The Black Stone: Agent of Rome 4 (The Agent of Rome)

by Brown, Nick

Oblachus glared at him. ‘Something funny, Syrian?’

  ‘Not really. But if you want to have a go at our mate, you might want to take another look at that.’

  Oblachus did so.

  ‘No beard, right?’ added Cassius, maintaining the low-born accent.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Mars is one of the Roman father gods. He has a beard. That ain’t Mars.’

  To Cassius’s surprise, Ulixes spoke up. ‘He’s right.’

  Now Oblachus was looking confused.

  ‘That there is Ares,’ said Cassius. ‘Greek war god. Ares is young – no beard.’

  Oblachus turned to the man who’d found the figurine. The guard shrugged. Two other, older men nodded. Oblachus aimed his stick at Khiran. ‘That right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Greek’s better than Roman, I suppose, but as you can see’ – Oblachus tapped the solar emblem on his tunic – ‘we’re of one mind in these parts when it comes to worship. You lot better get that message pretty quick if you want to stick around.’

  He tossed the figurine into the fire.

  To Cassius’s amazement, Khiran ran at him. Fortunately, Andal and Yorvah blocked his path and grabbed him before he got very far.

  Oblachus found this very amusing. ‘Just trying to help you lads fit in, is all. Best watch yourselves.’

  After a last look around, the commander addressed his men in Nabatean. They sheathed their swords and followed him back along the track.

  Mercator ran up to Khiran, grabbed him round the throat and shoved him towards one of the tents. Andal and Yorvah followed. The others – auxiliaries and Saracens alike – remained where they were.

  Cassius caught Indavara’s eye. The bodyguard hurried after Mercator.

  Cassius watched the guards disappearing into the darkness. ‘By the gods.’

  ‘Lucky,’ said Ulixes. ‘Very, very lucky.’

  Simo was holding his chest and drawing in deep breaths. ‘Is that true, sir? About the figurine?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Ulixes. ‘Most images of Mars are of him as an older man, but some – like that one – show him as a youth.’

  ‘So it wasn’t Ares?’ asked Simo.

  ‘It was Mars,’ said Ulixes. ‘But your master here guessed that ignorant nomad wouldn’t know the difference.’ He offered Cassius an approving grin. ‘Nicely done, grain man. It seems that you are not averse to the odd calculated gamble yourself.’

  Having prevented Mercator from beating Khiran to a pulp, Indavara waited for the optio and the guard officers to leave the tent. Khiran lay in a corner, groaning, having been struck half a dozen times by his superiors. Indavara threw him a flask of water, then left. He reckoned Mercator and the others would have been justified; the idiot had risked all their lives. But they might need every last man fit and able to fight.

  Realising the state Simo was in after his encounter with Oblachus, Indavara decided to keep him busy. They hadn’t eaten yet so he asked the Gaul if he wanted to investigate the food tent. Simo agreed and they set off.

  Some of the Saracens were working but most were sitting around their fires. Indavara had noticed how sociable these desert men were but there was little singing or laughter tonight.

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ said Simo, staying close to the middle of the track.

  ‘Me neither. But I’ve a feeling we won’t be here too long.’

  ‘Master Cassius hasn’t told me much about what we’re doing here but I’m not sure I really want to know.’

  ‘It may not even happen,’ said Indavara. ‘I don’t think he and Abascantius realised what it would be like here. These bloody guards – there’s hundreds of them.’

  Simo reached inside his tunic. ‘That horrible limping man. I thought he was going to hit me with that stick of his.’

  ‘Fortunate timing with them finding that figurine,’ said Indavara. ‘I bet you were praying. Perhaps your god answered you.’

  ‘The good Lord has always watched over me, even in the darkest places and times.’

  ‘If you really want to avoid dark places and times, you should find a new master.’

  Indavara had often tried to draw Simo into criticising Corbulo, never with much success.

  As they passed a group of Saracens coming the other way, Simo kept his head down. Indavara looked at them only to check the colour of cloth on their arms but it was too dark to tell.

  ‘You should have seen him back in Bostra, Simo. He was in a right mess without you. We were starting to think you weren’t coming back. He practically pleaded with me to come along.’

