The Kingdom That Rome Forgot
Page 9
As they drew nearer the village, robed men began to move in from herding cattle or hunting, clutching long leaf bladed spears. Women came in from the fields, joining others outside their houses, weaving and dying, grinding grain and cooking food, came to gather in the village square. The caravan entered the village, Claudius Mercator making signs of peace. As a small deputation gathered to greet them outside the biggest hut, he turned to Menander.
‘Go and tell them we come to trade,’ he told the Ethiopian.
‘Yes, master,’ said Menander.
He trotted forward, and addressed the sceptical, suspicious looking Garamantes. Meanwhile, Claudius Mercator directed the three Nasamoneans in laying out some of the cheaper merchandise on bolts of cloth in the middle of the square. Some of the silent village women came forward and examined them with expressions of muted delight. The spear carrying men looked on grave faced, and Menander palavered with the tall, dignified, bearded man with the long ringlets and feather headdress who Flaminius took to be the village headman.
‘They say that we need the permission of King Gulussa to trade anywhere in Phazania,’ Menander reported. ‘It may take many months for the message to reach him and that he will take some persuading. The headman apologises, but that is the way of things in Garama. Like most provincial officials, he shows little respect for his betters.’
Claudius Mercator clasped his ringed hands together. ‘Oh,’ he said loudly, so that the headman could hear his tone if not understand his words, ‘we do not come to trade!’
‘We don’t?’ Flaminius was puzzled. Why else were they here if not to trade?
A large woman in a brightly dyed robe was shrewdly inspecting a wine mixing bowl. Her clothes and ornaments were the richest of all the village women, and she was clearly chief wife of the headman. Claudius Mercator picked it up off the cloth and presented it to her with an elaborate flourish.
‘Tell the headman that this is a gift,’ he told Menander. ‘A token of my esteem. The first of many.’
The headman’s expression became less dignified and his bloodshot eyes lit up with greed. He made a long, circumlocutory pronouncement. Flaminius didn’t understand a word, but he could recognise self-interested sophistry in a thousand tongues. The man sealed the deal with Claudius Mercator with a strong handshake and then invited the merchant and his companions to enter the chief hut for drinks.
They spent much of the evening and into the night lazing in the chief hut, drinking and eating. Most of the men seemed to see the visit of the merchant caravan as an excuse for a feast while their wives and children cooked and cleaned, pounded grain and tended the crops. The cattle, deserted by the men, seemed quite able to cope with their loss. Amasis drank an entire mug of beer and was violently sick, to Flaminius’ embarrassment. And as the sun set over the western peaks, the men got together to perform a dance with many stamping feet and swaying hips, and voices raised in chorus, to the pounding throb of a drum.
‘They seem to live an ideal life,’ Flaminius told Dido. After the horrors and exertions of the journey, this warm welcome was overwhelming. ‘It’s like a return to the Golden Age.’
She gave him a sardonic look. ‘If this is your idea of the Golden Age, you can keep it,’ she said, glancing at the hard working women toiling outside.
Claudius Mercator was still talking to the headman and his cronies through the medium of Menander, who seemed to know all the languages of the area, but the merchant needed his slave less and less as he grasped the rudiments of the Garamantian tongue. The headman had received more presents that had been vetted satisfactorily by his chief wife and he seemed very pleased with his guests.
One of his cronies, however, a big, handsome fellow with a supercilious curl to his lips, his face ornamented with bizarre cicatrices and tattoos, watched the proceedings with distinct disapproval. In an interlude while the women were serving more pitchers of the potent local beer, Flaminius edged over to Claudius Mercator and addressed him in an undertone.
‘You’re making a big success with the headman,’ he said, ‘but keep an eye on some of his underlings. That one,’—he indicated Cicatrix with the slightest nod of his head—’needs some attention.
Claudius Mercator sighed and looked harassed. ‘I’m doing my best here,’ he said. ‘But these people really are the smallest of fish. I can’t afford to be too lavish with my gifts or we’ll have nothing left to ease our way with when it comes to the big chiefs.’
