—22—
Garama, Phazania, 23rd December 124 AD
‘Happy Saturnalia! We’re getting out,’ Claudius Mercator announced, coming over from the barred gateway to join the other prisoners.
Amasis was tending the Greek investor, Demetrius. The scholar would soon be departing for whatever Blessed Realm awaits scholars unwise enough to involve themselves in risky ventures. The Egyptian boy had been desultorily wiping the sweat from that prodigious brow. Now he wrung out the wet rag and looked helplessly at Claudius Mercator.
‘I can’t leave,’ he said.
There had been changes in the cell. Osorkon had been taken away by the guards, where no one seemed to know. To his death, probably. Or was he somehow involved in this escape attempt? One thing was for certain, Amasis refused to leave Demetrius to die.
Claudius Mercator looked round at Vabalathus. The Arab gave his customary, unhelpful sneer. Claudius Mercator sighed. He turned to Menander.
‘Can’t you talk sense into the lad?’
Menander gave Amasis a look of profound sympathy. He squatted down beside Demetrius’ paillasse and placed a hand on the Greek’s shuddering shoulders. Then he returned his attention to Amasis, who looked back defiantly.
‘Come, boy,’ said Menander. ‘We have a chance here. There won’t be another one.’
Amasis shook his head. His eyes were wet. He tried to say something but all he could do was stare down at Demetrius’ sweat soaked form.
‘Leave him,’ said Vabalathus curtly. ‘He’s of little consequence. The guards will only be away from their post for so long, so we must make haste.’
‘The boy wants to stay,’ said Dido, who had been sitting in silence in the corner, arms wrapped around one leg. ‘So do I.’
Claudius Mercator whirled round. ‘You?’ he gasped. ‘You can’t stay! Who will protect us in our escape?’
Dido lifted a hand palm upwards. She nodded at Vabalathus. ‘The Arab can wield a sword,’ she said. ‘Besides, the fewer go, the better chance you’ll have. Since my Nasamoneans were all killed, I have been of little use to you.’
Claudius Mercator couldn’t understand this. Then it dawned on him. ‘You grieve for your fallen comrades?’ he said. ‘You would rather join them in the Underworld?’
Dido shrugged. ‘If you like.’
Claudius Mercator glanced again at Demetrius. ‘I feel wretched about deserting the Greek, he invested in this caravan handsomely. Now it seems he will soon pay the highest price, and what return will he receive? As for you, boy, I feel responsible for you. You have learnt precious little from me on this journey, and now you would sacrifice your own life… Perhaps… perhaps you will learn something in your last moments.’
He turned to Dido. ‘You have served me well, and yes, the fewer of us are involved in the escape attempt the better a chance it will have. It is very noble of you to take this course. I hope we shall on day meet again on the other side of the Styx. Now we must…’
‘If you spend all night jabbering,’ Vabalathus interrupted impatiently, ‘we will never get away. Now bring your slave and follow me.’
He opened the barred gate and their footsteps echoed as they walked out into the dank, subterranean passageway, abandoning their friends to their fate.
There was no sign of the guards. Claudius Mercator had no real idea of what their escape attempt entailed. Vabalathus and Menander had been responsible for much of the negotiation, although the best part of it had been conducted by Osorkon himself, and he had been taken away by the guards without an explanation. Claudius Mercator was so glad to be getting out that he had not troubled himself with these fine details.
It saddened him that they were abandoning the others, yet it had been their own choice to accompany him, and their own choice to stay behind. Really, it could be said that it was they who had abandoned him, left him by the wayside as he continued on his long journey through life.
Sometimes he saw his life as a winding caravan track across the sands of time, leading onwards, ever onwards to a glorious future. One day, he would settle down and build for himself in the suburbs of Alexandria a vast house, a palace almost, which he would fill with treasures purchased from everywhere his travels had taken him. He would have a courtyard where a garden would grow, flowers would bloom and trees blossom, while fountains would run and fish swim in pools. He would have a sumptuous dining chamber, fit for the entertainment of emperors. Gladiators would fight for his entertainment every evening, before he retired to the pleasures of the bedchamber. He would amass a harem of slave girls from every quarter of the world, buxom Nubian girls, wild Sarmatian wenches, sultry Moesian minxes, pretty Parthian maidens…
‘We’re there,’ Vabalathus said. Claudius Mercator looked about him in dismay.
