‘Much appreciated, sir.’
Calvinus led him along the corridor and out to the courtyard. ‘I spoke to my officers about this Optio Mercator. Sounds like a good man.’
‘He does seems to be, sir.’
‘I shall mention you both in my prayers. Your men too.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
Cassius was surprised to see the governor offer his forearm.
‘Come back alive. All of you.’
X
Though the entire household was up at dawn, a delay with the delivery of the horses meant that Mercator and the auxiliaries beat them to the meeting point. It was only a stone’s throw from the hippodrome and, as they approached, Indavara glanced morosely at the enormous structure. It was the largest building in Bostra by a distance: walls formed of dozens of arches, the cavernous entrance flanked by two high towers. Today it was empty and silent, the only combatants some boys outside, wrestling in the dust.
Annoyed at being late, Cassius urged his horse between two basalt blocks and onto the grassy ground between the ruined temples. Mercator had the mounts neatly tied up and Cassius found himself rather taken aback by how large the group seemed with all the heavily laden horses and mules. Much of their load was water skins; the dry summer months weren’t far away and previously full wells and cisterns would soon begin to run dry.
Although some of the beards would need a few days, the Arabians looked perfectly at home in their baggy tunics and hooded robes. Cassius, however, felt rather self-conscious in his merchant’s outfit. He was wearing the pale blue tunic which had been hastily embroidered with several horizontal lines of lozenges. He had also purchased two large finger rings — one amber, one an imitation sapphire — and retrieved two gold bracelets from the hardwood box where he kept his valuables (his aunt had bought them for him years ago but he couldn’t stand the weight and brazen opulence of the things).
Cassius dismounted and threw his reins to Simo, then hurried over to the auxiliaries, most of whom were sitting on a column lying on the ground. He nodded to Mercator, then gestured for the men to stay where they were. Cassius saw a good deal of tension and worry in their faces. Soldiers liked (and needed) routine and the twenty men had just been unceremoniously pulled out of theirs, with little idea of how the journey and mysterious operation would unfold.
‘So,’ he said, gesturing towards his garish tunic. ‘Anybody want to swap?’
He gave an exaggerated shake of his head and was pleased to see a few smiles.
‘That’s the last time we’re going to use Latin. Greek is fine but I suggest you men keep up with the Nabatean amongst yourselves — for practice if nothing else. As you will have surmised from our location we are heading south, bound for Petra. I would like to reach the Red City in five days and Thugrat by nightfall. We’ll try to keep our heads down as much as possible but we haven’t time to bypass towns and leave the roads. We will see locals, caravans and legionary patrols. If you think you’ve been recognised by someone, let myself or the optio know. Except he’s not Mercator now, he is …’
‘Mertan.’
‘Mertan. And if any of the rest of you have Roman-sounding names, follow Merc — Mertan’s example.’
Andal put his hand up. He already had a thick beard and, with his lined, nut-brown face, could easily have just walked out of the desert. ‘And how shall we address you, sir?’
‘Like that. You’re supposed to be hired swords, so “sir” is fine. I am travelling under the name of Cassius Oranius Crispian — a Raetian merchant interested in the spice trade. Indavara and Simo — my attendant there — will go by their normal names. You men work for Mertan, who I hired here in Bostra to guide me south and provide protection. Any other questions?’
There were none.
‘Then let’s get going.’
South of Bostra, the Via Traiana cut through a fertile plain, with wheat fields and vineyards as far as the eye could see. The milestones were well maintained and the road smooth and even: compacted earth over paving slabs. The party rode two abreast, with Cassius and Mercator leading the way, followed by Indavara and Simo, then the rest of the men. Andal and Yorvah took it in turns to watch the rear.
Cassius was relieved to find his horse a placid beast. The Spaniard had passed on its name but he had already forgotten it. The mount — a tall, long-limbed grey — was carrying two weighty saddlebags and some rolled-up blankets that provided a convenient support for Cassius’s back. There was nothing amongst his, Simo or Indavara’s personal gear that could give them away. The mule trotting along behind Simo’s horse, however, was carrying a precious cargo. As well as the ‘wine’ barrel, it was also bearing a sack of barley, at the bottom of which was Cassius’s satchel. Inside were his spearhead (symbol of the Imperial Security Service) and his precious letters of recommendation from Chief Pulcher and Prefect Venator of the Fourth Legion.
The party was occasionally overtaken by the odd rider, including an army courier who sped past at a gallop. There was a remarkable variety amongst those they passed heading north: a gang of slaves chivvied along by some voluble guards; a toga-clad gentleman accompanied by his family and dozens of attendants; and itinerant farm workers trudging along with shouldered scythes and rakes. They saw a group of pilgrims too, easily identified by the wooden crosses hanging around their necks. Simo made no reaction but Cassius did note some disapproving looks from the auxiliaries, Mercator included.
Early in the afternoon, they spotted a small legionary fort a mile east of the road. According to Mercator, it was usually manned by a half-century but — owing to the current lack of manpower — now housed just a skeleton crew. They saw a flag flying but no trace of the legionaries.
Determined to use every hour of light, Cassius was extremely relieved when they finally saw the buildings of Thugrat up ahead. Mercator had warned him that they should leave a bit of time for their first effort with the tents, and with thirty-one miles covered for the day, Cassius pronounced himself satisfied with their progress. The surrounding terrain had become rather bleaker — rocky ground covered by low grass — and at the first sight of a suitably flat area, he called a halt.
Mercator and the guard officers then took charge. The tents were rudimentary affairs: leather coverings hung over simple frames, with ropes and pegs to keep them stable. There were three: one for Cassius, Indavara and Simo and two larger ones for the men.
Once the shelters were up, Simo and Indavara moved the wine barrel and their bags inside. Cassius rid himself of the annoying jewellery and handed it to Simo, whose next job was to pour his master a drink.
‘You saw those pilgrims, I suppose,’ Cassius said quietly as he took the mug.
‘I did, sir. We will pass close to Jerusalem on our way south, I believe.’
‘Not that close. Do you still have that cross of yours?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Simo, patting his tunic.
‘Keep it out of sight. I’ve a feeling the auxiliaries may not be impressed. Do not mention matters of belief to them at all. If anyone asks, you worship only Jupiter and the great gods.’
Simo did not reply.
‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Generally it took only the briefest mention of things religious for Simo to start rambling on about ‘the kingdom’ and ‘the righteous’ and how life should be lived in the service of ‘the Lord’. Still bemused by the Christians’ determination to indoctrinate others, Cassius had told Simo he was free to do so in his own time, but never in his presence. Sipping at the wine, he walked outside and met Mercator.
‘We have a problem. One of the men, Sajjin, has told Yorvah he wants to go back to Bostra.’
‘On the first night?’
‘We can handle it if you want.’