by Ian Ross
Holding his breath, Castus raised the bowl and sipped from the rim. He tried not to gag as the thick greasy liquid filled his mouth; it tasted of rancid butter, with a hint of stale urine. He gulped, then puffed his cheeks and forced a smile. The Saracen chiefs grinned back at him, several of them muttering low cries of congratulation. His guts were still roiling as the bowl passed between them, each taking a drink and passing it on. Hind drank last, swallowing heavily and then licking the rime of milk and fat from her lips.
‘Well, that went smoothly enough,’ Egnatius said as the chiefs made their departures. ‘And now our desert flank is secure.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Castus told him. ‘You didn’t have to drink camel’s piss!’ He took a cup of wine from a slave and swigged heavily, but the sour greasy taste would not leave his mouth.
Striding to the edge of the awning’s shade, Castus watched as the Saracen chiefs mounted their horses and camels. Each had brought a small retinue of warriors; most were milling about in noisy confusion, calling out and gesturing, eager to return to camp. Only those that accompanied Hind had the look of true fighters. Stern and silent, they waited while their mistress mounted her camel with her son behind her, then, at her shout of command, they swung into the saddle with spears in hand. Those, Castus thought, are the men I would want beside me in a battle.
‘Why are our troops acting so strangely?’ Sabinus asked, frowning. Castus noticed that several of the soldiers of Legion I Illyricorum, drawn up around the meeting site, were turning away as Hind and her entourage passed. They made quick gestures against the evil eye, and some covered their groins.
‘A superstition,’ said the Dux Phoenicis with an embarrassed smile. ‘Some of our local recruits believe that the Saracen women have the power to curse with their eyes. They believe that the curse can make their… I’m sorry, it’s quite ridiculous… can make their genitals wither and drop off!’
Castus barked a laugh. ‘Let’s hope our enemies believe the same!’
Lycianus appeared beside him with one of the camp slaves. ‘Excellency,’ he said in a low voice.
Castus turned, raising an eyebrow.
‘A message, from the woman, Hind,’ Lycianus said. ‘She wants to meet with you in private, alone, in her tent this evening. The messenger said she has something important to tell you, but wouldn’t say any more.’
‘Something important?’ Castus repeated. He’d had enough of important matters for one day. ‘What do you think?’
‘I suspect,’ Lycianus said darkly, ‘that she wants you to give her the title of phylarch over the Tanukhid tribes, the same title her husband once held.’
Castus pursed his lips. ‘Not sure if I have that power,’ he said, then glanced sharply at the commander. ‘You don’t think it’d be wise – why?’
Lycianus took his time replying. ‘Many of the other chiefs distrust her,’ he said. ‘She’s said to be insane, or possessed by a demon. I didn’t mention this before – I never thought she’d show her face again – but there were rumours that she was behind the assassination of the last king, her own stepson.’
‘Hm,’ Castus said, pondering. ‘Scorpion sting, didn’t you say? Easy thing to arrange. But if she has some important information then I should talk to her at least. I’ll be sure to wear some stout boots when I do.’
*
Evening was coming on as Castus, with his officers and bodyguards, rode down to the Saracen encampment. The low sun turned the surrounding desert a glowing shade of rose, and made a blue haze of the smoke from the cooking fires.
Each of the chiefs, Castus noticed, had pitched his own camp. Each had his cluster of black goat-hair tents, surrounded by herds of camels and goats, horses and guards. But the space between was thronged with wandering tribesmen. Some rode horses bareback, some danced or sat in circles chanting and singing. A few of them had thrown off their blanket garments and walked stark naked in the cool of evening, but all kept their weapons with them. As Castus and his men rode by, the purple draco standard before them, the Saracens raised their spears and cried out in greeting. ‘Rome! Rome!’
There seemed little order to the encampment, but a small boy ran ahead of the horsemen, guiding them to Hind’s tent. It was larger than the others, a huge humped black structure like a pavilion, guards squatting all around it in the sand, cradling their spears. A fire of dry palm fronds smouldered outside, the smoke driving away the mosquitoes.
