by Brown, Nick
‘This chief, he’s part of the Tanukh?’
‘I believe so.’
‘I see,’ said Cassius. It all tallied with what Calvinus had revealed about the apparent absence of many of the chiefs and their men. Where were they all?
Censorinus tapped his hat against his leg. ‘I hope and pray the Saracens return soon. We haven’t enough men in Dhiban to keep the brigands at bay for long and I need my employees working, not riding around the desert.’
‘Apologies for the imposition. I didn’t feel I had a great deal of choice.’
‘No apology necessary. You did the right thing. That lad is in a lot of pain. I hope Eugammon can do something for him. He should be here by nightfall.’
‘He is a good surgeon?’
‘Yes. Greek. Old and hates to travel, but he knows I pay well.’
‘Talking of money,’ said Cassius, ‘I will of course give you whatever you think is fair.’
‘Keep it,’ said the ex-centurion. ‘I have more money than I know what to do with anyway.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Don’t tell my wife I said that.’
‘Trade is good?’ enquired Cassius. Like all men of the upper class, his father had tried to engender an appreciation of agriculture in his son, but Cassius had never been able to get all that excited about crops or weather or animal husbandry. ‘The land around here doesn’t look particularly promising.’
‘It’s not. But with a bit of creative irrigation we’ve enough water and fodder for our four-legged friends.’
Censorinus waved a gnarled hand at the patchwork of fields between the house and the road. Most of the sheep and goats were sheltering from the sun by buildings or beneath trees.
‘Twelve hundred head at the last count. We send hides and wool as far as Aila and Damascus. The meat and milk bring in a fair bit too. I started up with three goats, would you believe?’
‘Impressive.’
‘Few envious locals to contend with, of course.’
‘Well, they have to pay all the taxes,’ said Cassius with a grin.
‘Indeed, but I try to balance the scales by helping out where I can.’
Cassius backtracked swiftly, anxious not to offend his host. ‘I too have cause to be thankful for your generosity. It is much appreciated.’
‘Least I can do for a fellow officer.’
‘You don’t mind helping a grain man?’
‘My brother worked for the Service for a while; bit of secret stuff in Persia. We don’t speak – he’s an arsehole – but some of the others weren’t too bad.’ Censorinus nodded at Cassius’s tunic. ‘Talking of covert work, what’s all this with the pretty colours and the gold?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘And confidential, I expect.’
‘Well, yes. On that subject, I’m sure I don’t have to—’
‘Don’t worry. Only my sons saw the spearhead. The others think you’re a merchant.’ Censorinus winked. ‘And as you’ve probably already gathered, I don’t tell my wife anything she doesn’t need to know.’
He hurried down the steps. ‘Come, let’s see how those men of yours are getting on.’
With the horses refreshed and the water replenished, Mercator and the auxiliaries were soon ready to leave. The men were clearly concerned about Druz and Censorinus took it upon himself to put their minds at rest.
‘Listen, he is badly hurt – there’s no two ways about it. But there is an excellent surgeon on the way and he is currently in the hands of my wife, my daughters and the maids. He’ll not want for attention.’
‘I almost feel jealous,’ ventured Yorvah.
‘Watch it,’ said Censorinus, playfully raising a fist, ‘or you might also find yourself in a lot of pain.’
The men laughed.
Censorinus put his hat back on. ‘If he’s fit for travel we’ll get him to Bostra.’
‘If not we can pick him up on the way back,’ suggested Mercator.
‘Ah, wait there.’ Censorinus strode over to the closest barn and went inside.
‘Mount up,’ ordered Cassius. As the others complied, he kept his horse out of the way.
Censorinus returned holding a well-filled sack. ‘A few legs of lamb for you.’ He handed the sack up to Simo. ‘Here, you look like a man who knows how to cook a bit of meat. Add some salt and a few herbs and that’ll do you nicely.’
