‘I don’t care if Flaminius is fettered or decapitated,’ Vabalathus said candidly, ‘but the merchant’s right, woman. You shouldn’t have given into Osorkon’s demands.’
‘The damage is done now,’ Claudius Mercator said, turning to Flaminius. ‘I’m afraid that it seems that you, respected investor that you are, must accept these demands.’
Flaminius gritted his teeth. ‘You’re right about one thing,’ he said. ‘It seems that Camilla was the wrong person to palaver. She gave in too easily on this, and I wonder what else?’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think she’s got the best interests of the caravan at heart.’
‘I wanted us to get to Garama,’ she said coldly to Claudius Mercator, ignoring Flaminius, ‘and that’s where we’re going. Once you get there, merchant, you can palaver with the king himself. Get your Ethiopian slave to talk to him, see where that gets you.’
‘It’s a week’s journey to Garama,’ said Claudius Mercator determinedly. ‘I already have a smattering of the Garamantian tongue. By the end of the journey I will be able to speak it well enough to palaver with King Gulussa, if I am diligent. I must ask Osorkon to help me learn his own language. And if not, I think I have enough Punic to palaver.’
He patted her on the shoulder, reaching up on tiptoe to do so. ‘It should have been me in the first place,’ he said sadly. ‘You’re just a mercenary. You shouldn’t be expected to take on these duties.’
‘It’s all very well for you,’ Flaminius told the merchant fervently. ‘You’re not under armed guard!’
Claudius Mercator turned away. ‘We must make haste,’ he said. ‘We depart tomorrow!’
The rest of the day was spent in preparations for the journey.
The next morning there was no sign of Flaminius’ armed escort, but when they left the chamber for the courtyard, the two burly Garamantian guards fell into step on either side of him. They did not speak, in their own tongue or any that Flaminius spoke; in fact, they didn’t even look at him. But they were to be a constant presence for the next few days.
In the courtyard were all their mounts and merchandise. More Garamantes stood about, spears in hand, and several were on guard at the main gate. When the preparations were complete, the king came to join them, and soon they were riding down from the castle hill towards the east gate.
The journey led them for the next few days across farmland interspersed with stretches of arid land, including true desert.
Flaminius became certain that the entire kingdom was dependent upon some kind of irrigation system. Much as Egypt would be a lifeless wasteland without the annual Nile inundation, Phazania would be home only to snakes and scorpions if it was not for…what? It was a mystery. He saw no canals, indeed no source of water. The distant peaks were not snow-capped. Why had anyone thought to build a kingdom out here anyway? The legends suggested the Garamantes had been driven south into the desert by the coming of the Punic colonists. But had there once been better conditions in these parts? Was this a dying country?
And what of the other people, the aboriginals who were said to live in caves? Troglodytes was the Greek word for such people. He’d heard rumours of troglodytes elsewhere, in the more mysterious reaches of Egypt, and out in Scythia. But who were they?
Riding accompanied by two armed guards, spending each halt in the company of his taciturn new companions, unable to join in the conversation of the others who rode at the front with Osorkon and his retainers, Flaminius had plenty of time to think. To think and to examine his surroundings. This lost kingdom of the desert... He could see how it would make an excellent base for raids upon the Roman Empire, and could feel only the utmost respect for Cornelius Balbus and his legions, who had marched this far south to fight the king of that day, and even further south, to the mysterious kingdoms that brooded on the banks of the great southern river.
One evening, Flaminius was sitting beside the fire—a separate fire from the one at which the others caroused—his head nodding on his chest, squashed between his two imperturbably silent guards. He came to himself on hearing a hiss, and looked around. Amasis was peering at him from the cover of a rock, holding a small amphora in his hand.
‘Uncle Gaius?’ he hissed again. ‘Wine?’
Flaminius glanced up, seeing that both his guards were asleep. He frowned at Amasis, mouthing ‘Go away!’
