All in the cavernous audience chamber were on their feet as more than a dozen very burly slaves carried in His Most Exalted Majesty, Nayram of the Garamantes, The Lord of the Thousand Wells, reclining on a bed of immense proportions that Vespasian imagined he rarely strayed far from. His exact girth was impossible to tell as he was festooned in voluminous robes that blended with the bedding and echoed the deep blue, pale green and soft red hues of the glossy ceramic tiles decorating the floor, walls and domed ceiling of the chamber. All that could be ascertained was that there was much blubber beneath, as the contents of the bed seemed to be in constant motion, gently wobbling. His head was covered with an enormous, ill-fitting red wig that tumbled over his shoulders, partly concealing the rolls of fat that constituted his neck.
Izebboudjen led the bowing as Nayram was paraded before the company. The chamberlain seemed positively svelte in comparison to his master; indeed, the assembled courtiers, Vespasian thought, were the plumpest collection of individuals he had ever been in the presence of – which was quite a claim considering the physiques of many of the top echelons of Roman society.
With much care and straining, the slaves managed to lower Nayram’s bed so that it settled on the floor without disturbing its occupant who seemed to be mid-nap. From the shadows a swarm of wafters appeared with their fans and set to work keeping the mountain of flesh cool.
Izebboudjen then turned to the assembly and declaimed Nayram’s titles, which were far more numerous than Vespasian had been led to believe. When he had finished he turned to his king. ‘Most Exalted Majesty, before you stands Titus Flavius Vespasianus, Governor of the Roman province of Africa.’ With that he sat down, cross-legged on the floor; the rest of the courtiers followed his lead, leaving Vespasian, Magnus and Hormus, along with the lictors, still standing.
For a while there was absolute silence.
Nayram gave no indication of being awake, or, for that matter, alive. Vespasian stood, not wanting to break protocol and speak before his host had addressed him. Manners, he felt, would be an ally to him and after his conversation with Izebboudjen he knew he needed all the help he could get, especially as Roman honour dictated that he would not be using the king’s titles.
Another fifty heartbeats went by before Nayram opened one, bloodshot, eye. It perused Vespasian for a few moments before the other opened. ‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, you are welcome in my kingdom.’
‘King Nayram, it is with great pleasure that I come on this embassy from the Emperor, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, and in token of his friendship he sends you this gift.’ He nodded to Hormus who stepped forward and handed a heavy, gem-studded silver casket to Izebboudjen. With some difficulty, the chamberlain heaved himself to his feet and presented the casket to Nayram who smiled with greed and adjusted himself on his bed so that he could open his gift, suffering a resounding, but totally ignored, bout of flatulence as he did so.
Pulling aside some loose tresses of hair, he unfastened the clasp and opened the lid; delight lit up his face as he looked at the contents and ran his fingers over them. ‘Hmmmm,’ he purred, the sound rumbling in his throat. ‘You may tell my brother, the Emperor Nero, that his gift pleases me.’ He plucked a black pearl, almost a quarter of the size of Magnus’ glass eye, from the casket and examined it, purring again at its lustre as he revolved it around the palm of his hand. Dropping it, he then scooped out a handful of the precious objects, each of similar proportions, and let them clatter back, one by one. ‘It pleases me greatly; it is a gift worthy of one equal to another. What would my brother have in return?’
Putting aside the rather fanciful notion that being lord of a thousand wells was the equivalent of ruling all the lands around the inner sea and many beyond, Vespasian graced Nayram with his most solemn countenance. ‘The Emperor Nero asks only this of you, King Nayram: your beneficence. In that box are five hundred pearls; each one’s value is greatly increased being so far from the sea. Nero would ask that you equate each pearl with the freedom of a Roman held in bondage in your great kingdom; should there be fewer than five hundred then he would have you keep the balance.’
Nayram fingered his gift again, rumbling as he ruminated upon Vespasian’s words. ‘And what if there are more than five hundred? Hmmmm? What then?’
‘Then we negotiate.’
