by Brown, Nick
Gutha stepped over the dead warrior and lumbered forward. Indavara scrambled backwards looking for a weapon but there was nothing close to hand. As he got to his feet, something pinged off the back of the German’s helmet. Gutha stopped and frowned.
‘Uuugh!’ The man fighting Mercator touched the back of his head. Eyes swimming, he dropped his sword.
Mercator took his chance and thrust his blade into the man’s gut.
Gutha turned round.
‘Here,’ said Ulixes. He picked up his dead opponent’s sword and threw it.
As he caught it, Indavara realised what had happened.
Nobus was walking along the road towards them, another rock ready in his hand. Indavara could hardly believe the auxiliary had descended the cliff in such time. But it seemed he was now done with throwing rocks. He drew his sword and stopped five yards behind the German.
Ulixes came and stood beside Indavara once more. Mercator’s tunic was now sodden with his own blood but he managed to stagger over to the other two.
Indavara reckoned the axe was about the heaviest weapon he had ever seen but he had no doubt the German could wield it with ease. The combination of helmet, mail-shirt and plate armour looked damn near impenetrable and the metal only increased the bulk of the man. He was enormous, surely not far off seven feet.
Gutha took another glance back at Nobus, then the other three. He lowered the axe and wiped his marked, red face. ‘Well, unfortunately for me it appears that the numbers have rather swung in your favour. I must commend you – an excellent defensive action. Romans?’
‘Romans,’ said Mercator.
‘Thought so,’ said Gutha, switching from Greek to Latin. ‘I’d forgotten how resilient you bastards are – too long fighting easterners, I suppose.’
‘Don’t remember asking for your life story,’ growled Indavara. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
‘Oh, you don’t understand. It is over. As you can see, I am alone; and while I think I could probably take you and your friends here, I wouldn’t want to risk a serious injury. Also, I would then have to pursue your compatriots, find and recover the stone, then return it to Galanaq unaided. All in all, the risk no longer justifies the benefit.’
‘You’re surrendering?’ asked Mercator.
‘I didn’t say that. I will allow you to go on your way.’
Indavara gestured at the fallen warriors who now littered the road. ‘You sent them to their deaths, yet you don’t have the balls to fight yourself?’
‘They are true believers. I am not. By the way, if I were you, I wouldn’t insult me. It isn’t too late for me to change my mind.’
Ulixes was laughing. He looked down at his hand then went to sit on a boulder.
Part of Indavara wanted to take the man on but common sense and his leaden limbs persuaded him to keep his mouth shut.
‘Well,’ said Gutha. ‘I shall leave you to it, then.’ He looked Indavara up and down. ‘I’ve not seen many men as good with a bow as they are with a sword and a spear. You’re young for a centurion. Optio?’
Indavara shook his head.
‘That man behind me,’ said Gutha. ‘Tell him not to try anything.’
Mercator ordered Nobus to come and stand beside him.
‘By the way,’ added Gutha, ‘how did you know we had it in Galanaq – the stone?’
‘We got lucky,’ said Indavara.
‘When we took it from Emesa, the centurion there said the army would find me. Looks like he was right.’ Gutha turned and walked back towards the pass.
Ulixes was still laughing.
XXXVI
‘Where in Hades is he?’
While waiting for Zebib to return with the horses, Cassius felt it wise to stay out of sight. He was lying at the front of the tent, so tired he was almost asleep. A few minutes earlier, he’d watched as Yemanek and the other chiefs led their warriors down to the road and through the inner gate. The locals had done nothing to stop them and even the guards manning the doors had stood aside when faced by the ethnarchs.
‘Thank the gods.’
Seeing Zebib leading the mounts up the track, Cassius struggled to his feet.
‘Sir.’ Simo had also left and now returned towing Patch, who was bearing their packs. ‘To spare the horses, sir.’
Cassius couldn’t be bothered to argue.
‘I also brought you this.’ Simo handed him a strong-looking length of wood he had recovered from the fire. ‘For a crutch.’
