‘Here.’ Mercator handed him his allocation of arrows: six.
Indavara now had an opportunity to try out a quiver and he carefully placed the arrows inside. Itys was the best archer amongst the remaining auxiliaries so he had the other bow. He, Andal and Pelagius were now stationed to the right of the road; Indavara, Mercator and Bucoli to the left. Both groups were close to the boulders and outcrops they would use for cover when Ilaha’s men approached.
Ulixes was lying on a blanket a few yards behind them, working his way through a flask of wine and occasionally spitting curses.
‘You think we’re far back enough?’ asked Mercator, brushing dirt off the javelin he’d found rolling around in the cart.
‘Think so.’ They were about a hundred feet from the centre of the pass — close enough to use the bows when Nobus got things started, too far for their enemies to rush them. Ilaha’s men would be vulnerable.
‘Hope they haven’t got too many shields,’ added Indavara. ‘Shields could cause us a real problem. We’re lucky no one down here wears much armour.’
‘Right now I’m wishing I had mine,’ said Bucoli.
Mercator glanced across at the other three, who were staring anxiously at the pass. ‘By the gods, I took eighteen of them into Galanaq. Not even half left alive now.’
‘Yorvah told us to get the stone out,’ said Indavara. ‘Or else it was all for nothing. Who’s Marcella? His girl?’
‘Sister,’ said Bucoli.
‘His only relative,’ added Mercator. ‘Parents died years ago.’
‘Optio.’ Bucoli jabbed a finger up at the cliff.
Nobus had reached a natural shelf close to the top and was staring intently at something to the south.
‘Gods,’ breathed Bucoli. ‘They’re coming.’
Nobus turned and held up both hands, then repeated the gesture, then held up one finger.
‘Twenty-one,’ said Mercator, grimacing.
Bucoli began a prayer to Mars.
Indavara took a long last swig of water.
Once outside, Cassius found the tent still surrounded. As the ethnarchs summoned their senior men inside, Khalima and Simo hurried over to meet him. The Saracen was still being followed by the four guards.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘They are allowing me and Simo to leave. They have agreed to meet with Calvinus in Petra.’
‘Praise to Dushara and the high gods. Something good has come of this.’
‘Khalima, listen …’
An older warrior wearing the yellow cloth of Yemanek’s tribe strode back out of the tent. He held his hands up and waited for quiet then shouted a few orders to the crowd.
‘He is telling them you are not to be harmed,’ explained Khalima.
To Cassius’s relief, few of the tribesmen seemed overly dismayed by this instruction.
The warrior then approached Khalima and gestured inside the tent. Khalima spoke calmly to him and the warrior allowed him to call over another tribesman standing close to Urunike. Tall and broad, the warrior wore a shabby tunic and a decrepit pair of sandals. But hanging from his belt was a long and very well-maintained sword.
‘This is Zebib,’ said Khalima. ‘I’ve known him since he was a child. He will watch over you and escort you to the Goat Trail. You are still in a great deal of danger — Kalderon’s men, Ilaha’s guards. Leave as soon as you can.’
Khalima spoke to Zebib in Nabatean.
Yemanek’s man was growing impatient. He tugged on Khalima’s tunic.
Cassius could find nothing to say.
‘I must go.’ Khalima straightened his back and walked into the tent.
Wherever Cassius looked he saw dark faces staring at him.
‘What now, sir?’ asked Simo.
‘We need mounts. Were there any left?’
‘I believe so, sir. And the mules.’
With Simo aiding him once more — and Zebib following two paces behind — they walked towards the track. The warriors moved slowly out of their way but Cassius kept his eyes on the ground. Only when they were through and approaching their tent did he turn and see the size of the crowd. There were easily a thousand of them, including hundreds of Ilaha’s guards.
‘Damn it.’ Cassius had turned his attention to the corral. Someone had taken the horses.
‘Zebib, we need two mounts.’
The big warrior looked confused.
‘I don’t think he speaks Greek, sir.’
Cassius had picked up the Nabatean word for horse and most of the numbers.
After the third repetition, the Arabian understood.
‘Urunike.’
‘Yes, ask Urunike.’
Zebib loped back towards Yemanek’s camp.
With Simo’s help, Cassius sat down outside the tent.
‘Sir, there was some water and food left inside. I’ll take what extra I can.’
Trying to ignore his aching ankle, Cassius looked across the canyon, beyond the still-smouldering compound. Somewhere over there was the Goat Trail. He could see nothing but an impenetrable wall of rock.
Indavara could hear the enemy but he couldn’t see them.
He looked up at Nobus, who was perched inches from the edge, peering downward. Andal and Pelagius were sitting against a boulder, swords lying in the sand beside them. Itys had positioned himself behind an outcrop at an ideal height; he could fire from a kneeling position with good cover. Indavara wiped sweat off his fingers — he didn’t want them sliding on the bowstring. Mercator and Bucoli were beside him, also staring at the pass. Thankfully, Ulixes had gone quiet.
The sound of the horses stopped.
Nobus was still watching. Indavara still couldn’t see them.
Gutha looked for any sign of an ambush but all he saw was the drawings; the open-mouthed, wide-eyed faces. In the middle of the pass was a slight rise so he couldn’t see the other side. But he remembered the ground — there was enough cover to conceal any number of men. Once in the narrowest section, they would have little room for manoeuvre.
‘Commander?’
The warriors in front of and behind him had also stopped. They looked afraid, thoughts of the javelin attack clearly still fresh in their minds.
‘We’ll go through on foot.’
Once they’d all dismounted and removed their packs, Gutha assigned two men to gather and rope the horses, then picked out six others.
‘You’re going first. Spread out and keep your eyes open.’
The men armed themselves and pulled down their hoods, then started up the slope.
Gutha had stopped to remove his armour before dawn; his plates, greaves and arm-guards were now packed on his saddle. He hoped he wouldn’t need them.
Nobus was signalling again.
‘Six,’ said Mercator. ‘Walking.’
The optio responded with a flat hand, indicating to Nobus and the other three that no action should be taken.
Indavara picked the bow up off the hot sand and plucked an arrow from the quiver.
First he saw the heads, then the pale tunics, then the swords by their sides — except for one man, who was carrying a spear. The Arabians were well spread, moving slowly. They reached the top of the rise then stopped.
The six warriors turned around.
Gutha took the axe from his shoulder and waved them onward. Once they moved off again, he led the other fourteen after them.
Indavara was hunched over, peering between two boulders.
One of the warriors suddenly looked up.
Nobus pulled his head back just in time.
The first six were now thirty feet beyond the rise, almost at the point where the pass widened out.
Then came the huge German with his battered face and the tangle of blond hair. Behind him were more men. When he was close to the first six he gave an order and they all halted. Idly swinging the axe with one hand, he inspected the road ahead.
‘Wait until they’re closer?’ said Indavara.
‘What if we can take out Gutha?’ replied Mercator. ‘Knock the heart out of them.’