  ‘As long as I can be of service to Master Cassius, I will remain by his side,’ said the Gaul stiffly. ‘I am not a freedman. I do not have the choices some others have.’

  ‘Good point. And yet I’m here too. Which probably makes us as stupid as each other.’

  They passed the latrine and reached the food tent. Simo slowed when he saw a pair of sentries outside but Indavara gave him a nudge. Just as they arrived, a trio of tribesmen left, each carrying a wicker basket full of food.

  The sentries ignored the pair as they entered the tent. Several lanterns were hanging from the walls, illuminating a large and varied array of food in barrels, boxes and amphoras. Two serving women came forward. One said something in Nabatean and the other gave both of them a wicker basket then gestured at the food.

  Given Galanaq’s location there weren’t a lot of fresh fruit or vegetables but Indavara was almost drooling as he ran his eyes over the rolls and loaves, the strips of dried meat and the wheels of cheese.

  He beat Simo to the nearest basket of bread. ‘Maybe this Lord Ilaha isn’t so bad after all.’

  Khalima returned to the camp at the third hour of night, by which time the other tribesmen and soldiers were inside their tents. Cassius had asked Indavara to keep an eye on Ulixes while he waited by the fire with Mercator. The temperature in the canyon had dropped sharply; both men wore their thickest cloaks.

  Khalima fetched Adayyid then came and sat with them. The Saracen looked preoccupied and refused the offer of a drink.

  ‘Well?’ said Cassius.

  ‘An interesting meeting.’ Khalima rubbed a thumb and forefinger down his chin.

  ‘Will your chief join Ilaha?’ asked Cassius.

  ‘The ethnarchs are meeting this night. I believe Uruwat, and many of the others, are waiting to hear what Ilaha has to say before making any decision.’

  ‘Any idea what the general feeling is?’

  ‘No. Only that nothing has been agreed upon yet.’

  ‘Did you learn anything else?’

  ‘There will be a ceremony inside the inner wall tomorrow. Everyone is to attend.’

  ‘What kind of ceremony?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What does it look like over there?’ asked Mercator.

  ‘Well guarded. Dozens of men on either side of the gate. The chiefs are being housed on the right side of the canyon, Ilaha’s headquarters are to the left. Something’s going on; there were men working by torchlight.’

  ‘Working?’ asked Cassius.

  ‘They were operating some kind of crane.’

  Cassius resisted the urge to look at Mercator. ‘A crane? For lifting something?’

  ‘What else would one do with a crane?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Adayyid told me what happened earlier with Oblachus. I hadn’t anticipated this amount of attention.’

  Cassius held up a calming hand. ‘We dealt with it.’

  ‘Can we speak alone?’

  After Adayyid and Mercator had left, Khalima stood up and gazed thoughtfully down at the flames for some time. Cassius stood too and waited for the Saracen to speak.

  ‘Roman, if you and your people are found here my position will be very difficult – Uruwat’s too. I am an acquisitive man but not even I will forever tarnish the name of my family by bringing my ethnarch down with me. Every hour we remain here we risk discovery.
I will glean what further I can about the meeting and its results. But once this ceremony is concluded we will have little opportunity to learn anything more. We must leave tomorrow. You agree?’

  Cassius looked down at the inner wall. ‘I agree.’

  XXV

  Ilaha and Mother walked down the passageway, arm in arm.

  Gutha knew what they had been doing. According to Oblachus, dozens of goats and calves had been taken up to the temple during the evening. Apparently the animal screams had gone on for so long that one guard had vomited and another had fled outside.

  Gutha saw they had washed but the pink stains remained on their fingers, the blood in the lines of the old crone’s skin. He wondered – how strong could their faith really be if they felt such excessive offerings were necessary? Perhaps they just enjoyed it.

  After a wary glance at Gutha, Mother spoke some quiet words to Ilaha then walked back the way they’d come, stick tapping on the rock.

  Ilaha ran his fingers through his hair. He had forgone his priestly garb once more and was wearing his sword. He touched the hilt then looked along the passageway. ‘Are they all here?’

  ‘All twelve. They have eaten, the table has been cleared. We will not be disturbed.’

  Around them, a breath of air made the torches flicker.

  ‘I have waited a long time for this moment.’

