Vabalathus rode up from a different direction. ‘No sign of opposition,’ he said, ‘but I found tracks in the sand. Many horses and camels have passed this way.’
‘We must remain vigilant, then,’ said Flaminius quietly. Vabalathus sneered.
They returned to find a fully organised camp in the middle of the hollow, with the animals bleating in a pen in the middle, and a ditch dug around the shelters, which were made in Nasamonean fashion, of woven rushes and asphodel.
Dido stationed guards at all quarters on the heights, established a rota, and then took to her shelter. Already the sun was climbing high above the dunes. Flaminius sought his own shelter gladly. Amasis lay on his side snoring. Flaminius was soon asleep himself.
They woke in the afternoon and after a brief meal returned to their mounts. Soon they were riding up the defile. The reports from the sentries seemed to suggest that the desert had remained deserted all day. As was its wont, Flaminius reminded himself.
‘It seems to me,’ proclaimed Demetrius, sitting primly upon his ass as they proceeded towards the head of the defile, ‘that we go much too cautiously. It will take forever to reach the well at this rate, and our stocks of water are running low. I say we make haste.’ He lashed his ass with his reins and obediently it trotted faster, soon reaching the top of the defile ahead of the cavalcade. The scholar looked back down at them. ‘Make haste,’ he called querulously. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with young people these days.’
He broke off as the air hummed. Something long and black was suddenly jutting from his upper chest. He scrabbled at it in puzzlement, then pitched forward off his ass to land flat on his face in the sand.
As the old Greek fell, Flaminius thought he caught the sound of distant thunder. But the sky was clear.
‘Attack!’ Dido cried. ‘Juno! To your positions, men!’
There was a hurried scurrying as the Nasamoneans rode up the slope in a ragged crescent. Vabalathus galloped towards Demetrius’ prone form, and leapt down from his mount. Flaminius rode after him, shouting at Amasis, who was riding pillion, to keep his head down.
The gritty desert wind hit them as he crested the rise. Vabalathus looked up from Demetrius’ body. Other arrows stood or lay scattered in the sand on either side. ‘He still lives,’ said the Arab, ‘the old fool. But he’ll need medical attention. Luckily I am a physician…’
He broke off. Flaminius was staring out across the sands. Now the source of the thunder was plain. Galloping towards them, raising a great cloud of dust, was a horde of riders.
‘Men!’ Dido cried, riding past. ‘To your posts! Hold the ridge!’
Flaminius looked back over his shoulder. ‘Where did you put my sword, Amasis?’ he shouted over the growing thunder of hoofs. The air was now thick with stinging grit.
Amasis gulped. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I put it in one of the saddlebags with all the rest of your junk.’
Flaminius glared at him. ‘Idiot! Well, hurry up and find it for me!’
Amasis sat as if frozen to his saddle despite the baking heat. Flaminius cursed him frantically and clenched his fist. The Egyptian boy leapt down from his saddle and went hunting through the panniers.
‘Keep your positions, men,’ Dido called.
The sand drummed, the attackers rode towards them. They had the advantage of numbers, but the caravan had a better tactical position. The attackers had shot their bolts on seeing Demetrius, now they were making the mistake of charging uphill. If Flaminius only had his sword, he would feel happier. Vabalathus crouched over Demetrius, seemingly oblivious to the approaching riders. Perhaps the Arab was a fool, perhaps he was as brave as he claimed.
‘Where’s my sword?’ Flaminius bellowed.
‘Here it is—oh!’ Amasis produced it from where he had stowed it in a saddlebag then clumsily dropped it in the sand.
Flaminius leapt down from the back of the snorting beast, snatched up the sheathed sword in one hand, the youth in the other. He bundled Amasis on the back of the camel, then seizing the trailing reins in his left hand, guided it round to face back down the defile. With the sheathed sword he struck its hindquarters.
‘What are you doing?’ Amasis cried as he was carried off towards the back of the lines.
Ignoring his wails, Flaminius turned, shrugged the scabbard from the blade—it was a cavalry longsword, his favoured weapon. Not the short sword of the legionary, but the longsword used by auxiliary cavalry. These thoughts fluttered through his mind as he strode to Vabalathus’ side.