Castus dismounted, but ordered Egnatius and his six Armigeri troopers to remain in the saddle. Sabinus and Lycianus followed as he marched towards the tent. The scout commander had retained his misgivings about the meeting, and was looking more than usually tight-lipped and grave.
‘Just one thing, dominus,’ he said as they walked. ‘If she has a spear inside the tent, you must leave at once. It means she intends to marry you.’
‘What?’ Castus exclaimed, brows creased. He had never known Lycianus to tell jokes; the officer appeared entirely serious.
‘Only temporarily, of course,’ Lycianus added. ‘It’s a custom of theirs.’
‘Barbarians!’ Sabinus muttered.
There was an armed bodyguard outside the flap of the tent door, a massive bearded man carrying an unsheathed sword, his bare chest running with sweat. As Castus approached he barred the way, held up three fingers and shook his head. Then he held up one finger and nodded. No translation was required.
‘Father, I can’t let you go in there alone,’ Sabinus said urgently. ‘It might be a trap.’
Castus sucked his cheek. ‘If you hear me shout,’ he said, ‘you have my permission to chop this guard’s head off and rescue me. Either from death or from marriage!’
With obvious reluctance Sabinus stepped back, and the guard moved away from the tent door to allow Castus inside.
Stooping through the opening, Castus straightened and blinked. The interior of the tent appeared pitch black after the evening sunlight outside. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the lamp hanging from the central pole, the mats and rugs spread on the ground, the haze of smoke filling the air.
And in the centre of the tent, Hind standing completely naked with her hair unbound.
His throat tightened and he looked away quickly. From the darkness he heard a stir of quiet laughter. Steeling himself, he forced his eyes back to the woman in the lamplight. She was standing with one foot raised on a low stool, a slave girl kneeling before her, shaving her pubic mound with a bronze razor.
‘Welcome, strategos,’ Hind said.
Castus swallowed heavily. It was very hot and close in the tent, and sweat prickled his brow. He knew at once that the woman had contrived this meeting to disconcert him. She was trying to intimidate him, to make him quail with embarrassment, or debase himself with undignified lust. He forced himself to stand steadily, meeting her eyes, trying not to glance downward too openly. The slave finished her work and shuffled away on her haunches.
‘Kyria,’ he said, in as sober a tone as he could manage. ‘Your messenger said you had important matters to discuss.’
‘Indeed yes,’ Hind said. She paused, pushing her hair back from her shoulders. Then she spread her arms, and two more slaves drew the long linen tunic over her head. Clothed, she seated herself upon a stool.
‘Your chiliarch, Lykianos, has told you many stories of me, yes?’ she asked. ‘He says I am mad, a monster, a murderer, yes?’
‘He mentioned that many of your people don’t trust you.’
Hind made a dry spitting noise, lips pursed. ‘My people are not fond of leaders. They love freedom too much! But sometimes they need to be led. When there is war. And war is coming, so you say.’
‘War is coming,’ Castus said quietly.
He had known, from the first moment he saw this woman, that she had a shrewdness and bravery far beyond her years. How much of that was just self-assurance, he could not tell. How much, indeed, might be a kind of demonic possession he did not want to ask himself. But he sensed no madnes
s in her. Instead he sensed a commanding fervour and a steely ferocity. With a jolt of surprise, he realised that he had last seen such a combination in the Emperor Constantine, in his younger years. No doubt she was also capable of vindictive rage, but such a quality could be as useful in war as it was harmful in peace.
‘My husband Imru al-Qays,’ Hind said, ‘was phylarch of the Tanukhids, by order of your emperor. Now, if there is war, we need a phylarch again to lead us in battle. I want you to give me that title, give me the insignia of command.’
‘Would the other chiefs agree to follow you?’
Hind gave a derisive snort. ‘I would compel them!’ she cried, with such savage emphasis that Castus had no trouble believing her.
‘Your chiliarch,’ she went on, ‘does not want me to have this title. He hates me, that is why. He was a close friend of my husband, and loved his sons. One of his sons in particular he loved. But now two sons are dead and the third is gone to the Persians, and my son is the true successor. Let me command in his name, and I will reap the Persians for you.’
