Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust by Harry Sidebottom Page A

tossed aside and abandoned.
    Not far now, Mauricius assured them. Soon – today; tomorrow morning at the latest – we will reach the oasis of Ad Palmam. All will be good there.
    They pressed on, the dust working its way into them as if every particle were animate with malice.
    The landscape was like nothing Gordian had seen. The cliffs to the right were steep and jumbled, their stratifications tipped and fanned. In the main they were bare slopes. Some of the heights were ringed with darker, vertical rocks like cyclopean crenellations. A harsh place, but not that out of the ordinary. There were pockets of green in the dips and hollows. Now and then a flash of white or black movement betrayed the presence of a flock of goats.
    To the left, there was no remission to the harshness. A great flatness stretched as far as the eye could see. Its surface was banded like agate; brown, tan and white. There were pools of standing water and dusky lines coiled between them. There was no telling if they were tracks, animal or human, or now dry channels carved by last winter’s rain. In the high sun mirages shifted; water, trees, buildings. Once, Gordian thought he saw a boat. Nothing else moved in all that vastness. Nothing real.
    This was the Lake of Triton, the dreadful, great salt lake. Once it had been a real lake, if not an inlet of the sea. The Argo had sailed its waters. But even then it had been an evil place. Two of the Argonauts had been killed here; Mopsus by a snake, and Canthus by a local herdsman. For the rest to escape had needed an appearance by Triton himself.
    Mauricius had told Gordian the local legends. At night men saw torches moving far out in the desert. They heard the music of pipes and cymbals. Some said they had seen the satyrs and nymphs gambolling. There were stories of buried treasure: a huge tripod from Delphi, solid gold. Those who searched never found it, and many never came back. Once, a caravan of a thousand animals had ventured off one of the two safe paths. Nothing was seen of them again. There had been no epiphany for them.
    Looking hard, Gordian saw there were patches where the crust was broken, and a dark sludge exposed.
    ‘Ad Palmam.’
    There – two or three miles ahead – was a line of green, utterly incongruous in the waste.
    They rode on without speaking, every man trying to hide his trepidation.
    Two hundred yards short, Gordian called a halt. Time was against them, but he did not know by how much.
    Gordian dismounted, to ease his horse. Most of the others did the same. They watched the oasis. Nothing much moved. A couple of chickens scratched in the shade of some outlying trees. Once, further in, a flight of doves clattered into the air.
    ‘Well, we can not stay here for ever,’ the legate Sabinianus said. ‘I had better go and take a look.’
    Gordian felt a rush of affection at the calm courage of the man.
    ‘Of course,’ Sabinianus continued, ‘if Arrian were here, I would recommend you send him. He is far more expendable, and I would sacrifice him happily to ensure my safety.’
    Men smiled. Sabinianus and Arrian were the closest of friends, always laughing at each other, and at everything else.
    ‘Actually,’ Sabinianus said, ‘I would sacrifice anyone at all. I want you all to remember that.’
    Gordian gave Sabinianus a leg up into the saddle. He wanted to say something, but the words would not come. The wry look on Sabinianus’ face, the turned-down mouth, was more pronounced than usual. With his knees, the legate moved his horse into a walk down to the settlement.
    It had all happened with a dislocating suddenness. Just fourteen days before, all had been normal. As far as Gordian and his father, the Proconsul, had known, the province had slumbered under the North African sun in a state of profound peace. They had passed February in Thysdrus for the olive season; a round of local festivals and outdoor meals in the shade of the evening. As ever, the presence of the Proconsul