Amasis slipped closer to the fire. ‘That’s nice, uncle,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d bring you some wine.’ A look of pity was on his young face. ‘You can’t be having much fun with these two oxen. What are their names?’
‘They’ve not told me,’ Flaminius replied. ‘I call them Ugly One and Ugly Two. Now hurry back to the main campfire before you get into trouble.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Amasis, turning to leave. He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Still, I’d have thought with them asleep like that, it would be a good time for you to make your escape. My aunt says you’ve escaped from all sorts of sticky situations.’
‘She shouldn’t have told you that,’ Flaminius growled. ‘Give me that wine.’
Amasis danced back and handed it to him. Flaminius swigged thirstily. He’d had nothing but sour beer all through the journey. When he finished, he wiped his lips. It was true: with the guards sleeping he could easily escape, but where to, and to what end? He wanted to go to Garama, and Garama was where they were going.
He took another swig, then threw the amphora back to the boy. ‘Now get back to the others,’ he repeated.
‘Oh, but Uncle Gaius,’ Amasis whined.
He jumped with shock as one of the guards chose that moment to wake up. The Garamantian looked round fuzzily, then focused on the boy. He grunted something.
At least it sounded like grunts to Flaminius. For all he knew, it was the Garamantian equivalent of Book I of the Iliad, but it just sounded like grunts. Angry, threatening grunts. Amasis shouldn’t be talking to the prisoner. Inspiration struck.
‘Give him some wine,’ Flaminius said.
Amasis held out the amphora and the Garamantian snatched it with one massive paw, then peered at it suspiciously. The other guard woke up at this point and there was an exchange of grunts, or perhaps a recitation of the exchange between Oedipus and Creon at the end of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. The second guard snatched the amphora away and poured what was left down his gullet. He seemed disappointed that there was nothing much left, and growled something at Amasis.
‘I think he means you should bring more next time,’ said Flaminius. ‘Now go, before someone finds you.’
Amasis slipped away, leaving Flaminius deep in thought. The two guards were alert and awake now, which put an end to all ideas of escape, however futile. They had taken his sword from him. Besides, where would he go? He would have to accept his lot with stoic forbearance, as Demetrius would no doubt tell him if consulted. But at least he could hope for the odd surreptitious visit from Amasis. And if the boy brought wine, it seemed that the guards were willing to turn a deaf ear to anything else.
He glanced towards the main fire. Dido and Claudius Mercator were both talking with Osorkon in all friendliness. If he ever did get the chance to move about independently, he would have to find out what they were discussing. Now the chieftain was rising to go to his shelter. The gathering around the fire broke up straight afterwards, and the various groups all retired. As they did so, some of them passed him by. Flaminius’ eyes met those of Claudius Mercator in a look of dumb appeal. He was disappointed when the man looked away guiltily and did not acknowledge him.
‘Time for bed, Ugly One?’ he suggested. His guards got the message and led him to the shelter that had been set aside for them. One slept beside him while the other sat on sentry duty at the entrance. He knew from previous nights that they would swap over halfway through. No chance of escape during the small hours.
And where would he go? He fell asleep later that night, thinking dark thoughts about treachery. Dido’s face appeared in his mind, and with it was Cla
udius Mercator’s bearing that look of guilt. What was troubling the man?
From oasis town to oasis town they travelled, through farmland under the stern guard of castles on rocky prominences, and across sparse grasslands and sandy wastes. Flaminius’ guards were negligent, seeming content to keep him in their sight, but they became more alert if he went near any of the other travellers, and wordlessly encouraged him to remain with them at all times. He felt isolated, uncertain, and vulnerable. Even Amasis visited less and less. He kept telling himself that he could endure this easily enough, that all he needed to do was wait until they reached Garama, then steal the Veil of Tanit. But he was troubled by the apparent change of attitude shown by Dido in particular, who seemed to have turned against him, and Claudius Mercator, who she seemed to have suborned. He itched to learn more.
