed me they could afford them at all.
Even so, the crone went to refill my bowl.
I shook my head. “No, no. You cannot afford to share more with me. It will be enough.”
She tutted and filled the bowl. “We do well enough, my grandson and me. My youngest daughter lives in the village and her husband is wealthy. She makes sure we are well supplied.”
Reluctantly, I took the bowl. Hospitality was a difficult thing to negotiate. A poor man might give the last of his food to a guest out of pride. If it was refused he would be insulted. The last thing I wanted to do was insult this kind, old woman and her talkative grandson. I needed their help.
So I ate the second bowl, enjoying it even more than the first. It filled all the empty places in my gut and warmed me for the first time since the storm hit. How long ago was that? I had no idea.
“I need your help,” I said when the stew was finally gone. “My wife was stolen away by Parthians, and I was trying to follow them. A storm hit the ship I was on, and I was washed overboard. I must get to Antiochia or Tyrus so I can catch up with her before they take her out of imperial territory.”
“You are from the north. How would a Parthian meet your wife?” she asked suspiciously.
“I am a freedman, a trader. We live in Rome. Or we did before the fire. The Parthian is a merchant who took a fancy to my young wife. He stole her away in the night.”
“How do you know your wife did not go of her own free will? You are pretty, but maybe he is rich. A woman can choose with her head instead of her heart, you know.” The woman sounded as if she spoke from personal experience.
“He was old, ugly and no richer than me. My wife loves me. She would never have left me.” I put all my love into my words, picturing Accalia being carried away by some bastard. She wouldn’t cry, our little she-wolf. She’d fight until she was exhausted. Then she’d plan. I just had to hope that I reached her before she put some harebrained scheme into play, and I lost her for good.
What of my brothers? Maybe I should be looking for them first. But no, I had no time to waste. If they survived the storm they would be heading for Parthia, as I was. Either they would find her or I would. It was only a matter of who reached her first.
If they had survived the storm... An aching pain started up in my chest. The idea that the ship had sunk and taken my pack-mates with it was something I couldn’t allow myself to consider. Caring was a weakness. It made me vulnerable. If I was to find Accalia and bring her home safely, I couldn’t afford to feel anything but determination.
“I need to go south to Tyrus. Can you help me?” I asked again, more firmly this time.
The hag considered my words for a moment before slowly shaking her head. My heart sank.
“No, not to Tyrus. If you mean to go to Parthia you are better off going over the pass to Emisa and then on to Palmyra. Palmyra is a major caravan city that your Parthian kidnapper will have to pass through if he wants to get his prize home fast. Crossing the desert is a shortcut. Palmyra is the first major stop after Antiochia.”
I nodded, my heart lifting. Could I have found a short-cut? Had the gods presented me with what seemed to be a misfortune, only to have it turn out to be an advantage instead?
But it would only remain an advantage if I could get to this Palmyra before the Parthians.
“Do you know someone who could get me to Palmyra? I can pay them well.”
> The old crone considered my request a little longer than seemed necessary. Eventually, she nodded. “My daughter’s husband is wealthy because he is a trader. He uses the pass to bring his goods to the coast faster than if they went either to Tyrus or Antiochia. It is not a path large caravans could follow. But it is just right for him.”
She paused to consider a little more. Then her grey head nodded sagely. “Yes, I think it would work. My son-in-law should be heading that way in the next few days. Or his small train of pack-mules will be. They get as far as Emisa and then the goods are transferred onto camels that join the first caravan heading east. The desert around Palmyra is fierce, even in winter.”
“Are there bandits?” I asked, calculating my worth to this merchant.
The crone cackled. “There are bandits everywhere. Why do you ask? Are you afraid?” She eyed me with calculation in her eyes. “You do not look the kind of man who is afraid of much.”
I nodded, pleased with her assessment of me. “I am not afraid. I just thought my skills might be of use to your son-in-law, if he has trouble with robbers. I am a fair hand with both a bow and sword.”
She grinned then, showing blackened stumps of teeth. “Now that is something my son-in-law will value as much as your gold. Go out to the well and wash yourself. I might have a robe that may fit you. My husband’s. It will be short. But it might do. I will send my grandson to town to inform my daughter of your willingness to assist her husband.”
I nodded with more enthusiasm than I’d felt in a long time. This was coming together better than I would have expected.
By the next day I was taking up my journey yet again. The crone had seen to my wounds so they would not putrefy, and I wore a clean robe with a hood that protected my face from the sun.
The hood also helped disguise my unusual colouring. If I was to move covertly through this new territory of dark-haired and olive-skinned people, I would need to find a way to blend in. My skin and hair were too distinctive.
I would need to get a better disguise than just a hood. I had planned to do just that when I reached Antiochia. There wasn’t much I could do about my blue eyes, but the rest should be possible to hide.
There were ten mules in the small caravan that headed north and then east through the gap between the two mountain ranges. We followed the path of a small river which allowed us a plentiful supply of water for both man and beast. Each of the five men on horseback led two pack animals. Travelling was slow, the beasts never moving faster than a walk. Though my impatience had me wanting to push forward faster, sense kept me in place. My gaze constantly roamed over the mountains on either side of the track.
While we travelled, I garnered as much information about the territory I was entering as I could get from the only man in the caravan who could speak Greek. None spoke Latin, but one man had a sprinkling of Parthian. So, for the interminable hours we walked our beasts, I picked all I could from the minds of my fellow travellers.
I hadn’t been allowed to join the trek without showing my skills. The bow and arrows I was given were rough and clumsy to use, but I managed to shoot the target bale of wool well enough to prove my usefulness to them.