‘Get back,’ the Arab snapped. He had broken the arrow shaft and now the Greek was mumbling deliriously. Vabalathus dabbed at the wound with a piece of cloth.
‘We’ve got to move him,’ Flaminius was saying but then the riders were all around them. He swung round lifting his sword as he did and sheared through the throat of a screaming horse. Hot blood spattered the sand and the creature sank to its knees, throwing its rider in the process.
Dido was shouting something. Her riders galloped forward to meet the attackers. Flaminius gripped his sword in one hand and gestured at Demetrius with the other.
‘Get him out of the fight, Arab,’ he shouted over the ring of blade on blade that broke out above their heads.
Vabalathus shook his own head. ‘He can’t be moved,’ he insisted. His eyes widened. ‘Behind you!’
Flaminius turned. The fallen rider had risen and was coming at him with a long dagger. He swung wildly at his attacker, but the man got in under the swing and a shock of fire tore across Flaminius’ chest as he cut at him. Snarling with pain, the Roman clubbed his attacker across the crown with the pommel. The rider hit the sand with a thump just beside the insensible Demetrius’ feet. Irritably Vabalathus looked up again.
Flaminius didn’t wait to listen to the Arab’s disapproval. He turned again, sword lifted, and aimed a cut at the next rider who was thundering past. His blade sliced through the man’s foot and he fell from his horse. Flaminius grabbed at the creature’s reins in an effort to mount it, but was dragged from his feet and went tumbling over and over down the sandy slope. He hit the soft sand at the bottom with a thump that left him winded and dazed.
Dizzy, panting for breath, he lifted himself up. Above him the ridge was a scene of fierce fighting. The sand was pitted with hoofmarks on every hand. A trail of scuff marks showed where he had rolled down the side. His longsword lay glittering in the sunlight partway down.
At a thudding of feet from behind him he rolled over again. Standing on the other ridge was a figure on foot, watching the fight. As Flaminius watched, it turned and vanished behind the ridge.
So the riders were not the only ones involved. He’d been assuming that this was just a wandering band of raiders who’d struck lucky on finding a merchant caravan going their way, but maybe there was more to it than that. He looked back. Dido was bleeding from a dozen cuts as she fought a nomad somewhere in the middle of the fight. Weaponless apart from a dagger in his belt, he could do nothing to help.
He turned and began trudging up the other slope.
The ring of steel on steel receded into the distance as he hauled himself over the sandy ridge and saw the bustling scene in the hollow below.
—6—
Libyan Desert, Nasamonean territory, 24th November 124 AD
Standing at the edge of an expanse of dark sand, amidst scrubby vegetation, stood a small group of Egyptians. In the middle of them was a short, squat, elderly man in a linen kilt and wearing a linen headdress. He wore sandals upon his feet, and his scrawny limbs were darkly tanned. His hawk-like face was turned in Flaminius’ direction, although not directly focussed on the Roman, who seemed to have gone unnoticed. Clustered around the old man were other figures in similar garb, about eleven or twelve. Tethered nearby were camels, goats, and asses, the later weighed down with luggage.
Flaminius ducked down. Lying prone on the sand he began swarming forward until he could see into the hollow.
‘Now we’re for
it,’ the elderly man was saying in Greek. He took off his headdress and mopped at his shaven pate with a scrap of linen. ‘This is what they do, you know. This is what they always do. Attack when you’re at your weakest.’
A tall young man with the same hawk nose said scornfully, ‘So this is Claudius Mercator’s new route. We’re barely halfway to Augila and it’s as bad as ever it was.’
The reference to Claudius Mercator puzzled Flaminius. Were they friends of his? In which case, why had they ambushed his caravan? The nomads who had attacked seemed like no more than raiders, but these Egyptians were apparently rival merchants.
He looked back over his shoulder. Blades winked and flashed in the sunlight, and the clatter of edge on edge still drifted across the intervening sand. It looked like Dido’s Nasamoneans were giving ground.
Flaminius crawled round the side of the hollow until he was close to the elderly man’s position, and out of line of sight from the group, whose attention was entirely on the crest of the rise. He drew his dagger, then leapt to his feet and raced down through the sand.
