The Black Stone: Agent of Rome 4 (The Agent of Rome) Page 15

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’d just as soon stay in Bostra.’

  ‘By the gods, man, you have taken an oath to fight for the Emperor. Do you think you’re the only one who’d rather stay at home?’

  Cassius was briefly tempted to go farther, to tell him he hadn’t seen a single member of his family in three long years, but he rarely spoke of that, even to Simo.

  ‘Can you go on?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Sajjin wiped at his eyes.

  ‘You bloody coward.’ Mercator grabbed his tunic and clenched a fist. ‘You’re a disgrace.’

  Cassius held a hand up. Mercator pushed Sajjin away, breathing hard with frustration.

  ‘All right, calm down,’ Cassius said, conscious of the other soldiers looking on. ‘Any more like him?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  Cassius considered his options, then pointed at Sajjin. ‘Go and get your gear. Leave your horse.’

  The auxiliary sloped away.

  Mercator frowned. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Better he go now than disappear during the night.’

  ‘We have to punish him,’ insisted the optio, ‘set an example.’

  ‘Mercator, we are not at the fortress. This little group is going to be together for weeks. I’m not having a beating on the first night. Just see to it that he’s quick.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘By the way, you seemed to have slipped back into Latin again. The men will do as you do. Am I going to have to remind you every day?’

  Mercator marched away.

  Indavara ducked out of the tent, already munching something. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Not for you.’

  The bodyguard winced as he straightened up. ‘I’d forgotten how much I hate riding.’

  ‘I expect your horse does too after today. You’re still too tight on your reins and that poor beast’s got to last you hundreds of miles.’

  ‘You were going to help me, remember?’

  ‘Remind me tomorrow. And didn’t I tell you to speak Greek?’

  ‘My Latin’s better.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘You’re a moody bastard, you know that?’

  Cassius was about to fire an insult back at him but he reckoned Indavara had a point. ‘Sorry. Do remind me about the riding.’

  Cassius walked past the tents to where the soldiers were gathered. Most of them were watching Sajjin as he hauled a pack onto his back, head still down. Mercator was standing by a pile of food sacks with Andal and Yorvah. Cassius couldn’t decide whether their unblinking glares were for him or Sajjin.

  He spoke to the auxiliary, loud enough for all to hear. ‘The moment you set foot in Bostra, report to headquarters. When I return I’ll see you at the next session of the military court. Go.’

  Sajjin walked away towards the road. One man offered him a gourd as he passed. Sajjin went to take it.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ ordered Cassius.

  ‘He has no water,’ said the helpful auxiliary.

  ‘He can find his own bloody water.’

  Sajjin continued onto the road and was soon lost to the fading light.

  Cassius turned to Mercator. ‘Two sentries. One facing the road, one watching the horses.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the optio, in Greek.

  Despite his mattress of blankets, the endless howling of a fox and the combined snoring of Indavara and Simo, Cassius slept well. In the morning, Mercator and the men excelled once more and after the briefest of breakfasts they were away in time to miss the market traffic converging on Thugrat. There were no officials and no inspections at the gates and they continued on without delay for two hours.

  The next town, however, Samra, was home to a legionary fort within sight of the road. Mercator had predicted a delay and they soon found themselves stuck behind a line of carts approaching an arched gate. Cassius – in his merchant’s outfit once again – raised himself high in his saddle and looked along the road. Progress was slow because cart-loads were being checked by legionaries and money handed to a tax collector.

  ‘This isn’t going to be quick,’ observed Mercator.

  Cassius looked up at the cloudless, bright blue sky. The sun was already hot and he pulled up the hood of his riding cape. Ignoring a young lad offering date leaves full of something, he turned and looked back. The auxiliaries were lined up in orderly fashion – almost too orderly for a bunch of hired swords – and several were anxiously eyeing the gate. Thankfully the departure of Sajjin seemed to have been forgotten, and Cassius hadn’t heard the man’s name mentioned once. As he turned back, the cart in front trundled forward, but a few yards was the limit of their advance.