Mercator raised a hand. ‘Thank you, sir. Farewell.’
Indavara, Simo and many of the others added their thanks as the optio led them away towards the road.
Cassius and Censorinus shook forearms. ‘Again, much appreciated.’
‘Pleasure. We’ll do our best for the lad.’
Cassius mounted up. ‘Do you think we’ll make Karak in daylight?’
‘I should think so.’
Censorinus patted Cassius’s horse and led it along by the reins. ‘How far south are you headed?’
‘Beyond Petra. A long way beyond.’
‘Just remember – that’s true Saracen territory down there. Whatever your mission, be careful, young man.’
‘I will.’
‘May the gods smile upon you.’
‘And upon you.’
Censorinus handed Cassius his reins then stopped in front of the villa.
As he neared the road, Cassius looked back. He couldn’t help wishing the kind, capable veteran was coming with them.
Not far south of Dhiban, the road dropped down into the valley of the Mujib Wadi, a broad watercourse that ran east from the Dead Sea. At the top the ground was barren and dry, but as they descended hardy greenery began to appear, along with several species of bird. Simo pointed out a copse of balsam trees with their distinctive multiple trunks and writhing branches; their oil was highly valued but they appeared untouched.
The stream was shallow enough for them to bypass the causeway and ride across. Though he was keen to keep moving, the water was so cool and inviting that Cassius called a halt and allowed the men half an hour to bathe.
The decision to take a break was soon vindicated by the steep climb out of the wadi; they had to stop several times to rest the mounts. Only a few hundred feet from the top, one of the men cried out and pointed at an animal upon a high ledge. Cassius couldn’t identify the beast, which seemed frozen in a proud stance.
‘What’s that thing?’ asked Indavara. ‘Looks like a giant goat.’
‘Pretty much,’ replied Mercator. ‘Ibex. Big male.’
The animal’s coat was light brown, the crest of hair along its back darker. The formidable set of twisted, protruding horns were almost as long as the rest of it. Some of the auxiliaries offered a little bow and whispered a few words.
‘It’s sacred?’ Cassius asked.
‘Certainly to the nomads,’ said Mercator. ‘They call it the king of the desert – one of the handful of creatures that can survive in the southern lands. There is no trace of water there for hundreds of miles, just baking heat and the endless Sea of Sand. Amongst men, only the Saracens know the way across.’
‘We’re not going that far south, are we?’ asked Indavara.
Cassius didn’t reply. He took a last look at the ibex and moved off.
They almost reached Karak by nightfall, and made camp within sight of the wadi of the same name. With the darkness came a harsh wind. Exposed on the plain above the valley, they had to weigh down the tents with rocks and keep close watch on the animals. While the wind whipped at the tents, Cassius settled down to sleep at the end of what seemed a remarkably long day. He was at least again satisfied with the progress they’d made, having spotted a milestone just before they’d stopped. Fifty-nine miles to Petra. If they could avoid any more difficulties, they would reach the former capital in five days as planned.
XIII
Two days later, they left the Via Traiana for the first time. The road didn’t actually enter Petra but bypassed it to the east, continuing south past the town of Udruh. Cassius thought it preferable to avoid Udruh anyway: the legionary f
ortress there housed the entire sixth cohort of the Third Cyrenaican – five hundred men, any one of whom might recognise one of the auxiliaries and cause an unnecessary complication.
They had been travelling through a mountainous wasteland since morning, the road passing bulbous, layered rock formations. The palette of colours reminded Cassius of shells on a beach and the aquatic analogy didn’t end there. These were not hills or crags; to him they looked more like giant sea sponges squashed together then deposited on the ground, each a honeycomb of hollows and crevasses.
As the road became busier and hamlets appeared, Cassius knew they were nearing the city, but it remained hidden from view behind the towering natural defences of the landscape. Petra had originally been a retreat for the nomadic Nabateans, who’d made a home and fortress of the site over many centuries. The eastern approach was known as the Siq, a narrow gorge that led directly to the heart of the city.