‘Negotiate? The Lord of the Thousand Wells does not negotiate; he does his pleasure, for who is there to tell him otherwise?’ Nayram closed the lid and stared Vespasian in the eye. ‘Look around you, Vespasian; see where you are. There is nothing beyond my fields for hundreds of miles in all directions. It is the water from my wells that makes this fertile oasis in the midst of a wasted land. The desert keeps us safe, for what army could cross it and still be in a fit state to assail us? Thus we need no troops of our own, apart from the slave-keepers, so that the citizens of my realm are free to enjoy a life of leisure. That same desert that protects us also acts as a cage for the slaves who till our fields; where can they run to? How long would they survive away from my wells? So, you see, Governor, I have no need to negotiate with anyone. I can just take this gift and give nothing in return, if it pleases me; and what would my brother Nero do then? Hmmmm?’
Vespasian bit back his fury at the blubberous petty potentate who dared to consider himself in such an exalted position that he could threaten to dictate terms to Rome. ‘The Emperor knows that you would not do that, King Nayram, because he knows that you, like himself, are a man of honour.’
Nayram seemed to consider this, on all levels, blatant untruth to be a fair and just observation. He reopened the lid and gazed once again at the pearls. ‘Nero is right: we share the same sense of honour. Very well, Vespasian, you may purchase back your citizens.’ He signalled to Izebboudjen. ‘Summon the Keeper of the Records.’
Izebboudjen once again struggled to his feet and bowed. ‘Most Exalted Majesty, Nayram, The Lord of the Thousand Wells, he awaits your pleasure.’ With a nod to the steward of the doors they were swung open to reveal a portly figure with a skewed lower jaw and a flattened, unsymmetrical nose.
Vespasian caught his breath, his throat contracting; he knew that visage well for he had been the cause of its violent restructuring. He checked himself as he looked in shock at the man whose actions had led to the deaths of eighty thousand Roman citizens and as many natives in the province of Britannia; the man who had ordered the flogging of Boudicca and the rape of her daughters as he stole her money and left Vespasian to her mercy. The man who had fled the province, as it erupted in revolt in direct consequence of his actions, and then had disappeared without trace.
Now Vespasian knew what had happened to the former procurator of Britannia as he looked into the hated face of Catus Decianus.
CHAPTER II
‘I SHOULD KILL YOU NOW!’ Vespasian hissed in Latin; he felt Magnus grab his arm, restraining him.
Decianus smirked, his mouth lopsided from the shattered jaw that Vespasian had dealt him two years previously in Britannia. ‘It would be a fatal mistake even to attempt to, Vespasian; I’m a man of great importance here.’
‘What are you saying?’ Nayram demanded in Greek.
‘Most Exalted Majesty,’ Decianus crooned, switching to the same language, ‘I was advising Vespasian of the foolishness of trying to kill me as he just threatened to do.’
‘Kill you? Why would he want to do that when I’m about to order you to aid him? Hmmm? Why?’ The bloodshot eyes turned to Vespasian.
Vespasian shook off Magnus’ grip and pointed an accusatory finger at his enemy whilst addressing the king. ‘Because that man left me to die at the hands of a queen he had robbed and violated.’
‘And yet you’re still here? Hmmm?’
‘Thanks to the queen’s honour being in inverse proportion to that snake’s! She let me and my companions go despite what she and her daughters had suffered in Rome’s name at his hands.’
The king looked unimpressed. ‘Then there’s no harm done.’
<
br /> ‘You tell that to the eighty thousand Roman citizens killed in Boudicca’s revolt.’
‘If she killed that many then I think that Decianus was right to rob and violate her. Hmmmm?’
Magnus put a hand on Vespasian’s shoulder. ‘It won’t do any good arguing, sir,’ he whispered, ‘no one here gives a fuck what happened so far to the north.’
