A single image returned: that poor bastard who had just lain there; his slimy, smelly guts hanging out of him, crying like a child. Mama, Mama, Mama.
Complaints rang out from the crowd, demanding he hurry up. Taenaris tried to silence them but the shouts continued.
Indavara tried to shut it all out. He drew back, exhaled, let go.
A white. A bad white, close to the target’s edge. At least he hadn’t missed.
Mild applause.
Eclectis, calm as ever, went through his smooth routine and let fly. A red.
The crowd erupted.
Indavara took a drink. Eclectis was two points ahead. Only red would do. He picked up the arrow and readied himself.
Sanari waited for a gap in the shouts. ‘You can do it, Indavara! You can do it!’
I can. I can. It’s all in the past. I am free.
He closed the eye, exhaled.
Mama, Mama, Mama.
He noticed something moving in front of him. The iron point of the arrow was trembling. Worse, his arm was starting to shake from the effort of holding the string.
He blinked and looked at the target once more; repeated his routine, let go.
High. So high in fact that the arrow struck the top edge, spun several times in the air, then landed in the sand.
The auxiliaries were already celebrating. Indavara put a hand to his head, suddenly dizzy. The moment passed. He looked up at the bright blue sky and suddenly the thoughts and images were gone. He couldn’t believe he’d let the bastard get to him like that.
Eclectis put his bow down then turned to the crowd, arms high, lapping up the acclaim.
Indavara threw his bow onto the table and walked towards him, fists clenched.
Eclectis yelled back at his supporters, ‘Just another year! Just another year!’
Sensing that their attention had shifted, he turned and grinned at Indavara. ‘No hard feelings.’
‘This’ll feel pretty hard.’
The head-butt struck Eclectis just above his nose and knocked him clean off his feet. Indavara barely noticed the spike of pain and when his eyes cleared the Egyptian was lying in the sand, mouth hanging open.
Then came the shouts. The auxiliaries charged off the benches, knocking several people over. One man was ahead of the pack. As he drew his knife, his trailing leg caught the clerk’s table and he hit the ground three yards away.
Indavara ran.
III
Cassius stood over the desk, gazing down at the piles of paper. He was determined not to let the unpleasant incident with Pontius affect him. Calvinus’s vote of confidence had given him a boost and he intended to repay the gesture. Provincial governors were generally an ambitious, manipulative bunch — mostly senators in the making — but, owing perhaps to his advancing years, Calvinus seemed like a decent, thoughtful man. Cassius admired his commitment to Arabia and its people. Here was a leader in the tradition of the Republic — a man more committed to Rome than himself. It was hard not to contrast him with Cassius’s commander in the Service — the ruthless, underhand Abascantius — though he was just as dedicated in his own way. Cassius hadn’t heard anything from his superior since being assigned to Bostra, which was fine with him.
After a bit of rummaging he found the list of informers Verecundus had left. Rolled up with the page were the notes Cassius had made while trying to re-establish contact. He’d secured meetings with only two of the men; one had never turned up, the other had blankly refused to discuss anything relating to the Tanukh.
Cassius dropped the pages and sat down. How could he help the governor find out more about the Ruwaffa attack and the chiefs? Calvinus had his emissaries, but they moved through official channels and seemed to have made little progress.
If in doubt, make a list. His mother’s maxim for taking on a big task had always served him well so he reached for a blank sheet. He had no idea where his pen case was so he fished the charcoal out of the satchel and started writing.
Informers — check again. New ones?
Spice market — ask around, or get someone else to.
Moneylenders?
Army scouts?
Merchants?
Will need bribe money. A lot.
Cassius felt something brush his ankle. He looked down and watched the cat slink past. Imagining fleas jumping from its fur onto his exposed leg, he waved a hand at it.
‘Clear off, you.’
When it came to the animal kingdom, Cassius really only liked horses — as long as he didn’t have to look after them, of course. Dogs and cats he detested equally, and he had no idea why anyone would want to keep the accursed things as pets. The cat sat down and stared at him.
This time he used Greek. ‘Piss off!’
Cassius was about to throw the charcoal at it when he heard shouting from the street. Then the front door crashed open.
‘What in Hades?’
Grabbing his sword belt from a nearby couch, he hurried out of the study and into the atrium. Indavara had just slammed the door shut. He rammed the bolt in and turned round. He was breathing hard, his face flushed and wet.
‘What-’
The bodyguard held up a hand. ‘Just listen. You have to do something. I think they mean to kill me.’
‘Who? Why?’
‘Auxiliaries. I head-butted their friend.’
Cassius could hear more shouts and rushing footsteps outside. ‘Again — why?’
‘Long story.’
Someone hammered on the door, which fortunately was a robust slab of hardwood framed with iron.
‘We know you’re in there.’
‘Come out and face us.’
‘Show yourself.’
A red face appeared at one of the grilled windows. ‘I think I can see him!’
Cassius joined Indavara behind the door, which was now shaking, the bolt rattling in its mount. Despite the situation, Cassius couldn’t help being slightly amused by the look on the bodyguard’s face; it was unusual to see him so scared.
‘You’d better utter a prayer to Cardea,’ he advised.
‘Cardea?’
‘Goddess of door hinges.’
‘There’s a goddess of … forget that, do something!’
Cassius looked down at the sword belt in his hand. He drew the blade and held it up so that the eagle-shaped hilt was visible. He then motioned towards the door. ‘Open it.’
‘What?’
‘Open it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Indavara retracted the bolt. The mob quietened.
‘He’s coming out,’ said one man in Greek. Others were talking in what sounded to Cassius like Nabatean.
Indavara lifted the latch and eased the door open, careful to stay behind it.
Cassius stepped forward, ensuring he kept the sword high. Every inch of space between the doorway and street was occupied. There were twenty men at least: some holding clubs, a few daggers. Cassius guessed most of them noted the red tunic first, then the pricey blade with the eagle head.
The fight went out of them quickly. Shoulders sagged, a few groaned, and some began to retreat. Not the man at the front, however. He was a flabby individual with a snub nose and beady eyes, his fat fingers clutching a fighting stave.
‘Where is he?’ Snub asked in Greek.
Cassius offered his best flinty glare. ‘Perhaps you are unused to addressing officers of the Imperial Army. I suggest you try again.’
Snub looked confused.
One of the others tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sir. Say sir.’
‘Where is he, sir?’
‘He’s here.’
Indavara was leaning back against the wall, still hidden by the door. Cassius took a step to the right and gestured for him to come forward. Indavara did so, warily eyeing those outside. ‘I’m sorry. I-’