They let the guy speak first. He was first to the watering hole and held the conch. He spoke to them in a stream of slurred Arabic. Chaz picked a few words from the salad. Some kind of elaborate greeting. Chaz’s Arabic was strong but the accent was hard to follow, a dialect lost to time.
“Best to you and your company and may fortune smile upon all here,” Chaz bullshitted the guy along.
The headman squinted and pursed his lips at the tall black man’s formal enunciation. He thought perhaps the African was a lord in his land or the slave of a lord. Perhaps owned by the silent Macedonian who he accompanied.
The blessings and well-wishes went on for a while and afforded Chaz a chance to accustom himself to the other guy’s dialect. The headman was slowing down his speech like he was talking to an idiot. Chaz saw some of the others politely covering their mouths to hide smiles and stifle laughter. The small talk and glad-handing were over finally, and they got down to business.
The Arab offered that they were packing salt for sale to merchants along the road.
Chaz lied and said that he and his companion were agents for a Roman merchant in Philippi. They were trying to make contact with a column of Romans from the Twenty-third with a company of slaves that were expected along this road. This caravan was coming from the south and may have seen the soldiers.
The headman rubbed his beard and narrowed his eyes before coming to a decision.
“There are Romans to the south. We saw them two days ago. They were not on the march,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Chaz said.
“They do not march. They make a fort along the road.”
“They make camp, you mean?”
“No! A fort. They pile stone. They dig a trench like Romans do. We sold them salt.”
Chaz looked at Lee.
“Ask him about their aquilifer,” Lee said.
Chaz did, and the Arab described a horse affixed atop their banners.
“It’s the Twenty-third Legion. But why are they stopped?” Chaz asked in English.
“Fucking ask him,” Lee growled. They’d spent all their good luck at the start just as he’d predicted.
Chaz asked, and the Arab shrugged.
“This Roman fort, where is this?” Chaz asked.
“Two days south by camel. More days on foot or by horse.” The headman nodded down the road the way he’d come.
“What is there? A town? A well?”
“A town of Jews. A quarry. A big quarry where they cut stone for the Herods.”
“What of their company of slaves?” Chaz said.
“They cut rock,” the Arab said and spat.
Chaz turned to Lee.
“A quarry. Fuck me,” Lee said.
“History ain’t what it used to be,” Boats said.
Jimbo remained along the ledge watching the road. The others camped in the shade of wild fig trees to weigh options and share rations.
“Maybe they halted their march for a reason. Illness. Something like that,” Bat offered.
“Or they got a heads-up,” Lee said.
“How could that happen? How could they know we were here?” Chaz said.
“How the fuck should I know? This Harnesh figured it out and sent someone to warn them. Maybe they knew we’d be here even before we knew we’d be here. This shit messes with your mind,” Lee said.
“We need eyes-on,” Chaz said.
“We need a platoon, a company,” Lee said. “This goes from a simple three-point ambush to bad guys in a fortified position expecting trouble. And if they are encamped at a quarry that means the number of slaves is ramped up. Our guy is in a bigger mix now.”
“Our guy.” Boats chuckled through a mouthful of HooAH! bar.
“Yeah, well I wish he’d magic his own ass out of there and save us the trouble,” Lee spat.
“That’s not how it works,” Chaz said.
“Spare me the Sunday school,” Lee said with hand extended. “It is what it is. We ride up there and scope it out and hope that Tacitus wasn’t full of shit.”
“Tacitus?” Boats said.
“Roman historian Jimmy read. Says that the legions could turn pussy under the right circumstances,” Bat said.
“I like that.” Boats grinned. Sticky bits of protein bar dotted his teeth.
A series of high whistles brought them alert. Jimbo was waving them over from the lip of the canyon wall. Lee trotted down to him. Jimbo handed Lee his Winchester.
“Scope north. Below the dust cloud.”
Lee could see small figures coming along the road toward them. A column of men four across with more behind lost in the heat haze and the rising cloud of dust.
“Those are soldiers,” Lee said.
“Lots of ’em,” Jimbo said. “And coming the wrong way.”
25
A Change of Address
“How is your French?” Samuel asked.
Caroline had a French boyfriend for a while at college in London. They made frequent trips to Paris while they were going together and, after they broke up, she spent a summer touring Provence with some girlfriends. But Samuel didn’t want to know any of that.
“It’s fine. Better than tourist.”
“Good,” he said and pulled the Mercedes to a curb. It was night, and they were in an older part of the fifteenth arrondissement. The traffic was light on the two-lane street, and the buildings loomed close on either side along narrow sidewalks. There was Sufi music dully booming from somewhere behind the dark faces of the apartment blocks. Samuel climbed from behind the wheel to come around and open the door for Caroline. He took the baby from her and closed the door behind her before handing the sleeping Stephen back.
“The bag,” she said.
“You cannot bring it where we’re going.”
“You’ll get towed here,” she said.
“I left the keys in it. It will be stolen before the traffic wardens ever notice it.” He took her under the arm and escorted her over the broken slabs of the sidewalk.
“Stolen again, you mean.”
