The Black Stone: Agent of Rome 4 (The Agent of Rome)

by Brown, Nick

  The sun was currently veiled by cloud and, with the cooling effect of the water, the temperature was perfect. He might have dozed off had it not been for the anxious wait. Whatever Khalima’s decision, he at least knew something of his foe now: this warrior-priest Ilaha, who apparently wished to lead the Tanukh against Rome.

  One thing was certain; the governor would have to know. A message wouldn’t reach him for at least three or four days and it would be two weeks before he could take any significant action in the area. So whatever Calvinus did, it would not interfere with the operation. But Cassius felt sure now that the nature of that operation had to change.

  With what Khalima had revealed about the size of Ilaha’s force, it seemed doubtful they would be able to recover the stone. Even Abascantius wouldn’t expect him and the auxiliaries to mount a raid with no chance of success. Surely it made more sense to gather intelligence about Ilaha and the location of the stone, then return to Bostra. Perhaps Tribune Pontius would get his wish: march an army to Galanaq, reclaim the Emperor’s prize and regain control of the province.

  Cassius was thinking how to word his letter to Calvinus when he noticed Mercator waving to him. The optio then pointed towards the camp. Khalima was striding across the sand.

  Cassius felt even more eyes upon him this time and he wiped his clammy hands on his tunic. Sometimes he hated being in charge, making decisions, having such influence over the lives of others. Sometimes he wished he was a gardener or a scribe with no responsibility for anyone else. Just for a day, of course.

  He met Khalima between the two camps.

  ‘I and a detachment of my men will escort you to Galanaq and get you inside the gates. The rest of my family will continue on to Petra.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I have some conditions.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Firstly, our agreement must be laid down in writing and a copy despatched immediately to Governor Calvinus.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Secondly, we will add a clause that it remains valid even in the event of my death.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Thirdly, I am in charge until we reach Galanaq. Once there you must do what you have to without endangering me or my men.’

  ‘Of course. As you know, I simply wish to gather intelligence.’

  ‘If you or any of your men are caught or identified, I will deny all knowledge.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Then we have an agreement. Can you have it drawn up in Greek tonight?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘We will leave at first light,’ added Khalima. ‘But there are some practicalities to attend to.’ He looked past Cassius at the auxiliaries. ‘I have employed numerous sword-hands over the years. That should not arouse suspicion. Do they speak Nabatean?’

  ‘Every one.’

  ‘Who’s that fellow losing his hair?’

  ‘Ulixes. An associate.’

  ‘And the fat one?’

  ‘My attendant.’

  Khalima scratched his chin. ‘They don’t look much like warriors but as least they’re dark enough. Not for Arabians but there are plenty of Syrians around these parts. Which leaves us with one remaining problem.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Cassius.

  ‘You.’

  Dusk was close by the time they found the mule. Andal had located the other missing animal an hour earlier; it had been sighted wandering towards the formation where they’d sheltered. Bored by inactivity, Indavara had offered to help Mercator look for the last one. They found it south of the oasis at a smaller, angular outcrop of rock that resembled a fin.

  The mule was drinking water that had collected in a hollow. The pair dismounted and closed in from either side but the beast showed no inclination to resist. In fact, it seemed happy to be in company once more and nuzzled Mercator’s horse. The optio roped it to his mount and they set off back towards the oasis on foot.

  ‘Might be dangerous down here, but there are some amazing sights.’

  ‘There are,’ replied Indavara.

  Even his dislike of the dry, hot lands couldn’t blind him to the stark beauty of the place. The sunset had divided everything into layers. The closest flank of the Hejaz mountains was black, the distant peaks shrouded by grey. Above was a hazy band of orange, then the sun itself, a perfect yellow disc.

  ‘What do you think of this Khalima, then?’ said Mercator. ‘These desert folk can be tricky.’

  ‘Corbulo usually knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘And Ulixes?’

  ‘The sooner we get rid of him the better.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mercator. ‘Slimy bastard, that one.’

  ‘I wanted to ask – what’s it like in the army?’

  ‘Can’t really remember anything else. Been in since I was seventeen. Almost half my life.’

  ‘Have you been in many battles?’

  ‘Not many. One against the Persians, two against the Palmyrans.’

  ‘Corbulo fought the Palmyrans. At a fort.’

  ‘He told me. Doesn’t really seem the soldier type.’

  Indavara would have put it in stronger terms than that but knew he shouldn’t criticise Corbulo too much in front of the optio. ‘He says we all have our strengths and weaknesses.’

  ‘Considering his job, I imagine he’s glad to have you by his side.’

  Indavara didn’t reply.

  ‘And you?’ continued Mercator. ‘I assume you’ve been in more fights than battles.’

  Indavara nodded.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Don’t like talking much, do you?’

  ‘Doesn’t it annoy you? Being told what to do every hour of the day?’

  ‘I’m an optio. Once you reach that rank you spend more time giving orders than taking them.’

  ‘But you often have to do things you don’t want to.’

  ‘That’s life.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Beating a man who won’t tow the line. Being sent out with a tax collector and having to get money off some poor bugger who doesn’t have two coins to rub together.’