Zebib arrived with the horses. He seemed distressed about something. ‘Khalima.’
‘What?’
‘Khalima.’ Zebib made a chopping motion with one hand – into the wrist of the other.
‘Oh no.’
The warrior pointed at Urunike’s camp, where a few men remained. ‘Khalima there.’
Cassius had given up wondering how many more horrors and trials he would have to endure in Galanaq. Part of him wanted to leave immediately but he knew he couldn’t go without seeing the Saracen.
‘Get the horses ready, Simo – find me a saddle if you can. Meet me down there.’
As he began removing his armour, Gutha almost changed his mind. Had there been only the three others he might have tried it, but their stocky leader looked like a hard man to put down and he’d already had enough of the bronze in this heat. He didn’t much like admitting defeat but nor did he like the idea of dying in this desolate place, definitely not while there was close on five hundred aurei waiting for him in Gaza.
He could be at the port in two weeks. And then? Perhaps it was time to start spending some of that money. Ilaha had paid well. Unusually well. It was a shame about that Gerrhan mask, though.
Once the armour was off and packed, he loaded two more horses with water and food and roped them to his. As he mounted up and returned through the pass, he wondered what was happening back at Galanaq. Without the stone, Ilaha would be in trouble. Gutha hoped he would live. But not as much as he hoped Kara Julia would die.
He kept the axe in his hand as he approached the Romans. For some reason, the older one with the strange hair was smiling. The youngest soldier was bandaging the wounded man’s hand.
Their leader still hadn’t sheathed his sword. He had one foot up on a stone and his eyes locked on Gutha.
Gutha wasn’t used to people eyeballing him.
He stopped his horse. ‘I told you once not to provoke me. I won’t tell you again.’
One of the others quietly advised caution but the leader just kept staring from beneath that thick fringe of dark hair, tapping his blade against his leg.
As a younger man, Gutha would have slipped off his saddle and swung at him. But there was no point getting older if you didn’t get wiser. He chose his battles carefully, and his heart wasn’t in this one.
He rode on.
‘Arrogant prick,’ said Indavara. ‘Bet he never fights without that bronze suit.’
Ulixes was chuckling again. Indavara sheathed his sword and glared at him.
‘Sorry, but I have good cause. Look.’
The gambler held up his hand. The livid red had faded and some of the swelling had reduced. ‘It must have been one of the less poisonous ones. The pain has gone. Thank the gods.’
‘You’d better thank them,’ said Indavara, ‘because you were cursing them all an hour ago.’
Ulixes looked at the bleeding, broken bodies lying all around them. ‘Old Pitface must love you. How many did you take down?’
‘I don’t keep count.’
He never had. Everyone else had when he’d fought in the arena but he didn’t want to know then and he didn’t want to know now.
He looked across the road. ‘Did anybody see what happened to Andal and Itys?’
The others shook their heads. Pelagius too had succumbed to his wounds, and now lay silent and still with the others. Indavara had been over to check for any signs of life but all three were gone.
‘Poor Andal,’ said Mercator. ‘He only had two ye
ars to go.’
‘Needs stitches, sir,’ said Nobus as he tied the bandage off. ‘A lot.’
‘No problem,’ said Ulixes. ‘You have the kit?’
‘You’d do that for a second-class soldier?’ asked Mercator.
‘Just this once,’ answered Ulixes with a grin.
‘Nobus, help me fetch the horses?’ said Indavara.
‘Bring plenty,’ said Mercator. He nodded at Andal and the other dead men. ‘For them.’
Just as Cassius and Zebib arrived, four of Urunike’s men came down from the tomb carrying Adayyid’s body. He was laid alongside his compatriots – those who had been killed during the fight at the inner gate. Cassius forced himself not to look at their faces.
The new chief exited a tent. Urunike was a striking man, lean but muscular, with a fine head of wavy hair. Like his father, he wore little to mark him out as a leader.
