M. Scott - The Eagle of the Twelfth

It may be that he was humouring me, but if so it succeeded, for my anger broke apart like a ripe grape crushed underfoot.

I studied Pantera afresh, not seeking the evidence of his disguise this time, but of the man beneath. In Hyrcania, I had mistrusted him, and he had not only kept me alive, in circumstances more dangerous than I had ever understood, he had sent me home with the best mare I had ever ridden and enough gold to arm half a legion. I know: I spent it later doing just that.

In Jerusalem, he could have killed Horgias and me and we would have thanked him for it. Afterwards, he could have abandoned us in Caesarea. Until now, I had hated him for each of these. Now…

I thought of Moshe and Simeon, both good men, and what I knew of them, and whether I trusted them with my life, in the centre of a city run by a man who would spend five days skinning us alive if we were caught.

The long wait lengthened. The heat became stifling and the smoke from the fire barely bearable.

At long last, I pushed myself to my feet. ‘The blue roan filly’s in season,’ I said slowly. ‘If we were to cover her with your grey Berber colt, the foal would be worth a fortune.’

Pantera raised his head. ‘But why would you want to sell such a paragon?’ he asked. ‘If you kept it, it would be the start of a dynasty.’

‘She will not be for sale. But to found her line, we need to bring her out alive, with ourselves and the Eagle.’

Pantera rose, unevenly, hawking a cough. Even here, now, with Horgias and me as his only audience, he did not forget that he was an old and crippled horse-trader, not a man with the suppleness of an acrobat and the reflexes of a trained assassin.

That was when I knew I had made the right choice. I said, ‘What will we need to do before we go?’

Pantera rubbed the side of his nose but failed entirely to hide a flush of pleasure. To Horgias, he said, ‘What languages can you speak besides Greek and Latin?’

I winced. Not one of us who were his friends had ever dared ask that.

But Horgias only nodded, as if it was the right question for the time. ‘I speak this,’ he said, and let fly in a tongue that I did not recognize and had never heard.

I was alone in that, evidently, for when Horgias paused for breath, Pantera said, ‘Thracian? Am I right?’

Thracian! All these years we knew him a barbarian, but not of that calibre. I felt my throat grow tight at the thought of Proclion, of Taurus, of all the men who would have given a month’s pay to know this. Pantera looked me a question, but I shook my head, unable to speak.

‘So we are Greek-speaking Syrians and you are our Thracian brother,’ he said, to Horgias. ‘With a skill, I think, perhaps, in bone-setting? Can you do that?’

‘A little. Enough to set a horse sound for a day or two.’

‘It’ll do; we’ll try not to put it to the test. For now, take this’ — Pantera hefted me a pouch of silver — ‘and buy some brood mares: they want fertility in Jerusalem, as well as youth. Put your filly to the colt tomorrow and then again two days later if she’ll still stand to him.’ He flashed a smile and was young again, vital; the man who had laughed as he fletched arrows in Hyrcania. ‘We’ll leave to get your Eagle the day after that.’

‘You came to sell that? It’s broken in wind and leg. I wouldn’t pay to eat it, much less ride it. How much do you want?’

They were eight, the youths who stopped us outside the small northern gate at Jerusalem: eight dark-haired, olive-skinned Hebrew zealots, swaggering as they halted us and laying their hands ostentatiously on the knives at their belts, in case we were blind and hadn’t seen them.

Our own knives were in our packs, on the backs of our horses, and however easy they were to reach, however often we had practised — and we had practised until we could reach them in our sleep — it was never going to be fast enough. I looked at Pantera, who was looking at his toes as if the sight of armed men terrified him.

Sighing, I stepped ahead of Horgias. ‘My lords, I offer deepest apologies, but my brother is Thracian. His Greek is not good and his Aramaic is pitiful. He can ask for a whore and pay her, but when it comes to setting the price for youngstock of the quality of these-’

‘Why did you hire him, then?’ They spoke Greek as if they hated the feel of it on their tongues, these young Hebrew men.

‘He’s our brother!’ I was fulsomely affronted. ‘And he is the best bone-setter we have ever met. If, may the gods forbid, one of these mares were to break a leg, well…’ My spread hands offered the assumption that these were intelligent men of the world, who understood the ways of trade, and could see why we might forgive some basic lacks, language, perhaps, and manners, for someone so patently valuable.

The youths stared in flat-eyed silence. I began to calculate how fast we could mount and run, and whether we could take with us at least a bright copper mare, pregnant to a good stallion, in whom I had some hope.

Before I could move, Pantera spoke in a rattle of phlegm from just behind my left shoulder. ‘My brother here…’ he laid a lazy hand on my arm that stopped me from going anywhere, ‘knows horses better than any man east of Gaul, where they breed the best chariot horses the world has ever seen. He wouldn’t sully his reputation by bringing rubbish to sell in the newly free Jerusalem.’

Along with the youngstock, we had brought an additional ten mares to sell, good ones, though not the best.

Pantera kept talking fast and thickly so that they had to concentrate to understand him. I had to admire that; a man who is straining to listen is not planning an attack. It was the density of his words that grabbed the young Hebrews, and the obvious passion therein.

‘Ten denarii for each of the barren mares and fifteen for the copper-chestnut and the colt foal she carries within her or we have made a loss on the journey from Antioch.’

‘Antioch?’ The leader had a slight bronze cast to his hair that set him apart from the others. He was neither the eldest nor the tallest, but he had the cold, flat eyes of a man who has killed and found that the experience did not touch his soul. He spat at our feet. ‘You are spies, then? Our cousin will be happy to see you.’

‘Spies?’ Pantera’s laugh rattled into a cough. His own gobbet of spit was directed respectfully away. ‘If we were spies, would we tell you where we came from? You can pay us for our horses, our good, Alexandrian colts, as different from the broken-winded donkeys and mules you have here as the sun is from a candle, or you can tell us now that you will not pay and we will leave you to your fastness and misery. What is Rome to us? What is Israel? We are traders; we care nothing for your wars. Will you show us the colour of your silver? Or shall we leave now?’

His hand was still on my arm. He turned me away from them and I, in turn, pulled on the halter of the copper mare with the kind eye who was pregnant to a lively bay colt that Pantera had left behind in Antioch.

‘Wait!’ One of the younger men ran round ahead of me. ‘How do you know she’s carrying a colt?’

‘There’s a witch in Antioch who tastes their piss,’ I said. ‘She sniffed at half a cup and swore it was a colt. I’ve never known her wrong.’ I had never known her at all, but Pantera had found her and swore she was genuine and found a dozen men to testify and I was happy to believe him. ‘She’s due in two months’ time. When we come this way again, I’ll give you two denarii back if it’s a filly, but you won’t be disappointed even if it is. She’ll be the best brood mare you’ve ever had.’

They stared at us, and seven of them waited while the leader made his mind up.