  ‘All for Rome,’ said Indavara, kicking away a pebble.

  ‘Rome is not perfect,’ acknowledged Mercator. ‘I know both sides. But the army has given me a good life and the Empire brings order. And – for the most part – peace. Honestly, most of the time it’s just about looking after the men, getting them through.’

  Indavara couldn’t imagine that. Having never had to look out for anyone other than himself, keeping an eye on Corbulo and Simo was more than enough for him. ‘Must be difficult.’

  To Indavara’s surprise, Mercator laughed. ‘Gods, I remember my first few years. I’d get out of any job I could. I hated to be put in charge of anything.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I remember one time when we’d chased a band of Palmyrans into the hills west of Apamea. Bloody diehards they were – dug themselves into these tunnels. Centurion needed volunteers. I was just a guard officer back then.’

  ‘You went in?’

  ‘Just me, a dagger and a lantern. By Mars, I’ve never been so scared.’

  ‘But you did it.’

  ‘I just realised I’d rather go myself than watch someone else do it.’

  ‘That took courage,’ said Indavara.

  ‘Or stupidity,’ replied Mercator with a smile. ‘Sometimes there’s a pretty thin line between the two.’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’

  Khalima had his arm over Cassius’s shoulder as he led him into one of the smaller tents. Standing inside were the three young women he’d seen earlier.

  ‘Let me put it this way,’ replied the Saracen. ‘When we reach Galanaq are you keen to be the first one pulled out of line by Ilaha’s guards?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Well then, let me introduce Farrai, Elymaris and Golpari.’

  ‘Your daughters?’

&n
bsp; Khalima roared with laughter, answering only when he’d recovered himself. ‘No, Roman. My wives. Well, some of them.’

  Though surprised, Cassius was aware of this tradition among certain peoples of the East.

  ‘Is it really so shocking?’ asked Khalima, eyes twinkling.

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Cassius. ‘In fact I think it’s an excellent idea.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  Khalima spoke a few words of Nabatean and the oldest of the girls came forward. She looked about Cassius’s age.

  ‘Golpari is Persian. She was an actress and what she doesn’t know about altering one’s appearance isn’t worth knowing.’

  Golpari examined Cassius’s face and hair, then pointed at the freckles on his forearms. The two other girls giggled.

  ‘Where are you from originally?’ asked Khalima. ‘Gaul or Germany, I imagine.’

  ‘The north of Italy.’

  ‘Ah. Well, by the time Golpari’s finished with you, you’ll look like one of us.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘You’ll see. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. You’ll join me later?’

  ‘By all means.’

  Khalima left.

  Cassius stood there for a moment, not quite sure what to do with himself. ‘Do you speak Greek?’

  ‘And a little Latin,’ said Golpari. Her voice was almost as enticing as her face. ‘Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Greek is fine.’

  Golpari gestured to a large cushion below a lantern. ‘Could you kneel there, please?’

  ‘Happy to.’

  Farrai and Elymaris went to the back of the tent, where there were several wooden chests and some mixing bowls. Golpari brought over a stool and sat in front of Cassius. Unable to see much of the rest of her body because of her robes, he found himself staring at her face – and what a face it was. Her skin was flawless and surprisingly pale, though more surprising still were her eyes. They were an entrancing light blue, brilliant amidst the dark kohl and beneath the sweep of black hair.

  ‘You are fair,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure we can do something.’

  As she spoke, Cassius’s gaze drifted to her plump, sensuous lips. It took him a while to remember what she’d said and formulate a reply.

  ‘Er … what exactly?’

  The girls returned with two bowls. One contained a watery brown liquid, the other a thicker black substance.

  ‘Yuk.’

  ‘The brown is for your skin. It is a mix of plant dyes and oils. Usually we use it for decoration, like a tattoo. It will stain the skin temporarily.’

  ‘How temporarily?’

  ‘It will wash off gradually over a period of weeks.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘That’s for your hair. It contains many ingredients including vinegar, nut extract and …’ She gave a little smile and consulted the other girls for a translation. ‘… and leeches.’

  ‘Leeches? By the gods.’

  The three girls laughed.

  ‘It’s harmless,’ said Golpari. ‘It too will wash out after a while.’

  ‘Very well. I suppose I shall just have to trust you.’

  ‘What will you be wearing? How much of your skin will be visible?’

  ‘I can keep my riding breeches on, I suppose. Face and hands should be enough.’

  Golpari took a dark cotton sheet from Elymaris. ‘It will be easier if you take off your tunic. I’ll have to do some of your neck.’

  ‘I’m sure you know best.’

  Cassius removed his boots and socks, then his belt. Farrai and Elymaris took them and put them to one side. Cassius couldn’t actually stand up straight in the tent so he bent over and Golpari helped him take his tunic off over his head, leaving him in just his loincloth. He had spent enough time naked around both men and women not to feel self-conscious, though he imagined his newly acquired tan lines looked rather unattractive.

  Golpari gestured at the cushions and he knelt down again. She had to lean forward to wrap the sheet around him and Cassius breathed in the heavenly scent she was wearing. After a week on the road with the men, being alone with these three was really quite delightful.

