Claudius Mercator came bustling up. There was no sign of Amasis, who no doubt had found a bush to sleep behind. ‘Good news, gentlemen,’ the merchant proclaimed. ‘Thanks to your fulsome financial contributions, Dido and the Nasamoneans say that there is nothing to stop us setting out into the desert tomorrow at sunrise.’ He looked sly, and beckoned closer Flaminius, Demetrius and Vabalathus, who had been drinking on his own a short way away. ‘Dido suggests, in fact, that we could start earlier. And if we set out at midnight, we shall miss the customs patrols who levy heavy taxes on those leaving the empire. I think you’ll all agree, gentlemen, that this would be a wise course?’
The Arab nodded. The Greek looked censorious. Flaminius grinned recklessly, but peered in Dido’s direction when no one was looking. Why was the big woman so eager to avoid Roman patrols?
‘First, however, gentlemen,’ Claudius Mercator said heartily, yet piously, ‘I think we’d all be best advised to make our necessary obeisance to the god of this sanctuary. Hadn’t we? And ask for just a little bit of his help in the weeks to come. Come along, everyone, if you’ve finished your evening meal.’
He raised his voice and began gathering together everyone apart from a couple of slaves, who were left behind to keep watch over their belongings. Flaminius found Amasis exactly where he had suspected, and woke him with a swift kick.
As they made their way along the avenue of sphinxes towards the temple, with Claudius Mercator’s body slave Menander carrying a struggling ram in his brawny arms, Flaminius drifted close to the Nasamoneans. Somehow he found himself walking up the steps alongside their tall leader.
‘Pleasant evening for a trip to the temple, don’t you think?’ he asked her.
She took a deep breath of the heady, incense laden air as they entered the sanctuary. Cressets lit the gloom, their light flickering across Egyptian frescoes and hieroglyphs that ornamented the walls. ‘You’re right, Tiro,’ she whispered. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve recovered. You looked quite unwell when I first saw you.’
He gave her a sidelong look. ‘I thought you were dead, Camilla,’ he whispered back. “Tiro” had been his name when he was posing as a gladiator, just as Camilla had been her own stage name.
‘I must have lain almost dead in that place for a long time,’ she murmured, tracing a long scar on her belly. ‘When I came round, it was to find jackals sniffing at me. They must have thought I was dead too. You left me to carrion beasts!’
‘Would you rather I’d buried you alive?’ Flaminius muttered. ‘Or cremated you? I remember that you wanted to be cremated.’
‘Instead you left my mortal remains for the beasts!’ she said scathingly.
‘I was in a hurry,’ Flaminius protested. ‘You told me about Arctos’ plot to kill the emperor. I couldn’t wait around. You were covered in blood. I thought you were dead.’ He shrugged. ‘After what followed in Alexandria and elsewhere, it didn’t occur to me to go back and make sure you were buried.’
‘When you saw me here, you must have thought I was a vengeful spirit,’ she laughed. Then when it echoed from the temple walls she looked around and put a hand over her mouth. ‘But what brings you here, Tiro? Snooping as ever?’
‘But what are you doing yourself?’ Flaminius said. ‘You returned from the dead to find I’d abandoned you. Then what? What are you doing leading these Nasamoneans?’ He eyed her up and down. ‘The leopard skin loincloth suits you,’ he added. ‘You seem to have forgotten the rest of your wardrobe.’
‘Why are you financing Claudius Mercator’s mission?’ she persisted. ‘Not that I’m complaining,’ she went on. ‘When I heard the merchant’s tale, I was ready to ride with him all the way to Garama, but he insisted we made preparations.’ She whispered in his ear, ‘Why is the emperor so interested in this caravan that he sends his best spy to infiltrate it?’
But they had reached the altar now. Here they had to adopt a suitably pious silence as Claudius Mercator, a fold of his toga hooding his head, sacrificed the bleating sheep to Jupiter Ammon. The god was depicted in the Egyptian fashion, with the head of a ram.
