The Black Stone: Agent of Rome 4 (The Agent of Rome) Page 11

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s talking about not coming. I suspect it’s a bit of a ruse for attention but I can’t be sure.’

  Abascantius grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from a bowl Muranda had left on Cassius’s desk. ‘He was doing his bit with the auxiliaries today. Seemed quite keen.’

  ‘I need to be sure, sir. Otherwise I might find myself travelling alone with two hundred aurei and twenty men I hardly know.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be ideal.’

  Chewing noisily on the seeds, Abascantius leaned back against the desk. ‘So still no word from that Gaul of yours?’

  ‘I shall wring his fat neck when I see him. To be late is bad enough but to send no word. It’s an outrage.’

  ‘How late is he now?’

  ‘Four or five days.’

  ‘You do realise he may have left you.’

  ‘Simo? Never.’

  ‘Be realistic, Corbulo. It happens all the time. You think he adores attending to your every need so much that he’s never thought of having a life of his own?’

  ‘He comes from a line of slaves. He has known nothing else.’

  ‘These Christians put ideas in their heads. They don’t worship our gods, they don’t worship the Emperor, but you expect him to worship you?’

  ‘Simo’s not like that. He wants to follow their teachings, I know; and he wants to do good, but—’

  ‘There – he wants to do good. Will he be able to do what he would consider good working for you; in our line of business? No, it’ll be a wrench to start with, good slaves are hard to come by, but you need someone who can do more than wash your loincloths and cook up a good meal. That’s women’s work. You need someone who can really help you. You should get yourself down to an auction tomorrow and buy a man. Take some of the gold if you need a bit of help. Any self-respecting merchant would have a slave so it won’t affect your cover.’

  Cassius found the idea horrifying, and not just because of the financial implications of losing a slave and having to buy another. The prospect of Simo not returning and replacing him with some brute like Shostra was truly awful.

  ‘There must have been some delay. He’ll be here.’

  ‘You don’t have time to wait around. Anyway, that’s your problem – we were discussing your other troublesome employee.’

  ‘Sir, what you said last night – about giving Indavara his place. I think there’s something more we can do. Something concrete.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ask him to join the army.’

  ‘But he’s a bodyguard – hired help.’

  ‘It’s unconventional, I know, but I think it might work. Do you know what happened to him in Pietas Julia, at this inn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because he was well known from the arena, people wouldn’t leave him alone. One night he was cornered by a group of men. He ended up killing one of them. The magistrates came after him and he had to leave; I believe that’s why he headed east. As a soldier he’d be free from prosecution. We can offer him a proper wage, get him an identity tablet, enter him onto the books of the Fourth Legion with me.’

  ‘I suppose I could sort out the paperwork. He’d have to take the oath.’

  ‘I know. It’s a gamble. He might say no. The whole thing might scare him off. But if he agrees, he’ll have his place …’

  ‘… and we’ll have him.’

  ‘Sir, it might be best if the offer comes from you.’

  Abascantius grinned. ‘Best for you?’

  ‘For all of us.’

  ‘Very well, Corbulo. You know him better than me. We’ll try it.’

  VII

  Gutha laid the charred, tattered flag on the floor. There was a single patch of red left, upon it an eagle’s wing embroidered in golden thread.

  ‘I thought you might like this.’

  Ilaha smiled. ‘I shall use it as a doormat.’

  Gutha straightened up and looked around the cavern.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ilaha. ‘She’s not here.’

  Feigning indifference, Gutha examined his hands. He had been holding reins for so long that bits of leather had stuck to the lines in his palms.

  ‘Shall I have something fetched for you?’ asked Ilaha. ‘Food? Drink?’

  ‘No thank you, I’d just like to get back to the inn.’

  ‘I really don’t know why you insist on living in the town. There are hundreds of these caves. I could have one furnished to your tastes.’

  Staying here – close to the temple and the old crone – was not a prospect Gutha considered appealing. ‘I just wanted to give you the flag.’

