CHAPTER III
‘Siwa, Siwa!’ Ziri shouted, sending his arms and legs flying out at all angles in a wild, capering, silhouetted dance on top of a sand dune.
Vespasian looked up at him wearily through eyes squinting against the sun’s midday ferocity; his lips were cracked and his head throbbed from the heat beating down directly onto it in the absence of his hat.
It was the second day after the sandstorm and they were all in a weakened state having only had three cups each of their precious water on the previous day and one cup each at midmorning today. Only Ziri seemed to be unaffected by the conditions and he carried on his exuberant jig as his companions struggled up the dune.
‘Not a moment too soon,’ Magnus croaked, working his feet hard to get purchase in the soft sand. ‘I’ve been dreaming all morning about drinking my piss.’
‘That’s a coincidence,’ Vespasian replied with as much of a grin as his parched lips would allow him, ‘I’ve been dreaming all morning about drinking your piss too.’
‘You’d have had to fight me for it.’
Vespasian’s reply stuck in his dry throat as he crested the dune. Two miles in front of him, stretching away beyond the horizon, was nothing but green; an oasis of life in an otherwise barren and hostile terrain. Fifty miles long and over ten wide it covered the desert floor like a lush, verdant carpet.
Corvinus stopped next to Vespasian. ‘Thank the gods, we’ve made it.’
‘Yes, but how do we get back?’ Magnus muttered.
As they stood marvelling at such an expanse of fertility after days of nothing but brown, wasted land and intense blue sky, the distant sound of rhythmic drums, sonorous horns and clashing cymbals drifted up through the air.
‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.
‘Dunno,’ Magnus replied, ‘but it sounds as if someone’s having a party.’
Having drunk the last of their water, the final couple of miles felt easier and within an hour they passed under the first date palms. The sound of the music grew steadily but there were no other signs of human habitation. The temperature started to drop considerably until it felt like no more than a scalding hot summer’s day in Rome.
Working their way forward for another mile through the gradually thickening trees, enjoying the ever growing shade, they came suddenly, and unbelievably, to a lake. Without hesitation all of them rushed forward and plunged into the cool, life-giving water and drank their fill while submerging their overheating bodies in its fresh depths, diffusing, at last, the sun’s relentless intensity.
Refreshed, they made their way deeper into the oasis in the direction of the music. Coming upon a well-used track they followed it; the sound of chanting could now be heard under the drums, horns and cymbals. After a few hundred paces they passed a couple of low, flat-roofed, mud-brick houses. Vespasian and Magnus looked through the open windows; they were deserted.
‘I suppose everybody’s at the party,’ Vespasian observed as they carried on towards another larger collection of similar dwellings.
The music was now very close. The road turned sharply to the right and passed between two more houses, then opened up into a huge, crowded, square agora surrounded by mud houses seemingly piled one upon the other. The music and the chanting came to a crashing crescendo; everyone in the agora jumped into the air raising their arms above their heads.
‘Amun! Amun! Amun!’ they shouted to the crash of cymbals and the beating of drums.
Then silence.
At the far end of the agora a priestly-looking man, dressed in a leather kilt with a broad, golden belt, stood on the steps of a small temple; on his head he wore a tall, brimless, black leather hat with golden images of the sun fastened to it. He lifted a crook into the air; his congregation prostrated themselves.
He began to incant a prayer and then stopped abruptly as he noticed Vespasian and his comrades still standing. Pointing his crook at them with a shout he indicated that they too should get down onto their bellies. Over a thousand heads turned to stare at them.
‘However bad this will feel I think we’d better do as he says,’ Vespasian said, getting down onto the ground. Magnus, Corvinus and the troopers followed his lead.
Grovelling in the dust was not a natural thing for a Roman to do: more used to mastering others, they were accustomed to looking down rather than up, and Vespasian, Magnus and Corvinus prostrated themselves reluctantly. Ziri and the Libu troopers followed their lead without humiliation.
Once satisfied that the whole congregation was showing due deference the priest carried on his incantation for what seemed like an age.
‘Amun!’ he called to the sky finally.
‘Amun!’ the crowd repeated.
With the prayer session evidently at an end the people got back onto their feet.
Vespasian rose and tried to wipe the dirt off his wet tunic with little success.
The priest strolled through the crowd towards them and stopped in front of Vespasian.
‘What are you doing here, stranger?’ he asked in Greek.
‘I’m no stranger,’ Vespasian replied with as much dignity as was possible covered in wet dirt, ‘I am Titus Flavius Vespasianus, quaestor of the province of Creta and Cyrenaica of which this is a part.’
The priest bowed. ‘Quaestor, you and your men are welcome.’
Vespasian could feel the release of tension among the troopers behind him.
‘My name is Ahmose,’ the priest continued, ‘priest of Amun, He who is hidden, He who came first. You will find us loyal subjects to Rome here and I will assist you in any way I can. I think that first you need to eat and then you can tell me how you managed to appear out of the western desert on foot.’
Sitting rather uncomfortably on the carpeted floor, Vespasian, Magnus and Corvinus joined Ahmose in his surprisingly richly decorated house for a meal of bread, olives, dates and a roasted meat that none of them had tasted before; although slightly tough they were all hungry enough to eat it without worrying too much about its provenance.
‘So you’re looking for the Marmaridae’s slave caravan,’ Ahmose said, having listened to the tale of their journey. ‘They will still be here; a party of them arrived only four days ago, that’s why the camel tastes so fresh.’
‘This is camel?’ Magnus exclaimed, looking at the cut of meat in his hand.
‘Most certainly. The Marmaridae always pay for the right to use our water with camels each time they pass through; we also give them bread, dates and olives as part of the exchange.’
‘Well, they don’t taste as bad as they smell,’ Magnus commented before taking another bite.
‘Yes, it’s quite flavoursome; their milk is good to drink too.’
Magnus screwed up his nose. ‘Now that is disgusting.’
‘Don’t you have trouble with the Marmaridae taking your people as slaves?’ Vespasian asked, trying to get the image of drinking camel’s milk out of his mind.
‘No, they need us for water and supplies before they set off to Garama; if we denied them that then the journey would be even more hazardous than it already is.’
‘They could just take it,’ Corvinus pointed out, taking a bite of a large green olive.
‘There are over ten thousand people living in the oasis, we could fight them off; and if we were having trouble we could appeal to Caesar as we used to appeal to the Pharaohs when we were a part of the Kingdom of Egypt.’
Vespasian doubted very much that any sort of an army would be sent to defend this outpost of the Empire, but he kept his thoughts to himself. ‘How do we find the Marmaridae’s caravan?’
‘They’ll be at the last lake in the southwestern corner of the oasis, about six miles from here.’
‘We’ll need horses.’
‘I’m sure you would requisition them if we didn’t give them freely.’
‘I’m afraid we would; as the quaestor I have that power.’
‘As the quaestor you also have the power to make those horses part of the tax that we pay each year.’
Vespasian smiled at the old priest. ‘If you include javelins and enough supplies to take us back to Cyrene,