In return for a share of the meat, while Menander butchered the carcase, one of the local diviners carried out a haruspicy according to the Egyptian rite. ‘I see success in your venture!’ the man said, after receiving a bloody shoulder of sheep wrapped in leaves. ‘I see success. Here, you see?’ He pointed out a protuberance on the liver. ‘Your endeavour will be successful. And yet…’ His face darkened.
‘And yet?’ Claudius Mercator prompting, after signing to Menander to hand over one of the ram’s front legs. Once he had received it, the priest went on.
‘Your endeavour will succeed,’ he said. ‘All blockages will be removed, all that has frustrated you in the past will fade away. You have enemies, but you will also find that you have allies. I see a journey across the desert…’ He halted to scowl at Flaminius, who had found it impossible to repress a snort.
‘Please adopt a reverent silence while the diviner does his work,’ Claudius Mercator said reprovingly.
‘I also see death,’ the diviner ended. ‘Only one of you will return.’
With that, he sponged the blood off his hands, wrapped up the cuts of meat he had received in payment, and scuttled away into the depths of the temple complex.
‘Well.’ Vabalathus’ ironic tones broke the silence. ‘That was encouraging.’
The Nasamoneans were muttering amongst themselves. Amasis’ eyes were round. Demetrius was shaking but perhaps that was just the palsy. Claudius Mercator looked on the verge of tears.
Flaminius snorted again. ‘If you think you can believe a word that fraud said,’ he began.
Claudius Mercator looked at him in horror, then marched them all from the sanctuary. ‘I’ll not have such impious words spoken in the temple precincts,’ he said, leading them through the forecourt and down the crowded steps. ‘We have received a prophecy from a diviner inspired by the god. We must take his words very seriously.’
‘We’re all going to die!’ wailed Amasis. ‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Death is the lot of all mortals,’ said Demetrius gravely. ‘From the moment of birth, a man is dying. What matters is the manner of his life, and his death. Live a life of virtue, and your name at least will live on. And if what many cults say, you will be received into Elysium on the other side of Death’s dark river.’
‘The Greek’s right,’ said Vabalathus. ‘And so, no doubt, was the diviner. We’ll all die. But not before our time! The date of a man’s death is written upon his brow by the Moon Goddess.’
‘Philosophy notwithstanding,’ Demetrius went on, ‘I have so much yet to learn. I joined this caravan, financing it out of my own private fortune, in the hopes that I could expand the sum of human knowledge with a fuller account of the lands beyond the Libyan Desert. However, if I am destined to die in the attempt, I would be better advised to return to my studies in Alexandria…’
‘I too would not wish to hurry the day of my death,’ Vabalathus added. ‘And if the omens are against us…’
This time Claudius Mercator did break out into tears. His body slave, who had been arranging the remaining cuts of sheep meat to cook on the embers, came over to comfort him. Flaminius sighed.
‘Life is a gamble,’ he said, ‘and divinations are only as good as the diviners. Personally I wouldn’t trust that venal fraud to read my piss pot, let alone the entrails of a sheep. I say we go on.’
He had a mission, whatever any dubious prophecies maintained. He had to reach the temple of Tanit and steal the Veil before it became the focus for a Punic revolt in the empire. If he died in the attempt, well, life was short but he’d enjoyed himself as much as possible while it lasted.
Admittedly, in that case he’d never return to Britain, and Drustica… His resolve began to falter. Maybe they should throw it all up. Maybe he should embezzle the monies the legate had lent him and take the next ship for Gaul, sneak into Britain in disguise, or…
/> ‘You’re all cowards,’ Dido snarled, looking round incredulously. ‘Call yourselves men? I’m braver than the lot of you. I’ll ride to Garama by myself if needs be.’ She glared at the Nasamoneans, and this seemed to spur them into greater courage. ‘Would you brave men leave it to me to carry out this mission? Open up the route to Garama? You can count yourselves out of the profits, if it’s me who does it.’
At this, Claudius Mercator wiped his eyes. ‘I couldn’t permit you to go alone, my dear,’ he assured her.
‘Good,’ Dido said. ‘And you’re still coming, aren’t you, Tiro?’
‘Flaminius is the name,’ he told her gently. ‘Yes, I’m coming.’
‘I’ll go if Uncle Gaius is going,’ said Amasis dolefully.