  ‘I know. Lord Ilaha, I advise caution.’

  ‘Yes you do, Gutha. Persistently.’

  ‘Having at last gathered the ethnarchs it would be … regrettable if some were put off by—’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘By going too far too fast.’

  Gutha was relieved to see his employer remain calm, despite the provocation.

  ‘Mighty Elagabal has spoken to me. Now is the moment.’

  Ilaha composed himself, then walked on.

  Gutha fell in behind him, holding his axe handle to stop it swinging. One way or another, he reckoned what happened in the next hour might affect not only his destiny but that of every man gathered in Galanaq.

  Commanders Oblachus and Theomestor stood on either side of the doorway, a dozen guards lined up beside them. They all bowed as Ilaha and Gutha strode into the cavern. The twelve other ethnarchs were already sitting. Several men stood but Ilaha waved them back down with a genial smile. As dictated by tradition, each chief was accompanied by another man. Some were sons or trusted advisers, others bodyguards. All were well armed and several glanced curiously at Gutha’s axe.

  The heavy door boomed shut. Gutha waited for Ilaha to sit down then took up a position by his right shoulder. Some of the ethnarchs looked attentive and keen; others would clearly be harder to win round. Mushannaf made little attempt to hide his contempt as Ilaha poured himself a drink with a remarkably steady hand.

  ‘Welcome, all, to Galanaq. A toast – to your safe arrival and the favour of Mighty Elagabal.’

  Ilaha raised his goblet and drank. The others matched the gesture.

  ‘More than a year has passed since the Tanukh last met, since we ethnarchs sat together. At the meeting before that we were addressed by the Romans Marcellinus and Calvinus.’

  Ilaha spoke clearly and precisely, the cavern amplifying his soft, earnest tones.

  ‘They thanked us for our efforts and sacrifices and told us we would now reap the rewards of fighting alongside them against the Palmyrans. We, the Saracens, were told our losses would be worthwhile, that we were still better off with Rome.’

  Some of the other chiefs were nodding.

  ‘I admit I believed it,’ continued Ilaha. ‘This Aurelian seemed capable. He defeated Zenobia, after all. And yet what do we find now? Chaos to our south and north. Trade down, profits down – for all of us. Yet again the Romans are in disarray.’

  ‘Rome is dying,’ said Kalderon, a loyalist who’d lost two of his brothers fighting the Palmyrans. He was a small but muscular man who loved leading his men into battle and enjoyed his reputation for taking on – and beating – larger foes.

  Ilaha leaned forward. ‘The Empire remains divided, the west a separate domain. As ever, there is trouble from the Goths and another clash with Persia probably not far away. Rome is incapable of governing its own lands, too weak to destroy its enemies—’

  ‘Ilaha.’ Yemanek had raised his hand. Gutha had always found him impressive. He was one of the older ethnarchs, a burly man with a wild beard and a blotchy, red face. His appearance belied his temperament. He was moderate, pragmatic and respected by all at the table.

  ‘Every man here knows the situation. We have come to hear what you propose to do about it.’

  Gutha half-expected Ilaha to berate him for the interruption but he simply nodded.

  ‘I would ask for a little patience, Yemanek. I shall tell you in due course. But first I shall tell you what I do not want. I do not want war. I do not want bloodshed – our people suffered enough under the Palmyrans. What I want is peace, and freedom – freedom to live and trade as we see fit. Not just for us, but for our sons and our sons’ sons.’

  Gutha felt himself relax. This was the old Ilaha; assured, compelling, reasonable.

  ‘Let us consider what we give – and what we have given for two centuries – to Rome. We guard the eastern frontier and fight alongside them when the time comes. We journey to places they’ve never even seen, brave dangerous lands and barren deserts to bring them the incense and the spices they cannot get enough of. And what is our reward for all this? We must give them one quarter of all we earn. One quarter. What if the first Rabbel and our forefathers were here now? They would laugh – mock us for allowing ourselves to be so enslaved.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said one of the chiefs thoughtfully.

  ‘So someone tell me, then,’ continued Ilaha, ‘what they have given us in return?’