A mile short of it, they came to a wide, flat area between sheer faces of rock. Built on either side of the road were two walled enclosures accessed by arched entrances. Within were dozens of bays containing horses, mules and camels. According to Mercator, this was a caravan station, where the travelling traders could safely feed, water and house their animals. The party would leave the mounts there and seek lodgings in the city, with Cassius hopefully meeting Ulixes the following day.
‘Going through or putting in?’ asked a loud voice in Greek.
A portly man with a tight belt around his robes had appeared in the middle of the road. Before either Cassius or Indavara could answer, another man stepped in front of him. This fellow had a multicoloured sash instead of a belt.
‘One silver per mount per night! Best rate you’ll find. Biyara’s yard – on the right.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ advised the other man. ‘Moab’s is one silver per mount too, plus as much water as you need. Moab’s – over to the left. Has to be Moab’s!’
‘They’ll kill you with extras,’ insisted Sash.
‘Has to be Moab’s – thirty years a family business!’
Cassius – exhausted after another day in the saddle – was leaning forward, resting on his mount’s neck. He and Mercator looked at the enclosures. With dusk close, both were busy. Moab’s appeared marginally less so.
‘To the left?’
‘Left it is,’ replied the optio.
Sash was already looking for the next customer. Cassius hauled on his reins. As his horse lurched off the road he heard an angry shout. He turned and saw a camel just behind him. The animal brayed, showing a pink tongue and hideous yellow teeth coated with slobber. The rider was a plump man wearing immaculate white robes, a headband above his enraged face.
‘Curses upon you!’ he yelled in Greek. ‘Watch where you’re going!’
Cassius glared. The camel-rider looked at him, then at Mercator, then Indavara, then the auxiliaries, most of whom were staring back at him.
‘My apologies. Please – you first.’
Cassius guided his horse towards the middle arch of Moab’s, where half a dozen more camels were in a queue, waiting to enter. The riders had dismounted, reins in one hand, canes in the other. Each of the animals was heavily laden with clay jars secured by rope. Cassius had seen enough of them in Bostra to know most would contain frankincense – the precious gum harvested from the trees of Arabia Felix.
Unable to endure another minute in the saddle, he slid to the ground and almost fell when his right foot landed on a rogue walnut. Tightening his belt and bootlaces, he watched the others dismount.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, sir. Did your party just arrive?’
The man was rather more presentable than the first tax collector they’d encountered, but the interrogative expression was the same. He was accompanied by a clerk holding a pile of waxed tablets and two bored-looking legionaries.
‘Yes,’ said Cassius.
‘Are you a merchant?’
‘I am.’
‘With goods to declare?’
‘Actually, no. I’m just down here looking for trade opportunities.’
Cassius retrieved the token and showed it to the tax collector, as he had at several settlements in the last few days.
‘Mmm. You have a lot of men with you, lot of baggage too. Would you mind if the soldiers checked a few?’
‘Go ahead.’
As the administrator and the legionaries went to do their work, Mercator walked stiffly over to Cassius. ‘Not a lot of light left.’
‘Two hours at most. I shall head into the city and find us some accommodation if you can organise things here.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll leave a man on guard. We can meet at the King’s Tomb in an hour.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘First building you come to – two-thirds of the way along the Siq. Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it.’
Mercator walked away to brief the men, who had arranged themselves and their horses in an orderly line parallel to the road. The tax collector was examining a tablet with his clerk while the legionaries searched the bags.
Cassius’s horse was unsettled by all the camels so he collared one of the young lads from Moab’s and told him to look after it. Taking only his satchel, he walked over to Simo and Indavara.
‘You two grab anything essential and stick the rest on the mule with the “wine”– that barrel’s not leaving our sight. And hurry; I think there’s still quite a way to go before we reach the civilised bit.’