Vespasian felt himself tensing but knew Magnus to be right: of what interest was it to Nayram what his Keeper of the Records had done in Britannia? The fact was that somehow the ex-procurator had found himself a secure bolthole outside the Empire and had quite evidently wormed his way into the king’s favour. He drew breath and forced himself to relax, unclenching his fists.
From deep within Nayram came a gurgling sound that seemed to be an expression of mirth. ‘That’s better, Governor; diplomatic missions are rarely enhanced by displays of emotion or letting personal feelings interfere with the objectives of your superiors.’
Vespasian was forced to take the patronising putdown, well aware, out of the corner of his eye, of the pleasure it gave Decianus. ‘I agree.’
‘And addressing me with such a lack of courtesy is also counterproductive, I would suggest.’
Vespasian swallowed his pride and puckered his lips. ‘I agree, King Nayram.’
The king waved a dismissive hand. ‘I suppose that’s the best I can expect from an arrogant Roman. You should take a lesson from Decianus, Vespasian: he feels no qualms about using my titles. Do you, Decianus?’
Decianus bowed his head. ‘No, Most Exalted Majesty, The Lord of the Thousand Wells; it is only natural to address so glorious a ruler as such.’
Nayram indicated to the casket of pearls. ‘Take these and tally them against every Roman citizen that you find. I trust you to do a full accounting.’
‘I am honoured, Most Exalted Majesty.’
Suppressing the shock that Decianus should be trusted with such a sum, Vespasian thought it unwise to point out that the ex-procurator had no honour and, instead, steered the subject back to his original purpose. ‘I’m grateful, King Nayram, for the assistance that you have offered in this matter and I would like to assure you that I will be only too pleased to take whatever advice the Keeper of the Records gives me in locating all those Roman citizens enslaved in your kingdom.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, Governor; I suggest you go with him before I change my mind. And if I hear of any harm done to him or any insult given then I shall consider it an affront to my person, and your status as an ambassador will be forfeit. Do I make myself clear? Hmmmm?’
Vespasian inclined his head a fraction. ‘Admirably so, King Nayram; and I would ask that Decianus shows the same restraint in his dealings with me.’
‘You are in no position to make any demands, Governor; you are a guest in this kingdom and Decianus is a trusted minister. You may go.’
Finding himself summarily dismissed, Vespasian had no choice but to comply with the monarch’s wishes however much it went against his dignitas as a Roman governor. He flicked a terse gesture to his lictors to turn about and precede him out and followed at a dignified pace, head held high and simmering with rage.
‘That went well,’ Magnus observed as the doors were closed behind them.
‘If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’
‘No, you’ll get it whether you want it or not. And it’s this: now that you’ve shown the arbiter of life and death in this gods-forsaken place, miles from anyone who would lift a finger to help us, that you would like nothing more than to rip his Keeper of the Records’ balls off for him and then choke him on them, I think it’s pretty much a certainty that said Keeper will manufacture some incident that will result in us all being used to enrich the soil in time to be an intrinsic part of next year’s harvest.’
‘I know! And I acted pathetically.’
‘Like a petulant slave with a trivial grudge against one of his fellows trying to get an unsympathetic master to take his side in the matter.’
‘Trivial?’
‘Yes, trivial.’
‘He left us to die!’
‘And, as the king rightly pointed out, we didn’t. And now that you’ve gone and told all the great and the good in this kingdom what you intend to do at the first opportunity, how are we going to take our rightful vengeance on the slippery shit and then be allowed to travel back to the Empire across four hundred miles of desert without someone coming and asking us to explain ourselves to that fat shit in a red wig?’
A shout from behind prevented Vespasian from blustering an answer.
‘Governor!’
Vespasian looked round to see a palace functionary scurrying after them. He stopped and faced the man. ‘What is it?’
The man bowed deeply. ‘The Keeper of the Records has asked that you meet him in the agora at the west gates tomorrow at the second hour of the day to begin a tour of the kingdom.’
‘And leave your lictors behind, Vespasian,’ Decianus ordered.