  He sat there, nose assailed by flatulent horses and sweating men, growing increasingly hot and impatient, until finally – a good half-hour later – the senior legionary waved him and Mercator up to the arch.

  ‘Business on the road?’ asked the soldier in a bored monotone.

  ‘I am a merchant,’ Cassius announced, ‘journeying south to investigate the markets of Petra.’

  ‘Carrying trade goods?’

  ‘No. Just our belongings.’

  The legionary looked at the tax collector, who was now sitting behind a little table.

  He was an unappealing individual with an unruly beard and beady eyes. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Originally? Raetia.’

  ‘Your men aren’t Raetian.’

  ‘No. I hired them in Bostra.’

  ‘Check the bags on every third horse,’ ordered the tax collector. The legionary and his compatriots began with Mercator, who scowled as they unbuckled his saddlebags.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ asked Cassius.

  ‘It is for you,’ replied the tax collector. ‘I’ve manned this post for six years and I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘This is my first trip to Arabia.’

  ‘A merchant with nothing to sell?’

  ‘I told you. I’m here to buy. Samples of spice and perfume.’

  ‘You’re young for a merchant.’

  ‘You’re old for a clerk.’

  ‘Watch yourself,’ warned the legionary.

  With a sour look at Cassius, the tax collector stood up and gazed along the line. ‘Twenty-eight horses?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Cassius.

  A sudden shout from behind them. He turned along with the others and watched the senior legionary shake hands with one of the auxiliaries. The pair continued to talk as the other soldiers checked the baggage. Cassius took care not to look too concerned. The tax collector observed studiously until the check was concluded.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the soldier.

  ‘You know that man?’

  ‘I was stationed with him at Azraq a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like he’s done twenty-five years.’

  ‘Discharged – lost a toe so he can’t march.’

  Cassius thought that rather inventive; it seemed at least one of the men was capable of maintaining their cover.

  The tax collector walked back to his table and took a small counter from a pot. ‘Without this you’ll be charged again at every toll-stop along the road. Should be fifty-six but I’ll call it sixty because of the rude remark.’

  Cassius was tempted to root out the spearhead, show it to this greedy worm, then smack him about the face with it, but he instead told Simo to pay him.

  Once he had the coins, the tax collector handed over the counter, which Simo passed on to Cassius. It was made of bark and marked with some kind of code.

  The legionary caught Mercator’s eye. ‘Careful on the quieter stretches of the road. We’ve not many troops to spare. Few incidents of late.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘On you go,’ said the tax collector.

  Cassius gave his horse a tap and set off through the gate.

  They passed through the town of Hadid, then the ancient city of Philadelphia. Like Damascus
and nearby Gerasa, it was one of the Decapolis – the ten eastern frontier cities colonised by Rome three centuries earlier. Though the provincial capitals were now more important, Philadelphia was still far larger and more populous than Bostra. Cassius found the impressive architecture reassuringly familiar, and as they rode on past busy side streets and squares, he saw several pretty sanctuaries. He got a particularly good look at one because of a collapsed cart that held up traffic for half an hour. While they waited, he gazed enviously at young men and women with nothing else to do other than lounge around on benches and talk and laugh. When they finally got under way again, he felt as if a black cloud of despondency had settled over him.

  Since leaving Bostra, they had been skirting the highlands that bordered the Jordan and the Dead Sea. But as dusk fell, the Via Traiana neared the dark, rolling hills. Cassius was once again satisfied with the day’s journey and they found a suitable place to camp with the next town, Madaba, already in view. A quarter-mile from the road was an area of dusty ground bordered on three sides by scrub. With the sun already lower in the sky than the previous night, Mercator immediately set the men to work.