  Ilaha was standing in front of a table covered with gems, figurines, jewellery and other assorted valuables. Below it were stacks of wooden boxes overflowing with coins. In amongst the trinkets was a circular golden mask bearing the narrow features of a young girl.

  Gutha moved closer. ‘That death mask, it’s not Gerrhan, is it?’

  ‘The expert who checked it for me thinks so. From the lost city – perhaps more than a thousand years old.’

  ‘Do you know what one of those would fetch in Rome or Alexandria?’

  ‘I do. Fortunately my men don’t. Please ensure it stays that way.’

  ‘Of course. But where did you—’

  ‘Let’s not get distracted, Gutha. The operation – did you lose any men?’

  ‘Not one. I allowed some of the legionaries to escape as you ordered.’

  ‘Bostra will know by now that they face a serious threat.’

  ‘They will.’

  ‘You still think this was premature?’

  ‘We cannot be sure how they will respond. And I am concerned that you continue to draw so much attention to yourself.’ Gutha jutted his jaw at the treasure. ‘More “donations”?’

  Ilaha gave a sly grin.

  ‘Raiding these temples – it does you more harm than good. Your men do not take the precautions I do. Word will get out. You will make enemies of those you wish to become allies.’

  ‘I need money. My army needs money.’

  Army. That was new.

  ‘Besides,’ continued Ilaha, ‘there is no place any more for temples to false idols, or Persian gods or Roman gods. There is only …’

  He paused; and Gutha realised his face must have betrayed his feelings.

  ‘What?’ said Ilaha.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Ilaha’s hand drifted to an amulet around his neck, a yellow gem mounted on a silver chain. ‘You do not believe as I do. As the others do. I know that.’

  ‘You do not pay me to believe. You pay me to offer counsel and do your bidding.’

  Ilaha walked away, through one of the shafts of light angling down into the floor from the small, high windows.

  ‘The new arrivals in the town concern me too,’ added Gutha. ‘We chose this place because it is remote. Safe.’

  Ilaha turned as he spoke, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Is it not a cause for celebration? These men are not even affiliated to the loyal chiefs but they have heard what is happening here. They are curious, eager to join us.’

  ‘To join what exactly? I am concerned that you intend to go beyond what is practical, what is possible.’

  ‘Mother told me you would try this.’

  ‘Try what?’

  ‘To dissuade me. Limit me.’

  ‘My view has stayed consistent throughout. There have to be limits. I did not agree—’

  Ilaha held up a hand. ‘Your agreement is not required, Gutha. You have given your counsel. And I have heard it. Now, will you do my bidding?’

  Gutha bit his tongue, even though Ilaha had never previously treated his advice with such disdain. To protest more would risk a permanent rift between them. Ilaha might not be governed by pragmatism, but he was.

  ‘Of course.’

  Ilaha walked back through the light. ‘Mushannaf has agreed to come and see me in a few days’ time but I have it on good authority that
he means not to attend the meeting of the chiefs. I want him dealt with before the others arrive.’

  ‘That situation is in hand. If you cannot persuade him, I will.’

  ‘Mushannaf is influential. He has no interest in the divine and his people are little more than money grabbers – but he commands many swords.’

  ‘He won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, you must rest.’ Ilaha walked up to Gutha and put a hand on his chest. ‘You deserve it.’

  Gutha had never particularly minded the fact that Ilaha sometimes touched him. But he now found himself struck by an urge to reach down and crush those slim fingers under his.

  ‘Thank you.’ He stepped back, Ilaha’s hand slipping off him as he made for the passageway.

  ‘Oh, Gutha.’

  He stopped and turned.

  Ilaha took the amulet from his neck and offered it to him. ‘Please.’

  Gutha didn’t want the thing, didn’t want it anywhere near him in fact. But he had gone too far earlier; it seemed wise to accept the gift. He put out his hand.

  ‘No, let me.’

  Glad they were alone, Gutha bowed his head. Even so, Ilaha had to stretch to his full height to get the chain over his neck.