Vespasian, astride his horse, cocked his head, frowning, as if he had not heard correctly. Spray from the many fountains that dominated the agora cooled the air in the face of the sun burning already, despite the earliness of the hour. Bored-looking citizens milled around the market stalls, idly examining goods, mostly pottery imported from the Empire, without much enthusiasm; again, there were no women to be seen.
‘Leave them,’ Decianus repeated, ‘they’ll only slow us down.’
‘Slow us down!’ Vespasian gestured to the cumbersome, fourmule carriage in which Decianus lounged, shaded by an awning and surrounded by wafters. ‘That thing will struggle to go any faster than the slaves fanning you.’
Decianus spread his hands and shrugged. ‘My slaves will jog if necessary and still perform their function, whereas lictors process at the stately speed of an imperial magistrate; to go any faster lacks dignity. I know, I’ve had lictors.’
‘You’ve already told me to get rid of my cavalry escort; am I to be totally unprotected?’
‘You’re protected by your status as an ambassador.’ Decianus gestured to Magnus and Hormus waiting on their mounts behind Vespasian. ‘And you have your freedman and, er ...’ He made a show of trying to recall a name but failing to. ‘Him; whoever and whatever he is.’
Magnus smiled with exaggerated pleasantness at the ex-procurator. ‘He does have “him”, Decianus; and “him” may only have one eye, but “him” knows well where to focus it.’ He turned to Vespasian. ‘Just leave it, sir; he’s going to insist upon having his own way however much you argue.’
Decianus signalled his driver to move on through the crowd of citizens, each one well fed and rotund, who had migrated from the market stalls to watch their departure for want of anything else of interest to do. ‘Of course I’ll have my own way; I’m in charge.’
‘How very lovely for you,’ Vespasian said under his breath as he turned his mount to follow the carriage through the south gates, dismissing his lictors with a wave.
The track was blown sand on red-brown stone and bordered on both left and right by irrigation conduits, filled with running water; every few hundred paces they branched off to feed the fields beyond. Gangs of slaves were being herded along, overseen by the slave-keepers who were free with the use of their whips. In the first half an hour of the journey they passed three such groups comprising male and female, young and old alike, almost all naked, dark and wrinkled from exposure to the sun, stomachs betraying malnutrition and all exuding an air of misery and hopelessness. It was a marked difference from the slaves in the city that Vespasian had seen collecting the waste, who had seemed relatively healthy. The gangs were whipped into fields in various stages of cultivation and set to work with brutality with no consideration for their age or fitness.
At first there seemed to Vespasian to be no agricultural system, for some of the fields were verdant, others golden and then others filled with reapers or receiving the attention of the plough; still more were being s
own or just lying fallow. But soon, Vespasian, with his agricultural eye and expertise from his estates, began to understand the reason. ‘They do continuous rotation,’ he informed Magnus.
‘Eh?’
‘Continuous rotation; the farming.’
‘Continuous what?’
‘Rotation. They have the fields in different stages of cultivation because it doesn’t make any difference when they plough, sow or harvest because they don’t have seasons up here.’
Magnus looked ahead, beyond the cultivated line of hills to the desert that shimmered into a burning distance. ‘What? You mean it’s always as hot as Vulcan’s arsehole?’
‘Exactly; they have constant water from the wells which they feed into the fields all year round. The sun is always burning down so it makes no difference what month you sow a field, the crop will always be ready a few months later provided you have enough water, which they do.’
‘Ahh, I see. So if you time it that you’ve always got fields ripening then you have a constant supply of food all year round.’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s a clever system,’ Decianus put in, his eyes closed, surprising Vespasian who thought he had fallen asleep. ‘It means that we are not reliant on one harvest, maybe two if the gods are favourable, each year. So, unlike Rome, we can guarantee to be able to feed our people all year round without fear of shortages. Which keeps them docile—’
‘And you secure in your position,’ Vespasian cut in.
‘It has that fortunate side effect, I’ll grant you that.’
‘And just what is your position?’
Rome's Sacred Flame Page 4