Flaminius raised his hands and shook his head. ‘I’m just pointing out that not everyone is happy here. Not trying to tell you how to do your job.’
As the light of the fire dimmed down and a nail paring of a moon rose above the date palms, beer sodden forms curled up on reed mats and went to sleep. The headman staggered off, promising his new friends a hunting expedition in the morning, held up by two of his younger wives and with his chief wife scolding him as they retired to a smaller, cosier hut nearby. The guests and the villagers slept where they had been drinking.
Flaminius remained awake for some time. Although he had picked up a taste for beer during his time in Britain and Egypt, he had not drunk as deeply as some of his companions. Dido had also been quite abstemious, as far as politeness permitted, but now she snored quietly nearby.
Also awake, sitting in a thoughtful pose on the far side of the hut, was the big handsome man with the cicatrices, who had seemed so displeased at not receiving any gifts. Flaminius lay down by the fire but kept his eyes open and fixed them on the envious man.
Just as he was nodding off, the big man rose abruptly and slip out of the hut like a shadow—so quiet it belied his size. Flaminius waited until the light pad of his bare feet receded into the night then sat up.
He shook Dido awake, since she was closest to him, gripping her bare shoulder firmly and putting a finger across her questioning lips.
‘What is it?’ she whispered suspiciously. ‘If you expect another dose of what you got during the sandstorm, that was…’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘Did you see the headman’s friend? The big man with the scars and the petulant expression?’
She looked hazy. ‘I think so. Seemed to resent the headman receiving all those gifts. He must have a high opinion of himself. But it’s not done to gossip about your hosts while under their roof…’
‘Look,’ Flaminius said, indicating the spot where Cicatrix had sat all evening. Dido peered over. She looked back.
‘He’s gone,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Gone to his own hut and his own wives?’
‘He’s just departed,’ murmured Flaminius. ‘Looked very surreptitious. We should follow him.’
‘I know you’re some kind of spy, Tiro,’ she said, ‘but this is…’
He rose. ‘I’ll go alone, then,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to know why I might be missing in the morning.’
He strode from the hut.
Outside, the light of the crescent moon glimmered on the dusty ground of the village. A fence of thorns and roughhewn wood surrounded the huts, and Flaminius thought he saw a figure crossing it, climbing over it rather than leaving by the gates. At the latter, two spear-bearing sentries nodded over hippopotamus hide shields.
Just as Flaminius was about to follow the figure, assuming it hadn’t been a trick of the moonlight, a hand came down on his shoulder. He spun round scrabbling for the sword at his hip.
He relaxed, recognising Dido. ‘Why did you creep up on me like that?’ he hissed.
‘I realised what you were saying,’ she murmured. ‘Sorry, too much of that beer. You think our big friend is going to make trouble for us? He didn’t look the type.’
‘They never do,’ said Flaminius. ‘Come on.’
He led her up a passageway between two huts, negotiating their way round a mysterious obstacle that turned out to be a parked chariot. Beyond it stood the section of stockade that the figure had been climbing.
‘I saw him, I think,’ he said, ‘going this way.’
Beyond them were a few outbuildings, barns, byres and the like. The date palms framed starlit fields. Somewhere a cow lowed, somewhere else the wind moaned among the trees. Otherwise it was a silent night. He could see no sign of the figure he had seen, and in this hazy half-light there was no hope of finding any tracks.
‘What now?’ she said.
Flaminius sighed. ‘We keep alert,’ he told her. ‘Maybe he’s not making trouble. And maybe he is. We’ve no hope of following him under these conditions, so I suggest we go back to our beds. But we’ll take it in turns to keep watch. I suggest you wake Hamilcar from his drunken slumbers to share the watch.’
He halted suddenly. Dido stared at him, mouthing ‘What?’ and he motioned her to listen. The distant rumble of chariot wheels ebbed into the night.
‘Even so, don’t you think it’s a bit ridiculous keeping watch in a friendly village?’ she asked as they made their way back to the chief hut. ‘Are you even sure that he has left the village? And if so, why would he?’