Flaminius turned to look at his fellow financiers. After a long pause, Vabalathus folded his arms.
‘Very well, we’ll chance it. After all,’ he brightened, ‘the diviner said all but one of us will not return. Perhaps the survivor will be me!’
‘I shall accept my fate with dignity,’ said Demetrius unsteadily. ‘I shall survey the lands of the Garamantes. And if it is I who survive, I will live to write an account of those people that will take its place alongside the geographies of Herodotus of Halicarnassus and Hecataeus of Abdera.’ He smiled. ‘But I am sure that we will be in good company, with our Nasamonean friends.
‘I have now remembered where I read the name of your people,’ he went on, addressing Dido, who looked at the palsied old man in surprise. ‘Herodotus tells a tale of a group of Nasamoneans, five youths, the sons of chiefs, who journeyed right across the Libyan Desert to the other side, reaching a forested country inhabited by pigmy sorcerers. They were taken as prisoners to a city on the banks of a great river infested with crocodiles—maybe it was the Nile, maybe it was the great river Nigris that Cornelius Balbus’ scouts explored after his attack on Garama. Nevertheless, they escaped in the end, although Herodotus is silent on how they achieved this, and returned to their own country as heroes. Tell me, how was it that your ancestors escaped the pigmies?’
Dido glanced uncertainly at her men, who radiated bafflement. ‘We don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’m glad that you’re willing to go on with this venture.’
Claudius Mercator looked eager. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said. ‘I’m also glad you’re still coming, gentlemen. Menander, is the meat cooked?’ The slave checked it with a finger, then nodded. The merchant clapped his hands. ‘Then I suggest we eat the sacrificial meal with due reverence and set out at first light. Perhaps, since we sleep in the god’s sanctuary, he will send us all prophetic dreams.’
‘Must I remind you of the original plan?’ said Dido. ‘We eat, then we set out. Otherwise the customs patrols will tax us into penury. Once we’re over the border, we’re in Nasamonean country.’
‘We’ll be safe, then?’ Demetrius asked, as they began the meal. ‘After all, your warriors are Nasamoneans.’
‘Once we enter Nasamonean country,’ said Dido, ‘our troubles really begin, by Juno. We’ll be out in the deep desert. Water will come from the water skins we bring with us and from occasional wells. As for the Nasamoneans, in the desert every man’s hand is against you, stranger or close kin. It will be a long hard journey through difficult terrain plagued by robbers, as Claudius Mercator knows so well.’
‘As I also know well,’ said Vabalathus, tearing into a fat hunk of sheep meat with his yellow teeth. ‘I know desert travel better than most people. It is well said that only one of us will return. Between the baking heat, the night cold, and the attacks of desperate men, it will indeed be a long, hard journey. Only the strong will survive.’ He bared his teeth. ‘But I have survived a dozen such journeys in the past. I am an Arab! Desert travel is in my blood. It will be more taxing to soft gutted city folk, philosophers and pleasure seekers and pederasts.’
Flaminius sat by the fire, eating. He kept his eyes on Camilla—Dido, if she preferred—on the far side. The woman had been successful in evading his questions while pumping Flaminius for all he was worth. Maybe she should be recruited by the interrogator corps. She knew all about him now, but all he knew was that she had somehow survived a seemingly mortal wound and reappeared on the far side of the province as leader of a Nasamonean warrior band.
Nasamoneans who knew nothing of their people’s history, and feared crossing their own territory.
—5—
Libyan Desert, Nasamonean territory, November 124 AD
The journey from the oasis of Ammon was fraught. Leaving at midnight, they made their way through the date palms to the edge of the vegetated area, with only occasional lamps lit to discern their route. Roman auxiliaries patrolled the vicinity, Flaminius knew, although the borders were as fluid as they had been in Britain when first he visited that northernmost province.
Soon, no doubt, Hadrian would establish a line of fortifications to mark this southern boundary, similar to the one he had begun in Britain. There was a general sense of entrenchment throughout the empire, the drawing of lines in the sand and the defining of areas of demarcation, the signing of peace treaties with traditional enemies like the Parthians, and the centralisation of power within the empire. Flaminius’ own work, spying both internally and externally, was a part of this growing emphasis on stability and security.