  Indavara and Simo gave a hand and – thinking it wise to be seen to be doing his bit – Cassius took it upon himself to unsaddle his horse, then pour some water for their three mounts. Yawning and wincing at his aching backside and thighs, he looked on as the men raised the tents. Yorvah began a Nabatean song and – after struggling on alone for a while – was joined by most of the others. During the delay in Philadelphia, Cassius had struck up a conversation with the younger of the two guard officers. Despite a nasty scar on his cheek that had rather ruined an otherwise pleasant face, he seemed a cheery fellow. The veteran Andal – who Cassius reckoned to be forty at least – was a more reserved figure, but clearly well respected by the men.

  The song seemed to help the auxiliaries work even faster and the last tent was soon up. With Cassius and Mercator’s approval, Andal got a fire going and some chickens were brought out for roasting. This prospect was enough to ensure Indavara didn’t stray far and Cassius – circling the camp to stretch his legs – was glad to see the bodyguard sitting with the men. He didn’t seem to be saying much but even the fact that he was mixing with them was a sign of progress. Cassius recalled their last assignment; how he’d been brought out of his shell by the camaraderie of Captain Asdribar and the crew of the Fortuna Redux.

  He thought of the ship often. With the return of the sailing season the Carthaginian and his men would probably be heading for some exotic port, as ever occupied by their dual obsessions: superstition and turning a profit.

  Cassius looked to the west. The Dead Sea was close now, just a few miles beyond the hills. He noticed a thick coil of smoke, drifting high.

  Abruptly remembering how thirsty he was, he set off back to the small tent. Once there, he was surprised to see no light inside, but a faint glow coming from one side. He walked around the tent and spied a clay lamp on the ground. Facing away from him and kneeling beside it was Simo. He was whispering to himself.

  ‘You’d better not be praying.’

  Simo stood but didn’t turn. When Cassius spun him around by his shoulder, he was still trying to push the cross down inside his tunic. ‘A-apologies, sir. I thought if I kept out of sight—’

  ‘You idiot, any one of the men could have seen you.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, shall I fetch you some dinner? What about a—’

  ‘Don’t you dare try and distract me,’ Cassius hissed. ‘I told you specifically not to do this.’

  ‘I am truly sorry, sir, there is—’

  ‘You know what soldiers are like. If Mercator and the others take against you, then they might just take against me. You are supposed to help, Simo, not be a hindrance. I’m beginning to wonder if you might be more trouble than you’re worth.’

  ‘Sir, if I can—’

  ‘Not another word. Get inside that tent and keep that bloody cross hidden.’

  Simo bowed his head, then pointed west.

  ‘What?’ demanded Cassius.

  ‘The smoke, sir.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The martyr Pionius of Smyrna,’ stammered Simo. ‘He wrote of walking these lands and seeing scorched earth and bodies that wouldn’t sink and smoke coming out of the ground. He believed them to be signs of hell. Sir, the Day of Judgement might come at any time. In Antioch all anyone talks of is sin and violence and the coming war. And in Egypt too. So much suffering.’

  ‘“Day of Judgement” – that nonsense again.’ Cassius held Simo by the shoulders. ‘Pull yourself together. That smoke could be anything, there are hot springs in this area. War? What your people call sin? It’s nothing new. And do you think your Christ was the first man crucified? I have ancestors, family, who died on the cross in the civil wars. Our gods, our traditions, go back a thousand years. This prophet of yours has barely been dead two centuries, yet you believe he and your one god have all the answers.’

  Simo reached for the cross, then thought better of it.

  Cassius let go of him.

  ‘I am sorry, sir. But we are close to many holy places here.’

  ‘Yes, and I expect you spent all your time in Antioch doing nothing but praying and listening to those fools who think the world will soon come to an end. There is more to life than worship, Simo. The gods do not always hear us. Sometimes they forsake us entirely. You have seen more than enough to know that.’

  Simo bent down and picked up the lamp.

  ‘I cannot control what goes on in your head,’ added Cassius. ‘And unlike your people, I am not arrogant enough to assume I can control what you believe. But you belong to me; and you must do as I tell you. Any more of this and I will have to consider letting you go. Now is not a good time to be trying my patience, Simo. I don’t have much left.’

  XI

  ‘What is that smell?’

