You’re welcome sir – Gaius I understand – heartily welcome to this godforsaken place, and to the Aman Inn. Try our welcome cup.

The back of beyond for you I’m sure.

Excuse the riff-raff and the racket;

sure you know yourself . . . Same everywhere.

The few who work to get things done.

And all the loudmouth hangers-on.

Anyway Miriam and I have given you

our best room and if you need anything

just call for Ralsa. She’s the one over there

serving the wine. With us two years

and I never heard anyone complain

she neglected them. Ralsa’s the girl

to take care of you, I guarantee.

So here’s to your health and your mission:

this vintage is the best we have although

no doubt you’re used to better.

Business? Ticking over. Could be worse.

Jam-packed at the moment, obviously.

I understand you’re here to oversee the count.

I know this crowd, the locals anyway.

Don’t believe the half of what they say.

No doubt you’ll be consulting Caleb, the taxman.

Also known as Caleb the Bagman.

Et cetera, et cetera. But it takes all kinds.

Has his job to do, like me and you.

Good health again. Some food’s on the way.

Yes, you’ll be meeting the Bagman.

I try hard to improve things here.

And he does his thing. Don’t get me wrong.

I believe in paying my fair share –

and taking care of my friends – but he

could ease up from time to time.

We need people with discretion, a bit

of give and take for the common good.

Hereabouts – even if I say so myself –

the Aman Inn was always the heart and hub

where everything happens. The pulse.

And who knows what kind of future

could be on the way? A half-cracked king

and a bunch of religious fanatics

always interfering on the fringe.

I sometimes wonder why your people

bother with this corner of the world at all . . .

I mean what’s in it for a gentleman

the likes of yourself?

We’ll make you comfortable under

this roof anyhow, be assured.

I needed this drink myself. On the go nonstop.

Travellers passing through or landing

here all week. You can see for yourself.

A while ago I was called out

to the door again. A pain in my face

from repeating ‘No room’. ‘No vacancies’.

This pair just stood there frozen as though

they couldn’t hear or understand.

Like statues in the half-dark in front of me.

He old enough to be her father and she

on a clapped-out ass. And very obviously

carrying. Near her time I’d say. She hardly

raised her eyes. Something a bit fishy

about the pair of them. Something hard

to put your finger on. But dead beats.

“Listen,” I said, “we’re up to the rafters.

The absolute bloody rafters.

You’ll have to keep on going. Stay on

this road a mile or so and you’ll come

to the shed of a friend of mine

at the foot of the hill where I’m sure

you could spend the night if you’re stuck.”

I could see they were ready to drop

and didn’t mention other squatters there –

four-legged ones, a lost sheep or a goat maybe.

What’s wrong with having to share?

And this pair couldn’t afford to be particular.

Here – let me top you up again.

A nightcap or an appetiser on the house.

It isn’t often that we have the honour.

And as they say and sing, it’s a long

long way from Rome to here.

Michael Coady