The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  “I may have a cut or two, but nothing serious. Wait here.”

  Daribul located La’ayam soon after. His grey hair was uncovered, and his short beard was unkempt. He was observing the treatment of several injured men while listening to their accounts of the night.

  “But what did you see,” he was asking as Daribul approached. “Did you observe what type of men they were? How did they fight? Can you tell me anything that would help us name these people?” He frowned impatiently at the babble of incoherent information that followed. “Queen Zar’eshta, has sent for you,” Daribul said quietly.

  La’ayam straightened up. “She’s unhurt? Good, good, and now we must have a counsel. These brigands had the element of surprise, but it should not have happened at all. How did they creep up on us unawares? Something is amiss here.”

  Daribul shook his head. “I was asleep when they first attacked. My servant woke me.”

  La’ayam’s look was grim. “They came out of nowhere and have vanished into nowhere. Al-Hajar has sent a party to follow their tracks. Let’s hope they are not Red Sea pirates or we’ll never see our valuables again. This way we have a chance.” He glanced at Daribul. “You’ve been in the thick of it too?”

  “I – I killed a man, two. For the first time.”

  “Then you have lived a charmed life.”

  Daribul told him briefly. “But now the bodies have disappeared. Do brigands usually take their dead with them? I don’t think so.”

  La’ayam stopped in his tracks. “Two men trying to reach the Queen – that is unthinkable. Were they after her, or her jewels?”

  Daribul shook his head. “I didn’t think to find out. I simply slew them. I did look at one of them – he was quite different from the other dead men. Smooth skinned, young.”

  La’ayam pursed his lips. “I don’t know what to make of it. Keep a lookout for them. We really need to see the bodies to find out more. Did anyone else see them?”

  Daribul shook his head. “No, and you’re the first person I’ve told – without the bodies, who will believe me, especially Al-Hajar? But the blood is still there.”

  “We’d better not say anything yet. We don’t want to start a panic.” Both men knew how devoted the whole caravan was to the Queen. Without her as their figurehead to unite them, the caravan would most likely break up, degenerate into petty squabbles. “The Queen herself should be told – leave that to me. We should double her guard too, to be on the safe side.”

  Daribul’s blood ran chill. Whoever had taken those two bodies – he might return with more men to attack or abduct the Queen. “I will be vigilant,” he said quietly. “But I have always thought this was too risky an enterprise.”

  La’ayam glanced at him keenly. “Since when did queens and ministers seek the opinions of scribes?” He clapped Daribul on the shoulder to take the sting from his words. “Your Queen is bold – we must protect our trade routes or King Solomon will steal them all. We must make an alliance with him. And of all the treasure and spices we carry, she is our greatest. She will dazzle this lover of woman.”

  They had arrived at the Queen’s tent, and after despatching a doctor with ointment for Floran, Daribul was grateful to step aside and drink some water and collect his thoughts. A bold enterprise indeed. They had been travelling for six weeks now and Petra was still two or three weeks away. Plodding through scorching heat, sandstorms and across endless wastes of barren rock and sand, each day took them further from the land he had come to love. The green lands of Sheba, tall palms waving in the warm breezes, tall stately stone buildings, a land lush in fruits and vegetables and watered by the careful management of man, the control of the irrigation their Queen’s most sacred duty. And where, in secret places in the hot dry rocks only fit for goats, grew the scrubby stunted trees from which came the most sacred offerings to the gods, the resins of frankincense and myrrh.

  He remembered again the day she had dictated her announcement to him. As her chief scribe he had to make himself available to her whenever she asked for him, but it was her habit to call for him in the late afternoon. That day, however, she asked for him soon after sunrise. The words of her announcement had sent a shiver down his spine:

  “Know this: I am your Queen, that is named Zar’eshta, and my name is known from the lands of the Indus to the islands of the Mycaenae, and I make this decree. In forty days I will leave with a mighty caravan of spices, gold and other treasures for the City of Jerusalem to meet with King Solomon, renowned for his wisdom. But your Queen is also wise and . . .”