The Arab had led them past a second barred gate beyond which a stairway led upwards—this gate had still been locked, and the merchant had wondered vaguely how they would escape if not that way. But of course, they could hardly expect to leave by the front door! Claudius Mercator was a firm believer in delegation. His was the organising brain, he brought together men of ability and talent to serve on his ventures. But he respected their skills, allowed them to take care of details. It had always worked in the past.
‘You seem to have led us into a dead end,’ he said, trying not to adopt a critical tone. He turned to Menander. ‘He has, hasn’t he? A dead end.’ The Ethiopian nodded sombrely. ‘Surely you took a wrong turning somewhere, Vabalathus,’ Claudius Mercator went on worriedly. ‘We’d better go back. Really, sir, I put my trust in you to get us out of this situation.’
‘Enough!’
Vabalathus seemed strangely uneasy. Perhaps it was the realisation that he had disappointed his comrades. The relief guard would appear at any minute now, and it would be more than embarrassing if they were discovered lurking down here. Claudius Mercator considered returning to the cell and waiting for another opportunity. Then he remembered what he had said to that wretched Egyptian catamite.
‘What in Mercury’s name do you mean?’ Claudius Mercator laughed nervously. ‘You’ve led us up a blind alley. There’s no way we can escape like this. It’s really quite incompetent of you. I realise…’
Vabalathus loomed over him, glaring into his eyes. ‘I’ve just about had enough of you and your complaints,’ he growled. ‘Your own incompetence has cost the lives of many. You don’t deserve to profit from this venture…’
Menander laid an arresting hand on the Arab’s shoulder and he bit back the rest of what he had to say.
‘But there is no way out of here!’ Claudius Mercator sobbed. ‘I don’t wish to argue with you, sir, but how can we…’
Vabalathus began to examine a rocky slab. He beckoned Menander to help him and with the merchant’s encouragement the Ethiopian complied. Together they heaved the slab to one side to reveal a low, dark tunnel from which emanated a cold breeze and a wet smell. It was particularly surprising to find in this passage, which was otherwise as dry and dusty as a pharaoh’s tomb.
‘What is this?’ Claudius Mercator whispered.
‘An escape route made during the civil wars that toppled the current king’s uncle,’ Vabalathus explained. ‘Partisans from the guards were imprisoned in these cells before being executed in the temple of Tanit. At last, their comrades found a way to dig this tunnel which leads to one of the main irrigation channels of the city, one that connects up all the important parts of the city. They followed it to the vicinity of the temple of Tanit, where they dug another tunnel into the vaults beneath it. Here they set upon the tyrant and slew him while he was sacrificing to the goddess, and after a protracted civil war amongst themselves, the survivors instated Gulussa in his place.’
Claudius Mercator was piqued. ‘Why did I not know of this?’ he asked. Dismissing the question as soon as it was asked, he added, ‘You say it leads to the temple? But how will that help facilitate our escape?’
‘The irrigation channel begins outsid
e the city,’ Menander spoke suddenly. ‘It brings water from the cliffs south of here. If we follow it far enough, we will pass under the walls.’
Claudius Mercator was doubly piqued. ‘You knew of this?’ he berated his slave. ‘And yet you did not tell me?’
Menander shook his head. ‘I knew nothing of this escape route,’ he said, ‘but I was aware of the irrigation channel. How else would such a city exist in the middle of the desert?’
Claudius Mercator resented the man’s tone. Really, slaves were starting to get above themselves these days. But all this was very encouraging, although he disliked the idea of blundering down a subterranean irrigation channel—for how long? ‘So we can escape into the desert?’ he asked. ‘That is truly wonderful. We must begin at once.’
Muffled but audible, the tramp of marching feet came from above them. A clang echoed through the tunnels followed by the screeching of poorly oiled hinges.