  ‘Perhaps it will help you.’

  ‘Help me?’

  ‘To believe.’

  When he awoke later, the amulet was the first thing Gutha saw. The chain was hanging from the chair next to his bed, the gem catching a little light from outside the inn. He imagined the crone’s eye somewhere within – spying on him, trying to enter his mind.

  ‘Get hold of yourself, man,’ he muttered, grabbing a blanket and throwing it over the gem.

  He looked out of the window and guessed it was early evening. He was still stiff from the ride but not tired enough to sleep through until morning. He was, however, hungry, and hopeful that Qattif would be back that evening to meet him as planned.

  He pushed himself up off the bed, the timbers protesting noisily. He always half-expected the thing to collapse but the innkeeper insisted he could find nothing stronger. Gutha would have settled for longer; only by sleeping diagonally could he fit his entire frame on what was supposed to be a double bed.

  He splashed water onto his face from a bowl then pulled on his trousers, a sleeveless tunic and a pair of sandals. Bowing his head – as he had to do everywhere other than the inn’s parlour – he stepped into the corridor. There was no need to lock or even close the door. He rented the entire second floor and each of the four rooms contained some of his gear: clothes, riding equipment, weapons; one was devoted entirely to his armour. Most of his time with Ilaha had been spent on the move and he found it quite pleasant to have a base at last. Even so, he kept only a fraction of his money there. Every few weeks he would send Qattif or another lackey to various moneylenders outside the province. That way he could always leave at a moment’s notice, confident the bulk of his earnings were secure.

  Downstairs, the parlour was surprisingly busy. As Gutha entered, a group of youths sitting by the hearth became suddenly quiet. They looked like desert folk: dusty robes, home-made knives at their belts and not a sword or a decent pair of boots between them. They stood and bowed to him.

  Gutha acknowledged them with a nod, then went to sit on his usual stool at the bar. The other customers were all warriors – about fifteen of them, some familiar faces – and they also bowed. Gutha was still unsure how it had all started – the bowing. The gesture had never been sought by him or suggested by anyone else. The first time he’d really noticed it was after that scrap with the Palmyran cavalry. Gutha admitted to himself that perhaps it wasn’t that surprising – he had pulled five of the bastards off their horses and slain a dozen in all.

  Alome, the innkeeper’s wife, leaned on the bar opposite him and tutted. ‘You kill a jolly atmosphere quicker than a leper, Master Gutha. You’ll be costing my husband money.’

  ‘Take it off my bill,’ replied Gutha with a grin. He liked the old girl – she was the only one who treated him like a normal person.

  Alome scratched a blotchy insect bite on her cheek and gazed at him. ‘Those locks of yours – so pretty.’

  As a child growing up in Gerasa, he’d got used to having the only head of blond hair in the entire city. He’d had a pretty face then too.

  ‘Shame about the rest, eh?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ she replied. ‘Rugged.’

  ‘That’s one word for it.’

  Alome took a jug from a shelf and poured him some wine.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked.

  ‘Yesterday’s lamb stew or today’s chicken and vegetables.’

  Gutha tried to make up his mind as he took his first drink.

  ‘Stew always tastes better the second day,’ said Alome as she retied her apron.

  ‘Stew it is.’

  ‘Oh – Qattif came in earlier. I told him you were sleeping so he said he’d be back this evening.’

  As she went off to fetch the food, Gutha became aware of someone standing over his left shoulder. ‘It is inadvisable to creep up on me. Stand where I can see you.’

  The young warrior came forward. Despite his brazen approach, he was wringing his hands. ‘My apologies, sir. Might I speak with you for a minute?’

  ‘As long as you keep it to a minute.’

  ‘We arrived this morning, sir, and wish to join the forces of Lord Ilaha.’

  Forces? Lord? Gutha had heard those words a few times recently too. Who came up with this stuff?

