His mount seemed to sense he was distracted and slowed down. Indavara didn’t like to kick it too hard and his half-hearted attempts made no difference. Thankfully, the horse followed the others as Mercator came off the road, heading straight at the brigands. Indavara glimpsed Usrana, still at the corner. He and the boys watched them fly past.
Mercator came up in his saddle and slowed to a trot. As Indavara copied him, he heard a shout then two loud thumps.
‘Oh no.’
Cassius had just set off from the crest when he saw the horses go down. The men were thrown to the ground and the animals tumbled into the dust, legs flailing. A couple of the others looked back but they had other things to worry about: the brigands had fanned out to meet them at the edge of the property.
‘Yah!’
Cassius’s horse was the least heavily loaded. He lashed it with the reins and thundered away.
As the dust cleared, Indavara turned back and saw that one of the fallen riders was already up on his feet. The auxiliary went straight to his horse, which was lying motionless. The other animal hauled itself up by its front legs. Indavara couldn’t see the second man.
‘Stop,’ ordered Mercator.
Indavara halted next to the optio. Some of the animals were wheezing and foaming at the mouth, barely able to keep their heads up.
The brigands passed through gaps in the patchy hedge that ran around the rear of the property. Dark, bearded faces framed by the folds of their hoods, they advanced across the dry ground. Indavara was relieved to see no bows or spears or other distance weapons.
‘Twenty-one,’ said Yorvah, ‘and we’ve only ten.’
‘Eleven.’ The auxiliary who had recovered himself walked up behind them.
‘Who’s down?’ asked Mercator without turning round.
‘Druz. Looks bad.’
The brigands stopped at what Indavara reckoned to be about forty feet. He looked back at the road. Corbulo was ahead of the others but still a good half-mile away.
Two of the brigands exchanged a few words then one pulled down his hood. He was surprisingly young, pale eyes regarding those before him with cool contempt. He spoke in Greek.
‘We want the black stuff. Give us the cart and there’ll be no trouble.’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Mercator, who was breathing a lot harder than the brigand.
The leader spat into the ground. ‘This is our territory. Who are you?’
‘Friends of Usrana,’ said Mercator. ‘He’s keeping the black stuff for himself — why don’t you go and get some of your own?’
The leader gestured to his compatriots. ‘We have the numbers. Just give us the cart and we’ll let all of you go on your way.’
Indavara was listening but he was more interested in the fact that almost all the brigands now had a hand on their swords. He thought he’d done pretty well to stay on his horse but he wasn’t about to try fighting on it. He patted its shoulder, then let go of the reins and dismounted. To avoid standing in amongst the other mounts, he took a few steps forward and stared at the brigand.
There was another reason he wanted to settle the matter quickly — judging by the noises Druz was making, he was badly hurt. Indavara had no intention of waiting around for this plundering bastard to make his move.
The brigand aimed a long finger at him. ‘I would advise against provocation. Anything that comes out of the water around here belongs to us.’ He nodded towards Usrana, who was still looking on from the corner of the farmhouse. ‘And anyone who gets in our way ends up under the ground.’
‘Enough talk, thief,’ said Indavara. ‘You want it, come and get it. If not, run along before I lose my patience and put you under the ground.’
One of the other men unleashed a stream of curses at him. Indavara didn’t understand a word of it. He placed one hand on his sword and beckoned the vocal brigand forward with the other. Now that it came to it, he realised he might enjoy chopping his way through these parasites; in fact he was almost beginning to hope it would happen.
The leader scratched his chin and seemed to think for a while before replying. ‘Luckily for you there’ll be plenty more of the black stuff coming out today. You’re not worth the trouble.’
‘Keep telling yourself that,’ said Indavara. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
‘Easy,’ warned Mercator quietly.
The brigand pointed at Indavara again. ‘I shall remember your face.’
‘I’ve already forgotten yours.’
The loud brigand shouted more insults at him. The leader put out a hand and the man reluctantly quietened down. With a few more words, the leader turned his horse around and led the brigands back through the hedge. Some were slow to follow. Indavara and the auxiliaries watched them until the very last man had turned away.
As Cassius dismounted, Usrana hurried towards him.
‘Thank you for sending your men, sir, thank you.’
Cassius handed him his reins. ‘Watch my mount, would you?’
He jogged along the side of the farmhouse to where the horse and the injured man lay. The horse was on its side, breathing unevenly, bloody spittle bubbling from its mouth and nostrils. Bone had sheared through skin just above its front left knee. It would have to be killed.
Cassius reached the auxiliary at the same time as Indavara and Mercator. He was on his back, face wrinkled by pain, fists clenched. ‘My back. Gods, I think it’s broken.’
‘You’ll be all right, Druz,’ said Mercator as he knelt beside him and took a gourd from his belt.
‘Gods, gods.’ Druz, who was one of the younger auxiliaries, reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, roughly cast iron phallus — a good-luck charm.
‘Where’s the pain?’ asked Mercator, a hand on the younger man’s chest.
‘Everywhere.’
Indavara had checked the rest of his body. ‘No other injuries I can see.’
‘Give him some room,’ Cassius told the others. ‘Simo will be here in a moment.’
‘Gods, gods,’ wailed Druz. ‘Some strong wine, please — something for the pain.’
‘Here.’ Usrana arrived with a flask. ‘I was saving this for tonight. It’s unwatered.’
Mercator pulled out the stopper and held it to Druz’s lips.
As the auxiliary drank, Usrana looked up at Cassius and the others. ‘Thank you again. Thank you all.’
XII
‘Well?’
‘Backs are very difficult to diagnose, sir,’ said Simo. ‘But I’d say he’s damaged the lower part of it.’
‘Can he ride?’
‘Not a chance. We’ll need to make a stretcher for him.’
Cassius looked at Mercator.
‘What else could we have done?’ said the optio. ‘Let those thieving bastards kill Usrana and the boys?’
‘I warned you about that ground,’ replied Cassius, ‘and you came off the road like it was a bloody cavalry charge.’
Mercator didn’t seem keen to argue the point. ‘I’ll go and sort out the stretcher. We can bind some tent poles together, use panels for the sling.’
‘Good idea.’
As he left, Druz continued to curse and groan. His cries had distressed the boys so much that Yorvah had taken them round to the other side of the farmhouse to play a game. There was no sign of any inhabitants; the place seemed abandoned.
‘Any reason not to give him more wine?’ Cassius asked Simo.
‘No, sir. Unless we can get him to a surgeon, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘Then keep him drinking until he passes out. I can’t take much more of that din.’
Cassius walked over to Usrana. ‘You’re from Dhiban?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know if there’s a surgeon there?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Any army? Administrators?’
‘No, sir, just the odd tax collector now and again. There is the centurion — he’s the richest man in the town and head of the council.’
‘Centurion?’
‘Retired. Name’s Censorinus. He owns a big farm, employs dozens of workers.’