Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

But their pleas had been sensible. We soon groaned at the slowness of our journey as the waggons toiled along that remote highway in the grinding heat. Some of us had been saved from the painful choice between four days of agony in a camel saddle or four days of increasing blisters leading a camel on foot. But as the journey dragged on, and we watched our draught animals suffering, the swifter choice looked more and more like the one we should have made. Camels conserved moisture by ceasing to sweat – surely their only act of restraint in regard to bodily functions. Oxen, mules and donkeys were as drained of energy as we were. They could manage the trip, but they hated it, and so did we. With care, it was possible to obtain sufficient water to exist. It was salty and brackish, but kept us alive. To a Roman this was the kind of living you do only to remind yourself how superior existence in your own civilised city is.

The desert was as boring as it was uncomfortable. The emptiness of the endless dun-coloured uplands was broken only by a dun-coloured jackal slinking off on private business, or the slow, circling flight of a buzzard. If we spotted a distant flock of goats, tended by a solitary figure, the glimpse of humanity seemed surprising among the barrenness. When we met other caravans the escorting cameleers called out to each other and chattered excitedly but we travellers hunched in our robes with the furtive behaviour of strangers whose only common interest would be complaints about our escorts -, a subject we had to avoid. There were glorious sunsets followed by nights ablaze with stars. That did not compensate for the days spent winding headgear ever more tightly against the stinging dust that was blown in our faces by an evil wind, or the hours wasted beating our boots against rocks or shaking out our bedding in the morning and evening ritual of the scorpion hunt.

It was when we reckoned we were about halfway that disaster struck. The desert rituals had become routine, but we were still not safe. We went through the motions of following advice given to us by local people, but we lacked the instinct or experience that give real protection.

We had drawn up, exhausted, and were making camp. The place was merely a stopping-point beside the road to which nomads came to sell skinfuls of water from some distant salt marsh. The water was unpalatable, though the nomads sold it pleasantly. I remember a few patches of thorny scrub, from which fluttered a startingly coloured small bird, some sort of desert finch, maybe. Tethered at odd points were the usual unattended solo camels with no obvious owner. Small boys offered dates. An old man with extremely gracious manners sold piping-hot herbal drinks from a tray hung on a cord around his neck.

Musa was lighting a fire, while I settled our tired ox. Helena was outside our newly erected tent, flapping rugs as Musa had taught her to do, unrolling them one at a time from our baggage, ready to furnish the tent. When the disaster happened she spoke out not particularly loudly, though the stillness and horror in her voice reached me at the waggon and several people beyond us.

'Marcus, help! A scorpion is on my arm!'

'Flick it off!' Musa's voice was urgent. He had told us how to smite them away safely. Helena either could not remember or was too shocked.

Musa leapt up. Helena was rigid. In one hand she still clutched the blanket it must have skuttled from, terrified even to relax her fingers. On her outstretched forearm danced the ominous black creature, half a finger's length of it, crab-like, its long tail reared in an evil curl. It was viciously aggressive after being disturbed.

I covered the ground between us on legs of lead. 'My darling -'

Too late.

It knew I was coming. It knew its own power. Even if I had been standing at Helena's elbow when it rushed out of hiding I could never have saved her.

The tail came forwards over its head. Helena gasped in horror. The sting struck down. The scorpion immediately dropped off.

Hardly a beat of time had passed.

I saw the scorpion run across the ground, darting rapidly like a spider. Then Musa was on it, screaming with frustration as he beat at it with a rock. Over and over came his furious blows, while I caught Helena in my arms. 'I'm here -' Not much use if she was being paralysed by a fatal poison. 'Musa! Musa! What must I do?'

He looked up. His face was white and appeared tear-stained. 'A knife!' he cried wildly. 'Cut where it stung. Cut deep and squeeze hard – '

Impossible. Not Helena. Not me.

Instead I pulled the blanket from her fingers, supported her arm, cradled her against me, tried to make time jump back the few seconds that would save her from this.

My thoughts cleared. Finding extra strength, I wrenched off one of my bootstraps, then fastened it tightly as a tourniquet around Helena's upper arm.

'I love you,' she muttered urgently, as if she thought it was the last time she would ever be able to tell me. Helena had her own idea of what was important. Then she thrust her arm against my chest. 'Do what Musa says, Marcus.'

Musa had stumbled to his feet again. He produced a knife. It had a short, slim blade and a dark polished hilt bound with bronze wire. It looked wickedly sharp. I refused to think what a priest of Dushara would use it for. He was trying to make me take it. As I shrank from the task, Helena now offered her arm to Musa; he backed away in horror. Like me he was incapable of harming her.

Helena turned quickly to me again. Both of them were staring at me. As the hard man, this was down to me. They were right, too. I would do anything to save her, since more than anything I was incapable of losing her.

Musa was holding the knife the wrong way, point towards me. Not a military man, our guest. I reached over the blade and grasped the worn hilt, bending my wrist downwards to stop him slicing through my hand. Musa let go abruptly, with relief.

Now I had the knife but had to find my courage. I remember thinking we should have brought a doctor with us. Forget travelling light. Forget the cost. We were in the middle of nowhere and I was going to lose Helena for want of proper expertise. I would never take her anywhere again, at least not without someone who could surgically operate, together with a massive trunk of apothecary's drugs and a full Greek pharmacopoeia…

While I hesitated, Helena even tried snatching at the knife herself. 'Help me, Marcus!'

'It's all right.' I sounded terse. I sounded angry. By then I was walking her to a roll of baggage where I made her sit. Kneeling alongside I held her close for a moment, then kissed her neck. I spoke quietly, almost through my teeth. 'Listen, lady. You're the best thing in my life, and I'll do whatever I have to do to keep you.'

Helena was shaking. Her earlier strength of will was now fading almost visibly, as I took control. 'Marcus, I was being careful. I must have done the wrong thing – '

'I should never have brought you here.'

'I wanted to come.'

'I wanted you with me,' I confessed. Then I smiled at her, so her eyes met mine, full of love, and she forgot to watch what I was doing. I cut twice across the mark on her arm, making the two cuts cross at right angles. She let out a small sound, more surprise than anything. I bit my lip so hard I broke the skin.

Helena's blood seemed to dash everywhere. I was horrified. I still had work to do, extracting what I could of the poison, but at the sight of those bright red gouts welling up so fast I felt uneasy. Musa, who had no part in the action, fainted clean away.

Squeezing the wound had been hard enough; staunching the blood proved frighteningly difficult. I used my hands, always the best way. By then people had come running. A girl -Afrania, I think – was handing me ripped cloths. Byrria was holding Helena's head. Sponges appeared. Someone was making Helena sip water. Someone else gripped my shoulder in encouragement. Urgent voices muttered together in the background.