‘Was this your plan all along?’ he asked. ‘To be led by armed guards to the temple where they intend to execute us—sacrifice us?—and then to escape? You really think we can?’
But before she could answer, the guards marched them into the gloom of a high vaulted outer sanctum. The only light source was a deep well in the floor from which flickered great fires. A stone statue stood in the shadows on the far side. Otherwise the chamber was deserted and silent.
Or was it? Amasis cried out as priests appeared from the shadows, as if they had appeared by magic. With them was King Gulussa. As the three prisoners were ushered in, and the citizens followed them into the temple, the king addressed the congregation in rich, rolling tones. The prisoners were forced to kneel before him as he exhorted the frightened looking crowd. Amasis had by now picked up a smattering of the local language from listening to the guards and Osorkon, but he understood only a little of the king’s words. However, the tone of the king’s voice was unmistakable.
They were presented to an angry crowd as spies, as traitors, as wicked foreigners who represented a threat to the peaceful lives of the Garamantes. Under normal circumstances his address would be inflammatory enough, but with an enemy army at the gates the king’s words provoked immense anger and hatred.
The guards had to use their spears as clubs to force back the more enthusiastic members of the angry mob. Amasis turned away to gaze at the flickering flames that licked up from the great shaft. Beyond it leered the faces of the goddess of the Garamantes. Her hands were outstretched as if holding something.
‘Tanit.’ Dido peered across the flames. The goddess’ statue was indistinct in their poor light. It was as if the woman was looking for something.
‘Amasis,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Do you remember I asked if you were willing to fight your way out?’
He stared at her. He’d forgotten the conversation, but now it came back. How exciting it had seemed back then. Now he saw how foolish he had been even to consider it. They were weaponless, surrounded by armed guards. And the crowd was angry, and it outnumbered them many times.
‘Are you crazy?’ he hissed. ‘Is this your plan? Fight our way through that throng?’
‘What else can we do?’ she asked. ‘The priests will cast us into those fires! Very well, let them! You don’t deserve to live, if you’re not willing to fight for your own life!’
Stung, Amasis turned to her. ‘I’ll fight,’ he said. ‘I’ve fought before.’ Before he joined this caravan he’d been on the fringes of a couple of minor street brawls. ‘But how do we get out of here?’
‘I’ll sound out Osorkon,’ she said. ‘If he’s agreeable, we’ll attack the guards, then fight our way out. You saw those priests appear, and the king. There must be a backway out of here. Then we steal horses, and ride from the city. Agreed?’
Amasis looked doubtful. It would sound spectacular in a story, but it seemed unlikely now. He gazed at the flames again. King Gulussa seemed to be reaching the climax of his address. Dido was now whispering to Osorkon. He looked doubtful but desperate.
King Gulussa stopped speaking. The guards advanced.
Dido leapt at the closest guard, seizing his spear shaft and whirling round with a kick that floored him and left her holding the spear. Consternation broke out. She menaced the other guards.
‘Come on!’ she cried.
Osorkon attacked two guards. One sank his spear into the man’s thigh. Osorkon crashed his fist into the other’s face and blood spurted out. Amasis looked on in horror and amazement. A guard came for him. He dodged out of the way, then crouched down and rolled at his legs, bringing the startled guard low.
Springing up, he saw three guards surrounding him, and grabbed their comrade’s fallen spear. He gave a bark of a laugh when they halted. Then he lunged at one. Another charged at him from the right, he swung round to parry the thrust. This was amazing! This was like all the stories! A fight in the barbarian temple! Alexander never did anything like this!
Then Osorkon fell, three spears in him, to sprawl twitching on the temple floor.
Amasis looked around in fear. Where was Dido? She had started the fight, she had got them into this. Where was she now?
Dido shouted out in horror and despair behind her. What was she doing? He looked back hastily.
She had somehow climbed over the fire pit and was facing the statue of the goddess.
