by Brown, Nick
Mushannaf’s mouth twisted into a snarl.
The closest son sprang to his feet. As he reached for his sword, Gutha gripped the axe handle.
‘I wouldn’t bother. We need your father – we don’t particularly need you.’
The son moved his hand away from the sword. His brother was still sitting down.
Mushannaf turned his glare on Ilaha. ‘You evil little …’
‘Now now,’ warned Gutha. ‘There’s no need for that. You were given the chance to cooperate but you’ve left us no choice.’ He nodded at the lock of hair still in Mushannaf’s hand. ‘If I order it, my man can get that close again. He’s very good. She won’t even see him or hear him. The first she’ll know of it is cold metal on her skin, then—’
‘All right,’ said Mushannaf. ‘All right, curse you.’
At last, Ilaha spoke again. ‘All I am asking is that you come with the others and hear me out. That is all.’
Mushannaf was still looking at the hair. He answered in a whisper. ‘Very well.’
XVIII
By the afternoon they were past the Wadi Rum and facing the bleakest terrain yet. There seemed to be no traces of life at all, just the dusty wastes and the austere bulk of the mountains. Dark cloud still shadowed the sky to the south-east and now seemed to be on the move.
Earlier, they had encountered several caravans heading north. The largest had been of at least a hundred men, with three times that number of pack animals. They passed the occasional way-station too: all were ruined and stripped of timber and anything else of value. The watchtowers were similarly ancient and empty – all except one that had been appropriated by a local family eking out a living by selling water and dried fruit.
Cassius’s attention alternated between the gathering storm and the mountains. Despite the heat, he felt a chill feather his back when he thought of what the next few days might hold. Ulixes had told him that the Hejaz peaks were part of an enormous range fifty miles across and a thousand long that stretched all the way to the southern tip of the Arabian peninsula. Somewhere inside that formidable maze of rock was Galanaq and the mysterious enemy who had orchestrated this daring strike against Rome.
At the tenth hour, he was forced to call a halt. The eastern horizon had disappeared and now distant formations were being subsumed by the long-feared haboob. While the rest of the sky remained an unsullied blue, the seething mass of dust seemed to be growing higher and wider with every passing minute.
‘We need shelter,’ he said. ‘But where?’
The western edge of the mountains was at least five miles away; to the east was an isolated formation.
‘That’s closer,’ said Mercator.
‘But it means riding into it,’ replied Cassius. ‘We’ll reach the storm sooner.’
Mercator called up Andal. The veteran scratched his chin then nodded at the formation. ‘I’d say there.’
‘Ground’s not good,’ observed Ulixes. ‘The sand will slow us down and there’s all those nasty little rocks – difficult for the mounts.’
A flock of birds flew overhead, squawking as if warning the stranded humans below.
‘We can walk,’ said Andal. ‘Lead the horses.’
‘Tell the men,’ said Cassius. As Mercator began barking orders, he dismounted and led the way off the road.
They almost made it in time. As the storm rolled towards them, tendrils of dust swirled high into the air. Then came waves of wind that rippled across the sand, surging then dying like water upon a shore. As the great cloud loomed, the sun disappeared and visibility dropped to little more than a hundred yards. Soon everything was cloaked by an opaque, yellow hue.
Though the soft sand had slowed them, it was – as Ulixes had warned – the treacherous shards of rock that really caused problems. Cassius’s horse had already stumbled twice and – despite its compliant nature – was now resisting. He was sure this was at least partly because of the other animals fleeing the haboob: a small herd of ibex trotting west, hares bolting across the ground, high-flying vultures and eagles trying to outrun the storm.
Glad to see some clear terrain ahead, Cassius looked back. Most of the auxiliaries were in a straight line but one man towards the rear was off to the side, examining his horse’s hoof. Cassius gave not a moment’s thought to stopping. The auxiliary would just have to keep up as best he could.