  Once the sheet was tied, Golpari took a brush and put it into the liquid. ‘Now, Master Cassius, close your eyes.’

  An hour later, the transformation was complete. Golpari held up a mirror.

  ‘By Jupiter.’

  Cassius watched the new him frown. He really did look like an easterner. His hair and skin were as dark as Indavara and Simo’s and looked convincingly natural. Golpari had even tinted his eyebrows with an appropriate tone.

  ‘Did we do well?’ she asked.

  ‘Exceptionally well.’

  ‘You must not wash – tonight or tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Cassius. ‘But it smells a bit.’

  ‘That will wear off too.’

  Golpari removed the sheet and picked up his tunic.

  ‘Shall I put it on for you?’

  ‘Please.’

  Cassius used every last moment to examine that wonderful face and commit it to memory.

  ‘Come on, then, who’s going to crack the first joke?’

  The men had gathered around their own fire. Cassius came close enough to the flames so that they could see him. Their reaction confirmed the quality of Golpari’s work.

  ‘Remarkable, sir,’ said Yorvah. ‘Just like one of us now.’

  Simo peered at him. ‘Amazing, sir. Amazing.’

  Indavara was sitting against some sacks of fodder, nibbling a piece of lamb stuck to the end of his dagger.

  ‘Well?’ said Cassius.

  ‘You look the same,’ said Indavara, ‘but darker.’

  ‘Insightful as ever.’ Cassius sat down next to him. ‘Get me a plate of something, would you, Simo, I’m starving. Oh, have you finished the agreement?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Both copies.’

  ‘What’s that smell?’ asked Indavara.

  ‘Me. Apparently it will wear off.’

  Indavara downed the rest of the meat then let out a satisfied belch. ‘Delicious. That Censorinus knows his lamb.’

  ‘Fancy a few drinks to wash it down?’ asked Cassius. ‘Khalima has invited me for an evening drink with my senior men. That means you and Mercator.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Best behaviour. We will be relying on these people.’

  ‘Ha!’ cried Khalima when they arrived at his tent. ‘Look at our new Arabian friend! Did I not tell you that wife of mine has a talent?’

  ‘Indeed she does,’ said Cassius.

  The Saracen appeared the picture of contentment, again leaning back on a mountain of cushions with his two sons beside him. A teenage girl was kneeling to one side.

  ‘Please, sit.’

  More cushions had been put down at the guests’ end of the tent. Dividing them from their host was a line of bowls containing various foods. Khalima clapped his hands and the girl poured wine from an ornate silver jug into equally expensive goblets. She placed one in the hand of each of the three guests then left. Nothing was said while this was going on and Cassius felt himself growing rather nervous. After their earlier meeting, he felt he had some measure of the Saracen but he doubted Mercator would feel much more comfortable than Indavara.

  The chief gestured to his left. ‘My oldest son, Miraz. He will take my family and the caravan on to Petra.’

  Miraz looked like a younger version of his father, though he clearly preferred a more natural look for his beard. He offered a vague nod.

  Khalima gestured to the right. ‘Adayyid, my youngest. He will accompany us.’

  Adayyid was slimmer than his father and brother. He was slumped languidly against the cushions.

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Cassius.

  ‘Please, eat,’ said Khalima.

  Mercator selected some dates and seeds. Though full after the lamb, Cassius took a handful of raisins. Indavara grabbed a selection of everything
and noisily devoured it all.

  Cassius gave an apologetic grin and aimed a thumb at him. ‘Never needs a second invitation.’

  ‘A body such as that needs feeding,’ said Khalima. ‘Were I a few years younger I might challenge your friend to an arm wrestle, but I fear I might embarrass myself.’ He turned to Mercator and spoke in Nabatean. The exchange was brief but – to Cassius’s relief – friendly.

  ‘I asked Mertan if he likes our little oasis,’ continued Khalima in Greek. ‘It is good that your men will enjoy a pleasant night’s rest. We have far to go tomorrow.’

  ‘Khalima, I wonder if you could tell us a little more about your business. We can pass it on to the men; and will be prepared if any of us are questioned.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Khalima did precisely that, outlining the basics of his work and the incense trade. Cassius had to nudge Indavara several times when he seemed not be listening. After Khalima had finished, Cassius supplemented his knowledge with a few precise questions.

  The chief then told Adayyid to refill everyone’s goblet and asked Indavara how he had acquired such a remarkable number of scars. Fearing an awkward exchange, Cassius intervened, joking that Indavara was ‘accident prone’. Fortunately, Khalima pressed him no further.

  ‘My people have a tradition of telling stories,’ said the Saracen. ‘Miraz will start us off. But you three had better start thinking of a good one – we consider it rude not to contribute.’

  Miraz’s tale involved an unfortunate merchant who became rather too close to his camel and met a sticky end. Cassius wasn’t really one for jokes or humorous tales but Indavara and Mercator seemed to enjoy it and he made himself laugh along.

  ‘And now it is the turn of our guests,’ said Khalima.

  ‘Do they have to be funny?’ asked Mercator.