Date: 2018-08-26 04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Schlock! Publications

The Kingdom that Rome Forgot

GAVIN CHAPPELL

Copyright © Gavin Chappell 2018

Cover art by Sdanir

All illustrations provided under license from Wikimedia.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

The right of Gavin Chappell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Schlock! Publications 2018

ISBN-13: 978-1725603400

ISBN-10: 1725603403

This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to actual persons and/or places are purely coincidental.

Schlock! Publications
www.schlock.co.uk

In the same series:

On Hadrian’s Secret Service

Murder in Hadrian’s Villa

The Hadrian Legacy

Our Man in Alexandria

The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit

The Games of Hadrian: The Archimedes Stratagem

And by the same author:

Crocodile and Leopard

The Man Who Sold the Roman Empire

…with acknowledgements to Gustave Flaubert.

—1—

Camp of the Twenty-Second Legion, Nicopolis, Province of Egypt, Ides of October 124 AD

‘Permission denied,’ said Avidius Pollio sharply. He gazed up at the tall figure standing before the wide marble topped desk and scowled.

‘I can’t spare you, tribune,’ he added, rising smartly to his feet. He came out to lean himself against the side of the desk, arms folded. ‘This is the third request for transfer in a month,’ he added, when there was no change in the tribune’s grave expression. ‘What’s it all about?’

Avidius Pollio, legate of the Twenty Second Legion, regarded his chief intelligence officer glumly. Gaius Flaminius Drusus was a tall, spare young man in his mid-twenties, clad unusually in full dress uniform. The legate had grown so accustomed to seeing the man in some kind of disguise, it seemed odd for him to resemble a military man. Flaminius was almost half Avidius Pollio’s age, but there was something in his grey eyes that spoke of experiences beyond even those of the middle aged legate.

He saluted stiffly. ‘I’m not achieving anything here, sir,’ he said bitterly. ‘Since the end of summer, everything’s been quiet. No sign of Arctos stirring up trouble, the gladiators are quiet, the river pirates have vanished into the Delta... The emperor doesn’t consider Egypt to be of any importance right now. I would be better placed serving with another legion in a more endangered province.’

‘You’re not happy here,’ Avidius Pollio observed dryly. ‘You’ve been silent and withdrawn ever since. Missing your family back home?’ Flaminius shook his head vehemently. ‘Then what is it? A woman?’

Flaminius said nothing. Avidius Pollio’s face cleared.

He slapped Flaminius on the shoulder. ‘Forget her,’ he advised. ‘There are plenty more in this man’s empire. You have my express permission to visit the brothels of Canopus. That’ll cure your itch! I’m not having my chief spy down in the dumps because of a single woman.’

‘It’s not just one woman,’ said Flaminius despairingly.

‘For Jove’s sake!’ Avidius Pollio roared. ‘I don’t want to know the lurid details. Take a quick furlough in Canopus, then come back rested and refreshed and ready for whatever the barbarians have to throw at us next.’

‘But the barbarians aren’t throwing anything at us,’ said Flaminius. ‘That’s the point. Not that I don’t want to get away from her,’ he went on, ‘and not that I don’t want to get back to her,’ he added, stressing the second “her” to make it clear that this was a different female, ‘but my talents as an imperial agent are wasted in Egypt. Everything is quiet. The raiders from the desert are nowhere to be seen. Arctos fled the province. The Judaeans are cooperating.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Egypt is too far away from the main action! I wasn’t made to sit in an office all day, reading reports…’ He broke off, glancing at the legate’s own cluttered desk.

Avidius Pollio laughed hollowly, and went to sit down again. He picked up a sheaf of documents. Most of them were reports, and only one of them was Flaminius’ formal request for transfer.

He held the latter to the flame of the oil lamp that sat in the middle of the desk. It flared up and blackened to ash, taking with it Flaminius’ last hope of escaping his troubles in Egypt.

‘The whole empire is at peace, lad,’ the legate told Flaminius. ‘The emperor has created something none of his predecessors have achieved since the Divine Augustus himself: peace within and without. The Caledonians are quiet—this new wall is keeping them at bay. The Germanic tribes are quiescent. The Parthians are peaceful. But maybe there’s still one threat, unsuspected. An old enemy. The oldest, one might say.’

Flaminius looked inquiringly at him. ‘An old enemy. The Gauls? The Etruscans? The… Samnites?’

Avidius Pollio gave a thin lipped smile. ‘Over in Carthage,’ he went on, ‘there has been no rain for three years. People talk of the anger of the gods. Some say that Hannibal’s city should never have been rebuilt. Other people say that it is time the Roman yoke was cast off.’

Flaminius folded his arms. ‘People say that sort of thing all the time,’ he said. ‘Just because Carthage has had no rain recently… Oh, I’d read something about it myself,’ he added, remembering one of the interminable reports his network of agents had sent him. ‘But I dismissed it as the fantasies of frustrated men with no potential to translate words into action.’

He dimly recalled the history lessons his tutor had given him as a boy. After the Third Punic War the city of Carthage, which had previously rivalled Rome for control of the West, had been razed to the ground, and the very fields ploughed with salt so nothing would grow there. More recently, the Romans had relented. Julius Caesar, camped near the ruins during the civil war, had planned their rebuilding on the basis of a dream. Although he was murdered before he could carry out his plan—some said that this was the wrath of the gods at his presumption—the Emperor Augustus had established a new city atop the ruins of the old.

