Mercator walked over to Cassius as the departing swordsmen passed by. ‘That’s not good.’
‘Possibly not. Go and tell the men to loosen up and mix in with Khalima’s lot. They look apprehensive.’
‘What’s that mean?’ asked Indavara. ‘Apprehensive?’
Cassius didn’t answer; he was watching Adayyid and Khalima, who were deep in discussion.
‘Worried,’ explained Simo.
Indavara grinned at Cassius. ‘No one looks more … apprehensive than you.’
Cassius never ceased to be amazed at how Indavara could make japes on such occasions; then again, a man who’d fought for his life twenty times in the arena — and survived — was unlikely to be given to nerves.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Well, maybe Simo,’ added the bodyguard.
Cassius had insisted the Gaul wore his seldom-used dagger and Khalima had lent him a sword, but he remained a rather unconvincing Syrian mercenary. Cassius was still wearing the spare blade Mercator had given him; a well-used piece with several chips out of the blade and a smooth bone handle.
‘Simo, try and look a bit more like a fighting man. Also — you have a tendency to smile when you’re nervous. Do not smile.’
Cassius moved subtly through the men to Khalima and Adayyid, wary of suspicious eyes at the gate.
Khalima turned his back to the guards and nodded at the warriors who had been sent away. ‘They wanted to join Ilaha’s force but weren’t allowed in — no one here to vouch for them. Adayyid told the guards that we belong to Uruwat’s tribe. He is already here so they will try to find someone to vouch for us. Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Shouldn’t be?’
They had to wait for a quarter of an hour, though to Cassius it seemed twice that. He had retreated to the rear of the group once more, but looked on as the guards parted and two of their number appeared accompanying a third man with a piece of green cloth tied around his arm. The Saracen was wearing more gold than Khalima, and the pair met with an embrace and two kisses. The guards seemed satisfied and one of them handed Khalima a small woven basket. He passed it to Adayyid, who worked his way through the party, handing each man a piece of the green cloth.
‘The man with my father is named Urunike,’ he explained. ‘Uruwat’s son. Ilaha’s men are concerned about all the new arrivals so we have to wear these to mark our tribe.’
Cassius took his piece of cloth and tried to tie it around his upper arm one-handed. As he struggled, Simo reached over to help him.
‘Get off, you dolt,’ snapped Cassius. ‘You’re a mercenary, remember? Not an attendant.’
‘Sir, everyone’s doing the same. It’s impossible to tie it yourself.’
Cassius looked around and realised Simo was right. ‘Ah. Very well, go ahead.’
Indavara grinned.
They walked the horses up to the gate and formed a line. Khalima went through first with Urunike, his performance an exemplar of jocular relaxation. The other Saracens also appeared at ease as they walked under the arch and past the guards, most of whom seemed uninterested.
Mercator had done a good job of mixing the auxiliaries with Khalima’s men. Cassius was in the middle with Adayyid while Simo and Indavara were towards the back, with only Andal behind them. As Cassius passed the tower, his horse slowed and he gave it a tug to keep it moving. Glancing left, he saw an aged warrior sitting on the steps that led up to the tower’s first floor. He was a rangy fellow with little hair and a white beard. He was wearing a sleeveless tunic and had a long, curved sword hanging from his belt. The veteran eyed Cassius from below a pair of remarkably bushy eyebrows.
Cassius kept his head down and quickened his pace. But after only a few yards he had to stop — there was some delay up ahead and the line had halted. Throat tight, he pulled up the collar of his tunic; even though the dye reached down as far as his chest, he was fearful someone might notice.
He heard a voice and turned to see the old warrior right behind him. The man spoke again in Nabatean.
Adayyid replied. The warrior listened but kept his eyes on Cassius.
‘You with Khalima?’ he asked in Greek.
‘I am,’ Cassius replied gruffly.
‘Where you from?’ The Arabian was chewing something that had stained his teeth green.
‘Syria.’
‘You a hired man?’
‘Yes.’
The veteran pointed at his sword. ‘Ever used that?’
‘Many times,’ said Cassius.
The warrior looked at his face, then his hands. ‘Barely a mark on you. Never been caught with a blade?’
‘I thought that was the idea.’
The Arabian considered this. When he started smiling, Cassius could see the dark leaf he was munching. The veteran chuckled, then returned to the tower.
The line got under way and Cassius walked on, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He looked ahead and saw that a column of mules were now were filtering onto the main street and holding up the new arrivals. Several men — Urunike and Khalima included — were shouting at them to move.
The line stopped again. Cursing under his breath, Cassius looked over his shoulder. The veteran had disappeared but two other guards were inspecting the strangers and seemed interested in Simo. Conscious of other eyes on him, Cassius turned back. Don’t smile. Just don’t smile.
Indavara watched the guards circle Simo and his horse. They exchanged a few comments then stood in front of the big Gaul, glaring at him. Simo responded with a warm smile.
The larger of the two men said something, his voice angry. Andal came forward to intervene but the guard waved him away with his spear. Indavara counted a dozen notches close to the iron head. From what he could see of the man, he suspected the Arabian had enjoyed carving every one.
‘Hired sword?’ asked the guard in Greek.
Simo nodded.
‘Been with this lot long?’
Simo nodded again.
‘Don’t say much, do you? You simple or something?’
‘He is actually,’ said Indavara, dropping his mount’s reins and walking forward.
The large man inspected him, then jutted his jaw towards Simo. ‘What use is a cretin as a fighting man?’
‘You haven’t seen him in a fight. We’re brothers. Normally he’s as gentle as a lamb but in a scrap … well, you’d have to see it. Only fights when I tell him to. And who I tell him to.’
The guard tapped his fingers against the spear. ‘That sounded a little like a threat.’
Indavara shrugged. ‘Only a little.’
The big man came up close; close enough for Indavara to smell him. ‘Best remember where you are, friend. This is Galanaq.’ He planted a big, dirty finger on the sun emblem on his tunic. ‘We’re Lord Ilaha’s guards and what we say goes. You got that?’
Indavara forced himself to appear compliant. ‘Got it.’
Once clear of the gate, Cassius hoped his nerves might recede, but what he saw of the rest of the town did little to ease his mind. Judging by the smell, whatever sewage system they had in place was failing to cope. All the houses and inns seemed full and dozens of warriors — bearing eight different colours at the last count — had spilled out onto the street. They leaned against walls and gathered around benches and tables, watched by scores of guards. Women and children were outnumbered ten to one and those few Cassius saw seemed as unsettled as he was by the oppressive, febrile atmosphere.
One man lurched out of an inn, slurping from a flask and barely able to stand. A group of guards descended on him and in moments the wine had been knocked out of his hand and half a dozen kicks sent him sprawling to the ground. The guards left the drunk groaning with his face in a puddle, then barked at others from his tribe to deal with him.
Cassius followed Adayyid as they approached the track that led left and up a slight slope to the encampment. He glanced to the right, over the low walls of the compound. In contrast to the rest of the town, this area seemed highly organised, with only local warriors visible inside. As well as the stables and the corral there was also a small archery range and some wooden posts for sword practice. Smiths could also be seen at work, one hammering something on an anvil, the other adding coal to a forge. Closer to the road, scores of warriors were stacking boxes and barrels under an awning. Also stored there were spears, shields and arrows.