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Authors: Robert Fabbri
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too.’
‘You’d have had to fight me for it.’
Vespasian’s reply stuck in his dry throat as he crested the dune. Two miles in front of him, stretching away beyond the horizon, was nothing but green; an oasis of life in an otherwise
barren and hostile terrain. Fifty miles long and over ten wide it covered the desert floor like a lush, verdant carpet.
Corvinus stopped next to Vespasian. ‘Thank the gods, we’ve made it.’
‘Yes, but how do we get back?’ Magnus muttered.
As they stood marvelling at such an expanse of fertility after days of nothing but brown, wasted land and intense blue sky, the distant sound of rhythmic drums, sonorous horns and clashing
cymbals drifted up through the air.
‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.
‘Dunno,’ Magnus replied, ‘but it sounds as if someone’s having a party.’
Having drunk the last of their water, the final couple of miles felt easier and within an hour they passed under the first date palms. The sound of the music grew steadily but
there were no other signs of human habitation. The temperature started to drop considerably until it felt like no more than a scalding hot summer’s day in Rome.
Working their way forward for another mile through the gradually thickening trees, enjoying the ever growing shade, they came suddenly, and unbelievably, to a lake. Without hesitation all of
them rushed forward and plunged into the cool, life-giving water and drank their fill while submerging their overheating bodies in its fresh depths, diffusing, at last, the sun’s relentless
intensity.
Refreshed, they made their way deeper into the oasis in the direction of the music. Coming upon a well-used track they followed it; the sound of chanting could now be heard under the drums,
horns and cymbals. After a few hundred paces they passed a couple of low, flat-roofed, mud-brick houses. Vespasian and Magnus looked through the open windows; they were deserted.
‘I suppose everybody’s at the party,’ Vespasian observed as they carried on towards another larger collection of similar dwellings.
The music was now very close. The road turned sharply to the right and passed between two more houses, then opened up into a huge, crowded, square agora surrounded by mud houses seemingly piled
one upon the other. The music and the chanting came to a crashing crescendo; everyone in the agora jumped into the air raising their arms above their heads.
‘Amun! Amun! Amun!’ they shouted to the crash of cymbals and the beating of drums.
Then silence.
At the far end of the agora a priestly-looking man, dressed in a leather kilt with a broad, golden belt, stood on the steps of a small temple; on his head he wore a tall, brimless, black leather
hat with golden images of the sun fastened to it. He lifted a crook into the air; his congregation prostrated themselves.
He began to incant a prayer and then stopped abruptly as he noticed Vespasian and his comrades still standing. Pointing his crook at them with a shout he indicated that they too should get down
onto their bellies. Over a thousand heads turned to stare at them.
‘However bad this will feel I think we’d better do as he says,’ Vespasian said, getting down onto the ground. Magnus, Corvinus and the troopers followed his lead.
Grovelling in the dust was not a natural thing for a Roman to do: more used to mastering others, they were accustomed to looking down rather than up, and Vespasian, Magnus and Corvinus
prostrated themselves reluctantly. Ziri and the Libu troopers followed their lead without humiliation.
Once satisfied that the whole congregation was showing due deference the priest carried on his incantation for what seemed like an age.
‘Amun!’ he called to the sky finally.
‘Amun!’ the crowd repeated.
With the prayer session evidently at an end the people got back onto their feet.
Vespasian rose and tried to wipe the dirt off his wet tunic with little success.
The priest strolled through the
‘You’d have had to fight me for it.’
Vespasian’s reply stuck in his dry throat as he crested the dune. Two miles in front of him, stretching away beyond the horizon, was nothing but green; an oasis of life in an otherwise
barren and hostile terrain. Fifty miles long and over ten wide it covered the desert floor like a lush, verdant carpet.
Corvinus stopped next to Vespasian. ‘Thank the gods, we’ve made it.’
‘Yes, but how do we get back?’ Magnus muttered.
As they stood marvelling at such an expanse of fertility after days of nothing but brown, wasted land and intense blue sky, the distant sound of rhythmic drums, sonorous horns and clashing
cymbals drifted up through the air.
‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.
‘Dunno,’ Magnus replied, ‘but it sounds as if someone’s having a party.’
Having drunk the last of their water, the final couple of miles felt easier and within an hour they passed under the first date palms. The sound of the music grew steadily but
there were no other signs of human habitation. The temperature started to drop considerably until it felt like no more than a scalding hot summer’s day in Rome.
Working their way forward for another mile through the gradually thickening trees, enjoying the ever growing shade, they came suddenly, and unbelievably, to a lake. Without hesitation all of
them rushed forward and plunged into the cool, life-giving water and drank their fill while submerging their overheating bodies in its fresh depths, diffusing, at last, the sun’s relentless
intensity.
Refreshed, they made their way deeper into the oasis in the direction of the music. Coming upon a well-used track they followed it; the sound of chanting could now be heard under the drums,
horns and cymbals. After a few hundred paces they passed a couple of low, flat-roofed, mud-brick houses. Vespasian and Magnus looked through the open windows; they were deserted.
‘I suppose everybody’s at the party,’ Vespasian observed as they carried on towards another larger collection of similar dwellings.
The music was now very close. The road turned sharply to the right and passed between two more houses, then opened up into a huge, crowded, square agora surrounded by mud houses seemingly piled
one upon the other. The music and the chanting came to a crashing crescendo; everyone in the agora jumped into the air raising their arms above their heads.
‘Amun! Amun! Amun!’ they shouted to the crash of cymbals and the beating of drums.
Then silence.
At the far end of the agora a priestly-looking man, dressed in a leather kilt with a broad, golden belt, stood on the steps of a small temple; on his head he wore a tall, brimless, black leather
hat with golden images of the sun fastened to it. He lifted a crook into the air; his congregation prostrated themselves.
He began to incant a prayer and then stopped abruptly as he noticed Vespasian and his comrades still standing. Pointing his crook at them with a shout he indicated that they too should get down
onto their bellies. Over a thousand heads turned to stare at them.
‘However bad this will feel I think we’d better do as he says,’ Vespasian said, getting down onto the ground. Magnus, Corvinus and the troopers followed his lead.
Grovelling in the dust was not a natural thing for a Roman to do: more used to mastering others, they were accustomed to looking down rather than up, and Vespasian, Magnus and Corvinus
prostrated themselves reluctantly. Ziri and the Libu troopers followed their lead without humiliation.
Once satisfied that the whole congregation was showing due deference the priest carried on his incantation for what seemed like an age.
‘Amun!’ he called to the sky finally.
‘Amun!’ the crowd repeated.
With the prayer session evidently at an end the people got back onto their feet.
Vespasian rose and tried to wipe the dirt off his wet tunic with little success.
The priest strolled through the
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