‘I will do everything I can. I give you my word.’
‘Kalderon knows he is in the minority for now but he is still dangerous. Do not take the road, take the Goat Trail.’
‘I know.’
‘There is one of your customs officers at Leuke Kome. He will help you. Go now, while the others are all occupied.’
Cassius got to his feet.
‘Tell me,’ said Khalima. ‘What is your true name?’
‘Cassius Quintius Corbulo.’
‘Farewell, Cassius.’
‘Farewell, Khalima.’ He turned away.
‘No, no, that is not how a Saracen says goodbye to a friend. Come.’
Khalima put his good arm around Cassius’s neck and pulled him in closer. He kissed him on both cheeks, then held him by his shoulder. ‘You are young for work such as this, Cassius. Too young.’
There were no guards left at the Goat Trail. The nearest of Ilaha’s men were down at the road. They had found some wine from somewhere and were sitting, drinking, watching the inner gate — where the warriors of other tribes now stood guard.
Zebib stopped at the foot of the trail. He pointed up the steep slope then silently walked back towards the road.
‘I think I shall walk, sir,’ said Simo as he dismounted and checked the rope to which Patch was tied. ‘Are you going to try it?’
Cassius looked at the trail, which seemed to have been carved out of the canyon wall. No more than seven or eight feet wide, it went straight up for twenty yards then zigzagged sharply to the top. Cassius put his head back, trying to assess the angle of the slope and the difficulty of the path.
He stroked the horse’s neck. It was a young black mare, a bit twitchy but strong and agile. Better still, Simo had managed to find a saddle.
Cassius had been riding since he was four. Another pulse of pain from his ankle made up his mind for him.
‘Stay back, Simo.’
They started well but as the trail steepened and wove its way around jutting clumps of rock, the sandy ground gave way more easily. Thankfully the mare was a natural climber and kept itself moving. Cassius let it find its own way, reining in only when the animal needed to regain its breath. About halfway up came the most dangerous section — a narrow stretch that ran alarmingly close to the edge. Unnerved by the drop, the horse shuffled its way along, twice almost losing its footing. On one occasion, Cassius was convinced he was about to be thrown straight down the cliff but the animal held its nerve. After a brief rest beneath a shady overhang, they covered the final third without incident.
As the horse’s hooves clattered across the ledge at the top, Cassius let out a long breath and gave a brief prayer of thanks to Jupiter. Looking around, he realised he was in some kind of holy place. Several yards back from the edge, a large rectangle had been cut down into the rock. On the far side were steps up to a pedestal and altar. Upon the altar was a hollow for some religious icon but it was empty. On two sides of the rectangle were benches, also made from rock. Cassius carefully dismounted then tied the mare to one of them.
Though he would have liked to rest while he waited for Simo, curiosity drew him back to the edge. Galanaq itself still looked almost deserted, the compound and the encampment too, but from this high vantage point he could now see over the inner wall.
What looked like more than a thousand men had gathered outside the cavern. In amongst all the pale robes, only a handful of the coloured cloths remained. Suddenly more of the warriors poured out of the cavern, then the mass moved backwards.
It took Cassius a while to work out why; they were retreating towards the gate because they wanted to look up.
The two figures were walking across a plateau like the one Cassius was standing on, three or four hundred feet above the canyon floor. Ilaha still wore his purple cloak. Beside him was the old woman, white hair blowing around her face.
Angry cries rang out from the Saracens below.
The pair stopped, raised their hands to the sky, then bowed to the sun. They walked on, slow but strangely purposeful. Cassius couldn’t be sure because of the distance but it seemed to him that they were holding hands.
Their last step took them over the precipice.
As they plummeted towards the ground, Cassius saw only a streak of purple and another of white.
The Saracens cheered.
Though in their haste they had forgotten to take torches or lanterns, they rode on through the darkness, eventually arriving at the mushroom around the fourth hour of night. They found Damon and the other wounded auxiliary where they had camped with Khalima. The first thing they did was take down the dead and lay them out.
The second injured man, Ingennus, was in a bad way. He had been stabbed in the thigh and lost a lot of blood. Damon had done his best to clean and bandage the wound but had no wine. Ingennus immediately downed what spare they had.
Both men were immensely relieved that the others had survived and they listened keenly as Nobus described what had happened at the Scorpion Pass. Damon declared that they would all receive decorations for the action but showed little regret that he had missed it. Ulixes also related his tale and proudly showed them his hand — which now looked almost normal. They didn’t dare start a fire but used a lantern for Ulixes to stitch Mercator’s wound.
Though he wanted nothing more than sleep, Indavara found his figurine and left the others. He knelt in the darkness and prayed for Corbulo and Simo once more, and asked Fortuna to deliver him and the others to Humeima safely. On the way back to the small camp, he passed the cart. Without thinking about it, he reached inside and touched the black stone. He didn’t know why.
‘Do you think they’re still alive?’
Simo was squatting by their fire, heating a pan of wine. ‘I don’t know, sir. All we can do is hope.’
‘And pray?’
‘I have prayed for Indavara. And Master Mercator and the men.’
Cassius stood and warmed his hands above the flames. They had pressed on along the trail throughout the day. The deserted path remained precarious and slow, twisting up and around steep faces, then plunging deep into shadowy crevices. Both men — and both horses — had cut themselves on the unforgiving rock. Just before dusk they’d come across a hollow, protected from three sides.
‘And the man in the outhouse?’ said Cassius. ‘You prayed for him too, I expect?’
Simo hesitated before answering. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘To you I am a sinner now, I suppose.’
Simo stirred the wine.
Cassius glanced down at the spearhead, which was lying on the satchel next to his pack. ‘I had no choice. Say it — I had no choice.’
Simo looked up.
‘Say it or by Jupiter I swear I’ll hit you again.’
Simo answered softly. ‘You had no choice.’
Having got what he wanted, Cassius now found it made precious little difference.
‘I’ve never had a choice. Never. My bloody father, the army, Alauran, this. I didn’t want any of it!’ His shouts echoed around the hollow. ‘The fear, the killing. I hate what I have to see, what I have to do. I hate it!’
Cassius snatched up the spearhead and threw it at the rock. It struck with a metallic clang then fell to the ground.
Simo stood up. ‘Master Cassius-’
‘Do you think he survived? Really?’
Again the Gaul did not answer.
Cassius walked around the fire. ‘Come on, Simo, you know as much about these things as anyone. After the fit, might he have survived?’
Simo seemed about to answer but he stopped himself and stared down at the fire. The wine was bubbling.
‘Just tell me the truth. Whatever it is.’
‘Master Cassius, when we left he was … he was not breathing.’
‘He may have died, then. But there’s a chance-’
‘Sir, I think — I think he was dead when we left.’