The old man turned in surprise, his son followed his gaze. The son started shouting but before the other merchants could do anything, Flaminius was among them, knocking the elderly man to the sand and pinning him. He placed the dagger point to the man’s scrawny throat.
‘Don’t anybody move,’ he suggested.
‘Cunning folk, these raiders,’ the young man said bitterly. ‘You draw off our guards and then sneak round to attack us. Well, what do you want? Our merchandise?’
The old man’s headdress had fallen off and his shaven headed gleamed greasily in the sunlight. He scowled. ‘Don’t give in to them,’ he gasped. ‘He is only one man. What kind of son are you? Defend your father…!’
Flaminius pricked him in his throat and he broke off abruptly.
‘That’s better,’ he said. He looked around the cluster of merchants. All were gazing at him as if he was some kind of wild beast. ‘I’m not a raider. You sent your raiders to attack us! Why was that, if you’re here on a trading expedition?’
Distantly, the sound of fighting drifted towards them. The merchants went into a huddle around the old man’s son.
‘Cowards, the lot of you,’ said the old man. ‘If I wasn’t so enfeebled by age, this Roman would be lying dead in the sand by now…’
‘Why are you here?’ Flaminius said insistently. ‘Your men are fighting my people. If you don’t call them off, I’m going to give you a new smile’—he traced a line round the man’s neck. ‘Got that?’
He sounded like a robber himself. But he was a desperate man. This fight could spell the end of his mission, and who knew what the repercussions would be.
‘We should do as he says,’ said one of the other merchants. ‘Sarapion, you must call off the Nasamoneans.’
So these merchants also employed the people of the sand.
The young man, Sarapion, shrugged angrily. ‘You know none of them will listen to me. Why don’t you call them off, Amenophis?’
The other merchant, an ill favoured fellow with a squint, stepped back, spreading his hands fearfully. ‘They’d rather cut my throat than obey my orders, they’ve made that plain. You know they only listen to your father. Isn’t that right, Rhampsinitus?’
‘Yes,’ the old man gurgled triumphantly. ‘Only I can speak with the Nasamoneans. Only I do they respect. You’ve taken the wrong hostage, you Roman robber.’
Flaminius’s left hand flashed out to grip the old man, Rhampsinitus, firmly by his scrawny throat. He hauled him to his feet. Keeping the knife pressed to the man’s windpipe, he glared round at the others.
‘Then you’d better speak with them,’ he said. ‘But if you do anything other than telling them to declare a truce and lay down their arms, you know what will happen.’
‘You think they’ll take orders when they see I’m under duress?’ Rhampsinitus demanded.
‘If they respect you so much, yes,’ Flaminius said, ‘I’m sure of it.’
Keeping Rhampsinitus between himself and the other merchants, he forced the man to ascend the rise. The sand was soft and dry and clogged his feet. As they climbed, leaving the other merchants down in the hollow, Flaminius said, ‘What is this place? A well?’
Rhampsinitus nodded. ‘It seems Claudius Mercator spread the rumours of a new route just to eliminate a rival.’
‘You were trying to steal a march on him?’ Flaminius said.
Rhampsinitus grinned sardonically. ‘It is I who will reopen up the trading route,’ he said. ‘Ivory, slaves, carbuncles, all will flow east into Egypt, and it will be I who is opener of the way.’
‘You’d steal another man’s work for your own profit?’
Flaminius would expect nothing else from a merchant. An unprincipled crew, the lot of them. But before Rhampsinitus could answer, they crested the rise.
On the far side, the dune was the scene of fierce fighting. Wounded or dead bodies lay scattered about the sand. Dido was fighting a naked Nasamonean. Other skirmishes were broiling on either side. Even Claudius Mercator was fighting. To Flaminius’ dismay, Amasis was in a knife fight with two nomads.
‘Enough!’ he bellowed, his voice carrying across the little valley between dunes. ‘Put up your swords! Put up your swords!’
He hissed in Rhampsinitus’ ear. ‘You tell them. Tell them or die.’
Rhampsinitus eyed Flaminius’ dagger. One of the attackers now had Amasis pinned and was about to stab him, but paused and looked round uncertainly. The other fighters had heard his words, but by no means did everyone heed them. ‘Very well,’ said Rhampsinitus at last. He turned to shout in a cracked voice, ‘Do as he says. These aren’t robbers, they’re fellow merchants!’