‘It’s not here!’ she cried again. ‘It’s not here!’
She turned, and her despondent eyes met those of Amasis. Then a comet seemed to explode as something struck him across the back of the skull. One of the guards had sneaked up on him when he was distracted, he realised…
He fell forwards but never felt himself hit the temple floor.
—28—
Garama, Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD
Through the fog of war came Flaminius, armed troglodytes at his heels. Into the arable country surrounding Garama, into the grove where stood the well Menander had described. The fields were eerily silent, deserted. The farmers had fled, and Flaminius couldn’t really blame them.
The wellhead resembled the one he had seen on the journey to Garama, a circular stone wall at just above knee height. A rope twined of bast vanished into its depths.
The troglodytes gathered around it. From what Menander had said, Amasis and the others had probably been taken to the temple.
It would be a long journey underground. But what else could they do? Enter the city openly? With the majority of warriors fighting in the plain, that might be a possibility, but then Flaminius and his allies would have to fight their way into the temple. This way, they would have a chance to surprise them. And they’d better get a move on. But somehow Flaminius was reluctant.
‘Come on,’ he told his companions.
One of the troglodytes seized the rope, swung his legs over, and vanished into the gloom. The rest of the troglodytes scrambled one by one down the well. After a final look around the grove, Flaminius seized the rope and climbed after them.
Partway down, his numb hands lost grip of the rope and he fell. Hitting the water with an echoing splash, he regained his footing to see he had drenched the troglodytes who were waiting for him. Dripping with water, he pointed commandingly downstream.
As he led the troglodytes along the narrow channel, he was reminded of the slave tunnels beneath Hadrian’s villa and his helter-skelter journey through them, so long ago. This journey was less hectic, but also wetter and more cramped. Progress was greatly improved when the troglodytes showed him how best to traverse the subterranean passage: feet partway up the wall, running as fast as they could, out of the water, rather than having to slosh and wade.
Since there was no light, he had to feel his way, and he fell into the water several times before he got the rhythm of it, but it was much faster. Trust troglodytes to know the best way to travel underground.
A shaft of light appeared in the darkness ahead of them. It must be the first of the wells Menander had described, he realised. It was a good sign, then, but they were still a long way off. Flaminius wondered if the executions were still likely to take place, now that the city was under attack. Or would the captives remain in their cells until the king felt he had the leisure to despatch them? If they burst out into the temple only to find resistance and no sign of Amasis, or Dido, or Demetrius… No, he told himself, they would have to check the cells first. Luckily Menander had been clear in his instructions.
Another well went past overhead. Flaminius’ calves were aching from all this hopping. Another. Several more.
Sometime later he halted, seeing more light glimmering down. It wasn’t the harsh desert light that he had come to associate with the wells, it was softer, though still bright in the pitch darkness. They had reached the way up to the cells.
From Menander’s instructions, they had to climb upwards here to locate the narrow passage that led into the dungeons. His troglodytes had halted when he did, but they were ch
attering uneasily amongst themselves. In the dim light, Flaminius gestured to his companions to climb up the wall. Proudly he showed them how to do it, having seen the pitted finger- and toe-holds that Claudius Mercator had not noticed during his precipitate descent.
The wall curved outward, and at one point he almost slipped and fell into the water below. Now the troglodytes scrambled up deftly on either side of him, their hands and feet instinctively finding holds in the almost total darkness.
Finding the opening of the horizontal shaft by feel, Flaminius seized hold with both hands and heaved himself up, then scrambled forwards on hands and knees. There was an appalling stench in the air, a smell of death.
It was very dark in the shaft but light filtered from somewhere ahead. He collided with something in the darkness, something cold hard and solid. Dazed from the impact, he realised he had reached the end of the tunnel. From what Menander had said it was some kind of secret door or hatch. Gritting his teeth, not wanting unsolvable mysteries at this stage of the game, he banged at it with his fist.