The formation seemed to have been dropped from the heavens: a colossal lump of dark grey rock half a mile long. Cassius had been aiming for a hollow at the base of the western face but now saw it was an illusion created by a variance in colour.
Even so, he quickened his pace, tugging the horse after him. The dust had coated his tunic, his skin, his hair. He could feel it on his eyelids and taste it in his mouth. He snatched another look back but couldn’t even make out the middle of the column, let alone the rear. He ploughed on.
Nearing the formation, he heard what at first he thought was someone whistling. Then he realised it was the wind, howling through the voids in the rock. He towed his horse right up to the face and tied the reins around one of the numerous boulders scattered along the base.
Simo arrived, leading horse and mule. The Gaul’s dark hair had been made fair by several layers of sand.
‘Rope them to mine,’ Cassius told him.
‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius waved Indavara past too and then saw Mercator, who offered him his reins. ‘Here, I’ll go back and check the others.’
‘I’ll do it. Tie the horses in a line along the formation.’
With his cloak whipping around his legs and sand peppering his face, Cassius guided the others in. Having passed Ulixes, Yorvah and most of the men, he looked for the next auxiliary but there was no one there.
Visibility was down to a few yards now. He was about to give up when a shape emerged from the storm. It was Andal.
‘Straight ahead!’ Cassius shouted. ‘You’re almost there.’
‘Not sure who’s still with me.’
‘Just keep going.’
Behind the veteran were only three more men. Cassius had counted a total of sixteen. Two more were out there somewhere.
Hood flapping, wind blasting his back, he waited for the missing pair. Three times he thought a man was about to materialise, but they turned out to be imaginary spectres, like those glimpsed in a sea of cloud.
Fearing he would completely lose his bearings, Cassius retraced his steps and found the rest of the party in good order. The closely packed horses stood with heads bowed and eyes closed. Many of the men stayed beside them, a comforting hand on a shoulder or flank. Ulixes was sitting on a boulder, pouring water into his eyes. Mercator was with the guard officers.
‘Two missing, yes?’ said Cassius.
‘Plus some of the mules. A rope must have come loose. Andal suggests tying a long line on someone and sending them out. What do you think?’
‘Let’s try it.’
Simo appeared. ‘Sir – we saw them. We saw the men.’
Cassius followed him back to the end of the line. ‘Where’s Indavara?’
‘I think he went to find them.’
Cassius looked out into the swirling, orange fog. For more than a minute he saw no one but then he spied a single figure walking parallel to the formation, no more than twenty feet away.
He shouted.
The figure turned and walked towards him. The broad shoulders, bulky legs and shaggy hair made identification easy.
‘See them?’
‘I thought so,’ replied Indavara as he brushed sand from his eyes. ‘Lost them, though.’
‘Just stay here or we’ll lose you too.’
One of the mounts was unsettled and the movement on the line was upsetting the others. As Indavara and Simo went to calm their horses down, Cassius noted an absentee.
‘Where’s the mule?’
Simo looked around. ‘I’m not sure. I thought—’
‘Indavara. Where’s the mule?’
He
didn’t reply.
Knowing the hearing in his disfigured ear sometimes failed him, Cassius shouted.
‘Indavara. The mule?’
The bodyguard looked at the empty space between his and Cassius’s horse. ‘He was there. I thought he’d feel safe between the horses.’
‘Tied on?’
‘No, but he wouldn’t go off on his own.’
‘Gods’ blood – the money.’
Cassius jogged all the way along the line. Having come across several other mules but not the one he was looking for, he sprinted back to the others and found Indavara still holding up his hands in dismay.
‘He was right there.’
‘He? By Jupiter – your precious Patch. Well, he is a lot less valuable than what he’s carrying on his back.’ Cassius kicked the ground.
It wasn’t just the money. If the worst came to the worst, a sight of the spearhead would give second thought to anyone with hostile intent, even in these lands beyond Roman rule.
