Chapter 20
Publius and Geta reached Damascus in the afternoon of the same day they left Banias. Publius presented himself to the legionary headquarters as a matter of courtesy, but they left the next morning to ride north to Antioch.
"There are three roads," Publius told Geta as they rode out of the city. "Commodus, the centurion back there, described them for me. There's the coast road, which is very pleasant but it would take us at least a day to get to Berytus before we could turn north, so that's out. Then there's the road directly north from here, which is shorter but runs through desert for much of the way. I was tempted - I've never been in the desert before - but he gave me such horror stories of people getting lost in sandstorms and so on, that I thought again."
"So that leaves the third road," Geta grinned. "Tell me the worst."
"Well, the worst is that it runs up that big valley - the one we climbed up out of to get to Paneas. So if we want to follow the middle road, we have to climb up the hills and back down into the valley."
"Back to Paneas?" Geta raised his eyebrows.
Publius shook his head. "No. We can follow the Berytus road, which takes us well north of Paneas. The good news is that we should reach Baalbek by evening, which means that I'll be able to say some prayers to Zeus for Secunda, and I believe they have a temple of Venus there, so I'll make a sacrifice to her as well."
"That was amazing!" Publius exclaimed as they rode away from Baalbek the following morning. "Even in Rome I have never seen such huge temples. Did you see the size of those foundation stones? It must have taken thousands of slaves to move them into position! And as for the temple of Zeus, truly it was a house fit for the Father of the Gods."
"The temple of Venus looked positively pokey in comparison," Geta chuckled.
"Yes," Publius said. "By the way, you disappeared about then. Where did you get to?"
Geta laughed. "I made an offering in the third temple, Master."
"What?" Publius looked over his shoulder at his slave. "Which god is worshipped there?"
"Bacchus, Master," Geta told him.
"Praying for more wine?" Publius raised an eyebrow.
Geta shook his head. "No, Master. I thought that as the Lady Secunda's problem was a natural one, the god of wine and growth might be of help." He shrugged. "I don't know all that much about these gods, but it stands to reason that the more you have on your side, the better off you are."
Publius grinned as he mounted his horse, but as the day wore on he grew increasingly morose, sinking into a black mood and sighing often. Geta eyed him with concern but said nothing, even when, as night approached, Publius insisted on riding past the inn and camping out by the roadside.
"Sorry," he said when Geta grumbled good naturedly about the discomfort. "I just couldn't face the company. I need to be alone, I think."
The second day of travel in the valley, with towering mountains on either side, was much like the first. Publius was taciturn, hardly speaking even when Geta tried to cheer him up with chatter about their life in Gaul or speculations about what awaited them at Zeugma. Once again Publius avoided the inn, making the excuse that they needed to push on, and nightfall found them miles from the nearest village and lucky to find a stream at which to water their beasts and fill their bottles.
"Cheer up, Master," Geta said, throwing himself down on the ground beside Publius. "No woman is worth upsetting yourself for this much. What was it you were telling me the other day about Stoic philosophy?"
Publius glanced up morosely. "That's the trouble with philosophy," he growled. "It sounds fine when everything is going well, but when your life's hopes and dreams come crashing down around you, philosophy is cold enough comfort."
Geta lay down on his back, his hands behind his head, and whistled tunelessly for a moment. "What I can't understand, Master" he said, breaking off his whistling just as Publius was opening his mouth to order him to stop, "is why you are so upset. You didn't have this Secunda before, you don't have her now. Nothing has changed, so why are you so upset?"
"Because before I could live in hope," Publius sighed. "You know what army life is like: if the enemy doesn't get you the food will, and if you survive both of them there's always a kindly fever to come along and carry you down to Hades without so much as a 'by your leave'. I know I didn't have Secunda, but always at the back of my mind was the thought that something might happen to old Saturnus and I'd be able to get my Secunda. But now - well, now that dream is gone. Ended. Finished."
Geta clicked his tongue sympathetically and was silent for a while before propping himself up on his elbow and trying a different tack.