  The youth’s beard was patchy; his face soft and unmarked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Lord Ilaha is the most powerful of all the chiefs, sir. They say he will protect us from Palmyra, from Persia – even take our lands back from Rome. The sun god wants him to rule us. We know that you are a great warrior, that—’

  ‘You should go to the tower. See Commander Theomestor or Commander Oblachus.’

  ‘I will, sir. Would we be able to—’

  Gutha turned away. ‘Minute’s up.’

  The youth returned to his friends.

  Gutha looked at the other warriors, thought of the other full inns and the men billeted across the town. No wonder Ilaha was feeling so full of himself. Perhaps he was right to seize the moment.

  But things were moving fast. Too fast. If they didn’t control events, events would control them.

  He had just finished his second plateful of stew when Qattif came in. The Saracen hung his sand-encrusted cloak on a hook, greeted Alome and her husband, then made his way over to Gutha. Qattif was of nomad stock like the youngsters: a tall, stringy specimen with a beak of a nose and a heavy beard greying below his chin. He brushed sand out of it, then sat down. ‘Nasty wind getting up.’

  As Gutha downed the last of his bread, Alome took his plate and whistled. ‘By Our Lady of Light, in my old village that could have fed a family for a week. Anything else?’

  Gutha licked a gravy-stained finger. ‘Bowl of dates for my room.’

  Alome cast a speculative look at Qattif.

  ‘The usual,’ he said, looking around the parlour as Alome withdrew to the kitchen. ‘Lot of new men coming in. I heard even Chief Uruwat is with us now.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Exciting times.’

  Gutha snorted as he washed the stew down with a mouthful of wine. ‘Well? You have what I asked for?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Took you long enough.’

  ‘Wasn’t easy. Almost got caught twice.’

  Qattif reached into his tunic and retrieved a small leather bag tied with twine. Gutha took it and tucked it behind his belt.

  ‘And that other matter?’

  Qattif flicked sand out of his cavernous nostrils. ‘That was even harder. I had to tread carefully. People don’t like to talk about him, even the warriors that have fought with him for years.’

  ‘And?’

  Qattif waited for Alome to put down his wine and walk away. No one
else was within earshot.

  ‘There’s a fellow called Gallani who was born in the same village – little place about a day’s ride from Emesa. Said he remembers the old woman. Said Ilaha lived with her in a house there – small place out on its own. Apparently, she looked just like she does now. She can’t be his mother, just doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Did this Gallani mention any other family?’

  ‘Just the old woman. She was quite well known in the area. The locals were all petrified of her. They called her “the queen”.’

  ‘Who says peasants don’t understand irony?’

  ‘It seems she told the villagers she really had been a queen. One woman mocked her for it and the old bitch attacked her – clawed out one of her eyes. Her husband and her sons went to the house to have their revenge. Never came back.’

  ‘That has the ring of an old wives’ tale.’

  ‘Sorry. All I could get.’

  ‘Could you find this village?’

  ‘You know me. I can find anything.’

  ‘I want you to go there, dig up whatever you can and come straight back. I need to know the truth about her. And him.’

  Qattif exhaled loudly.

  ‘Your usual rate – and a half,’ said Gutha.

  ‘Very generous. I will leave—’

  ‘At dawn.’

  ‘I will leave at dawn.’ Qattif swigged some wine, then wiped his mouth. ‘If there’s nothing else, may I go? This place is rather quiet for my liking.’

  ‘You may.’ Gutha reached out and clamped his hand over Qattif’s arm. ‘But do not breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  ‘You know you can trust me.’

  ‘I hope so. Because if I ever find out otherwise I will tear your spine out of you and use it as a backscratcher.’

  Qattif seemed rather impressed by the threat. Even so, he made sure he met Gutha’s gaze. ‘Understood.’

  Qattif had nerve. Gutha had always liked that about him. He let him go.

  VIII

  When it came to worship, Cassius preferred to keep things simple. He couldn’t see much point in dividing his efforts amongst the lesser gods so had recently decided to devote himself to Jupiter and never ask for too much. As countless others would be seeking the favour of the god of gods, he considered it wise to limit one’s expectations.