Once they were ready, Cassius led the way along the road towards the Siq. Indavara and Simo were carrying almost as much as the mule.
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said the bodyguard.
‘Good. Consider yourself lucky you don’t have to bear the burden of leadership.’
Indavara glowered.
‘That’s called a metaphor,’ added Cassius. ‘Simo will tell you all about them some time.’ As he walked, he pushed the annoying bracelets up his forearm. ‘Sorry, but rich merchants don’t carry saddlebags.’
‘You can’t take anything?’ demanded Indavara. ‘Patch looks like he’s about to collapse.’
‘Patch?’
Indavara nodded at the mule, which was plodding along, ears twitching. Upon its left haunch was a patch of white fur.
‘Ten out of ten for originality. Why give a mule a name?’
Indavara tried to shrug but there was too much weight on his shoulders.
‘Horses can have names,’ said Cassius. ‘But not mules.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. They just don’t.’
The Siq was no more than ten yards wide. Once inside, only a narrow strip of sky was visible hundreds of feet above. A steady stream of people were walking in both directions, many now carrying torches, ready for the coming dark. The sandy ground was almost white, the pink-grey walls seamed with black and dotted with the odd plant.
‘Look how smooth the rock is,’ observed Indavara, reaching out to run his hand along it.
‘Must have been water flowing through here at some point,’ said Cassius. ‘Probably still does in the rainy months.’
Carved into the sides of the gorge were dozens of angular niches. Some contained wooden or metal figurines, some candles and lamps, others offerings of food and wine. Vendors who’d claimed valuable pitches beside this river of passers-by collected up their wares and joined the throng entering the city. Voices echoed off the walls, coalescing into a strange hum. They passed a flute player who seemed determined to use every last moment of daylight. He was producing a pleasing tune and his mug was half full of coins.
After about a mile, the Siq momentarily narrowed to five yards then opened out and bore around to the right.
‘By the great gods, look at that,’ said Cassius. ‘Must be the King’s Tomb.’
As the locals streamed past them, the three of them stopped to behold the monumental sight ahead. Hewn from the pale red rock was a vast, ornate façade at l
east two hundred feet high. The façade was made up of two sections, one above the other, and each boasting six colossal columns. Amongst the dozens of reliefs dwarfing the people below, Cassius picked out familiar gods and goddesses, griffins, eagles, even the writhing snakes of a Medusa head. In the middle of the bottom section was an immense, rectangular doorway; the largest he’d ever seen.
‘I’d heard it was impressive.’
He glanced at Simo and Indavara, both of whom seemed oblivious to the curses and shoves of those hurrying past.
‘First the Helios of Rhodes and now this,’ Cassius continued. ‘You two can’t say I haven’t taken you to some incredible sights. There’s another tale for you to tell.’
Indavara shook his head. ‘How could they carve that out of the rock?’
‘Workmanship, time, and a lot of money. See the female figure up on the second layer, Simo? Like the Tyche of Antioch.’
They followed the road around to the right. Below the tomb’s doorway, ten local guards stood on an equally massive set of steps, each armed with a sword hanging from a sash. Several of them scowled at the curious trio, as if even daring to look was an affront to their history and tradition.
‘Well,’ said Cassius as they walked on, ‘only the ancient kings of Nabatea are allowed to sleep in there. I fear we shall have to do with something rather more modest.’
Remarkable though the city was, Cassius soon began to find Petra rather annoying. There seemed to be little structure to the place: buildings had sprung up wherever there was room and there was no clear network of streets – just the canyons, staircases cut from the rock and perilous, zigzagging tracks heading upwards to the gods knew where. Even so, he had to admire not only the former capital’s enviable defensive position but also the provision of water. There seemed to be channels and pipes running everywhere; and even a few lush gardens fronting some of the larger properties.They did pass two symbols of familiarity: a colonnaded main street and a theatre – like Bostra’s – housed in a huge basin carved from the reddish stone.