  ‘Bitumen,’ replied Mercator.

  Cassius looked around. Apart from a single hamlet between them and the hills, the surrounding area was empty.

  ‘Coming from where?’

  ‘It occurs naturally – pools of it float to the surface of the Dead Sea. The locals go out in boats and scoop up all they can. It’s worth a lot but doesn’t appear very often so it’s very competitive. They go armed to the teeth. People get killed over it.’

  ‘Really? I must confess I had no idea.’

  ‘What’s bitumen?’ asked Indavara, listening in as he rode along behind them.

  ‘Black stuff, like pitch,’ said Cassius. ‘Used for proofing and glue.’

  ‘It comes up from the bottom of the sea?’

  ‘The Dead Sea’s not actually a sea, technically speaking,’ said Cassius.

  ‘It’s pretty big,’ said Mercator.

  ‘It’s a lake,’ affirmed Cassius. He turned and gestured to Indavara and Simo (who’d said almost nothing for the entire morning). ‘We have been on several voyages across the Great Green Sea.’

  Mercator looked impressed. ‘I’ve still never seen it.’

  ‘You’d never forget it if you did.’

  ‘Squint and Captain Asdribar went farther than that,’ added Indavara.

  ‘Men we sailed with,’ explained Cassius. ‘They have been out past the Pillars of Hercules, seen the Great Ocean.’

  ‘Does it ever end, do you think?’ asked Mercator.

  ‘They said it goes on forever,’ replied Cassius. ‘Hard to imagine.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the optio. ‘My first centurion once marched us to Damascus and back in five days. That felt like forever.’

  Later that day they got a chance to see some of the bitumen up close. Running east from the Dead Sea and bisecting the Via Traiana were numerous tracks; and when they halted by one to rest the horses, a cart came along. The man driving it was with two lads and seemed wary at first but he reined in when Yorvah gave a friendly greeting. Cassius rather wished the guard officer had kept quiet but he was as bored an
d curious as the others and wandered over to investigate. When the auxiliaries offered to share some raisin cakes, the local climbed down and proudly displayed his cargo.

  Tied to one side of the cart was a coracle made of reed and wood plus numerous pails and ladles.The bitumen itself had been stored in large amphoras. The driver introduced himself as Usrana and lifted out one of the containers. Inside was a thick, lumpy substance. One of Usrana’s sons picked up a twig and dipped it into the black liquid.

  ‘Like tree-sap,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Or honey,’ said Indavara.

  ‘Worth more,’ volunteered Usrana with a sly grin.

  ‘How much?’ asked Cassius.

  ‘For each amphora – about ten denarii.’

  Some of the soldiers whistled.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Cassius.

  ‘As long as I can get it safely to market in Dhiban.’

  ‘Only five or six miles, isn’t it?’ said Yorvah.

  ‘Yes, but the smell draws everyone. We got to the lake early and took what we could. But the big crews were already arriving when we left and some of them don’t bother with boats. They just wait for poor folk like me to do the hard work then grab it.’

  ‘No army round here?’ asked Andal.

  ‘There’s a small fort at Haj but that’s a way from here. You see the odd century marching along but that’s about it.’

  ‘By Jupiter,’ said Yorvah, looking at one of the boys. ‘I thought I ate quickly.’

  The lad smiled. All that remained of the raisin cake were some flakes of pastry around his mouth. ‘Got any more?’

  The auxiliaries laughed; especially when Usrana clipped the lad round the ear. ‘Greedy little beggar.’

  The Arabian bowed low to Cassius. ‘My apologies. Thank you for the cakes, sir.’

  With a prod from their father the boys gave their thanks too.

  ‘Well, we’d best be off.’

  ‘Sure your horse is going to make it?’ enquired Andal. The animal wasn’t much bigger than a mule; and tasked with hauling quite a load.

  ‘Don’t you worry about her, she’s done worse in her time.’

  ‘Ride with us if you wish,’ offered Mercator. He hadn’t even glanced at Cassius, who swiftly quashed the idea.