‘The relief guard!’ The merchant panicked. ‘We must make haste!’ Pushing past Menander and Vabalathus, he got down on his hands and knees and shuffled into the dark hole.
He heard the other two following as he crawled blindly forwards. He could see absolutely nothing, didn’t know where he was going. The tunnel roof was so low that even on his hands and knees he kept knocking his head against it. The air was dank and damp, the stone beneath his hands and knees was wet, and he could hear the distant rushing of water.
It grew louder suddenly and he felt the air ahead was cold and wet. The tunnel had opened up. He out a hand down and found nothing but open air. From the echoes he knew, however, that he had not come out into the open, merely into a larger subterranean tunnel.
Someone collided with him, and he fell forward, grabbing desperately for a handhold. He found himself hanging half in and half out of the new tunnel, which ran at right angles to the first, and had no floor within reach as he hung there, but he could hear the rushing of water from just below.
‘What are you doing, you fool?’ he hissed, and his voice boomed deafeningly, distorted by echoes and the rush of water. ‘You almost pushed me over the edge!’
Vabalathus laughed, and the echoes resounded from the surrounding walls. ‘We’ve reached the irrigation channel. Climb down and you’ll find a watercourse. Head upstream. There will be six shafts leading upwards, each one of which is still within the walls. Then there will be another, and it leads to a well that stands in a palm grove outside the city.’
Gradually, tentatively, uncertainly, Claudius Mercator drew his legs out of the tunnel, clinging with his hands to either side, until he was sitting on the edge, peering down into utter blackness.
He felt a hand on his back. ‘Jump, you fool!’ Vabalathus pushed him.
Claudius Mercator landed with a splash in a rushing stream. The fall seemed to take eternity, but really it was very quick. He fell backwards and sat there with rushing water up to his waist, glaring angrily up at the darkness where Vabalathus must be crouching in the entrance to the tunnel.
‘Master?’ Now he heard Menander’s anxious voice. Claudius Mercator’s heart warmed to hear the genuine concern in the Ethiopian’s echoing voice. ‘Master, are you there?’
‘Don’t worry, Menander,’ Claudius Mercator shouted up to reassure him. ‘I just slipped and fell on my backside in the water.’
Gripping hold of the rocky sides he hauled himself up until he was standing. His garments were soaked, particularly in his lower parts, and he could feel clay plastering his legs. The water rushed around his ankles.
‘Stay there, master,’ Menander shouted. ‘We’ll come down and join you.’
‘I’ll just step back,’ Claudius Mercator shouted up. ‘So you don’t land on…’
He broke off as a large body whooshed down through the darkness, splattering him with water, soaking what little of him had escaped the previous drenching. Ruefully, the merchant brushed water from his face and tried to squeeze the worst of it from his clothes. He heard Menander getting his bearings in the darkness.
‘The Arab says we should go upstream,’ Menander shouted over the sound of the water, ‘and I agree. That will take us under the city walls and in the direction of the cliffs.’
‘How long will it take?’ Claudius Mercator asked. ‘Does Vabalathus know?’ Menander didn’t answer. ‘Where is the Arab?’
‘He was right behind me,’ the slave replied.
Claudius Mercator shouted up at the shaft above. ‘Vabalathus? Sir? Will you come down now? We’ve both reached the bottom. Let’s get going before the relief guard finds out that we have escaped.’
Silence was his only answer.
‘What do you suppose has happened to him?’ he asked Menander worriedly.
‘I don’t know, master,’ said Menander, ‘but we can’t waste time waiting. He may have been found by the guards for all we know. He said we pass six shafts before we get outside the walls. Then there will be a seventh shaft, which leads up to a well out in the countryside beyond the walls. We had better get moving.’
Menander brushed past Claudius Mercator and they began to wade upstream, against the current.
‘Again we escape Garama without another companion,’ Claudius Mercator said bitterly. ‘This land is so rich, and yet she obstinately refuses to share her treasures. We have lost so many on this venture. The Nasamoneans. That young man, Flaminius. Now his catamite and the woman Dido, and even Vabalathus have been lost. Maybe a third attempt will be more fortunate.’