‘Tell me why I should trust you,’ Castus said slowly.
Hind smiled, and gestured to one of her slaves. The woman approached, head bowed, and raised her hands. In her palms was a twist of thin leather, coiled like a crude scroll. Castus took it, frowning. One side was rubbed white, and tiny letters were inked all across it. Peering in the low lamplight, Castus tried to read the words; they were in Latin script, numbers and letters muddled together, but he could make no sense of them. Hind herself, he guessed, could not read – and none of the Saracens would be able to understand Latin.
‘Where did you get this?’
Hind smiled more widely, showing her white teeth. ‘My people travel across all the desert,’ she said. ‘Often they stop travellers. To ask for… presents. Tolls, yes! Some days ago, they found a rider in the deep desert, travelling fast towards the Persian lands. He had that, hidden in a secret place. Very much he wanted to keep it!’
Castus grimaced, not wanting to imagine what the Saracen robbers must have done to the lone messenger to extract his secret from him. He looked again at the rough scroll, bringing it close to his eyes, sure that if he squinted at the scrawl of tiny letters they would somehow form into intelligible words.
‘Keep it,’ Hind said. ‘I think maybe it is important for you?’
‘It could be.’ Castus tucked the scroll into his belt. ‘My thanks to you.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘Now you know I help you. You will help me, yes?’
Castus understood. Whatever the fractious nature of leadership among the desert tribes, the title of phylarch, awarded by the greater power of Rome, was worth more than any petty sovereignty. With it, Hind’s power over the other chiefs would be uncontested, unless they wanted to rebel against Rome altogether. He paused, weighing his options. But he knew that he had already made his decision.
‘I can grant you only this,’ he said, standing upright and hooking his thumbs into his belt. ‘The emperor himself, or the Caesar, must agree this title, but I will report to them that I find you worthy of it. And I believe that they will heed my words.’
Briefly Hind closed her eyes, and a look of blissful contentment passed across her face. Then she was wide-eyed again, glowing with ambition. ‘I trust your words,’ she said. ‘And I will trust you.’
She stood up, turning, and Castus bowed to her as he prepared to leave.
‘You are very old,’ Hind said abruptly, glancing back over her shoulder. ‘Is the emperor as old as you?’
‘Older,’ Castus said with a wry grimace.
‘But he can still fight? And so can you?’
‘I can only speak for myself. Yes. I fought against your Lakhmid cousins in the desert only a month ago.’
‘The Lakhmids are a nest of infected rats!’ Hind snarled. ‘Soon we will slay all of them, and their Persian masters. The Persians are insects – zzzt! Zzzt!’ She darted her fingers in the air. ‘And we will swat them!’ she cried, clapping her hands together.
‘I look forward to it.’
‘That is good,’ Hind said, and turned to face him once more with an appraising glance. ‘I am pleased,’ she said, ‘to meet a man who has such qualities. And it is rare to find such an old man who can look at a woman with desire, and still control himself. Are you married?’
‘Yes,’ Castus told her, feeling his face darken. ‘My wife is in Antioch, and I’ll be with her very soon.’
‘May God speed your journey,’ Hind said with a shrug. ‘Your son, is he also married?’
Castus blinked. ‘Not yet,’ he said.
Hind gave another wide smile. ‘Then I shall look for him on the battlefield! As I shall look for you, Aurelios Kastos.’
*
‘You managed to evade marriage then?’ Sabinus asked as they mounted their horses.
‘More or less,’ Castus said. ‘Actually I think she’s more interested in you.’
Sabinus coughed and looked away. Laughing to himself, Castus thought back over the strange meeting. Already he was starting to question his promise to Hind. Would the emperors agree to what he had suggested? He had not yet considered how Constantine or his son might greet the idea of a warrior queen leading their Saracen allies. With a sour pang, he remembered some of the things the emperor had said in the past about women. But surely barbarians could be allowed their differences from civilised peoples?
He had not spoken to Lycianus since leaving Hind’s tent. The scout commander appeared to have guessed already what had happened, and was keeping silent about it. So be it, Castus thought. But may the gods grant that I was right.