He saw Cassius. ‘I’m afraid I could do nothing to stop it. We are lucky they did not execute him. You must be quick.’ He opened the flap and Cassius went inside.
An elderly man was kneeling by a straw mattress at the far end. The stuffy air was heavy with what smelt to Cassius like fried pork. Beside the bed was a small brazier, still smoking though it had recently been put out. Below it were several iron implements and a pile of bloodied rags. The old man stood and walked past Cassius without a word.
Khalima was naked from the waist up, his dark, heavy frame running with sweat. His hair was wet through too, his face almost yellow. The stump of his left arm was laid out on the sheet. The hand had been taken off two inches above the wrist. The cauterised end was scaly and black, the rest red up to the elbow.
The Saracen was propped up on several pillows, head turned away from his mutilated arm. He watched the old man leave.
‘One of the best, so they tell me. He says I have three chances in four of living. Not bad.’
Cassius barely felt the ankle as he dropped to his knees. No words came until he had fought off the tears. ‘You must wish you had never set eyes upon me.’
‘The gods move in strange ways, Roman. Adayyid and the others died fighting for me and for each other. A noble death for every one.’
A great shout went up from beyond the inner gate.
‘They tell me Oblachus is dead,’ said Khalima. ‘They are pursuing Ilaha and his most loyal followers through the caves. A secret compartment was found upon the platform. One of his men must have hidden there, produced the voice of the god. You were right.’
Cassius barely heard him. He fixed his eyes on the Saracen’s face, determined not to look again at the arm and have that vision seared into his mind.
‘They will tear him to pieces,’ added Khalima. ‘In time, I believe Adayyid and Uruwat and Enzarri and all the others will be remembered as heroes.’
‘I am sure of it.’
Cassius had the satchel over his shoulder. He reached inside and pulled out a bulging bag of coins – one hundred aurei from the barrel. ‘For the dead men’s families. Please accept it.’
He put the bag down by the bed. ‘Is there any news of the German? Of the stone?’
‘Some of his men returned – their horses had been lamed. They said others had been killed during an ambush in the night. It sounds like your friends have put up quite a fight.’
Cassius thought of all the hours that had passed. Surely there was a chance they had made it.
‘Yemanek is a practical man,’ continued Khalima. ‘He will see to it that stability is restored.’ The Saracen reached out and grabbed Cassius’s arm. ‘But you must talk to Calvinus, you must persuade him to meet with them and make peace, or all this could just start up again.’
‘I will do everything I can. I give you my word.’
‘Kalderon knows he is in the minority for now but he is still dangerous. Do not take the road, take the Goat Trail.’
‘I know.’
‘There is one of your customs officers at Leuke Kome. He will help you. Go now, while the others are all occupied.’
Cassius got to his feet.
‘Tell me,’ said Khalima. ‘What is your true name?’
‘Cassius Quintius Corbulo.’
‘Farewell, Cassius.’
‘Farewell, Khalima.’ He turned away.
‘No, no, that is not how a Saracen says goodbye to a friend. Come.’
Khalima put his good arm around Cassius’s neck and pulled him in closer. He kissed him on both cheeks, then held him by his shoulder. ‘You are young for work such as this, Cassius. Too young.’
There were no guards left at the Goat Trail. The nearest of Ilaha’s men were down at the road. They had found some wine from somewhere and were sitting, drinking, watching the inner gate – where the warriors of other tribes now stood guard.
Zebib stopped at the foot of the trail. He pointed up the steep slope then silently walked back towards the road.
‘I think I shall walk, sir,’ said Simo as he dismounted and checked the rope to which Patch was tied. ‘Are you going to try it?’
Cassius looked at the trail, which seemed to have been carved out of the canyon wall. No more than seven or eight feet wide, it went straight up for twenty yards then zigzagged sharply to the top. Cassius put his head back, trying to assess the angle of the slope and the difficulty of the path.
He stroked the horse’s neck. It was a young black mare, a bit twitchy but strong and agile. Better still, Simo had managed to find a saddle.
