Cassius leaned back and considered what he’d heard.
Abascantius let his belt out a notch, lowering the flabby rolls of his gut. ‘I told Ulixes to be in Petra in seven days’ time. He will be at the Temple of Atargatis at midday. You are to meet him, get the location and pay him. You will then proceed south and attempt to recover the stone.’
‘Might I ask how, sir?’ asked Cassius, trying not to sound incredulous. ‘Will Calvinus let us use men from one of the southern garrisons?’
‘He might. But I wouldn’t dream of using conventional forces. Word would travel several days ahead of you: whoever has the stone would have ample time to make their escape.’
‘What’s the alternative?’
‘A covert squad of around twenty soldiers — small enough to avoid detection, big enough to grab the stone. You will masquerade as a merchant and they as your local help.’
Cassius couldn’t even reply; the assignment was sounding more perilous by the minute.
Indavara spoke up. ‘You said soldiers. Not legionaries?’
‘To move freely through that area the men will have to pass as natives. They will need to speak Nabatean and know the ways of the desert and its people. We will use auxiliaries from one of the cohorts based here in Bostra.’
‘Auxiliaries?’ repeated Cassius.
‘Yes. And if that pompous arsehole Pontius has done his job, some volunteers will be waiting for us in the fortress right now.’
Abascantius stood. ‘Come, we must choose our twenty. There will be an officer to lead them. Don’t worry, Corbulo, only an optio — local, apparently. I think we both know field operations aren’t your strength, so I thought it seemed wise.’
Cassius couldn’t deny that; in fact he was relieved. ‘Fair enough, sir.’
‘Swiftly then, I have only today to help you prepare. I need to be back on the road tomorrow.’
As Abascantius and Indavara left, Cassius remained behind for a moment and examined the map. South of Petra was a region dominated by desert, where only the hardiest creatures and men could survive. Three centuries earlier, the emperor Augustus had launched an expedition under a general named Aelius Gallus to cross the barren wastes and reach the kingdom of the Sabeans, a people who had grown rich through producing incense and spices. The expedition had ended in disaster and Gallus had been forced to retreat, defeated by the conditions and the treacherous locals.
Cassius stared at the bottom of the map, beyond the last known settlements and roads. It was blank.
The fortress was virtually empty. So far they’d seen only a handful of men, mainly clerks and other specialists exempt from regular duties.
‘Manoeuvres going on apparently,’ remarked Abascantius as he led the way along the main avenue. To their left was a long, timber-built warehouse, to their right the hospital, a stone building with a wide entrance that opened out into a courtyard. Cassius looked inside as they passed, noting a herb garden and several men lying on beds in the shade.
‘This place is huge,’ said Indavara, who had never accompanied Cassius on his few trips inside.
‘Has to accommodate the best part of an entire legion,’ replied Abascantius.
At the centre of the complex they came to the legion headquarters: a two-storey structure from which a pair of large standards flew. One bore the SPQR legend topped by an eagle; gold thread on thick scarlet cloth. The other was for the Third Cyrenaican: above the legend was a prowling lion; gold thread on black. Two more sentries guarded the main door, both in helmets and armour.
At each corner of the headquarters was a neatly trimmed acacia with sap lines running down its silvery bark. Arising from squares of earth between the paving slabs, the trees looked rather incongruous amongst all the brick and stone. Under one was a young gardener tilling the soil. Beneath another stood a soldier. He stepped out of the shadows and marched towards them.
‘Officer Absacantius?’
‘You Mercator?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mercator was a serious-looking fellow of around thirty, with a few grey flecks in his light beard and thick hair. His flattened nose had been broken more than once and he had the thin, pursed lips of a man who rarely smiled. He was a similar size and shape to Indavara, if a couple of inches taller and a few pounds lighter. Though the metal rings of his belt gleamed, his dagger and sword were mounted in plain, undecorated sheaths. Upon the sleeves of his tunic was a double red band, signifying his rank. If first impressions were anything go by, Cassius adjudged the optio a solid choice.
Abascantius didn’t offer his forearm, but instead gestured to Cassius. ‘Officer Corbulo. You’ll be working for him.’
Cassius winced at that phrase. He readied himself for a forceful grip but Mercator was no more than politely assertive. Cassius observed the older man glancing at his helmet, noting its poor condition perhaps.
‘Optio Secundus Sidonius Mercator — third century, first auxiliary cohort.’
To Cassius’s surprise, Abascantius also introduced Indavara, describing him as ‘another of my operatives’.
‘The volunteers are waiting as you ordered, sir,’ said Mercator. ‘The senior officers and I have already weeded out a few but there are still sixty for you to choose from.’
‘Excellent. Lead on.’
Just as they set off, there was a loud bang from behind them. Turning round, they saw a second window shutter rebound off the headquarters wall with equally loud results. Behind a grille up on the first floor was the face of Chief Nerva. ‘Aulus! A word.’
Abascantius made no attempt to hide his annoyance but waved to Nerva before addressing Cassius. ‘Go and make a start. Don’t mention any details. I’ll be along presently.’
As he hurried back towards the headquarters, the others continued along the avenue, Mercator setting a swift pace. ‘I see you wear the crest, sir. I’m never quite sure of the rank of you Service men.’
‘It is rather confusing,’ admitted Cassius. ‘“Officer” and all that. I do, however, hold the rank of centurion, and I am attached to the Fourth Scythican. I previously commanded a fort during the first Palmyran revolt.’
Cassius didn’t often trot that one out — it brought back too many unpleasant memories — but Mercator was probably already taken aback by his age; it seemed sensible to try to win him over.
‘And yourself?’ asked Cassius. ‘Aiming for centurion eventually, I presume?’
‘I am.’
‘I do appreciate that a crest is rather harder to achieve via the conventional route.’
Mercator seemed to accept this in the spirit it had been intended.
‘How do you find the auxiliaries?’ Cassius asked him.
‘Fine. I have local blood on my mother’s side, which helps. There were no optio posts available in my cohort so when I wanted to move up from guard officer it was the best alternative.’
‘You and your men are housed here?’
‘No, the auxiliary cohorts are based at the old fort, about a mile or so away. We’re not needed for the manoeuvres until tomorrow.’
‘You don’t mind the prospect of leaving your century at such short notice?’
‘They can do without me for a few weeks.’
‘You volunteered yourself?’
‘Yes.’
Cassius said nothing but he found this odd. An ambitious officer prepared to abandon his cohort for a risky operation with the unpopular Service? It didn’t make much sense and he made a mental note to question Abascantius about it later.
The auxiliaries were waiting between two of the barrack blocks. Some had been sitting but upon seeing the officers they got to their feet and joined the others in three neat lines, hands behind their backs. Aside from their more obviously local features, they were barely distinguishable from legionaries. As he got closer, however, Cassius did note a lack of tattoos, a preponderance of sandals over boots, and a number of curved daggers housed in ornate sheaths.