As they rode back through the encampment, a sudden burst of shouting came from nearby. Castus tightened his reins, his horse twitching at the noise, and reached for his sword. Egnatius had already circled three of his troopers around to either flank. Peering into the gathering evening twilight, Castus made out a crowd of men surging towards one of the fires, all of them yelling and brandishing their weapons. But the shouts were joyful, enthusiastic. Two of the men carried something slung between them on a pole.
‘Hunters,’ Lycianus said. ‘They must have been down in the ravines beyond the palm groves.’
They rode closer, keeping together. The two men had dumped their burden on the ground, and the others swirled around it, still letting out cries of jubilation. As the horsemen approached, the mob parted, gesturing; in the light of the fire Castus saw a dead animal, tied by its paws to a long pole. It was a lion, and a big one. The hunters shouted, raising their spears to the moon that hung full and pale above the eastern horizon.
‘They’re praising Al-Uzza,’ Lycianus said. ‘This is an omen, they say.’
Castus leaned in the saddle, studying the dead beast. A male, he noticed, but it had only the faintest ruff of a mane. Its flanks were stippled with old scars.
‘What sort of omen?’ he asked.
‘The death of a lion means the death of a king,’ Lycianus said. ‘The King of the Persians, maybe?’
‘Maybe,’ Castus said in a low voice. But he was thinking of other kings. Old kings, and perhaps old leaders too. He fought down a shudder, feeling the breath of premonition.
Then the dust rose in the firelight, and he turned his horse away.
XIII
He found Diogenes the following evening, shortly after his arrival back at the praetorium of the legion fortress in Palmyra. The secretary was sitting in the shade of the portico behind the baths of the headquarters building, scratching lines in the dust with a stick. His three-legged dog was sitting beside him, turning its head from side to side as it watched. Just for a moment Castus feared that his friend had gone mad, and was trying to teach the animal to read. The secretary had remained at Palmyra with a headache when Castus rode out to meet the Saracens two days before; perhaps the sun had boiled his brains?
‘What do you make of this?’ Castus asked, once they had exchanged greetings. He took the leather scroll from h
is belt pouch.
Diogenes peered at it, curious. He held it at arm’s length, then brought it close to his face. Then he turned it the other way up and exclaimed, ‘Ah!’
‘Is it written in Latin? My reading’s not too good, but I can’t make anything of it.’
‘No problem with your reading, brother,’ Diogenes said. ‘This is written in code.’
Castus nodded, relieved. ‘Looks like some kind of list – can you work it out? I’ve shown it to nobody else, so keep it to yourself.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Diogenes said with a studious frown. ‘But at first glance it doesn’t appear an impossible conundrum.’
For most of the next day Castus had little time or energy to consider the scroll and its mysterious message. He spent several hours in the private chambers the legion prefect had set aside for his use, going through his correspondence with Sollemnis and Metrophanes, and composing the official reports on the treaty with the Saracens. One for the emperor, another for the Caesar, and a third for the Praetorian Prefect Ablabius in Antioch. The day was insufferably hot, the sun glaring through the slatted shutters, and Palmyra seemed populated by an infeasible number of fat black flies, which settled on every surface. It was shortly before nightfall, as Castus returned to his quarters after a long cool bath, that Diogenes found him.
‘Dominus,’ the secretary said with rare formality, falling into step beside him as he walked along the corridor towards his chamber. ‘There’s something we need to discuss with some urgency.’ Diogenes had a tight and anxious expression, and Castus felt the kick of blood in his chest.
‘Clear the room,’ he said, as he entered, to the slaves and clerks who still lingered over their work. Once all were gone and the door firmly closed he gestured for Diogenes to sit and poured him a cup of watered wine.
‘I apologise that this took me so long,’ the secretary said quickly, drawing the leather scroll from inside his tunic. ‘The code was quite simple, as it happened – a basic substitution of letters. I was overthinking the matter, I suppose, looking for greater complexity. But I believe we can safely say that the message is not the work of a master cryptographer!’
