The Kingdom That Rome Forgot

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘Drink?’ Amasis’ white teeth flashed in the firelight. ‘Roman wine, Uncle Gaius?’ Some of the empire’s finer products had already reached these parts, it seemed.

  ‘Give it to my friends,’ said Flaminius with a magnanimous gesture. ‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.’ The boy handed the half full amphora to the first guard. ‘You’ve got to find out what they mean to do with me,’ he added urgently. ‘Everyone’s against me. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open.’

  The first guard growled, shoving the amphora at him. Flaminius took a swig, not removing his gaze from the glint of Amasis’ eyes. ‘Report to me as soon as you hear anything,’ he added in an undertone. No vinegar this; its bouquet was smoky and, although it was sweetly resinated, he caught a distinct note of wormwood. ‘Now scat, before these charming fellows get suspicious.’ He passed the amphora over to the second guard who casually emptied it.

  Wordlessly, Amasis took the empty amphora and walked into the darkness.

  The two guards, reinvigorated by the wine, slapped Flaminius on the back and shook him by the hand as if he was an old friend. It was with distinct regret that they led him to the shelter, where one slept while the other sat guard. Soon both were snoring. Potent stuff, Roman wine, particularly to those unaccustomed to it.

  ‘Uncle Gaius!’

  Amasis’ voice was low but urgent. Flaminius craned his neck round but saw only darkness.

  ‘Where are you, lad?’ he hissed. ‘Keep quiet, you’ll wake my friends.’

  ‘Never mind the jokes, uncle,’ Amasis said, his voice shaking. ‘You’re in danger!’

  ‘Of course I’m in danger,’ Flaminius said. ‘Danger is my life.’

  How conceited that must sound, even to a youth. He wasn’t all that much older, he realised suddenly, little more than a boy himself, however much responsibility had aged him. And here he was, encouraging a boy who was his own responsibility to spy for him, just as he had persuaded Nitocris. Was it justified? It was for the good of the empire, of course. But what was the empire except its people?

  ‘Stop joking,’ Amasis stammered. ‘I mean it! They’re planning to betray you!’

  ‘Betray me?’ Flaminius muttered. ‘Vabalathus?’

  ‘Vabalathus, Dido, Claudius Mercator,’ Amasis said. ‘I overheard them. I listened at their shelter. They’re going to sell you…’

  ‘Sell me?’ Flaminius hissed. ‘As a slave?’

  He saw the dark shape of Amasis’ head as the boy shook it. ‘As a spy! They say you’re a Roman spy, and they’re going to betray you to King Gulussa in return for trading concessions.

  ‘Uncle Gaius,’ he added in a small voice, ‘I don’t think I want to become a merchant anymore. Not if it’s all like this.’

  Flaminius was stricken. Vabalathus’ treachery came as little surprise, and Dido had certainly been acting strangely. He wouldn’t be at all startled to learn that this had been her idea. But what benefit was it to her? And as for Claudius Mercator, he had never guessed the merchant was capable of such ruthlessness.

  ‘Are you a spy?’ Amasis asked suddenly.

  Flaminius sighed. ‘I’m an imperial agent,’ he said, again hearing the pomposity of his statement. ‘I’m on a mission for the emperor.’

  ‘But what are you going to do?’ Amasis said after a short pause to digest this. ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘I’m guarded,’ Flaminius pointed out.

  ‘Your guards are snoring,’ Amasis said.

  ‘Good point.’ Flaminius rose quietly and shuffled towards Amasis. As he did, one of the guards, not the one supposed to be on sentry duty, woke with a grunt and snatched at him in the darkness.

  Flaminius lashed out with a fist. It connected with something both hard and soft which crunched satisfyingly beneath his knuckles, and provoked a bellow of rage. Flaminius scrambled across the other guard, who had also woken, stamping on his face as he tried to rise, grabbed Amasis’ arm, and ran.

  Behind them, as they sprinted through the cold desert night, came angry shouts.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Amasis cried. ‘Let go of me, I can run by myself.’

  Flaminius did as the boy asked. ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he told him. ‘The mission’s failed, I’m getting out. And I’m not leaving you behind.’

