‘His confidence has returned now that he feels you’ve forgiven him for our arrest,’ Magnus observed as Hormus managed to make his mount turn to the left.
Vespasian raised an eyebrow at Magnus. ‘But I did warn him that he would end up like Bagoas if he ever again jeopardised my safety with his desire to interfere with young lads’ bottoms.’
‘That should keep his mind focused and his cock in his loincloth.’
The lesson came to an end, Vespasian and Magnus looked at each other and shrugged and then, with differing degrees of confidence, climbed onto the saddles perched atop their camels’ humps.
Vespasian feared for his neck as his body was violently jerked by his camel rising to all four feet. The merchants and the eighty royal camel archers waited patiently as Vespasian, Magnus and Hormus practised starting, steering and stopping their novel mounts until they felt confident enough to embark on the five-hundred-mile journey to the Roman frontier.
‘May Ahura Mazda watch over you, Vespasian,’ Gobryas said in farewell.
Vespasian looked down from his high perch. ‘Thank you, my friend. And thank you for my life.’
‘It was given in payment of a debt; we are now equal.’
With a smile and a nod, Vespasian acknowledged the truth of the statement and urged his beast forward, giving a last wave to his saviour.
‘What did the Great King have to say?’ Magnus asked, drawing his mount level with Vespasian as behind them, with much bellowing, roaring and snorting, the hundred or so heavily laden pack camels were urged to their feet and into motion by their handlers.
‘Oh, he just proved what a good mind-reader he is,’ Vespasian replied, trying to settle into the rhythm of his camel’s gait.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He told me that if I had been one of his subjects, he would have me executed or mutilated for having treasonous intent.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not directly, Magnus, but Vologases taught me two things yesterday: first, that a ruler must be able to show mercy, otherwise his punishments mean nothing. And second, that nothing should ever be taken at face value, especially when you’re dealing with the motivation of an enemy; always ask yourself the question “why?”.’
‘Like: why am I on this camel?’
Vespasian laughed. ‘No, that was not what I meant. The real question in this case is: why did you let yourself be persuaded into mounting the camel?’
The riders had appeared from the south, shimmering wraiths in the heat haze, and had shadowed the caravan for the last few hours. Every time the officer commanding the camel archers sent out a patrol to investigate them, the riders fled; once the patrol had been recalled they would return and take up station again, always two or three miles distant. Like the caravan, they were mounted on camels, but unlike the caravan they were not hampered by heavily laden beasts of burden.
Vespasian gazed south, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun that burned down on the wasted land. ‘I can still only count twenty or so; they’d be foolish to try and take on four times their number.’ He looked back down the caravan; it was a quarter of a mile long. It comprised almost one hundred camels, loaded either with goods or water-skins, strung together in groups of five, each led by a mounted slave. Mehbazu and the seven merchants to whom the camels and goods belonged rode, along with Vespasian, Magnus and Hormus, at the head, while to either side it was guarded by Vologases’ archers. It was not a large force but a formidable one in this parched desert that could barely support life and certainly could not support a large body of men and beasts, unless they brought their own water and knew the locations of the very few wells and oases that were scattered about this unwanted buffer zone between the Parthian and the Roman Empires. Nobody lived here except the riders. ‘So the gods alone know what they think they’re doing.’
‘Fucking Arabs!’ Magnus opined, trying to adjust his position on his camel’s saddle; he had not been comfortable for eleven days now.
‘Nabataeans,’ Vespasian corrected.
‘You told me that they were called Nabataean Arabs.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Well, I ain’t going to waste my breath saying all that, so, fucking Arabs.’
‘Have it your own way.’ Vespasian pushed his white linen headdress away from his eyes and looked back out at the riders. ‘I’d still like to know what they want.’
‘Perhaps they want to trade?’ Vahumisa, one of the merchants, suggested hopefully; as Gobryas’ representative in the caravan its success was a matter of acute financial interest to him.