Propelled by his assault, the stone hatch dropped away, and light rushed into the low tunnel. Blinking, he scrambled on hands and knees out into a stone passage. Steps led up one way, in the other direction stood a barred gateway. The light seemed to recede. It was pretty gloomy in here, he realised, after his initial shock, the light from up the steps being the only illumination. Torches stood in sockets but they had been doused.
The stink of death grew stronger as he went down the passage. He heard the humming of flies.
He gripped the bars and peered into the cell. Something lay in the shadows on the far side, something that seemed to be moving. The smell of rotting flesh hung in the air.
The troglodytes joined him, holding their noses between their fingers and making vomiting sounds. Scowling, Flaminius shook the bars. The gate creaked open a little way. He heaved it back, then entered the cell.
A cloud of black flies rose to buzz angrily around the small chamber. Flaminius’ gorge rose.
‘Just the old man,’ he muttered when he saw what they had settled upon. ‘He must have died in there. The others must be in the temple.’
Seeing the blank looks on the troglodytes’ faces, he gestured back the way they had come.
—29—
Temple of Tanit, Garama, Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD
Seeing Amasis fall, struck down by the Garamantian’s war club, Dido’s first instinct was to run. To run—but where? To his aid? That would be suicide. He was surrounded by warriors and priests. To run away? Out of the temple? But she could find no exit other than the great archway. Behind her was only the great statue of the goddess these people worshipped, its arms akimbo, holding—nothing. And as for the hidden entrance through which the king and his priests had entered the temple, there was no sign. She gripped her spear firmly as the Garamantes turned their attention away from the prone figures of Osorkon and Amasis, and focused it upon her.
The flames from the trench roared upwards. What fed them she could not see, but she was now grateful for their presence. Between them and the solid temple wall was only a narrow ledge, the route she had taken to this platform at the feet of the statue of Tanit. This was the way they would have to come—except they could just fling a javelin at her, or shoot her down with arrows.
The king shouted out orders, and two archers stepped forwards, fitting arrows to their bows. They drew, loosed, and Dido flung herself prone. The arrows whizzed over her, and stuck with a thud in the breast of the monumental stone image of the goddess. Dido gasped with horror.
So did the king. So did the priests. As Dido rose to a crouch, the priests gathered round King Gulussa, talking volubly, gesticulating wildly. The king’s face was like thunder. Pushing the priests aside, he marched up to the archers and struck one of them, shouting at him. Then he turned and pointed at the spearmen.
They marched to the ledge. Did relaxed a little. She was safe here. The Garamantes were not so impious as to risk desecrating the image of the goddess with their arrows. She heartily approved—especially as it now meant that she need only fight them one at a time as they came along the ledge. She gripped her spear again, and went to meet them. One would stand against many this day. If Amasis lived, he would wish he had seen this. It was just what his boyish imagination yearned for.
And if she died, she would die at the feet of the goddess.
The guards came down the ledge in single file. She stood at the point where the ledge met the platform. Flames flickered from the deep trench, crisping the hairs of her skin, their light playing on the head of her spear. The faces of the Garamantes were featureless in the fire-lit gloom, their massive hands wrapped round their spear shafts as if for comfort. The first one reached the far end, halting, faltering.
The king bellowed something from the other side of the fire. He was speaking Garamantian, not Punic or any tongue Dido knew, but somehow she could tell that his words were, ‘By all the gods! She is but one woman!’
The first man stepped forward, lunging at Dido. She dodged to one side, to the very lip of the trench, and his spear clanged against the stone wall where she had been standing. She reversed her spear, using it as a quarterstaff, and swept her opponent from the slippery paves. With a despairing wail, he fell, arms waving desperately, into the fires below.
‘The goddess has her sacrifice!’ Dido laughed. There was no humour in that laugh. It was the bark of a wolf, the angry chattering of an ape. It was not a human sound.
