The Black Stone (33 page)

It wasn’t just the money. If the worst came to the worst, a sight of the spearhead would give second thought to anyone with hostile intent, even in these lands beyond Roman rule.

‘The men,’ he asked Indavara. ‘You’re sure you saw them?’

‘Fairly sure, yes. You don’t think—’

‘I don’t know what to think. Let’s just hope that bloody mule hasn’t gone far.’

The missing pair were named Actis and Corydon. Cassius knew both faces but had barely spoken a word to either of them. Andal was first to take his turn with the rope. He walked along the base of the formation to the south then out in an arc before eventually reappearing from the north. He had seen nothing. While another man took his turn, Cassius spoke to Mercator. He didn’t want to tell him about the money or impugn his men, but there was still no sign of the mule and time was passing.

‘Actis and Corydon. Neither of them given to panic, I trust?’

‘Not at all. I think they just got separated at the back. Four mules gone too. Got yours?’

‘No.’

There was nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass. Every object and being was now bathed in an ethereal golden glow. The horses pressed themselves close to the rock face and the men sat in twos or threes, clasping their hoods over their faces.

Indavara and Simo, however, stayed on their feet, still looking for any sign of the mule. Cassius decided he would leave them to it; they had lost the beast, after all.

Sitting between two boulders, he took a drink from his flask then poured the remainder over his face. His eyes still stung so he kept them shut. Despite the storm raging around him, he suddenly felt very tired. He uttered three lines of a prayer to the weather gods but never finished it.

Simo shook him awake.

‘What? What is it?’

‘We think the worst of the storm has passed, sir.’

Cassius pulled down his hood and looked around. He could see some way along the formation and much of the ground ahead. The sky to the west was dark.

‘The mule?’

Indavara – who had appeared from behind one of the horses – shook his head.

‘The men?’

‘No, sir,’ said Simo.

As he went in search of Mercator, Cassius found most of the auxiliaries up on their feet. Some were eating and drinking; others were brushing down their horses or washing out their eyes. Mercator and Yorvah were with Andal, who had just returned with one of the mules. There was no barrel on its back nor white mark upon its fur.

Over the next half-hour, the haboob moved farther away. The storm clouds seemed to dissipate as they met the higher ground and soon the mountains were visible once more.

Mercator ordered the men to prepare themselves then spoke to Cassius. ‘Hopefully they found shelter somewhere else on the formation.’

Cassius didn’t think that was the only explanation but there was no sense airing such a suspicion yet. ‘I’ll take one half of the men around to the north, you take the others around to the south.’

‘Good idea.’

Cassius then noticed Ulixes talking to two of the auxiliaries. The gambler had his knucklebones ready.

‘Forget that,’ Cassius told him. ‘We’re moving out.’

Within another half an hour, they were riding along in sunshine with clear skies in every direction. Rounding the formation, they saw a variety of wildlife warily leaving the safety of the natural shelter: lizards scampering out from behind boulders, birds flitting from high crevices, even a family of gazelle that bolted from a cave then loped away to the north. No man or mule appeared, however, and Cassius’s fears only grew. Upon reaching the far side they were surprised by a distant sight. Two miles to the east was a cluster of high, healthy-looking date palms.

Cassius halted his horse. ‘An oasis.’

‘A what?’ asked Indavara.

‘An underground spring – provides water, allows trees to grow where there’s no other vegetation for miles.’

They heard shouts and saw Mercator coming the other way. Before the two groups met, Cassius had counted up and realised the missing men were with them. Actis and Corydon came forward with their optio.

‘They sheltered in a cave,’ explained Mercator. ‘Actis has lost his horse so we’ve given him one of the spares. No sign of the other mules, though.’

While some of the auxiliaries aimed light-hearted insults at the unfortunate pair, Ulixes pointed at the oasis. ‘They’re probably there. Drawn to the water.’

Andal had dismounted. ‘There are some tracks leading that way. Fresh. Too small for a horse.’

Indavara and Simo went to investigate.

Mercator looked west towards the road. ‘We’ve already lost three hours.’

‘Let’s replenish our water while we have the chance,’ said Cassius.

‘You really want to lose more time out here?’

Cassius nodded at Indavara and Simo. ‘If we don’t at least try and find their precious Patch I’ll never hear the end of it.’

As they neared the oasis, Cassius realised there was a narrow path leading through the ridge of sand that surrounded the depression. He then saw light sparking off water.

‘Could be people here,’ said Mercator.

‘Could be.’

Considering what they’d heard about hostile tribesmen, Cassius wouldn’t have minded dropping back but, in the interests of maintaining appearances, he stayed alongside the optio as they approached the path.

It soon became obvious that the oasis
was
occupied, or at least had been until very recently. The pool was on the far side, a glittering oval mirror ringed by reeds and palms. The trees could not have looked healthier; vibrant green branches proudly sticking out at every angle. Close to the pool were about a dozen tents, some of which appeared to have been damaged in the storm.

They halted. Mercator offered a speculative look. Cassius shrugged and nudged his horse on to the path.

It was hard to work out where the shout came from but the result was clear enough.

Men rose smoothly and silently up from behind the ridge. More appeared among the tents, and yet more who had been hiding in the trees. There were at least sixty of them, all in pale, flowing robes and clutching either bows or swords. The Arabians were already converging on the path.

Cassius raised a hand and tried to sound calm. ‘Everyone dismount. Don’t go anywhere near your weapons.’

As the men complied, the warriors closed in. Each archer picked a target and Cassius found himself looking at the iron head of an arrow only ten feet away. The bow was held by a lean, gnarled Saracen with a dead-eyed stare and a remarkably steady hand.

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.’

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.’