One of the auxiliaries muttered something.
‘Quiet there,’ ordered Mercator.
The group that had been hiding behind the tents ran up to the path. Leading the way was a short, squat man; the only one whose sword remained undrawn. His angular face seemed at odds with his body; a narrow blade of a nose and a sharp chin accentuated by the most immaculately maintained beard Cassius had ever seen. The leader appeared to be in his forties yet there was no grey in his coal-black hair. He did not look happy.
After inspecting Cassius and Mercator, he gave an order and the archers lowered their bows.
‘Do you speak Greek?’ he asked in a deep, rich voice.
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing here?’
Cassius offered what he hoped was his most engaging smile. ‘Looking for our mule.’
XIX
Though aware there were far more important matters to concern him, Cassius couldn’t stop looking at Khalima’s beard. (He was relieved to have been given the Saracen’s name; surely a man was less likely to kill you if he’d bothered to introduce himself.) But that beard — the hair was as thick as an animal’s pelt, the moustache shaped as perfectly as the square wedge running from chin to bottom lip. That lip was now turned down as the Saracen surveyed the three men in front of him. Cassius glanced back at Mercator and Indavara. The optio looked anxious; the bodyguard looked bored.
Having been summoned to the largest of the tents, Cassius had insisted on bringing the other two and was glad he’d done so, even though they’d had to leave their weapons outide. Simo, Ulixes and the auxiliaries remained at the edge of the oasis, watched by Khalima’s tribesmen.
Three of his warriors were behind Indavara and Mercator. Two others — sons by the looks of them — were talking to the chief.
The tent reminded Cassius of a similarly spacious and well-appointed example used by Prefect Venator of the Fourth Legion. The floor was reed matting covered with rugs and cushions decorated with colourful oriental designs. The Saracen owned several pieces of furniture, including a small desk equipped with an abacus and writing equipment. Next to it was a cupboard with a metal grille at the front. Inside were half a dozen objects made from silver and gold.
The tent’s entrance had been left open. Outside, dozens of women and children had appeared. None dared get too close but a group of young boys was staring inside and talking excitedly.
‘What was the name again?’ asked Khalima in his faultless Greek.
‘Cassius Oranius Crispian.’
‘Remind me why you were on the Incense Road.’
‘I am a merchant, looking to buy goods in Hegra.’
‘You don’t look like any merchant I’ve ever seen — even one from Raetia. And what kind of merchant travels without anything to trade?’
‘It is my first trip to Arabia — more of a fact-finding visit really.’
Khalima looked past him. ‘And these two?’
‘My bodyguard, Indavara. And the leader of my hired men, Mertan. He and the others are locals. They joined me in Bostra.’
‘What are you looking to buy in Hegra?’
‘I’m not sure yet. Certainly some frankincense.’
‘Really? Well then, tell me — what would you expect to pay for top-quality Sabaean? Per pound.’
Cassius had done a little research in Bostra and Petra in case of such situations but was already wishing he’d done a little more. ‘I believe twelve denarii is the going rate.’
Khalima gave no indication of whether this was correct. ‘And nard — small leaf, per pound?’
Cassius considered his answer. Was nard the really expensive one or was that myrrh? Hesitation might cost him as much as a wrong answer. ‘That would be expensive. Very expensive.’
‘Indeed it would.’
Cassius scratched his chin to cover a gulp.
Khalima fingered the bangles on his left wrist. ‘You shouldn’t have any problems with this last question — it concerns a product from your homeland. Raetian honey is considered the best and sells well in the markets of Antioch. They charge five times what it would cost back in Raetia. What would a native merchant pay?’
‘Er … honey … you see food’s not really my area.’
‘But you are from Raetia. You could certainly make an educated guess.’
‘Per pound?’
‘Yes.’
‘Er … three denarii? I’d say about three.’
Khalima drew his sword and walked up to Cassius, who sensed Indavara poised to move.
‘Don’t,’ Cassius told him, even though Khalima had now raised the sword.
The Saracen’s unblinking eyes were a pale orange. He brought the finely honed tip of the blade up until Cassius felt it against his throat. ‘Liar. They don’t even export honey from Raetia. The good stuff comes from Dacia. Who are you?’
‘Now, don’t go casting aspersions on our fine Raetian honey,’ Cassius stuttered. ‘Highly underrated — why, it’s lovely on a piece of-’
‘Who — are — you?’
‘I told you.’
Cassius felt the sword pressing into his skin. On balance, he didn’t think Khalima would kill him, but he wasn’t about to take the risk.
‘All right. I’m not a Raetian merchant. I’m Roman. I’m a Roman soldier.’
Khalima lowered the blade.
‘An officer, in fact,’ added Cassius.
‘You’re not old enough.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Prove it.’
‘Er, the thing is, at this particular moment … I can’t.’
Indavara spoke up. ‘Actually, I think you can.’ He pointed outside.
A mule had appeared on the far side of the oasis and was walking towards the pool. The barrel and the saddlebags were still attached.
Indavara was grinning. ‘That’s Patch.’
The spearhead lay on a rug: three feet of steel topped by a blade kept safe by a piece of cork. Welded to the middle of the shaft was the square badge bearing the SPQR legend and the (recently inscribed) emblem of the Governor’s Office of Arabia.
Khalima was lying against a pile of cushions, eyeing it. A young girl had just brought him some wine in a fine glass which he hadn’t yet touched. He picked up the spearhead — which took two hands to lift — and peered closely at the inscriptions.
‘Would you like me to translate?’ asked Cassius.
‘Are you trying to offend me, Roman? I’ve been speaking Latin since before you were a glint in your father’s eye.’
‘Apologies.’
‘I saw such a thing once before. During the Palmyran war.’
Cassius hadn’t been offered any cushions. He was sitting cross-legged on a reed mat.
The Saracen put down the spearhead, then took a drink. ‘You, Mertan.’
Mercator and Indavara were standing outside with Khalima’s sons. All four turned round.
‘Your men may take what water they need. Stay on the far side of the pool, away from my people.’
After a nod from Cassius, Mercator left.
‘I would speak with you alone, Roman.’
‘Very well,’ said Cassius. He looked at Indavara. Though the others’ weapons had been returned, Cassius was unarmed and wouldn’t stand a chance against Khalima. But he could not afford to offend this man.
‘It’s all right.’
Indavara followed Mercator. At a word from the Saracen, his sons lowered the flap of canvas so that no one could see inside.
The Arabian leaned forward and offered his forearm. ‘I believe this is how you people greet each other.’
Cassius was ready for the strong grip, but not for the way Khalima held on and locked eyes with him. ‘This means only that we can speak as equals. I have not decided yet whether you are enemy or friend.’
Cassius pretended he hadn’t noticed the marks Khalima’s fingers had left on his arm. ‘Is there no position between those two extremes?’
‘These days — not much.’ The Saracen looked at the spearhead. ‘The other officer I saw with one of those was a scout. Is that what you are doing this far south?’
‘I suppose you could say that.’