The Black Stone (25 page)

‘Some hot food as well?’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘And a stall for the mule?’

‘Of course.’ Jabbal walked up to Patch and stroked the animal’s neck.

‘Simo, get yourself back to the King’s Tomb and collect Mercator and the others.’

‘I’ll go,’ offered Indavara.

‘You’ll get lost.’

‘What? I have a good sense of direction.’

‘In countryside you’re all right. In towns, you’re a disaster.’ Cassius gestured at the mule. ‘Why don’t you help get your friend settled?’

Simo set off into the gloom past the caverns. Indavara sighed and began unloading the bags. The old proprietor seemed keen to help him.

‘Jabbal, is it?’ said Cassius.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell me, are we far from the Temple of Atargatis?’

‘Not far at all, sir,’ said the old man, struggling with a saddlebag.

‘Good. Perhaps your time might be better spent attending to those rooms. I need to lie down.’

The fourth hour of night was well under way when Cassius’s head finally touched his pillow. Simo had swiftly returned with Mercator and the auxiliaries but Jabbal’s wife insisted on cleaning out the four rooms (three upstairs, one downstairs) before even allowing the men through the front door. A further round of mattress- and furniture-moving was required in order to fit them all in but eventually every man had a place to sleep. There was only one other guest at the inn; an aged goat trader who smelled remarkably like the animals that provided his living.

Because the parlour was so cramped, the wife put the food out then the men took what they wanted and ate outside. They seemed happy enough with what looked like some kind of vegetable soup but Cassius had no appetite and had retired immediately.

He, Simo, Indavara and two of the auxiliaries were sharing the downstairs room next to the parlour. Already in his sleeping tunic, Cassius was waiting for Simo to return with some warm wine. The straw mattress seemed barely thicker than the blankets he’d been lying on for the last few nights but with a pleasant flow of air from a nearby window, he was comfortable enough.

Yet he didn’t expect to be getting to sleep any time soon because most of the men were still gathered outside, talking. They didn’t seem keen on using Nabatean but as there had been no more lapses into Latin, Cassius wasn’t inclined to complain. As he lay there, listening in, he also realised they were using Greek to include Indavara, who had made the odd, brief contribution.

The talk turned to the incident with the brigands.

‘I sort of lost my enthusiasm when I realised how many there were,’ admitted Yorvah.

‘We used to have trouble with men like that round my old village,’ said another man. ‘Vicious bastards they are – care only for themselves and their kin. Not worried how they make their money.’

Another man laughed. ‘They lost
their
enthusiasm soon enough when our friend here got off his horse.’

This provoked a few chuckles.

‘What was it?’ said Yorvah. ‘Oh yes, “I shall remember your face – I’ve already forgotten yours.” Ha – good one.’

More laughter.

‘You don’t say much, Indavara,’ continued the guard officer, ‘but when you do it’s worth hearing.’

Andal spoke up next. ‘That leader must have noticed you look like a man who’s seen a few scraps.’

Indavara didn’t reply. Cassius could picture the faintly embarrassed half-smile. He wouldn’t be enjoying the attention.

‘Where’d you learn your fighting?’ asked a young voice. The others silently awaited the answer.

‘Here and there,’ said Indavara in his usual monotone.

‘The arena, yes?’ Andal again.

No reply.

Mercator spoke up: ‘That’s his business, not yours.’

‘Fair enough, sir. Didn’t mean to pry.’

‘Just be glad he’s on our side,’ said Yorvah, puncturing the brief moment of tension.

‘Drink?’ asked someone.

‘Thanks,’ replied Indavara quietly.

The conversation continued but Cassius turned away and tried not to listen. He found himself rather jealous of the way Indavara had endeared himself to the auxiliaries. He’d noted such reactions to the bodyguard before; and it wasn’t just about what he did. People were drawn to him. Cassius would have expected his damaged body and gruff manner to put them off but children invariably liked him, most women too; and not just the common sort either – their last outing had proved that.

And men? Most men feared him. But if they had no cause to, if they could feel close to him, they liked it. Cassius didn’t pretend to himself that he was any exception; and he had no doubt that if Indavara joined a century he’d rise up the ranks far quicker than Mercator could ever dream of, especially if there were plenty of battles to be fought. It was as if the strength and resilience forged in the fire of the arena still cloaked the man in some supernatural glow. Cassius thought of what he’d seen him do in the brief time they’d known each other. He’d never met anyone like him. In fact, he doubted there
was
anyone quite like him.

‘Caesar’s balls, is the entire bloody population here?’

Having moved about a third of the way through Petra’s spice market, Cassius, Indavara and Simo now found the street virtually impassable. Both sides of the market were lined by stores and warehouses but most of the space was taken up by temporary stalls and pitches. Also plying their wares were day traders selling produce straight from the amphora or sack.

The colours were remarkable: reds, oranges and yellows dominated but every possible shade could be found amongst the plants, seeds and herbs. The smell was incredible: an assault upon the nostrils within which Cassius had already detected garlic, cinnamon and mint. The noise was overwhelming: multiple languages, scores of urgent negotiations, dozens of bellowed invitations.

