‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
To the right of the building were several unoccupied stalls for horses. In front of the door was a counter lined with bowls for serving food but they contained only dust and leaves. On the first floor was a timber-built balcony, from which several damaged planks hung. Cassius couldn’t see a single light emanating from the place or hear a single sound.
‘Simo, do the honours.’
The attendant passed the mule’s rope to Indavara and put his saddlebags on the disused counter, then walked up to the door and knocked. They heard voices, then eventually saw a dim light through the numerous holes in the door. A latch was lifted and the door opened inwards.
The lamplight cast a murky glow across the wizened face of the elderly proprietor. He moved the lamp closer to Simo. ‘Cretheus, is that you? By Allat — you’ve put on a few pounds.’
‘Er, sorry, but we’ve never met. My master-’
‘We need rooms for the night,’ interjected Cassius. ‘Are you open?’
‘How many of you?’ asked the man, tugging at his wispy white beard.
‘Twenty-three.’
As the old man muttered something to himself, a woman bustled forward out of the shadows. Her face was just as wrinkled, her hair just as white, but she seemed considerably more energetic. She peered at Cassius and seemed particularly interested in his jewellery. Her Greek was obviously limited: ‘Yes, yes. Come, come, yes.’
She silenced the old man’s brief protest with a finger, then took the lamp from him and used it to light a lantern on a hook outside the door. She then wedged the door open and hurried back inside.
‘You do have the space?’ Cassius asked the old man.
‘Yes, of course. My name is Jabbal. Welcome to our humble hostelry.’
‘I hope the inside isn’t as humble as the outside.’
Jabbal turned an ear towards him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. How long before our rooms are ready?’
‘Yes, very cold.’
Cassius raised his voice. ‘No — I said how long before our rooms are ready?’
‘Oh, soon. Very soon.’
‘Some hot food as well?’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘And a stall for the mule?’
‘Of course.’ Jabbal walked up to Patch and stroked the animal’s neck.
‘Simo, get yourself back to the King’s Tomb and collect Mercator and the others.’
‘I’ll go,’ offered Indavara.
‘You’ll get lost.’
‘What? I have a good sense of direction.’
‘In countryside you’re all right. In towns, you’re a disaster.’ Cassius gestured at the mule. ‘Why don’t you help get your friend settled?’
Simo set off into the gloom past the caverns. Indavara sighed and began unloading the bags. The old proprietor seemed keen to help him.
‘Jabbal, is it?’ said Cassius.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell me, are we far from the Temple of Atargatis?’
‘Not far at all, sir,’ said the old man, struggling with a saddlebag.
‘Good. Perhaps your time might be better spent attending to those rooms. I need to lie down.’
The fourth hour of night was well under way when Cassius’s head finally touched his pillow. Simo had swiftly returned with Mercator and the auxiliaries but Jabbal’s wife insisted on cleaning out the four rooms (three upstairs, one downstairs) before even allowing the men through the front door. A further round of mattress- and furniture-moving was required in order to fit them all in but eventually every man had a place to sleep. There was only one other guest at the inn; an aged goat trader who smelled remarkably like the animals that provided his living.
Because the parlour was so cramped, the wife put the food out then the men took what they wanted and ate outside. They seemed happy enough with what looked like some kind of vegetable soup but Cassius had no appetite and had retired immediately.
He, Simo, Indavara and two of the auxiliaries were sharing the downstairs room next to the parlour. Already in his sleeping tunic, Cassius was waiting for Simo to return with some warm wine. The straw mattress seemed barely thicker than the blankets he’d been lying on for the last few nights but with a pleasant flow of air from a nearby window, he was comfortable enough.
Yet he didn’t expect to be getting to sleep any time soon because most of the men were still gathered outside, talking. They didn’t seem keen on using Nabatean but as there had been no more lapses into Latin, Cassius wasn’t inclined to complain. As he lay there, listening in, he also realised they were using Greek to include Indavara, who had made the odd, brief contribution.
The talk turned to the incident with the brigands.
‘I sort of lost my enthusiasm when I realised how many there were,’ admitted Yorvah.
‘We used to have trouble with men like that round my old village,’ said another man. ‘Vicious bastards they are — care only for themselves and their kin. Not worried how they make their money.’
Another man laughed. ‘They lost their enthusiasm soon enough when our friend here got off his horse.’
This provoked a few chuckles.
‘What was it?’ said Yorvah. ‘Oh yes, “I shall remember your face — I’ve already forgotten yours.” Ha — good one.’
More laughter.
‘You don’t say much, Indavara,’ continued the guard officer, ‘but when you do it’s worth hearing.’
Andal spoke up next. ‘That leader must have noticed you look like a man who’s seen a few scraps.’
Indavara didn’t reply. Cassius could picture the faintly embarrassed half-smile. He wouldn’t be enjoying the attention.
‘Where’d you learn your fighting?’ asked a young voice. The others silently awaited the answer.
‘Here and there,’ said Indavara in his usual monotone.
‘The arena, yes?’ Andal again.
No reply.
Mercator spoke up: ‘That’s his business, not yours.’
‘Fair enough, sir. Didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Just be glad he’s on our side,’ said Yorvah, puncturing the brief moment of tension.
‘Drink?’ asked someone.
‘Thanks,’ replied Indavara quietly.
The conversation continued but Cassius turned away and tried not to listen. He found himself rather jealous of the way Indavara had endeared himself to the auxiliaries. He’d noted such reactions to the bodyguard before; and it wasn’t just about what he did. People were drawn to him. Cassius would have expected his damaged body and gruff manner to put them off but children invariably liked him, most women too; and not just the common sort either — their last outing had proved that.
And men? Most men feared him. But if they had no cause to, if they could feel close to him, they liked it. Cassius didn’t pretend to himself that he was any exception; and he had no doubt that if Indavara joined a century he’d rise up the ranks far quicker than Mercator could ever dream of, especially if there were plenty of battles to be fought. It was as if the strength and resilience forged in the fire of the arena still cloaked the man in some supernatural glow. Cassius thought of what he’d seen him do in the brief time they’d known each other. He’d never met anyone like him. In fact, he doubted there was anyone quite like him.
XIV
‘Caesar’s balls, is the entire bloody population here?’
Having moved about a third of the way through Petra’s spice market, Cassius, Indavara and Simo now found the street virtually impassable. Both sides of the market were lined by stores and warehouses but most of the space was taken up by temporary stalls and pitches. Also plying their wares were day traders selling produce straight from the amphora or sack.
The colours were remarkable: reds, oranges and yellows dominated but every possible shade could be found amongst the plants, seeds and herbs. The smell was incredible: an assault upon the nostrils within which Cassius had already detected garlic, cinnamon and mint. The noise was overwhelming: multiple languages, scores of urgent negotiations, dozens of bellowed invitations.