  Daribul looked up. He followed her gaze out of the window across the roofs and streets of the city of Shabwah, across the green fields to the blue-hazed rocky mountains beyond.

  “Do you see?” she asked softly, “That’s the source of our wealth, the water we channel and conserve from mountain flash-floods and melting snows. But everyone else would tell you our wealth is our incense and spices.”

  She turned back, mischief dancing in her eyes. “I think I have another riddle there, don’t you? One to tease this mighty Solomon.”

  “You’ll need plenty of riddles,” he had agreed, thinking, King Solomon has enough treasure, power and women already, her wit will be the one thing to intrigue him. But it was not in his nature to flatter the Queen, and she would not have welcomed it.

  Daribul had climbed a large rock that jutted out from the wadi wall where he squatted down and surveyed the camp of the Queen of Sheba under a sky flooded pink by sunrise. Thousands of camels, and beside each its burden, the boxes of gold and other metals; jewellery; oils and dried dates and other delicacies; and most precious of all, packed in sturdy baskets, the pale yellow soft tears of frankincense resin, and the darker richer resins of myrrh, as well as some seedlings of the trees of both.

  As the sun rose the rocks cast darker, more intense shadows across the dusty, sandy wadi floor. The land around was soft shades of ochre, pale red, light browns. The only green was in the few palm trees by the shallow oasis. Their route over the past six weeks had brought them from southern Arabia on this trade route through land prey to pirates from the Red Sea coast, and brigands from the rocky peaks of the interior. Away along the wadi rim was the rough huddle of dwellings and the citadel of Wusuf, the local warlord. We paid him well, thought Daribul, as we’ve paid all whose land we’ve passed through, for our passage and safety. And how has he repaid us? That was no small band of brigands last night. He scuffed at the ground, flung a few pebbles in the air, followed them to gaze into the sky.

  What gods lived here, high in these mountains, so close to the brilliant blue of the sky, gods of winds and sky and high places? Were they behind this, jealous of the incense being carried through, taken to honour strange gods – or one God, Daribul had heard, the Yahweh – and none for them? But whichever god it was, all humankind desired, needed, these scented smokes to honour them, send messages, transform their souls and commune with them. And it was his adopted land, Sheba, which was the richest source of these things.

  A puff of dust from the direction of Wusuf’s citadel caught Daribul’s attention. More like a human hand behind this than a god’s, he thought, and Wusuf was a prime candidate. He could have given information to the brigands so that they would know when and where to attack, and under cover of the fighting sent in his own murderers to abduct or even kill Queen Zar’eshta. A weak Sheba would enable this warlord to expand his little empire, perhaps even disrupt the trade route and hold the whole world to ransom.

  Daribul closed his eyes and offered a final prayer to his own private Ninevehen god, then hurried back down into the camp. He was on his way to join the counsel, but he made a detour to where he had been told the bodies of the slain were gathered, stopping here and there on the way to greet and talk to men he knew. One man summed up what they were all thinking, if not saying, was their enterprise accursed? Was it too big an undertaking and should they turn back? Perhaps the might of this King Solomon was too great and they should leave the t
rade routes to him, and return to the safety of Sheba?

  The dead Shebans were laid reverentially on one side. To the other the bandits were flung in a tangled heap.

  “You, come here,” Daribul called to one of the guards. “Who ordered this? Find some help and lay everyone out properly. We might learn something from the dead.”

  The guard shrugged. His opinion of scribes was plain, so Daribul added, “Besides, I want to see the evil faces of the two creatures I slew last night.”

  The man’s face brightened, and he beckoned to his friends and after some talk, it was possible to see each dead bandit. The heat was beginning to rise and so would the stench from the corpses. Daribul took out the tablet he always carried and counted the dead: twenty Shebans, but over fifty of their attackers. In look and build they were not dissimilar, though the attackers were smaller, their skin darker, more lined. Probably from living in the mountains or the desert, he thought. Their clothes were of serviceable rough cloth, leather, and sheepskin, and they wore their beards trimmed short.

  “Are you finished?” asked the guard. “We’ve had enough of dead men. We need to cleanse ourselves. Which ones are your dead men, anyway?”