The next guard came running. Dido whipped back her spear, dodged his attack, lunged. Her spear sank into his bare chest, and she turned, muscles bulging with the strain, with the guard struggling on the end. Over the fires she held him, spitted on the spear. He cried out in agony.
Another man came running. She dipped her spear and it was enough to slide the first warrior off so, half cooked, he plunged down into the holocaust. His comrade, angry out of all measure, thrust his spear into Dido’s side. Pain shot through her as she turned, blood sprayed the wall. She gave ground. He came after her. She rushed him, ignoring the wound in her side, dodged his thrust, and shoved him off the ledge.
With a wail, he vanished into the flaming maw.
Now the Garamantes were less eager. She had proved the strength of her position. Archers were deployed again; she no longer stood in front of the image of the goddess. As arrows whizzed through the air, she darted across and crouched before her protecting bosom, grinning.
The flames crackled high. Did the priests have no way to control them? Or to douse them? Or would that also be blasphemy? She supposed so. The goddess was kind, her worshippers were confounded. Now all she had to do was ensure that she stood at a point where she could guard the ledge but keep the goddess at her back, and…
And what? She could keep this up indefinitely, but she would need food. Without food, with the fresh wound in her side, she would weaken. If only she could find how the priests had entered the temple so mysteriously... She moved up and down the platform, stamping her feet and listening for a hollow sound, but heard nothing. Was the way out somewhere in the walls? Did the statue itself contain an escape route? But surely these priests would not so desecrate their goddess. Then where was it? Because there must be a way. They had not appeared by magic.
Or had they?
‘Woman!’
She looked up at the voice. A short, squat man stood nervously on the far side of the fire, an elderly hawk-faced man in a linen kilt and a linen headdress. It was the Egyptian trader, Rhampsinitus. Behind him stood Garamantian spearmen.
‘Woman!’ Rhampsinitus repeated. ‘King Gulussa bade me to speak with you.’
‘Why can’t he speak for himself?’ she asked defiantly.
‘He speaks no Latin or Greek,’ said the Egyptian, ‘Nor Punic, either,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Some of the Garamantes speak that language and I know that you do. But you also speak Latin, as do I. So they demanded that I should speak with you.’
&
nbsp; ‘How did you get here anyway?’ she asked, playing for time. ‘Last I knew, you and your whole caravan were running back to Ammonium, tails between your legs.’
Rhampsinitus’ worried face broke out into a cunning smile. ‘A ruse,’ he boasted. ‘We followed the Mercator caravan at a distance, and gained access to the Garamantian kingdom after losing you after that sandstorm.’ He shrugged. ‘We gained audience with the king, amassed a great profit and made many friends in this region. We were preparing to return home when we were asked to attend the temple to witness the death of foreign spies.’ He looked smug. ‘Your own expedition has hardly prospered, has it?
‘And now you’ve been asked to negotiate with me?’ Dido demanded.
He nodded. ‘As an especial favour to his highness King Gulussa,’ he confirmed.
‘What does he want?’
‘He wants you out of his temple!’ Rhampsinitus said, as if it should be obvious to anyone. ‘This city is under siege, and here you are, in the holy sanctum. You have killed his guards, committed unspeakable sacrilege…’
‘Is this negotiation or condemnation?’ Dido was keeping an eye out for an attempt to get to her while the merchant staged this distraction, but it seemed that the guards refused to come near. ‘He was willing to execute me without cause. If he wants me gone, he should promise me safe conduct...’
Not that she was desperate enough to trust the words of this king. All Gulussa wanted was to winkle her out of her strong position and then kill her.
‘I’m not authorised to make any such promise,’ Rhampsinitus began.
‘Then get back to your friend the king,’ said Dido, ‘and tell him that I won’t settle for anything else. I’m not a spy, whatever he may claim. You know as well as I do that Claudius Mercator came to this country in good faith, wishing to open up new trade links with the empire.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m nothing but a caravan guard.’
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