Flaminius wasn’t sure. The figure he had seen climbing the palisade was quite possibly an illusion, a trick of the moonlight. He had just guessed that it was Cicatrix. It could have been a thief from another village, if it had existed at all. Maybe Cicatrix was in one of the other huts, curled up with his wives, or his livestock, or whatever he cuddled at night.
But it could be that he was halfway to Garama, or another of the Garamantian cities, bringing news of strangers. And if King Gulussa was forewarned, that would put them on the back foot at best. For all he knew, the king might send his charioteers to burn the village. Most of these barbarian monarchs were more than half mad, in Flaminius’ experience.
‘All the same,’ he whispered to Dido as they returned to the hut again, stepping quietly to avoid waking the sleepers, ‘it would be best to be on our guard. We’re beyond the empire now, in barbarian country. Rome’s writ does not run in these wild lands, and civilised behaviour is the last thing we can expect. We might be murdered in our beds.’
‘I’ll take first watch,’ Dido whispered after studying him doubtfully for a while. ‘You really need to get some sleep.’
—11—
Phazania, 11th December 124 AD
The next morning Flaminius was feeling rested and refreshed, not to mention excited. The promised hunt, it transpired, was a fixture. Flaminius liked nothing more than a spot of hunting, but it had been a while since he had really had had the chance—other than hunting for the pot during the journey, which really wasn’t the same. He wasn’t so keen on all the gralloching, or whatever you called it, that came afterwards, but charging about the countryside and making a hullabaloo was a favourite pastime of his.
Except they wouldn’t be riding. They would be hunting from chariots.
‘Chariots?’ he asked.
Claudius Mercator nodded, and gave a nervous laugh. ‘In these barbarian countries, chariots are still used in warfare,’ he said, ‘not to mention hunting. They’re not just part of a spectator sport.’ He huffed. ‘A Roman citizen like me has a reputation to think of. I wouldn’t know one end of a chariot from the other.’
Charioteers were the dregs of society, along with gladiators and catamites and actors. In the line of duty, Flaminius had fought in the arena. But he had never ridden in a chariot, let alone driven one.
‘Luckily I have not led such a sheltered life,’ said Dido. ‘I have been a charioteer as well as a gladiatrix.’ She gazed round the others grouped in the hut, a defiant expression on her face. ‘We can hardly turn down our host’s offer. It wouldn’t be polite.’
‘And courtesy is very important on such occasions,’ said Vabalathus knowledgably. ‘Chariots are not unheard of in the East, although they’re not used in warfare, not like in Darius’ day. I went hunting Hyrcanian tigers in a chariot when I was in Parthia. I, too, will not turn down this offer.’ He shrugged. ‘What will we be hunting? Gazelle? Lion? Elephant?’
Claudius Mercator turned to look, troubled, at Menander, who was standing in the entrance with a stony expression on his dark face.
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ the merchant admitted. ‘For some reason Menander refuses to discuss it. I’ve picked up a smattering of the local tongue, and they have a few words of Punic, which I can also speak… As I understand it, from what the headman has said, the animals we’re hunting live in caves. They are very swift, running faster than horses, eat snakes and lizards, and screech like bats.’
Impatiently, Vabalathus said, ‘Thanks for the natural history lesson. But what are they? You should flog your slave until he gives you a better answer.’
Claudius Mercator looked diffident. Flaminius sighed.
‘Look, does it matter what we’re hunting?’ he asked. ‘We’re obliged to go along with whatever these people offer, otherwise we’ll lose face. If Dido and Vabalathus are both experienced charioteers, then they can drive while others take care of the hunting.’ He was tired of lazing around, and was itching to get on with the day. ‘I suggest I go with Dido, Claudius Mercator with Vabalathus.’
‘What about me?’ complained Amasis. ‘Aren’t I going hunting? It’s not fair, I never get any fun. Why can’t I come with you?’
‘You’re too young,’ Flaminius told him. ‘And you’re not here to go hunting with barbarians, you’re supposed to be learning a trade. Besides, Demetrius won’t be coming either, will you?’ He glanced at the Greek, who shuddered and rubbed his stiff limbs. ‘Nor will Hamilcar and the Nasamoneans, unless there are some who can handle a chariot. So you can all stay here and keep an eye on our belongings.’
