clothes that awaited him, followed by a cooked meal washed down with Mornag, the excellent local red wine, in contrast to the hard biscuit, sour wine, and salt pork on which he and his men had fared these past three days. A Berber war-party had been raiding villages in the vicinity of Shott el-Jerid, a huge salt lake on the Roman frontier. A punitive expedition was entirely successful, the insurgents being chased back across the border with heavy losses. Nevertheless, the affair had proved a costly diversion for the Romans; while in pursuit, several troopers had inadvertently strayed from the safe path, plunged through the salt crust and been instantly engulfed.
Arriving at the camp, Boniface thanked the soldiers, detachments from the Vexillationes âEquites Mauri Alitesâ and âEquites Ferocesâ, and dismissed them. Then, dismounting, he flung the reins to a groom and walked swiftly to the command tent, which was fronted with the unitâs standards. Crouching by the entrance flap was a young native in a worn jellabah. He rose as Boniface approached. He was a Blemmye, judging by his tribal markings, and looked vaguely familiar.
âLord Boniface,â the man addressed the Count in tones of quiet desperation, âmy petition â you remember?â
A tribune emerged from the tent carrying a goblet of wine, which he handed to the general. âSir, Iâm sorry about this,â he said apologetically, indicating the native. âHe insists that you promised to see him. I sent him packing, of course, but he kept coming back and repeating his story. He seems harmless enough, so eventually I let him wait here. But Iâll get rid of him if you like.â
âNo, let him stay,â said Boniface, his memory suddenly clearing. He had been about to hear the manâs case at his customary morning tribunal when the news of the insurgency had arrived. He had immediately cancelled proceedings and prepared to depart for the south. That was three days ago; the poor fellow had been waiting for him all that time! His plea must be an urgent one indeed.
âHave you eaten while youâve been here?â he asked the Blemmye.
The man shook his head.
âAnd you never thought to feed him?â Boniface barked at the tribune.
The tribune paled before his commanderâs anger. âHe â he was given water, sir.â
âHow considerate,â sneered Boniface. âPerhaps a spell of duty supervising the digging of new latrines will remind you of our common humanity. Bring this man some food at once.â
The Blemmyeâs story, recounted while he devoured a bowl of couscous spiked with lamb, was a pathetic one. He was a date farmer near Thusuros, 9 whose living had been destroyed when his palms, inherited from his father, had been submerged in the worst sandstorm in living memory. (Boniface could well believe it. Everyone knew the story of the legion caught in a sandstorm which had blown for four days. The men had kept alive by stamping up and down in the raging sand. When the wind stopped, they found themselves standing level with the crowns of palms a hundred feet high.) To pay for food for their baby, the farmerâs wife had consented to sleep with a soldier billeted on them. When he was posted to another base, she had accompanied him as his concubine, he having refused to pay the rent he owed unless she agreed.
âShe only did it for the baby,â the young Blemmye pleaded, his face an anguished mask. âShe is a good woman, butââ He broke off, then continued in a trembling whisper, âShe loves the child, my lord. We both do. I could not stop her.â
Boniface felt a surge of compassion for the young man. Unlocking a strong-box, he withdrew a bag of coin and handed it to the other. âThis will help you restart your business, and feed your family meanwhile. If what you say is true, my friend, you have been gravely wronged. But Iâll
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