Or was it simply frustration and boredom? The journey went on day after day, and he was stuck with his guards. It would have been monotonous enough, but he felt a growing foreboding. What fate awaited him when they reached Garama? Perhaps Amasis was right. Perhaps he should escape, make his own way to the city, and gain entrance into the temple and… But a lone Roman on the loose in the midst of a barbarian kingdom? He’d be seen, seized, put to death. Better if he remained with the main group, even as a prisoner.
That night both his guards fell asleep early on. Guarding over him was clearly as monotonous as being their captive. This time Flaminius decided he would assess his chances. He waited until both were asleep, then rose softly to his feet.
It was a cold night and there was no carousing by the campfire this time. Most of the travellers had retired to their shelters after a frugal evening meal. The wind moaned among the date palms of the oasis, stirred up dust devils of the sands beyond. Shelters of Nasamonean design dotted the wooded area. On the far side, a spear carrying guard was patrolling. Flaminius ducked behind a tree and peered out to watch him pass.
As he did so, he heard someone saying his name. He froze.
It had come from a nearby shelter, where someone was speaking. They had mentioned him by name. Frowning, prickling with disquiet, he crept closer. He realised that it was the shelter of Claudius Mercator.
Kneeling outside it he strained his ears to listen. He heard the merchant’s tones, and those of another. The second speaker was Dido.
‘…reach Garama in two more days, Osorkon was saying,’ she was telling the merchant.
‘We’re making good time,’ Claudius Mercator conceded, ‘but I am still not happy that one of our financial investors should be subjected to such privation.’
There was a wolfish bark of laughter. Flaminius’ lip curled: Vabalathus was also in the shelter. ‘Your investors aren’t worth the money they contributed,’ he growled. ‘Except me, of course. I’m an asset on this journey, with my knowledge of desert ways and desert life. But the others? The Greek is in his own little world and would forget to saddle up in the morning if he wasn’t helped. As for the Roman, he must be pining for the company of his catamite, who seems to be pleasuring the Greek in his absence… Flaminius was a fool to attack the warriors like that.’
Flaminius grinned hardily to himself. So this was what people said about him behind his back! Spying had its downside, certainly. Now he knew Vabalathus’ opinion of him… But what of Dido? He remembered their time together in the sandstorm, and earlier, in the Delta. Had that meant nothing?
‘Tiro has proved himself a liability, certainly,’ she was saying. Flaminius felt as if he had been pierced through the heart. ‘But as I’m sure our leader will agree, it is sometimes possible to turn a liability into an asset.’
‘What do you mean?’ Claudius Mercator said worriedly. ‘How can Flaminius—Tiro, as you call him, though I don’t know why, although he certainly is as inept as any novice—how could he become an asset? Naturally, I would prefer it if it could be done. Even though he has caused us problems, despite the generous contributions he made at the start… But what do you intend?’
‘Don’t worry yourself, merchant,’ Dido said. ‘Everything has been prepared. When we reach Garama…’
But Flaminius did not hear the rest of her words. He heard a baffled grunt from across the clearing, turned to see one of his guards had woken up. Hastily, he slipped back across to the fire and sat down between the two of them.
The guard growled something at him, and he pantomimed answering what his father would primly describe as the call of nature. The guard relaxed a little, but the suspicious look did not vanish from his heavy face. He turned and punched his fellow guard to wake the man up, then had a long and angry conversation with him, including many gestures at Flaminius, who smiled affably and placatingly at them both. Both were suspicious, both angry with each other and themselves. They rose, and led Flaminius to their shelter. They clearly thought it would be easier to keep their eyes on him in there.
That night he found it hard to sleep. He was sure that some kind of treachery was brewing. But his spying days were over for now. What he had to do was to delegate responsibility. He needed a spy in the enemy camp.
He thought he knew just the lad for the job.