  It would have been better if he’d not been lumbered with the lad. Silently he mouthed an ironic “thank you” to Nitocris and Ozymandias. Branches whipped at his face as he blundered through the darkness, Amasis at his heels. In the distance he heard shouts and the sound of pursuit. The trees fell away on either hand and the gritty desert wind was on his face. They had come to the edge of the oasis. Beyond it was nothing but miles and miles of sand.

  ‘Well, where are we going?’ the boy cried. ‘We’re not going to run all the way back to Alexandria?’

  Flaminius dragged Amasis into cover. Looking back, he saw the night illuminated by fiery brands: the Garamantes were coming after them. Behind them he saw the camp. On the far side of it the chariots were parked, and nearby the horses were hitched.

  ‘They’ve no idea where we are in this darkness,’ he muttered. ‘We’re going to circle round the oasis while they’re searching for us, get back to the camp, yoke up a chariot and ride for it. Come on.’

  ‘But do you know how to drive a chariot?’ Amasis cried as he ran after him.

  Flaminius didn’t reply.

  —16—

  Phazania, 18th December 124 AD

  One man had been left on guard over the horses.

  ‘What do we do?’ Amasis asked. ‘He won’t let us take one, you know…’

  Flaminius crept up behind the warrior, a strapping fellow with a leaf bladed spear gripped firmly in his hands, who was peering in the direction of the search. Seizing the man by the shoulder, he spun him round and punched him in the jaw. The Garamantian fell backward, striking his head on a bole.

  ‘Get two horses,’ Flaminius said, ‘and lead them to the chariots…’

  He broke off as the fallen man rose unsteadily. The spear had fallen to the sand and Flaminius placed a foot on it as the man tried to grab it from where it lay. Angry, the Garamantian seized Flaminius in a wrestler’s hold, wrapping big arms round his chest. Flaminius retaliated with a downwards elbow jab into the man’s shoulder, but to no effect; he was hauled off his feet. Seizing the man’s bull neck between his hands he squeezed, but the man flung him bodily into the tree.

  Flaminius hit it with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs, and slid down to its foot. Dimly he heard the man shouting something in his own tongue, followed by many other voices from the distance. Weakly, Flaminius tried to get up. The man stamped down on his wrist and he fell flat again. A foot sank into his ribs.

  Ignoring the pain, he rolled over and grabbed the man’s foot, twisting the man by the ankle so he spun off balance. Then he hauled, and the Garamantian fell forward, right into Flaminius’ hastily raised fist.

  Pain lanced up Flaminius’ wrist with the impact but the Garamantian warrior slumped to the ground, paying very little attention to the dark world. It was the bigger of Flaminius’ two captors, a man with a grievance, but he was quiet now. Which was more than could be said for the oasis.

  ‘Uncle Gaius!’ Amasis said urgently, as Flaminius stumbled to his feet. ‘I’ve got the horses tied to the wooden thing, but I think it’s too late. They’re coming!’

  Flaminius took one look at the woods, from which dark figures were emerging, then to Amasis, standing by a chariot with two horses hitched to the yoke pole. Shaking his fuzzy head to clear it, rubbing at his sprained wrist, he ran for the chariot. The horses whinnied and reared as he forced Amasis into the back then seized the reins.

  ‘Stay right where you are!’ came Vabalathus’ voice.

  The Arab was in the middle, a spear poised javelin like in his right hand. At his side stood Dido, her face set in a scowl, and Claudius Mercator, looking bewildered by the course of events. Numbly Flaminius
wondered what had become of Demetrius and Menander. He whipped up the horses. Garamantes swept up out of the trees on either side. And Vabalathus flung the spear.

  It shot through the air, straight through the place where Flaminius had been standing and sank into the bole of a date palm.

  By now the horses had galloped into the cold desert night, taking the chariot, Flaminius, and Amasis with them. The chariot bounced and leapt over the ground, the horses galloping in panic, totally out of control. Amasis clung to the side of the vehicle, Flaminius had his feet braced on the floor, his hands gripping the reins but with no noticeable result. The desert wind whipped past, stinging Flaminius’ face with grit. They were out in the wilderness now.

  ‘Is this what you do for a living, then, Uncle Gaius?’ Amasis shouted up from where he clung.

  Flaminius grinned into the wind. ‘There’s a lot of desk work too, you know. Why, are you thinking of becoming an imperial agent?’

