‘I’m sure you know best.’
Cassius removed his boots and socks, then his belt. Farrai and Elymaris took them and put them to one side. Cassius couldn’t actually stand up straight in the tent so he bent over and Golpari helped him take his tunic off over his head, leaving him in just his loincloth. He had spent enough time naked around both men and women not to feel self-conscious, though he imagined his newly acquired tan lines looked rather unattractive.
Golpari gestured at the cushions and he knelt down again. She had to lean forward to wrap the sheet around him and Cassius breathed in the heavenly scent she was wearing. After a week on the road with the men, being alone with these three was really quite delightful.
Once the sheet was tied, Golpari took a brush and put it into the liquid. ‘Now, Master Cassius, close your eyes.’
An hour later, the transformation was complete. Golpari held up a mirror.
‘By Jupiter.’
Cassius watched the new him frown. He really did look like an easterner. His hair and skin were as dark as Indavara and Simo’s and looked convincingly natural. Golpari had even tinted his eyebrows with an appropriate tone.
‘Did we do well?’ she asked.
‘Exceptionally well.’
‘You must not wash — tonight or tomorrow.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Cassius. ‘But it smells a bit.’
‘That will wear off too.’
Golpari removed the sheet and picked up his tunic.
‘Shall I put it on for you?’
‘Please.’
Cassius used every last moment to examine that wonderful face and commit it to memory.
‘Come on, then, who’s going to crack the first joke?’
The men had gathered around their own fire. Cassius came close enough to the flames so that they could see him. Their reaction confirmed the quality of Golpari’s work.
‘Remarkable, sir,’ said Yorvah. ‘Just like one of us now.’
Simo peered at him. ‘Amazing, sir. Amazing.’
Indavara was sitting against some sacks of fodder, nibbling a piece of lamb stuck to the end of his dagger.
‘Well?’ said Cassius.
‘You look the same,’ said Indavara, ‘but darker.’
‘Insightful as ever.’ Cassius sat down next to him. ‘Get me a plate of something, would you, Simo, I’m starving. Oh, have you finished the agreement?’
‘Yes, sir. Both copies.’
‘What’s that smell?’ asked Indavara.
‘Me. Apparently it will wear off.’
Indavara downed the rest of the meat then let out a satisfied belch. ‘Delicious. That Censorinus knows his lamb.’
‘Fancy a few drinks to wash it down?’ asked Cassius. ‘Khalima has invited me for an evening drink with my senior men. That means you and Mercator.’
‘If you like.’
‘Best behaviour. We will be relying on these people.’
‘Ha!’ cried Khalima when they arrived at his tent. ‘Look at our new Arabian friend! Did I not tell you that wife of mine has a talent?’
‘Indeed she does,’ said Cassius.
The Saracen appeared the picture of contentment, again leaning back on a mountain of cushions with his two sons beside him. A teenage girl was kneeling to one side.
‘Please, sit.’
More cushions had been put down at the guests’ end of the tent. Dividing them from their host was a line of bowls containing various foods. Khalima clapped his hands and the girl poured wine from an ornate silver jug into equally expensive goblets. She placed one in the hand of each of the three guests then left. Nothing was said while this was going on and Cassius felt himself growing rather nervous. After their earlier meeting, he felt he had some measure of the Saracen but he doubted Mercator would feel much more comfortable than Indavara.
The chief gestured to his left. ‘My oldest son, Miraz. He will take my family and the caravan on to Petra.’
Miraz looked like a younger version of his father, though he clearly preferred a more natural look for his beard. He offered a vague nod.
Khalima gestured to the right. ‘Adayyid, my youngest. He will accompany us.’
Adayyid was slimmer than his father and brother. He was slumped languidly against the cushions.
‘A pleasure,’ said Cassius.
‘Please, eat,’ said Khalima.
Mercator selected some dates and seeds. Though full after the lamb, Cassius took a handful of raisins. Indavara grabbed a selection of everything and noisily devoured it all.
Cassius gave an apologetic grin and aimed a thumb at him. ‘Never needs a second invitation.’
‘A body such as that needs feeding,’ said Khalima. ‘Were I a few years younger I might challenge your friend to an arm wrestle, but I fear I might embarrass myself.’ He turned to Mercator and spoke in Nabatean. The exchange was brief but — to Cassius’s relief — friendly.
‘I asked Mertan if he likes our little oasis,’ continued Khalima in Greek. ‘It is good that your men will enjoy a pleasant night’s rest. We have far to go tomorrow.’
‘Khalima, I wonder if you could tell us a little more about your business. We can pass it on to the men; and will be prepared if any of us are questioned.’
‘Of course.’
Khalima did precisely that, outlining the basics of his work and the incense trade. Cassius had to nudge Indavara several times when he seemed not be listening. After Khalima had finished, Cassius supplemented his knowledge with a few precise questions.
The chief then told Adayyid to refill everyone’s goblet and asked Indavara how he had acquired such a remarkable number of scars. Fearing an awkward exchange, Cassius intervened, joking that Indavara was ‘accident prone’. Fortunately, Khalima pressed him no further.
‘My people have a tradition of telling stories,’ said the Saracen. ‘Miraz will start us off. But you three had better start thinking of a good one — we consider it rude not to contribute.’
Miraz’s tale involved an unfortunate merchant who became rather too close to his camel and met a sticky end. Cassius wasn’t really one for jokes or humorous tales but Indavara and Mercator seemed to enjoy it and he made himself laugh along.
‘And now it is the turn of our guests,’ said Khalima.
‘Do they have to be funny?’ asked Mercator.
‘No, not at all. We just like a good story. Anything interesting or entertaining. As long as you keep the listeners listening.’
‘I have a few,’ said Indavara, who had already finished his second goblet of wine.
As the bodyguard usually struggled to string more than a few sentences together, Cassius couldn’t imagine what he would come up with. ‘Why don’t I go first?’
‘Please,’ said Khalima.
Despite his reticence about comic offerings, Cassius retained a bank of amusing tales for social occasions and he chose one guaranteed to elicit a few laughs. Rejecting any of the more subtle anecdotes, he instead opted for one from his teenage years.
Having successfully wooed a neighbour’s daughter back in Ravenna, he’d had to escape her room via a tree. His toga had got caught on a branch and he’d eventually found himself hanging several feet from the ground with his nether regions exposed. When the girl’s father arrived he’d expected a beating at the very least. However, it turned out the man was in desperate financial straits and eager to marry off his daughter as soon as possible. He not only helped Cassius down from the tree but made his wife repair the tunic.
‘Did you see the girl again?’ asked Adayyid.
‘No,’ said Cassius. ‘But I still have the tunic.’
Khalima laughed until his whole broad frame was shaking. He then took his turn; a scatological tale about an inept doctor and his bizarre prescriptions.
To Indavara’s dismay, Mercator weighed in next with a spectacularly dull anecdote; something about a mix-up with some signal flags. Adayyid then offered his contribution — a short but engaging tale about a remarkable coincidence. Then it was Indavara’s turn.
Cassius couldn’t help feeling apprehensive on his behalf but the bodyguard was by now onto his fourth goblet of wine and seemed keen.