‘The men,’ he asked Indavara. ‘You’re sure you saw them?’
‘Fairly sure, yes. You don’t think—’
‘I don’t know what to think. Let’s just hope that bloody mule hasn’t gone far.’
The missing pair were named Actis and Corydon. Cassius knew both faces but had barely spoken a word to either of them. Andal was first to take his turn with the rope. He walked along the base of the formation to the south then out in an arc before eventually reappearing from the north. He had seen nothing. While another man took his turn, Cassius spoke to Mercator. He didn’t want to tell him about the money or impugn his men, but there was still no sign of the mule and time was passing.
‘Actis and Corydon. Neither of them given to panic, I trust?’
‘Not at all. I think they just got separated at the back. Four mules gone too. Got yours?’
‘No.’
There was nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass. Every object and being was now bathed in an ethereal golden glow. The horses pressed themselves close to the rock face and the men sat in twos or threes, clasping their hoods over their faces.
Indavara and Simo, however, stayed on their feet, still looking for any sign of the mule. Cassius decided he would leave them to it; they had lost the beast, after all.
Sitting between two boulders, he took a drink from his flask then poured the remainder over his face. His eyes still stung so he kept them shut. Despite the storm raging around him, he suddenly felt very tired. He uttered three lines of a prayer to the weather gods but never finished it.
Simo shook him awake.
‘What? What is it?’
‘We think the worst of the storm has passed, sir.’
Cassius pulled down his hood and looked around. He could see some way along the formation and much of the ground ahead. The sky to the west was dark.
‘The mule?’
Indavara – who had appeared from behind one of the horses – shook his head.
‘The men?’
‘No, sir,’ said Simo.
As he went in search of Mercator, Cassius found most of the auxiliaries up on their feet. Some were eating and drinking; others were brushing down their horses or washing out their eyes. Mercator and Yorvah were with Andal, who had just returned with one of the mules. There was no barrel on its back nor white mark upon its fur.
Over the next half-hour, the haboob moved farther away. The storm clouds seemed to dissipate as they met the higher ground and soon the mountains were visible once more.
Mercator ordered the men to prepare themselves then spoke to Cassius. ‘Hopefully they found shelter somewhere else on the formation.’
Cassius didn’t think that was the only explanation but there was no sense airing such a suspicion yet. ‘I’ll take one half of the men around to the north, you take the others around to the south.’
‘Good idea.’
Cassius then noticed Ulixes talking to two of the auxiliaries. The gambler had his knucklebones ready.
‘Forget that,’ Cassius told him. ‘We’re moving out.’
Within another half an hour, they were riding along in sunshine with clear skies in every direction. Rounding the formation, they saw a variety of wildlife warily leaving the safety of the natural shelter: lizards scampering out from behind boulders, birds flitting from high crevices, even a family of gazelle that bolted from a cave then loped away to the north. No man or mule appeared, however, and Cassius’s fears only grew. Upon reaching the far side they were surprised by a distant sight. Two miles to the east was a cluster of high, healthy-looking date palms.
Cassius halted his horse. ‘An oasis.’
‘A what?’ asked Indavara.
‘An underground spring – provides water, allows trees to grow where there’s no other vegetation for miles.’
They heard shouts and saw Mercator coming the other way. Before the two groups met, Cassius had counted up and realised the missing men were with them. Actis and Corydon came forward with their optio.
‘They sheltered in a cave,’ explained Mercator. ‘Actis has lost his horse so we’ve given him one of the spares. No sign of the other mules, though.’
While some of the auxiliaries aimed light-hearted insults at the unfortunate pair, Ulixes pointed at the oasis. ‘They’re probably there. Drawn to the water.’
Andal had dismounted. ‘There are some tracks leading that way. Fresh. Too small for a horse.’
Indavara and Simo went to investigate.
Mercator looked west towards the road. ‘We’ve already lost three hours.’