Dido shook her head. ‘I suggest we all make a gesture of joining in with the hunt.’
‘I won’t be able to come,’ said Demetrius firmly. ‘My old bones, you know…’ He looked at Flaminius. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep an eye on your catamite.’
‘Thank you,’ Flaminius said, turning away to talk to Claudius Mercator. The last word registered as he did so and he glanced back resentfully, but Demetrius was intent on a scroll he had produced from his saddlebag. He’s not my catamite was on Flaminius’ lips, but he kept quiet. Denial would be taken as confirmation.
Damn Ozymandias, landing him with this idiot boy!
The hunt began later that morning. Chariots led by as many as four horses were driven out from stables dotted about the village and its surrounding lands. As they went to join the headman, the villagers were looking about them in puzzlement.
‘What’s up with them?’ Flaminius asked the merchant.
Claudius Mercator spread his hands. ‘I can get no sense from Menander this morning,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Perhaps Vabalathus is right, and I should thrash him. But it never seems to do any good,’ he added mournfully. ‘Somehow he always makes me feel guilty.’ He frowned. ‘All I can gather from them is that someone is missing. Or a chariot is missing.’
‘Or someone drove off in a chariot during the night,’ suggested Dido, giving Flaminius a meaningful look. ‘I notice that the big man with the scars on his face isn’t here.’
‘Possibly, possibly,’ said Claudius Mercator absently. ‘It’s of no consequence to us.’ He examined the chariot that had been allocated him as if it were a wild tiger, and turned to look for Vabalathus. While the Arab showed the merchant what was needed from him, Flaminius drew Dido to one side.
‘Are you certain it’s of no consequence that our sulky friend drove off in the night without telling anyone?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. ‘Of course not, Tiro,’ she said. ‘What is less certain is where he has gone. To King Gulussa in Garama, perhaps?’
‘But we’ll be going there anyway,’ said Flaminius. ‘What do you suppose our friend hopes to achieve?’
‘We’ll keep a weather eye open for treach
ery,’ she said, leading him to the chariot.
She sprang up into the car and stood with her feet widely spaced, gripping the reins in both hands. Four horses stood snorting in the traces, sizeable beasts though not as large as those Flaminius had ridden while a tribune of auxiliary cavalry: a bay, a piebald, a skewbald, and a grey. He made himself known to the horses, letting them get his scent as he fed them handfuls of tough grass.
Diplomacy complete, he joined Dido up on the creaking boards of the car. She was looking impatient. From here, he could see the plain surrounding the village was busy with chariots. As well as this one, and the one crewed by Vabalathus and the nervous looking Claudius Mercator, and another chariot packed by Dido’s Nasamoneans, half the men of the village were in chariots.
‘You’re good with horses, I’ll give you that, Tiro,’ Dido conceded grudgingly. ‘We’ll make a charioteer of you yet. Now, I’ll be sitting here, you’ll be standing beside me. These chariots are bigger than the sort I used to drive in the races at the Carthage Hippodrome, although the horses are smaller. Here are the javelins that will be your responsibility.’
Flaminius hefted a sheaf of throwing spears of an unfamiliar design. They seemed rude and sophisticated besides those he remembered.
‘The moment we sight our quarry,’ she went on, ‘I want you up and flinging them. I seem to remember you’re not a bad shot,’ she added, looking him up and down, ‘despite other inadequacies.’
‘Charming,’ he murmured.
The chariots began to set out across the baobab studded plain, the headman in the lead. Flaminius braced himself as the boards beneath his feet juddered and shuddered. The wheels turned, the horses galloped, and dust rose in clouds almost obscuring their view. He wondered how long it would be before they reached the hunting grounds.
He looked back, and waved once at Amasis and Demetrius, and the dark, disapproving Ethiopian slave, who all stood in the village gateway along with the womenfolk. Then the dust and the surrounding vehicles blocked his view, and he turned, gripped tightly onto the sheaf of javelins, and concentrated on avoiding being flung from the chariot.