‘By the gods.’ He stopped and turned to Indavara. ‘You first.’

‘Knew I should have brought my stave.’ The bodyguard shouldered his way between two men lugging amphoras, then pressed forward.

‘I told you – we don’t want to stand out.’

Eventually, the mass of buyers and sellers began to thin out and they reached a three-way junction beneath an outcrop of rock.

‘Er, I think it’s to the right,’ Cassius told the others. Jabbal’s directions had made sense for the first half-minute then descended into confusion and a heated argument with his wife.

Standing in shade beneath the outcrop and gazing back at the spice market were two soldiers. They were dressed and armed conventionally but had squares of red cloth sewn onto the front of their tunics. The badges bore the emblem of Nabatea’s ancient royal house. Cassius had seen some of these men in Bostra; they didn’t belong to any legionary or auxiliary cohort but to a small cadre of local troops who watched over important and sacred sites such as the King’s Tomb. This select band had been permitted to bear the emblem ever since the annexation of the province; a long-standing gesture of respect.

‘Excuse me,’ said Cassius. ‘Temple of Atargatis?’

One of the soldiers aimed a thumb to the right, at a path considerably less busy than the one leading left.

‘Thank you.’

The path soon joined a narrow wadi that ran westwards, hemmed in by steep rock walls from which hardy vegetation sprung at unlikely angles. There was no water visible at the bottom, just a mass of lush shrubbery resplendent with pink and purple flowers.

As he walked, Cassius wondered how Mercator and the others were getting on. It had seemed advisable to give them some free time and – as most had never visited the city – he’d agreed they could take a look around, with the strict proviso that they kept to themselves and stayed out of trouble.

The Temple of Atargatis was about half a mile from the spice market. It too had been carved out of the rock though the entrance was singularly unimpressive compared with the King’s Tomb. In fact the only sign that it was a temple at all was the image of the fertility goddess above the doorway. She wore a large crown and seemed to have leaves growing out of her body.

Waiting nearby was a young woman. A young man who had been walking behind Cassius and the others hurried over and kissed her, then the two of them continued along the path, hand in hand. There seemed to be no one else around.

Cassius checked the position of the sun. ‘About exactly midday, I would say. Hope he’s on time.’

There was something rather lupine about Ulixes. His shoulders were tight with tension and he seemed almost to be sniffing the air as he approached the temple. Somewhere between forty and fifty, he had high cheekbones and a long, angular chin. His hair was thinning in an unusual fashion, with several strands swept across his head and a lot of scalp visible underneath. He wore a ringed belt like the legionary he’d once been and a well-cut but well-used tunic.

He looked back along the path just before he stopped, then inspected the three of them. It had often occurred to Cassius that they must appear a rather strange trio at first sight. Interestingly, it was Indavara he spoke to.

‘All praise Atargatis.’

Cassius had been given the correct response by Abascantius. ‘Mother of all under the sun.’

Ulixes shifted his gaze.

‘Good day,’ said Cassius. ‘Name’s Crispian. Ulixes, I presume.’

Ulixes moved aside to let some worshippers out of the temple. ‘At your service. Old Pitface’s operatives are getting younger. And who are these two?’

‘They work for me. I believe you have some information.’

‘I do. I’ll need to see the coin first, though.’

‘I thought you might say that. Why are you so late? We’ve been waiting almost an hour.’

‘Small spot of local trouble.’

‘Such as?’

‘Nothing a nice heavy bag of aurei won’t solve.’

‘I don’t want any uninvited attention.’

‘Then I suggest we get going.’

‘Follow me.’

By the time they returned to the spice market, it was considerably less busy. Cassius walked alongside Ulixes, who was continually glancing around.

‘This local trouble – care to be more specific?’

‘Let’s just say I owe certain people a certain amount.’

Cassius recalled what Abascantius had told him. ‘Gambling debts?’

‘Occupational hazard.’

‘What’s your occupation?’

‘Gambler.’ Ulixes’s smile faded as quickly as it had arrived. He stopped and stared along the street. ‘Crispian, do you have any of those golds with you?’

‘No.’

Ulixes gulped. ‘I owe a vicious bitch by the name of Zaara-Kitar. See the fellow looking around over there? Long hair.’

The man was wearing a sleeveless white tunic. His plaited hair reached almost to the black sash around his waist.

‘I see him.’

‘That’s one of her sons. They do her dirty work for her.’

Ulixes looked back between Indavara and Simo, who had stopped just behind them. ‘Shit. There’s another.’ Ulixes bowed his head. ‘Did he see me?’

The second man looked remarkably similar to the first.

‘Er, yes. I think so.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Indavara.

‘Trouble,’ said Cassius.

The second enforcer gave a shout and ran towards them. The first man heard it and spotted them too. Just as Ulixes looked across the street for an escape route, a pair of horses trotted by and a covered cart trundled to a halt. A third enforcer leaped nimbly out of the back. He had the same attire, same long hair, and – hanging from his sash – a very long knife.