alacrity. It had seemed like a ticket home, and compared to the other option — execution — had not been difficult to accept. But the reality of life aboard the dhow had been very different, and its range extremely confined. While the merchantmen, their prey, sailed hundreds of miles to and from India, the corsairs preferred not to stray far from their base, a swampy island in the Indus delta. Generally there was no need, with well-laden ships plying the seas around Barbaricum on a constant basis. After two long years, Ahmed had only sailed west with the monsoon because the pickings near Barbaricum had grown lean.
Romulus had been secretly ecstatic, and even the reticent Tarquinius was pleased.
As they drew close to the jetty, a stout man clad in clean white robes took notice and began shouting in their direction. Clutching a tablet and stylus in his hands, he impatiently waved the dhow into a mooring place.
‘The harbourmaster,’ said Tarquinius. ‘A good source of information.’
‘And lies,’ advised Ahmed as they tied up alongside a broad-bellied merchant vessel. ‘Watch what you say in this town. That goes for all of you.’ He glared.
The crew nodded. They had already seen the summary justice on offer here.
‘Once the harbour dues have been paid, the ship must be reprovisioned,’ said Ahmed. ‘I need six men for that.’
Reluctant to delay their excursion to shore, everyone looked at the deck.
Unperturbed, the captain simply picked the pirates nearest him; Romulus, Tarquinius and Mustafa were lucky enough to avoid the duty.
‘The rest of you can do as you wish, but I want no trouble. Take no swords ashore. Only knives.’ Ahmed held up a warning finger. ‘Any man who isn’t back one hour before nightfall will be left behind.’
Wide grins split the faces of those who were about to spend a day on dry land. It had been many weeks since they had drunk alcohol or visited a brothel. The fact that it was still early morning would not stop any of them. The pirates to be left on board looked suitably miserable.
Romulus considered wearing the mail shirt he’d bought in Barbaricum, but settled for just his ragged military tunic. Too much attention would be drawn to the rusty armour. Feeling naked without a weapon, he attached his dagger to his belt. Tarquinius did likewise. After a bout of sunstroke the previous year, he had finally stopped wearing his hide breastplate, but, stubborn to the last, the ageing haruspex still refused to exchange his leather- bordered skirt for a loincloth. Following the rest, the two friends pulled themselves on to the next boat and made their way towards the jetty. Like a faithful puppy, Mustafa followed. By now, Romulus did not even try and stop him.
Endless varieties of goods were piled on the timber dock. Bales of purple fabric were stacked beside heaps of tortoise shells, large sheets of copper and planks of hardwood. Rich smells wafted through the humid air from mounds of open-necked cloth bags. Prospective buyers dipped their hands in to taste and smell the spices and incense on offer.
‘
‘There are no guards,’ said Romulus in amazement.
‘They’ve got that.’ Tarquinius glanced at the fortress. ‘And there was a chain at the harbour mouth that could be pulled up to stop ships leaving.’
Romulus felt his unease grow.
The haruspex seemed comfortable though, and he quickly forgot about it. After so long at sea, being in a town felt exhilarating.
They pushed their way off the quay and on to Cana’s narrow dirt streets, which were lined with primitively built three- and four-storey-high mud-brick houses. The ground floors were occupied by shops, much as they were in Rome. Butchers plied their trade side by side with carpenters, barbers, metalworkers and sellers of meat, fruit and other food.
Except for half-dressed prostitutes beckoning suggestively from doorways, not many women were to be seen. The most numerous men were brown-skinned Arabs in their distinctive white robes, but there were many Indians in loincloths and turbans as well. There was a scattering of Judaeans and Phoenicians, and also some black men, noticeable for their aristocratic faces and high cheekbones.
Romulus nudged Tarquinius. ‘They’re very different looking to Ahmed.’
‘They are from Azania, far to the south of Egypt. Their women are said to be incredibly beautiful.’
‘Let’s find a whorehouse with some then,’ growled Mustafa. ‘I haven’t had a fuck in an age!’
‘A tavern first,’ said Romulus, his thirst winning out. ‘Off the beaten track.’
Tarquinius nodded and Mustafa did not argue.
The trio made their way off the main streets, and the shop fronts soon became smaller and grimier. Brothels became plentiful, and Mustafa’s eyes grew lustful. Urchins in dirty rags homed in, clamouring for coins. Keeping a hand on his purse, Romulus ignored them. Distastefully he picked his way past the human waste thrown from the windows above.
Tarquinius laughed. ‘Just like Rome, eh?’
Romulus curled his lip. ‘It smells the same all right.’
A moment later, they stumbled upon a dingy, open-fronted inn which would meet their purpose. Sand was scattered on the floor to absorb spilt alcohol, or blood. Small tables and rickety chairs were the only furniture. The dim light inside came from a few guttering lamps hanging from the low ceiling. Most of the customers were Arabs, although there was a smattering of other nationalities. Romulus fought his way to the wooden bar while Tarquinius and Mustafa secured a table in the corner. There were many curious glances, but nobody addressed him, which suited Romulus. Sitting down soon after, however, with a jug and three clay cups, he could feel eyes burning holes in the back of his tunic. Unobtrusively, Romulus loosened his dagger in its sheath.
Oblivious, Tarquinius tasted the wine. Instantly his face screwed up. ‘Tastes like horse piss mixed with poor quality
‘It’s all they’ve got,’ retorted Romulus. ‘Expensive too, so drink up.’
Mustafa laughed and drained his beaker in a single swallow. ‘Finding a whore will be more productive. I’m going to check out those brothels,’ he said. ‘Be all right on your own?’
‘We’ll be fine.’ Romulus glanced round the room, seeing no immediate danger. ‘See you back here.’
Mustafa bobbed his head and vanished.
After a time, the wine began to taste a little better. Romulus raised his cup in a silent toast to Brennus. During his time on the dhow, there had been plenty of time to relive the Gaul’s last gift to him. Over time, the pain had lessened and while Romulus still felt regret, he also recognised the great debt he owed to Brennus. He would not be sitting here now if his friend hadn’t sacrificed himself. Romulus was sure that Mithras would have approved of Brennus’ actions.
Thoughts of home also filled his mind. With a warm glow in his belly, Romulus imagined how he might feel at the sight of Rome and of Fabiola. And even of Julia, the barmaid he’d met on that last fateful night in the capital.
‘Welcome to Cana,’ someone said in Latin.
Romulus almost choked on a mouthful of wine. Red-faced, he looked up at the speaker.
A tall, long-jawed man with short hair had approached from a nearby table. His companions, three heavily built men wearing swords, remained seated.
‘Do I know you?’ Tarquinius asked coolly.
‘No, friend,’ said the stranger, raising his hands peaceably. ‘We’ve not met before.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A friendly chat,’ he said. ‘Romans are very rare here in Cana.’
Romulus had managed to regain his composure. ‘Who said we’re Romans?’ he growled.
The newcomer pointed at Tarquinius’ leather-bordered skirt and Romulus’ faded russet tunic.
Neither of the friends acknowledged his keen observation.
But he was not to be put off. ‘My name is Lucius Varus,
From the rich cut of his tunic and the large emerald ring on one hand, it was obvious that Varus was doing very well.