“You stand out too much,” my Greek speaking friend said on the third day of the journey. He was the cousin of the rich son-in-law the old crone had mentioned and in charge of this little caravan. He was intelligent and experienced, and a ready source of information on the terrain I was about to enter. I had told him of my ‘wife’ and the Parthians who had taken her.
“You need to look more like us,” he went on. “I know a man in Emisa who makes wigs and beards for men who need them. And henna can stain your skin. We can make you look like one of us in all ways bar your eyes. Nothing can be done with them.”
His disgust amused me. My hair and eyes had always drawn me a lot of attention. Sometimes I felt as out of place as Talos with his black skin and Typhon with his slanted eyes. Had I been the Master, I would have chosen men who could have more readily fitted into this environment for this mission.
My surprise at my new friend’s comment must have shown on my face because the little man just laughed, revealing his stained front teeth that were badly bucked. For all his peculiar appearance, I liked the man. The fact he seemed so willing to help me for no payment other than my protection, only added to my affection for him.
I was able to repay the kindnesses shown me on the fifth day. Not long after we left the mountains behind, a band of robbers attacked out of nowhere.
Before I realised what I was doing, I had my first arrow cocked and flying. A robber fell from his horse in the next second. In the following moments, I launched more arrows and took down three more of the robbers. The two remaining bandits saw they were now outnumbered and turned to ride away. If I’d had more arrows I would have put them in the backs of the retreating thieves. Some might see that as the act of a coward, but I knew that you never left an enemy healthy enough to come at you again. And those who were escaping this fight would come at my new friends again when they’d gathered more allies.
“You are more than you seem, Northman,” my Greek-speaking friend said.
I didn’t even know his name, anymore than he knew mine.
“I know how to fight,” I replied, as I took the time to remove my arrows from the bodies, clean them and replace them in their ragged quiver.
“You do. The gods have been kind to give us a man like you. They may be kinder still if I assist you on your journey. If you are to make your way to Parthia you should do it with a position. My friend is a bowman for the merchants of Palmyra. He is paid good money to accompany the caravans across to Dura and keep them safe. You could join him on the caravan your wife is on.”
I shook my head. “I cannot be sure they will travel by caravan across to Dura. It is a slow way to travel. He will be in a hurry.”
“No one with brains travels that part of the Silk Road by any means but caravan. If you do not get lost in a dust storm, then bandits claim you. Believe me, your woman’s kidnappers will be in a caravan, either coming into Palmyra or leaving it. My friend, he has eyes and ears everywhere. You tell him what you are looking for, he find your woman and make sure you join her caravan.”
I was out of my depth, I was well aware of that. I would therefore take all the advice I could get, even if it meant moving slower than I wanted. It was never wise to ignore the wisdom of those who belonged to a territory.
Chapter Five
Early February 65 CE Emisa SYRIA
ACCALIA
We had been riding for over a week, and I had dust and grit in every orifice and pore. I doubted a lifetime of scrubbing would ever remove it. My skin was burned raw, my muscles ached, and my head wouldn’t stop pounding from the unrelenting sun. And, from what I had gleaned from the taciturn leader, much worse was yet to come.
The day I spotted the town of Emisa baking in the hot sun, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least for a while I could rest and maybe find water enough to bathe my body. Would my kidnappers allow me that small luxury? The further into the frontier we went, the more relaxed they became. As they relaxed, their vigilance became less onerous. It was as if they could not imagine anyone in their own world seeking to free me.
They were likely correct. No one I had come across since leave the ship at Seleukeia Pieria had taken any notice of me. My hair and skin might be a little lighter than that of the locals, but in this place where cultures mixed, I did not stand out. And everyone seemed far more interested in surviving the conditions, or doing their trade, to pay attention to one girl who might or might not be a captured Roman noblewoman.
Emisa was more of a way-station than a caravan city, I quickly discovered, but it was big enough to allow for caravans to restock water and food and to do a little trading. I saw a well in the centre of town, and I assumed there were others for the caravans.
“May I wash?” I begged my captor, eyeing the buckets sloshing over with water as they were drawn from t
he well by local women.
As if I was mad, the leader glared at me. “We will clean you up before bringing you before the prince, not before.”
I was then shuffled off down the dusty street to a hostelry that I assumed catered to the caravans paused on the outskirts of town. We were looking to join one of the trains, I knew. And having seen the terrain ahead of us it was understandable why my captors were opting for a slower crossing of the desert. The unrelenting desert was so flat and dry it seemed like suicide to even consider trying to cross it. But Talos had told me that the camels could fill their stomachs so full of water that they did not need to drink nearly as often as horses or oxen did. They were made for this kind of territory. I wished I was.
Looking around me as I was directed onward, my gaze caught on a tall, bearded man in a grey robe. I imagined it would have been white or cream originally, but the desert had worked its foul magic on the garment that seemed ill-fitting and a little short for the big man.
Except for his height, the stranger looked no different from any other walking the dry streets. Yet there was something about the set of his shoulders...
As subtly as I could, I kept the man in my line of sight. I had what I was looking for a moment later when the man lifted his eyes—his very blue eyes—and met my gaze for a fraction of a second. Stifling a gasp, I covered my surprise by tripping. Unfeeling hands grabbed my elbows and hauled me upright again.
For long, dazed moments, I wondered if what I had seen was real. With the exotic mix of races that populated the imperial frontier, it was not impossible that a man with dark skin and hair could have blue eyes. I knew enough about Pater’s breeding program to know that eye colour could be unpredictable, although it did tend to follow broad patterns. A dark-eyed parent and a blue-eyed parent were more likely to have brown-eyed children. But occasionally a blue-eyed child might appear.