  ‘The road?’ offered another of the ethnarchs. Gutha thought he was about to take Ilaha on but then the man smiled: ‘Except of course that the forefathers you spoke of used an almost identical route.’

  ‘Indeed they did,’ said Ilaha. ‘Anyone else?’

  No one responded.

  ‘I see that Yemanek is still eager to hear my proposal,’ added Ilaha. ‘It can be summarised as simply as this: what I want is a fair deal for the Tanukh, for our families, for our future.’

  Gutha had to acknowledge it had been a masterful performance so far, especially as he had barely mentioned his sun god.

  Ilaha picked up the leather folder sitting on the table in front of him and took out a piece of papyrus. The edges were ragged, the papyrus holed and yellowed. Ilaha held it up. ‘Any guesses?’

  ‘The treaty,’ said Yemanek.

  ‘The treaty. Well, a contemporary copy.’ Ilaha placed the sheet on the table. ‘The thirteen ethnarchs signed this not long after the Roman annexation. It is not an agreement in the true sense of the word – more a list of obligations for us to fulfil. I suggest a new arrangement, a real treaty. It will be simple, consisting of only three clauses. Firstly, we will retain and control the traditional tribal areas east and south of the Roman road. We also undertake to protect those lands.’

  ‘You are describing the situation as it is,’ said another ethnarch. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘At present, the Romans believe that they allow us that territory. This would enshrine our right to our own land in law.’

  The ethnarch chose not to press him further.

  ‘The second clause: we will agree to defend any part of Arabia against any hostile force or invader. The third and final clause: import tax on all products coming into the Empire from or through our lands – and therefore subject to Roman tolls – will be taxed not at one quarter, but at one sixth.’

  Silence returned as the chiefs absorbed this concept. After a while, a new speaker made his contribution. ‘The import tax has been at a quarter for more than a century.’

  ‘Things change,’ replied Ilaha sharply. ‘I doubt the Romans expected they would lose half their empire, or that a
woman would almost take the other half.’

  ‘Calvinus will not negotiate on that point,’ said another of the chiefs. ‘We tried before when we began losing profits to the sea trade. His hands are tied. The quarter rate is universal.’

  ‘Not true,’ countered another man. ‘Reductions have been negotiated in the past.’

  Three others spoke simultaneously and suddenly the ordered debate began to unravel. Ilaha raised a hand. ‘Please.’

  After a while, his fellow ethnarchs quietened.

  ‘I do not expect Calvinus to accede simply because we ask him to. It is we who must change his mind. With your agreement, I will send an emissary to Bostra with a copy of the new treaty for him to sign. At the same time, we will leave here and I will ask each of you to gather every last swordsman you can spare. We will make camp, tens of thousands of us, within sight of the fortress at Humeima. We will be close to the Via Traiana and only two days’ ride from Aila. We will leave Calvinus in no doubt about the seriousness of his position.’

  ‘A sixth is reasonable,’ said one of the chiefs before glancing around at his compatriots. ‘And for us, it would turn loss into profit.’

  ‘But if he refuses?’ asked Uruwat. Gutha looked at the old ethnarch; only his fine blue tunic and silver rings marked him out as a man of means.

  ‘We will block the road until he concedes,’ said Ilaha. ‘Trade will grind to a halt, the Roman coffers in Bostra will empty.’

  ‘They will attack,’ said Uruwat.

  ‘Good,’ replied Kalderon, who was sitting beside him. ‘We have been lapdogs long enough. Shame upon all of us that Zenobia could push the legions out of the east, yet we won’t even stand up for ourselves on our own soil.’

  ‘Remind me,’ said a deep voice. ‘What happened to Zenobia in the end?’

  It was Enzarri. Gutha was surprised it had taken him so long. Of all the ethnarchs he was generally considered the most loyal to Rome. Ilaha – and everyone else – had been taken aback that he’d even agreed to attend the meeting. But had he done so only to foil Ilaha’s plans in person? Use the occasion to advance his own cause?

  Enzarri was a tall, handsome man with a mane of black hair. A notorious drinker and womaniser, he was nonetheless immensely popular amongst his own tribe and with many other Arabians. His reputation had been enhanced during the Palmyran wars and the Romans had decorated him many times. Even now – even here – he wore the golden bands on his wrists.