The fight came to an abrupt end. The dead were buried, the wounded were tended to. Rhampsinitus grudgingly invited his rival merchants to join him in the hollow, as if the place was his own property. The survivors settled their differences and ate a frugal meal.
‘Someone has filled this well in with sand,’ Claudius Mercator said perceptively, inspecting the boggy stretch with a revolted expression on his face. There would be no drinking water available now. He looked angrily at Rhampsinitus. ‘It’s as dry as my dusty throat. Just like the other route to Garamantian country. Did your people do this, Egyptian?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Rhampsinitus, wide eyed. ‘Why would I tell them to destroy our only water supply? Admit it, you knew that the trail was impassable. You invented all those stories to lead us astray.’
‘You filled in the well,’ Claudius Mercator said accusingly, ‘then attacked us. I know you of old, Rhampsinitus of Heliopolis. Throughout my career you have dogged me. You lack the courage to open up new trade routes but you’ll happily steal the fruits of my own labour.’
‘A long time ago,’ Rhampsinitus began reminiscently, ‘I was no mere merchant, but a priest in the city of Heliopolis, owning rich estates in the Delta. Then I was persuaded to invest my fortune in one of your disastrous schemes. You ruined me, left me utterly destitute when your scheme fell flat. I took to trading in the hopes of regaining my wealth. Yes, I would steal from you, just as you swindled me! I…’
‘If the Egyptians didn’t do this,’ Flaminius broke in, ‘who did?’ Were there enemies out there, gathering among the dunes? Robbers?
‘The Roman makes a good point,’ said Vabalathus. He sported a long sword cut across his forehead, but had done nothing to bandage it despite his vaunted medical skill. ‘Now it seems we are no longer fighting each other, I say we despatch patrols to scout out the surrounding countryside. The men who did this will be waiting for us.’
‘Very good,’ said Claudius Mercator. ‘With our increased numbers we will be a match for any robbers. Once we are sure about the area, once we have located the robbers responsible for this outrage and dealt with them, we can continue to the Garamantian kingdom.’
‘I will not wait here for enemies to attack,’ said Rhampsinitus fi
rmly. ‘Once again, you have ruined me, Claudius Mercator. One day, I will even the score. I will not wait here, nor will I ride on to find the next well is also spoiled.’
‘What do you intend to do, father?’ asked his son, who had come up to join them. ‘Our Nasamoneans will want paying. We cannot give up this venture. We have enough water to continue to the next well. We don’t know that it has been filled in unless we go to find out.’
‘We can and we will,’ said Rhampsinitus. ‘We will not chance it. The next well will also be filled in, without a doubt. We shall return to Ammonium and work out a way to recoup our losses.’ He turned to face Sarapion, and Flaminius thought he saw a signal pass between them.
‘Very well, father,’ said the young man placidly. ‘You had better tell our warriors. They won’t take it from me.’
They walked away.
‘Ha!’ said Claudius Mercator triumphantly. ‘So may all my enemies fall by the wayside. I shall open up the road to Garama, I and no other.’ His lip curled as the Egyptian traders gathered up their goods and possessions to begin the long journey back to Ammonium.
‘What if the wells have indeed been filled in?’ said Demetrius shakily. He peered at the sand that surrounded them. ‘We cannot carry enough water to keep us for the whole journey. We’ll die out there without water. We’ll… die.’
He had recovered from the arrow, which had only gashed him shallowly in the chest, although he had been stunned by the fall. Vabalathus had tended him like a true son of Hippocrates, neglecting even his own wounds in the process.
Claudius Mercator grinned. ‘You forget,’ he said. ‘I know a quicker way. It will reduce travelling time by days, and we need not worry about wells, as long as we ration our water.’ He turned to look where the other merchants were riding disconsolately from the hollow. ‘Rhampsinitus is a fool. We will prevail, and we will win through.’ He turned and went to check the water supply.
Amasis was sitting with Dido, deep in conversation. The woman was demonstrating sword cuts and thrusts with a broken reed. Flaminius went over.
The Kingdom That Rome Forgot Page 5