  Amasis shook his head shortly but vigorously. ‘I think I’d rather be a merchant, to be honest.’ His tones suggested it was the lesser of two evils. They went over another bump. ‘Can’t we slow down?’

  ‘I took a spin in one of these,’ Flaminius called back conversationally, ‘when I was a student in Rome. A friend kept a chariot at his parents’ villa in Laurentum, and he used to charge round the fields—much to his parents’ consternation, I realise now, looking back. He took me out in it when I was staying over, and I handled the reins briefly. Other than that, the closest I’ve come to charioteering is watching the Greens beat the Blues in the Hippodrome.’ He shared with Amasis a rictus grin. ‘I’ve no idea of how to control this thing,’ he confessed.

  Amasis peered over his shoulder. ‘Well,’ he shouted, ‘maybe that’s a good thing.’

  Holding grimly onto the side, Flaminius looked back. The dark shapes of chariots were charging across the sand towards them, breaking free of the dark blob of the oasis and thundering out into the starlight of the desert. They were rapidly gaining on the fugitives.

  ‘I think these Garamantes have a better idea of how to handle their own vehicles,’ Flaminius murmured. ‘We’re just charging out of control.’

  Even as he spoke, they bounced over some kind of snag in the ground, the chariot lurched, and a wheel sank into the soft sand. Flaminius was flung from the chariot and vanished into the darkness.

  Amasis clung on grimly, although the jolt almost wrenched his arms from their sockets. The traces snapped, the horses galloped away into the starlit desert. The chariot was left at a crazy angle, one wheel deep in the sand, the other spinning round and round, growing slower as it did.

  Amasis, shaken and numb, let himself down from the chariot onto the cold sand just as the first of the Garamantian chariots ground to a halt beside the wreck. As the warriors leapt down, spears glimmering in the starlight, the boy peered round him uncertainly.

  ‘Uncle?’ he hissed. ‘Uncle Gaius? Where are you?’

  But only the desert wind moaned an answer. Flaminius had vanished.

  —17—

  Phazania, 18th December 124 AD

  As he tried to run, two Garamantes seized Amasis by the arms. More surrounded him, shouting, brandishing their spears. He yelled back in wordless terror.

  Vabalathus swaggered up. ‘It’s the spy’s catamite,’ he announced, to no one in particular. More figures appeared out of the murk, Osorkon, Dido, and Claudius Mercator, the latter wringing his hands pitifully. ‘Where’s your master?’ the Arab barked at Amasis. ‘Don’t try to protect him, or I’ll give you to the Garamantes.’

  Amasis shrugged free of the warriors’ grip and dusted himself down. ‘He was in the chariot with me,’ he said. ‘We hit something and went over. I called for him but he didn’t answer. Then you appeared.’

  ‘The coward’s run off!’ Vabalathus rounded on Dido. ‘We have to get him back! Tell Osorkon!’

  Dido spoke hurriedly to the Garamantian chief, who looked suspiciously at them all but issued a string of orders. The Garamantes fanned out into the sand despite the gale that was blowing, and quickly became dark, uncertain, menacing forms moving uncertainly through the gloom.

  ‘Now why did you set your master free?’ Claudius Mercator asked the boy sadly. ‘You’ve caused all manner of problems with your foolish behaviour.’

  Amasis was not the bravest of boys, and he would rather be a million miles away, or at least back in Alexandria, idling his time away with the other youths his age by the canal or in the market place. But the bumbling merchant’s accusations infuriated him.

  ‘Why did you let them take him prisoner?’ he challenged the older man. ‘Anyway, he’s not my master, he’s my uncle.’

  ‘You’ve caused no end of trouble by setting him free.’

  ‘Why?’ said Amasis, still angry. ‘Because you meant to betray him to the king as a spy?’

  Vabalathus struck him on the side of the head and he fell helplessly into the soft cold embrace of the sand. ‘He is a spy,’ the Arab said emphatically, as Amasis rose, clutched his ringing skull. ‘Dido met him earlier. He’s an imperial agent!’

  Amasis rubbed his head. ‘So he works for the emperor,’ he said. ‘That means you should help him, not betray him. The emperor is a god on Earth, the sun in mortal form. That’s what I was told when I was young. That’s why we have to pay taxes.’