Cassius had been riding since he was four. Another pulse of pain from his ankle made up his mind for him.
‘Stay back, Simo.’
They started well but as the trail steepened and wove its way around jutting clumps of rock, the sandy ground gave way more easily. Thankfully the mare was a natural climber and kept itself moving. Cassius let it find its own way, reining in only when the animal needed to regain its breath. About halfway up came the most dangerous section – a narrow stretch that ran alarmingly close to the edge. Unnerved by the drop, the horse shuffled its way along, twice almost losing its footing. On one occasion, Cassius was convinced he was about to be thrown straight down the cliff but the animal held its nerve. After a brief rest beneath a shady overhang, they covered the final third without incident.
As the horse’s hooves clattered across the ledge at the top, Cassius let out a long breath and gave a brief prayer of thanks to Jupiter. Looking around, he realised he was in some kind of holy place. Several yards back from the edge, a large rectangle had been cut down into the rock. On the far side were steps up to a pedestal and altar. Upon the altar was a hollow for some religious icon but it was empty. On two sides of the rectangle were benches, also made from rock. Cassius carefully dismounted then tied the mare to one of them.
Though he would have liked to rest while he waited for Simo, curiosity drew him back to the edge. Galanaq itself still looked almost deserted, the compound and the encampment too, but from this high vantage point he could now see over the inner wall.
What looked like more than a thousand men had gathered outside the cavern. In amongst all the pale robes, only a handful of the coloured cloths remained. Suddenly more of the warriors poured out of the cavern, then the mass moved backwards.
It took Cassius a while to work out why; they were retreating towards the gate because they wanted to look up.
The two figures were walking across a plateau like the one Cassius was standing on, three or four hundred feet above the canyon floor. Ilaha still wore his purple cloak. Beside him was the old woman, white hair blowing around her face.
Angry cries rang out from the Saracens below.
The pair stopped, raised their hands to the sky, then bowed to the sun. They walked on, slow but strangely purposeful. Cassius couldn’t be sure because of the distance but it seemed to him that they were holding hands.
Their last step took them over the precipice.
As they plummeted towards the ground, Cassius saw only a streak of purple and another of white.
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The Saracens cheered.
Though in their haste they had forgotten to take torches or lanterns, they rode on through the darkness, eventually arriving at the mushroom around the fourth hour of night. They found Damon and the other wounded auxiliary where they had camped with Khalima. The first thing they did was take down the dead and lay them out.
The second injured man, Ingennus, was in a bad way. He had been stabbed in the thigh and lost a lot of blood. Damon had done his best to clean and bandage the wound but had no wine. Ingennus immediately downed what spare they had.
Both men were immensely relieved that the others had survived and they listened keenly as Nobus described what had happened at the Scorpion Pass. Damon declared that they would all receive decorations for the action but showed little regret that he had missed it. Ulixes also related his tale and proudly showed them his hand – which now looked almost normal. They didn’t dare start a fire but used a lantern for Ulixes to stitch Mercator’s wound.
Though he wanted nothing more than sleep, Indavara found his figurine and left the others. He knelt in the darkness and prayed for Corbulo and Simo once more, and asked Fortuna to deliver him and the others to Humeima safely. On the way back to the small camp, he passed the cart. Without thinking about it, he reached inside and touched the black stone. He didn’t know why.
‘Do you think they’re still alive?’
Simo was squatting by their fire, heating a pan of wine. ‘I don’t know, sir. All we can do is hope.’
‘And pray?’
‘I have prayed for Indavara. And Master Mercator and the men.’
Cassius stood and warmed his hands above the flames. They had pressed on along the trail throughout the day. The deserted path remained precarious and slow, twisting up and around steep faces, then plunging deep into shadowy crevices. Both men – and both horses – had cut themselves on the unforgiving rock. Just before dusk they’d come across a hollow, protected from three sides.
‘And the man in the outhouse?’ said Cassius. ‘You prayed for him too, I expect?’