  Daribul frowned. “That’s just it. They’re not here. Have all the bodies been collected?”

  “Are you sure you killed someone? Perhaps it was only a nasty dream.” The man and his friends laughed. “Besides, does it matter?”

  Daribul laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Yes,” he said, “It does matter. And if you love your Queen and value her life you will keep a lookout for these bodies. They are distinctive. Young, clean-shaven, swaddled in dark brown robes.”

  Immediately at the mention of Queen Zar’eshta the men sobered up, put their shoulders back. “We’ll do that. If we find them we’ll send to you immediately.”

  The flaps of the Queen’s tent had been tied open to allow what little breeze there was to enter, and she sat on a low stool deep in its shade, her servants languidly waving fans to keep her cool. Her hair was pulled back and twisted elaborately and dressed with gold ornaments fashioned in the shape of birds and flowers. Her robe was in a rich blue accentuating the bloom on her cheek. “Sit near me,” she said quietly to Daribul, “I want to keep my friends close.” Though she smiled he could detect anxiety deep in her dark eyes. Had she been told about her would-be attackers?

  Across the carpeted floor, smoothing his beard and moustache, sat La’ayam, and next to him was Al-Hajar, constantly sending and receiving messengers. Wusuf sat near Daribul. He had arrived brandishing knives and a long sword, with a retinue of rough-looking men, and pretended to be disappointed the fighting was over.

  Light refreshments were served and talk swirled around the night’s events, of the caravan, what they had seen since leaving Shabwah, exchanging gossip, sizing each other up. Daribul looked around for their high priest Qu’atabar and located him in a dark corner at the back of the tent. Attended to by two shaven-headed acolytes, he was engaged in religious rites. Daribul quickly looked away then chided himself. He thought he’d successfully espoused the Sheban gods, but it looked like his childhood learning went deeper than he thought.

  “And so, Wusuf, I charge you with neglecting your duties and breaking your promise. We could ask for compensation.”

  La’ayam’s words brought Wusuf scrambling to his feet, reaching for the sword that was not there. All their weapons lay outside.

  “I did everything that was asked of me. You have churned up the dust of my land, used my water and firewood, spread yourselves like a great obstacle around my citadel.”

  “In return you have received plenty. But what about the safe passage across your land – Daribul, wasn’t that part of your correspondence?”

  “It was,” Daribul answered. “I have it here. Your exact words were ‘A pleasant and peaceful sojourn beside our city walls’. It hasn’t exactly been either.”

  “How was I to know these strangers, these scavengers would attack you? I’ve looked at the slain – we don’t know any of them. Who am I to set myself up to second guess fate?”

  There was silence, and Wusuf subsided onto his cushion, until Al-Hajar said, “Perhaps these ‘scavengers’ were informed of our arrival by one of your people?”

  “None of my people would have betrayed you,” Wusuf growled. “My word here is law. Any person who disobeys –” he drew his hand across his throat in a quick gesture.

  “Then it was you yourself who –” Wusuf leapt to his feet, face mottled with rage. “And I charge you, Al-Hajar, with complacency, thinking yourself still safe at home in your little kingdom of Sheba – this is the real world out here, and it’s not my fault if you’re not up to it.”

  The two men were about to throw themselves at each other when the Queen spoke.

  “Please, do not add to the night’s injuries with further bloodshed. Sit down.” When the two men, still muttering and glowering, gave way, she continued, “We are not asking for our safe passage payments to be returned, though I have been advised we would be within our rights to do so,” she nodded at La’ayam. “I want to discover whether this was just brigands, seizing an opportunity, or whether there was a more sinister purpose, so that we can plan accordingly.”

  Wusuf bowed his head, but Daribul saw his eyes shift craftily. “Queen Zar’eshta, your land has treasures that all the world desires, though I might venture your worth far outweighs that which you carry to King Solomon. You are the greatest prize of all.”

  Daribul puzzled over his choice of words. If he had sent those two men, perhaps he’d intended to hold the Queen for ransom?

  “I think we should wait for King Solomon’s judgment on that,” she replied.