‘Let’s replenish our water while we have the chance,’ said Cassius.
‘You really want to lose more time out here?’
Cassius nodded at Indavara and Simo. ‘If we don’t at least try and find their precious Patch I’ll never hear the end of it.’
As they neared the oasis, Cassius realised there was a narrow path leading through the ridge of sand that surrounded the depression. He then saw light sparking off water.
‘Could be people here,’ said Mercator.
‘Could be.’
Considering what they’d heard about hostile tribesmen, Cassius wouldn’t have minded dropping back but, in the interests of maintaining appearances, he stayed alongside the optio as they approached the path.
It soon became obvious that the oasis was occupied, or at least had been until very recently. The pool was on the far side, a glittering oval mirror ringed by reeds and palms. The trees could not have looked healthier; vibrant green branches proudly sticking out at every angle. Close to the pool were about a dozen tents, some of which appeared to have been damaged in the storm.
They halted. Mercator offered a speculative look. Cassius shrugged and nudged his horse on to the path.
It was hard to work out where the shout came from but the result was clear enough.
Men rose smoothly and silently up from behind the ridge. More appeared among the tents, and yet more who had been hiding in the trees. There were at least sixty of them, all in pale, flowing robes and clutching either bows or swords. The Arabians were already converging on the path.
Cassius raised a hand and tried to sound calm. ‘Everyone dismount. Don’t go anywhere near your weapons.’
As the men complied, the warriors closed in. Each archer picked a target and Cassius found himself looking at the iron head of an arrow only ten feet away. The bow was held by a lean, gnarled Saracen with a dead-eyed stare and a remarkably steady hand.
One of the auxiliaries muttered something.
‘Quiet there,’ ordered Mercator.
The group that had been hiding behind the tents ran up to the path. Leading the way was a short, squat man; the only one whose sword remained undrawn. His angular face seemed at odds with his body; a narrow blade of a nose and a sharp chin accentuated by the most immaculately maintained beard Cassius had ever seen. The leader appeared to be in his forties yet there was no grey in his coal-black hair. He did not look happy.
After inspecting Cassius and Mercator, he gave an order and the archers lowered their bows.
‘Do you speak Greek?’ he asked in a deep, rich voice.
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing here?’
Cassius offered what he hoped was his most engaging smile. ‘Looking for our mule.’
XIX
Though aware there were far more important matters to concern him, Cassius couldn’t stop looking at Khalima’s beard. (He was relieved to have been given the Saracen’s name; surely a man was less likely to kill you if he’d bothered to introduce himself.) But that beard – the hair was as thick as an animal’s pelt, the moustache shaped as perfectly as the square wedge running from chin to bottom lip. That lip was now turned down as the Saracen surveyed the three men in front of him. Cassius glanced back at Mercator and Indavara. The optio looked anxious; the bodyguard looked bored.
Having been summoned to the largest of the tents, Cassius had insisted on bringing the other two and was glad he’d done so, even though they’d had to leave their weapons outide. Simo, Ulixes and the auxiliaries remained at the edge of the oasis, watched by Khalima’s tribesmen.
Three of his warriors were behind Indavara and Mercator. Two others – sons by the looks of them – were talking to the chief.
The tent reminded Cassius of a similarly spacious and well-appointed example used by Prefect Venator of the Fourth Legion. The floor was reed matting covered with rugs and cushions decorated with colourful oriental designs. The Saracen owned several pieces of furniture, including a small desk equipped with an abacus and writing equipment. Next to it was a cupboard with a metal grille at the front. Inside were half a dozen objects made from silver and gold.
The tent’s entrance had been left open. Outside, dozens of women and children had appeared. None dared get too close but a group of young boys was staring inside and talking excitedly.
‘What was the name again?’ asked Khalima in his faultless Greek.
‘Cassius Oranius Crispian.’
‘Remind me why you were on the Incense Road.’