"Well, seeing as the gods have willed that things turn out like this, be a man, Master, and accept their will. There's any number of women in the world who would be delighted to share your life, temporarily or permanently. Why, there was that Syrian girl back in Damascus who was definitely making eyes at you in the inn. Not bad looking by any standard and, if you took her on as a wife or a concubine your life would definitely improve. I can guarantee that. So would mine," he added.
"Oh?" Publius looked up at his slave. "How can you be so sure?"
"Simple." Geta's face broke out in a broad grin. "She'd do the cooking and you wouldn't have to eat the stuff I dish up for us."
Despite himself, Publius laughed. "There's always that, my friend. Certainly I don't need to fear that anyone will try to lure you away from me for your culinary skills."
"When do we get to this Zeugma?" Geta asked, tossing a twig onto the little fire that lit up the darkness.
"Another week, I fear," Publius answered. "I asked the centurion at Damascus and he reckoned it was ten days, but we're travelling late and starting early, so I hope we might shave at least a day off his reckoning."
"Is it a big place, Master?"
"Big enough," Publius answered. "Not as big as Rome, of course, but certainly as big as some of the cities in Gaul. It's on an important trade route, so there'll be plenty of merchants and inns and things, but it's also the last city before you get into Parthian territory. In fact, I believe Zeugma is on one bank of a river and Parthia is more or less on the other bank."
"I hope it's a wide river, Master," Geta joked.
"So do I," Publius nodded. "Mind you, the way I'm feeling at the moment, the Parthians can have me any time they like. Death would put me out of my misery."
"So you won't mind if I sleep all night, Master?" Geta asked, his face innocent.
"Yes I will!" Publius sat up sharply. "Some wretched peasants might come along and steal our horses while we sleep and having to walk the rest of the way to Zeugma will certainly make me even more miserable."
Geta laughed and stood up. "You had first watch last night, Master. I'll take first watch tonight. I'll wake you when the moon is over there."
He pointed and waited for Publius' grunt of approval before walking away from the fire and sitting down on one of the saddles. Publius wrapped his cloak around himself and drew a fold of material down over his head and within minutes was breathing the long deep breaths of sleep.
No one came near all night. Geta woke his master when the moon had passed the zenith by a good two handbreadths and then slept peacefully in his turn until the cold woke him an hour before sunrise and he sat up and relit the fire using the back of his knife and a piece of flint from far-away Britain to make the necessary spark.
"We might as well ride as sit," Publius remarked after both men had warmed their hands at the tiny flame.
"Very good, Master."
Geta unhobbled the horses and brought them back to where Publius sat by the fire. Moments later they had kicked dirt over the embers and were astride their horses, trotting briskly towards the north. An hour later the sun, already yellow, appeared above the mountains on their right and its heat struck them like a blow.
"Ye gods!" Publius groaned. "Not a cloud in the sky, not a tree on the ground, and that sun is already hot. Oh to be back in Gaul."
Geta laughed. "I told you, Master, that chasing a woman only brought trouble. If you hadn't been so keen on getting out here to the Lady Secunda, we could still be shivering around a campfire while the rain soaks us through and through and an icy wind blows off the snow-covered hills around us."
"Don't!" Publius pulled his cloak tight around his body. "It makes my bones ache just to think of it."
Two hours after sunrise they came to an inn where they bought food for themselves and fodder and water for their horses. They halted again in midafternoon at another inn, which was crowded with a caravan of camels and donkeys heading in the opposite direction, back towards Damascus. Publius found one of the merchants who spoke enough Greek to confirm that the path ahead was well-marked and safe. They rode on long into the evening before stopping for another night in the open.
"Look up there," Publius remarked as he lay on his back beside Geta. "Those stars seem close enough to touch - I'd only need to stand on your shoulders and I could gather a handful of them."
Geta chuckled. "They look close, Master, but the Great Ones of the sky might not take too kindly to being dragged down from the heavenly sphere by a mortal hand."
"No," Publius agreed. "And we don't want any more bad luck on this trip, thank you very much. Maybe I'll leave the stars alone tonight."
He got up and went over to sit on one of the saddles. "My turn for first watch. I'll call you at the usual time," he said. "Sleep well."