‘Master, we must concentrate on escaping,’ Menander reminded him, ‘before we make plans for a return. But perhaps when we are outside the city we will find new friends.’
Claudius Mercator digested this as he waded through the cold, fast flowing water. It didn’t seem likely. He was as optimistic as the next man, but he had not a single living friend in this country, other than Menander. Yet the slave spoke with a strange assurance. He was about to question this seeming certainty when he realised Menander had halted in front of him.
‘Why’ve you stopped?’ he hissed, then he noticed the hazy moonlight or starlight filtering down into the passage ahead. He could now see the steep sides curving up on either hand, the foaming water rushing down the channel towards them. High up in the roof was a circular shaft from which the light filtered.
‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘Our way out?’
A gleaming chunk of ebony standing stock-still in the water, Menander shook his head. ‘That is the first shaft,’ he said. ‘Five more, and we reach the edge of the city. The one after that is our way out.’ He looked up. ‘If it is as high as this one, it will be a difficult climb,’ he added pensively, ‘but we have no real choice.’
‘What’s that?’ Claudius Mercator cried over the roar of the water.
Menander whirled round. Coming upstream towards them was a series of splashing footsteps.
‘Is it Vabalathus?’ the merchant added hopefully.
‘No!’ Menander hissed. ‘That is the sound of several men following us. It’s the guards! They’re on our trail! Make haste!’
—23—
Garama, Phazania, 23rd December 124 AD
Sweat oozed from Claudius Mercator’s pores, mingling with the water that already soaked him, and he floundered onwards. Soon they had passed beyond the dim light and were utterly in the dark. On and on they waded, pausing every now and then to listen for the sounds of pursuit. A number of people were following them. It must indeed be the guards. Had they found Vabalathus? Recaptured him, then come after the remaining two fugitives?
The journey seemed never-ending. Time after time they waded through stretches where moonlight shone dimly down from shafts. Claudius Mercator soon lost count. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, his drenched garments weighed him down, his legs were an agony from the constant wading, his feet were throbbing. The only thing that gave him hope was the knowledge that their pursuers were equally hampered.
‘I can’t go on,’ he moaned at last. ‘I have to stop!’ M
enander was inexorable, like some steam powered automaton of the sort so fashionable in Alexandrian temples. ‘I don’t care if they catch up with us, I can’t go on! They can kill me, I don’t care!’
He cannoned into Menander’s broad back again, almost falling backwards into the water. Instead he clung to the slave like a baby to its mother’s breast, and peered over his shoulder.
Hope blossomed in his heart. Another shaft of starlight shone down.
‘Is that it?’ he gasped. ‘Is that the way out?’ He could hear their pursuers getting closer.
Menander looked back at him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The seventh shaft. Now we must climb.’
Still standing in the middle of the rushing water, he put his hands together as a stirrup, and encouraged Claudius Mercator to put one sopping foot in it. Then he boosted the weary merchant upwards, so that Claudius Mercator could grab onto the side of the well shaft.
‘There should be a bucket on a rope halfway up,’ the slave shouted. The sloshing sounds of pursuit were drawing ever closer, ever louder in the echoing channel. ‘Climb up to the top, master, then lower it back down. I’ll use the rope to climb up after you.’
Slowly and painfully Claudius Mercator vanished from Menander’s sight and darkness fell upon the slave as his master climbed up the shaft, split only by occasional beams of starlight that found its way round the merchant’s bulk. Finally there was silence, and then light shone down again, the light of the risen moon.
Menander stood in the middle of the stream, staring up in anxious silence. All he could hear was the roar of the waters and the sounds of approach. What had happened to his master?
There was a clatter from above. A leather bucket on the end of a rope of woven bast hurtled down, landing with a splash in the water. Before the current could drag it away, Menander seized hold.
‘Master?’
There was no reply. All he could hear were the unseen pursuers wading towards him up the irrigation channel. Gritting his teeth, he took the bast rope in his hands, tested it, found it firm enough, and began the ascent.
The Kingdom That Rome Forgot Page 17