Reda often took the road toward the Wall with his wools to be traded for goods or coin. Other traders would set up stalls, or prop their wagons beneath a tree along the south face so that the morning sun’s rays would glint and sparkle off of the metal cups and trinkets.  On a good day Reda would return to his village with some cooking pots, an axe or two, perhaps a block of salt and some silver coins.  The older coins, struck before Marcus Aurelius diluted the purity, ever so slightly heavier, were best. That is if you could find them.  This trip was already beyond its 10th day, and Reda’s old friend and confidante Pock was proving himself both necessary and amusing.

Each milepost and garrison along the Roman Wall had its share of traders, beggars, and swindlers.  Most of the soldiers were nothing at all like soldiers, but merely sons of local landowners with salaried positions, purchased with political favors and graft.  They could be easily manipulated and toyed with, thought Reda.  There were also true Roman Legionnaires. Some were young officers trying to make their mark, some simply old warhorses put out to pasture. 

The toughest of these old goats, Granius, was stationed at the Procolitia garrison, between mileposts 23 and 24, west of the road leading north to the Otanedii, Dumnonii, and beyond where the northern wall marked the Kingdom of DalRiada.  Prefect of the first Batavian Cohort, Granius claimed decent from a soldier who fought shoulder to shoulder with Agricola against the hero Calgacus at Mons Grampion.   As Reda waited that morning he was hoping Granius had not detained his old friend Pock, at least not with their cart.

But here he came.  Reda could hear the cart creaking and rattling, the mule clopping long before it emerged from the veil of morning fog.  Streaks of morning cut through at just the right moment to illuminate the green and silver mosses between the low rows of blocks along the Way-atop-the-Wall.  Golden rays fell upon a moist green that smelled sweet and earthy. 

Pock, whose clan lived far to the south at Verulanium, became the closest of friends with Reda three years earlier.  A Roman Senator had claimed ownership of his family’s farm installed a military tribune and his auxiliaries to manage it, and Pock’s family had become serfs in their own home, now a large Roman Villa.  Pock fled north after clubbing a citizen, and Reda discovered him with a cart full of beehives he claimed were of royal Icenian lines which produced only the most luxurious honey.  Pock himself claimed decent from Boudicca herself when wine had his tongue.  Reda later learned the bees kept inquisitive customs agents from locating secret niches in the floorboards. 

Pock’s coat entered the suns favor and a patchwork of reds, violets and an odd mustard hue emerged from gray nothingness.  It was then that the glint of gold hit the sunlight, bursting into a shout of brilliance.  This was no ordinary load of bartered goods.

“What have you done, Pock?” Reda said.  “Say you’ve killed no soul, I beg you sir.”

Pock smiled broadly, his few remaining teeth on rare display.  “There was no’a soul in sight, so I am the sole innocent and fortunate one, good sir,” Pock said, still grinning at his timely find.

They quickly unloaded and reassembled the load, taking care to arrange all of the shining trinkets and items of greatest value below the simple clay urns and bowls acquired on their trip into the Roman state.  The mule needed needling, but soon enough the trinketeers continued eastward along the Romans’ Way.

After paying the customs agent five quadrans for the toll, the two passed through the gate at Post 22, crossed the waters of the north flow, and headed up the old road toward the DalRiada Fork.   Prodding and poking at the mule, Pock drove the cart as Reda secured the bowls, baskets and ale, which had been deliberately stacked over his booty of shiny things.  They had successfully obscured the valuables from the dim-witted Roman poser, including five of the six kegs of ale, and the deception was helped in no small part by another two silver coins dropped into the agent’s greedy palm. 

The travelling discussion meandered from a debate on the morrow’s weather to the true intent of the Bryll Potters’ eldest daughter at the 29th milecastle.  Each insisted that her eyes looked upon his and only his heart, mocking the others’ bold vanity.  This was a true stalemate which lasted until a remarkable sight halted and silenced them both. 

Pock and Reda stood dumbfounded.  Even the mule seemed puzzled, in as much as mules can ponder and perplex.  In a small clearing, not ten paces from the road, grew a stout and sturdy apple tree.  On the first branch there stood a pig casually munching fruit.  Looking at each other, the two old friends seemed to mimic the words “How did...”, but no sound came from either man. 

The sound of hoofs broke the silence and from around a bend in the road ahead rode a magnificent looking man on horseback, a second pack animal trailing.  The man looked Moorish, wore a turbine of cobalt and a crimson cape.

“Pishh, pishh” he said softly as his black stallion came astride.  “Your swine most certainly has treed itself with some magical carpet, good sirs.”

“Do n’know,” shrugs Reda, eyebrows ruffled, to which the stranger quickly replied, “Do you mean to say you own no flying carpet?”

“Certainly not, as there is no such rug in all of the occupied lands, or even DalRiada itself, as far as I can say,” said Reda.

“Aye,” says the Moor, “This is truly the day of your good fortune, for I have one of the finest, woven from the most excellent wool of the Himalayan beasts which themselves fly from cliff to cliff, mountain to mountain.”

Just then the pig jumped down, nosing into the dirt in the general direction of the road.  “He can indeed fly,” Reda said with a wink and a nod to his companion Pock.  “I propose a trade.”

The turbaned traveler’s eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward, listening.  Reda motioned his fellow toward their cart with a subtle wave, not taking his eyes off the stranger, and said “Fetch the strongest twine, good sir, so the beast will not fly off into the sky.”  Pock went to the back of the cart and fumbled through some boxes, finding the oldest and saddest piece of hemp in their kit.

“My well-traveled friend,” announced Reda the Dalriade.  “I wish to have this flying carpet you speak of so eloquently, and you of course could do no better than this soaring sow.”

After a pause, and some haggling, “A deal indeed” the Moor agreed.  Reda had included a small leather pouch and the Moor added a length of fine silk the color of emeralds for good measure.

“I will fill the pouch with coins when I have traded the pig, and you will have silk to offer your lady as she lays on your carpet” said the Moor with a laugh.

“I have many ladies with longing eyes, so this will make a mere ribbon for each,” Reda said with a wink to Pock.  Pock knew the truth of the matter.

The two parties exchanged properties and polite nods toward continued good fortune, and when each was comfortably out of sight, Pock said “What makes you believe the carpet flies?”

To which Reda replied, “Hah! It matters not.  It was not our pig, and we have attained an elegant carpet worth ten, maybe twelve denarius to any Roman household.  More in Cataractonium.” 

Pock was silent, deep in thought.  One of his premonitions was clearly upon him.  Shaking his head, he muttered “This transaction may not have seen its conclusion, my friend Reda.  Not yet at all,” and the two continued north along the road so familiar.