  “Why no, we have evidence already. The two men who were attempting to carry you away – oh, I forgot, their dead bodies cannot be found,” he stared at Daribul. “You should look into your own camp for a traitor.”

  Daribul opened his mouth to protest, aware of La’ayam shaking his head, but even more keenly feeling the Queen’s searching gaze. He felt ashamed. He should have told her himself, not listened to La’ayam. But perhaps that had been the old man’s intent? To discredit Daribul and distance him from the Queen so that he could weaken her protection. Wusuf innocent and La’ayam guilty? Who could Daribul trust?

  “It’s true, I killed two men last night before I came into your tent – but when I went back all that remained was their blood.”

  “Hah, we only have your word for it, where’s the proof?” Al-Hajar bellowed. “Admit it, you were trying to kill or carry off the Queen yourself.”

  “The Queen’s servants all saw blood on my sword,” Daribul protested hotly.

  “You could have wiped that on any dead man. I say we should examine this Assyrian, if only to punish him for false bragging.”

  Daribul shuddered. He knew what Al-Hajar meant by “examining”. Few survived such ordeals. “I don’t need to brag, like some do. Anyway, how did you hear this, Wusuf? I only told La’ayam, and we decided to tell no-one. I saw you leave your citadel myself this morning – did one of your spies meet you on the way here and tell you your plot was foiled?”

  “D’you think guards don’t talk? I heard you’d been looking for missing dead men, and I told Wusuf. Satisfied?” Al-Hajar finished triumphantly.

  “Then you and Wusuf have conspired together.” The words tumbled out of Daribul’s mouth in anger and then the insults began to fly afresh. The Queen held her hands up in despair, until the tinkling of bells halted them.

  High priest Qu’atabar stood behind the Queen, flanked by his acolytes gently shaking cascades of tiny silver bells.

  “The gods have answered me,” his voice rang out as if conducting a ceremony. “We must now purify ourselves and this place of these violent acts and of the blood that has been spilled. And then the smoke of our funeral fires will reveal truth. The sacred incense will work its magic once more bringing us a vision of what took place. I have seen this.”
/>
  Qu’atabar refused to allow anyone to help. Only he and his acolytes, amid the most obscure of rituals, were allowed to scrape a depression in the ground until they hit bedrock, beside the rock Daribul had sat on earlier that day and on which the priest set up his altar. They then heaped firewood, dead palm fronds, reeds, broken baskets, much of it brought from the nearby town, on Wusuf’s orders into a pyre and then the dead bodies were brought over, to be placed on the pyre by Qu’atabar himself, friend and foe alike.

  Messengers went around the camp with the news that the ceremony was to be held at sunset, and everyone was to fast, drinking only sips of water, and to spend their time in contemplation. People rested under their blanket awnings or in their tents, the rough dark brown cloth blending in with the landscape.

  “He has chosen a good spot,” Daribul explained to Floran who, after sleeping and more ointment, was feeling much better. “You can see far distances from up there. No one will be able to approach us without being seen.”

  “You – you think they’ll return tonight, Master?” the boy asked nervously.

  “I am worried,” Daribul replied. “More so by the missing corpses. Whoever took them has unfinished business. Al-Hajar refuses to believe me, but La’ayam has insisted the Queen must be guarded every second of the day.” He paused. He didn’t want to voice his fear aloud, that the counsellor was putting on a show of concern, while all the time watching and waiting his chance to attack her again. Perhaps Counsellor La’ayam wanted to be King La’ayam, to lead them into Jerusalem and feast with mighty King Solomon.

  “Perhaps they were just taken away by their brigand friends?” Floran suggested hopefully.

  “I wish, but I had the pleasure of Al-Hajar’s company earlier when his detail returned from following the trail into the mountains.”

  The party of ten plodded in on weary camels, but their leader leapt nimbly enough to the ground from his kneeling camel to make his report. “We followed their tracks as fast as we could – we could see them until they vanished into the rocks. After that, I was sure I could hear them once or twice up ahead, but after a while even the tracks in the sand disappeared. It was as if they had melted away. We searched various gulleys and ravines but then decided to turn back, fearing we might become lost ourselves.”