  Claudius Mercator shook his head pityingly. ‘You’re very naïve,’ he said, ‘but it’s hardly surprising in one of your tender years. I can see that you have entirely misinterpreted the situation…’

  ‘Why are you wasting time talking to that boy?’ Dido had appeared out of the swirling sands. ‘We should be helping the warriors find the escaped prisoner. If we don’t hand Tiro over to King Gulussa…’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Claudius Mercator. ‘Vabalathus, keep an eye on this lad. We’ve got to look for Flaminius.’

  ‘You keep an eye on him,’ the Arab said. ‘You’ll be useless in the search. I, however, am needed.’

  He strode away into the darkness, and Dido trotted after him, leaving Claudius Mercator looking uncomfortable as it swallowed them up.

  ‘Why are you helping them?’ Amasis murmured.

  Claudius Mercator whirled round. From the murk came the sound of questioning shouts as the warriors searched for the missing man, but there was nothing to suggest they had found him.

  ‘Your, ahem, uncle made an unprovoked attack on the Garamantian warriors,’ he said virtuously. ‘They were all very important nobles in this country, and he wounded them, some quite severely. Naturally they want to see that he is tried for his crime by the highest court in the land.’

  ‘So it’s nothing to do with wanting to present him to the king as a spy?’ Amasis asked. ‘In the hopes that this will win you favour in his eyes?’

  ‘Not in the slightest!’ Claudius Mercator winced against the increasing wind that was battering grit against their unprotected faces. ‘Besides which, he certainly is a spy. I have that on the sworn testimony of my mercenary leader, Dido. She knows that he works for the emperor.’

  ‘But you’re a Roman citizen,’ said Amasis. ‘Shouldn’t that mean you should help the emperor’s agents?’

  Claudius Mercator gaped at him, then recollected himself. ‘If he is spying on the king of a foreign land with whom I intend to open up friendly relations—for the benefit of Rome!—no, I shouldn’t help him,’ he said.

  On some bored days, Amasis had gone to listen to the debates of the philosophers in the Museum. Sometimes their wrangling had been a little convoluted, but he knew a self-seeking argument when he heard one.

  ‘You intend to hand him over and that will be that?’ Amasis asked.

  Figures loomed out of the darkness. Osorkon led a group of despondent looking Garamantes, with Dido and Vabalathus in tow. All looked bewildered and defeated. Osorkon made some dramatic pronouncement then led them back towards the chariots in which they had come here. Claudius Mercator grabbed Amasis by t
he crook of his arm and dragged him away. As he was led off, Amasis looked back to see the upended shape of the chariot Flaminius had stolen, and which Osorkon was abandoning to the sands. Already it was half buried, although one wheel was still turning slowly. The horses had vanished into the night. And so, it seemed had Flaminius.

  How had he done it? It was very clever. And where was he now?

  But why had he left Amasis behind?

  Claudius Mercator marched the boy to a chariot driven by one of the Garamantes. The horses were whinnying in complaint at the driving wind. Amasis gathered that Osorkon had decided that nothing could be achieved in this storm, that they might continue the search in the morning. But for now they were returning to shelter.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ he asked the merchant as the Garamantian charioteer drove off in the wake of the other chariots. The oasis was visible in the distant gloom, a dark blob against the dark sands.

  ‘You’ve hardly impressed me as an apprentice,’ Claudius Mercator said severely. ‘Vabalathus counselled me to abandon you to the desert. But you have proved able to care for our other surviving investor. The Greek should not have come on this journey, of course; I was against it. But he agreed to fund us only in return for a place in the caravan. Now he has lost his wits, he needs someone to look after him. I owe him that much for his investment…’

  ‘What about the money my Uncle Gaius invested?’

  Claudius Mercator scowled. ‘Never mention him again, or I will take up Vabalathus’ suggestion.’ Amasis wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

  They returned to camp, where Menander greeted them, showing no reaction to the news. Amasis was sent to Demetrius’ shelter, where the Greek still slept oblivious. As he climbed inside the shelter, Amasis overheard Vabalathus.

  ‘…the spy won’t survive out there very long. And if he comes to any settlement, Osorkon will ensure he is seized and taken prisoner…’

  Brushing sand from his hair, Amasis lay down beside Demetrius, and tried to get to sleep himself. But it was difficult, as the roar of the wind grew greater.