The night wind was chill on his flesh as he led his camel through the trees at the head of the procession. He knew that if they met a patrol and the worst came to the worst, he could use the lance-head brooch—insignia of an imperial agent—to free himself from imprisonment. The others would not be so lucky and besides, his cover would be blown.
In many ways he was reminded of journeying in Caledonia. They were leaving the very edges of empire for a land of true barbarism, where savage bands of warriors would harry them at every turn. Behind them were cities, temples, trade and learning. Ahead was… nothing. Nothing but sand, a howling wilderness roamed by barbarian nations.
But there was much that was different from Caledonia. The latter was a cold, dark, narrow land on the shores of the ocean, the furthest north a man could go without setting sail for Thule, if that mythical land of the midnight sun truly existed. Much of Libya was a great sea of sand, stretching southward and eastward into…who knew what?
Somewhere out there, he told himself as they left the trees and made their way across the cold sands, south and west of there, lay the lost kingdom of the Garamantes. Even further on, the countries of the pigmies and Ethiopians…the sources of the Nile… the lake of monsters… the city of sorcerers… Even if only a fraction of the stories he had heard held so much as a grain of truth, he was going into country more dangerous by far than the heather clad hills north of the Wall…
A week later, they were plodding down a narrow defile between two sand hills. The desert sun peered over the horizon as if watching their painful progress with disapproval. Claudius Mercator lifted a hand.
‘We’ll halt here,’ he said, surveying the little valley. ‘Here we can erect our shelters and get some sleep. We’ve come a long way under poor conditions. Rest now, and wait until the sun has passed its zenith. We will continue in the cool of afternoon and evening.
‘Dido, take some of your men and scout out the surrounding area. There should be a well in the vicinity, where we can refill our water skins. We don’t want to be surprised by any of your fellow countrymen while we’re doing so.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Flaminius.
‘So will I,’ said Vabalathus. It seemed he did not wanting to be outdone by this city bred fop.
‘And me,’ exclaimed Amasis.
‘You’ll stay behind and help the merchant,’ said Flaminius sternly. ‘Then erect our shelter and get some rest.’
Without waiting for either of the financiers, Dido kicked her horse into a gallop and rode off, leading three of her Nasamoneans up the side of a dune. Vabalathus followed, giving Flaminius a stark look as he waited for Amasis to dismount.
&
nbsp; Once the boy was gone, Flaminius rode to the crest of the ridge to find Dido sitting her horse, surveying the sand that stretched away on all sides. Vabalathus and the Nasamoneans were fanning out in the open beneath her. They were in the true desert now. Not a scrap of vegetation could be seen, not a cloud scudded through the pitiless blue skies. There was no sign of any well or oasis.
Flaminius shaded his brow. Except for the dust clouds kicked up by the hoofs of the Nasamonean horses and the Arab’s steed, the scene was devoid of life.
‘What are you really doing here, Camilla?’ he asked her.
She looked at him in surprise. ‘This is my job,’ she said shortly, ‘Just as snooping is yours. After I found myself abandoned and alone in the Delta, I knew that Egypt would be too hot for me, even if I had helped you. One way or another, I made my way back home. Back to Cyrenaica.
‘I don’t know why, I knew that it had been a wasteland ever since the Judaean Rising. But I’d heard word that new colonies were being planned to repopulate the place. I hoped to adopt a new identity, find somewhere to settle down. Instead I met these men. The place was still wasteland, and riders from the desert roamed it without hindrance. Somehow I became their leader.’
‘Leading them to what I won’t ask,’ said Flaminius wryly. ‘And now you’re hiring yourselves out as caravan guards?’
‘It’s a living,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Better than fighting in the arena. I won’t ask why you have joined a merchant caravan.’ She looked fully at him for the first time. ‘We’ll need your sword when the raiders come.’
Before he could answer, she turned to shout at the Nasamonean scouts who were riding up the slope towards them. ‘Gesco!’ she cried. ‘What news?’
The lead Nasamonean, a grizzled, brown skinned nomad with one eye, shook his head. ‘No sign of a well,’ he said. ‘It must be further on.’
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