—15—
Phazania, 17th December 124 AD
The next morning, while Roman citizens throughout the empire would be beginning the celebrations of Saturnalia, they drove out from the oasis where they had camped. Flaminius found his own vehicle passing the chariot containing Demetrius of Oxyrhynchus and Amasis. Surreptitiously he signalled to the latter, making drinking motions.
‘Bring us some Saturnalia wine tonight,’ he mouthed when the boy’s eyes met his.
One of his guards struck Flaminius across the head and growled. The Roman settled back into quiescence, nodding placatingly at the Garamantian. With luck, his work was done.
The journey went on, across the sands and past the farms and villages. Castles lowered on rocky eminences. The roads, such as they were, were now thick with traffic. They were nearing their destination, the city of Garama that Cornelius Balbus had sacked so long ago. Certainly there were no signs that war had visited these lands recently. Wealthy towns stood among swaying groves of date palms, women worked the well irrigated fields, nobles drove past in chariots, and camels transporting goods and merchant caravans, though none of Roman provenance, were a regular feature.
They halted as the heat of the sun grew too fierce, seeking shelter in a conveniently located grove. Flaminius hoped for a chance to catch Amasis’ attention, but the guards kept a keen eye on him, and he had no chance. Besides, the rest of the travellers had pitched their shelters some way from his own, near to Osorkon’s own. Flaminius decided that the best solution was to sleep on it.
He was shaken awake after what seemed like no time at all. One of his guards loomed over him, gesturing with his head for Flaminius to rise and shortly after they were rumbling on across the desert sands of afternoon. How close were they to the city? They had been travelling for days. It was, how many day’s journey to Garama? A week? They must almost be there, then. And what fate would await him?
Osorkon would not sing Flaminius’ praises to the king. Perhaps he would be put on trial. He would have dodged the guards and ridden off into the desert long ago had it not been for a few small things: one being his ignorance of the local terrain, although it seemed to be much like the Thebaid—lethal to lone travellers who did not know the location of the oases; another being his need to reach Garama one way or another. He had to gain entrance to the city, or rather to the temple. Once the veil of Tanit was in his possession he could ride off into the sands, but he doubted it would be as easy as all that. And yet, until he had reached the city he could make no informed plans.
The sun was descending over the distant mountains. Garama lay on the edge of the northern sand sea in the lea of a long spur of hills. They must be getting close; he felt growing trepidation. He would not receive a warm welcome. Not only would Osorkon have little good to say of him, it seemed from his eavesdropping that his fellow tra
vellers would show him no loyalty, Dido included. The former gladiatrix had learnt pragmatism in the months since last he saw her. Whatever had passed between them, whatever had inspired that lovemaking at the height of the storm, it had vanished into the sands like spilt wine. He felt quite bitter about that.
He was still feeling bitter when the order went up the straggling line for them to halt in another oasis. As they entered the shade of the palms it was a relief to get out of the pitiless heat of the sun. But Flaminius’ thoughts were darker than the darkest shadow.
He sat with his guards beside their own separate campfire, eating a desultory meal of dried dates. Over there by the main fire, one of the chieftain’s retainers was entertaining the gathering with notes on some stringed instrument, another played a weird, discordant flute, while amphorae of wine were passed from hand to hand. Dark shapes stood out against the flames of the fire as twilight deepened. They were celebrating the imminent end of their journey.
‘What would be nice,’ Flaminius declared, speaking to his guards though he knew they spoke no Latin, ‘would be if someone was to share their wine with us. Don’t you think?’
The bigger of the two guards grunted something in reply, and licked his lips as if he had understood every word. Flaminius glanced back at the other fires. The strains of the music drowned out everything else. Where was Amasis? Had he not understood his gestures of that morning?
The main campfire was guttering, the music had ended, and it seemed that the party was nearing its end. Some dark figures were heading for the shelters, others still drank and talked in the glow of the embers. The guards were getting to their feet, ready to shove their charge into the shelter for the night, when a shadow slipped out from the darkness. It shook the object it held in its hand and Flaminius heard the distinctive sound of liquid sloshing round in a pottery container.
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