‘You’re right,’ Avidius Pollio conceded, ‘that the Carthaginians of today, even those of Punic descent, are a far cry from the likes of Hannibal. Their city is long forgotten, the Roman colony built on its site deserted by its Punic gods. Speaking of gods, do you know what some people say spelled the death of Carthage?’

‘Scipio’s legions?’ Flaminius suggested sardonically. ‘Hannibal defeated the Romans, the Romans defeated the Carthaginians. A simple case of tit for tat.’

‘Some people say,’ Avidius Pollio persisted, lowering his voice, ‘that Carthage remained invincible as long as the Veil of Tanit remained in the temple of that goddess, much like the Palladium in Troy. It was the power of Tanit, to whom in times of drought the Carthaginian people sacrificed their firstborn in return for rain, that kept Carthage strong. As long as the goddess’s statue held the Zaïmph, the bejewelled veil in the holy of holies, the city would be mistress of the world.’

‘So how come Rome managed to beat her?’ Flaminius asked. ‘How come Scipio defeated the Carthaginians? Didn’t Tanit help?’

He laughed, then peered worriedly at the legate. Had Avidius Pollio been out in the sun too much? Not that there was a lot of sun in January, even in Egypt, but the man had clearly been overdoing it.

‘Some people say,’ Avidius Pollio went on, ‘that before the tide of war turned in favour of the Romans, the veil of Tanit was stolen from the sanctuary by a Gaulish mercenary. This spelled the beginning of the end of Carthaginian supremacy. And so it came to pass.’

‘What in Pluto’s name are you saying?’ said Flaminius hotly. ‘That Rome owes her rise to the theft of a holy relic by some Gaul?’ He paused. ‘What happened to the Gaul, anyway? And what happened to the veil?’

‘The Gaul died soon after,’ Avidius Pollio explained; ‘some say struck down by the goddess’ wrath; the veil’s fate remained a mystery until the present day. It was not in the goddess’s sanctuary when Scipio led his legions into the city at the end of the final war. All this was forgotten about even by the people of Carthage itself, until the recent drought. Now it is said that babies have gone missing. That the ancient rites of human sacrifice have been secretly performed. That the ancient cult of Tanit has been reinstated.’

‘I see,’ said Flaminius thoughtfully. ‘And the drought’s still not ended? Not much use, then, this goddess.’

Avidius Pollio grunted, as if dismissing everything he had said as the superstitious nonsense it undoubtedly was. He produced another report. ‘And what of Claudius Mercator? He says he’s found a new route to Phazania, and the kingdom of the Garamantes.’

Flaminius felt a headache beginning. Was he being dense? He failed to see any connection.

And was the legate running another intelligence operation? Avidius Pollio had been keeping his ear to the ground. It was the result of too much peace, he told himself. In times like these, even legates interested themselves in trivia. The man was getting old if he thought an eccentric Alexandrian merchant worth worrying about.

Claudius Mercator was a prominent figure of the mercantile class, prone to making wild claims to garner financial support for even wilder ventures. It was public knowledge that the old fool was in town again, with stories of a new route to a lost city of the desert or somesuch. Flaminius had no savings, but even if he had, he knew exactly where he wouldn’t be investing them.

‘The Garamantes?’ he said. ‘I thought they were all wiped out long ago.’

The Garamantes were a people of the Libyan Desert who had made numerous raids on the Romans in chariots until the Romans struck back, ten thousand legionaries marching south through trackless and almost waterless desert to sack their chief city, Garama, and lay waste their desert empire.

The legate shook his head. ‘They’ve carried out a few raids against the empire in recent years,’ he said, ‘which resulted one retaliatory campaign. After which we have heard little from them, but trade routes exist across the desert, although they are shifting and uncertain, since the nomads do their utmost to fill in the wells that desert travellers need to survive the journey. It seems that the road to Garama has been reopened.’

‘Trade?’ asked Flaminius. ‘Trade in what, anyway? Sand? Snakes? Scorpions? What have they got to trade out there in the desert?’

Avidius Pollio consulted a waxen tablet. ‘Ivory,’ he said, ‘and Ethiopian slaves. Wild beasts for the arena. Natron… Salt... And of course, carbuncles.’

Flaminius made a face. ‘Carbuncles?’ he said, puzzled. ‘My mother’s uncle suffered from them for many years. Very nasty. Why would anyone want to trade them?’

Avidius Pollio looked exasperated. ‘Garamantian carbuncles,’ he explained, ‘are semiprecious stones, red in colour[1].’ He clapped his hands and the scribe came over carrying a sword clasp. In the middle of it sat a large fiery red stone, redder even than Flaminius’ maternal uncle’s boils.

The tribune shrugged. ‘Very pretty,’ he said, ‘but hardly empire-shattering. And this is what Claudius Mercator is after? But why should we be interested in him? Even if the empire’s at peace, it all seems pretty inconsequential.’

‘Claudius Mercator is scheduled to address a meeting of scholars and citizens at the Museum this evening,’ Avidius Pollio said, ‘where he will relate his abortive expedition into Phazania. He’s looking for donations towards another journey. But the rumour is that, using a newer, shorter route, he got as far as Garama itself. The city remains, it seems, although it is not easily accessible. And in the main temple of the city, the merchant noticed something of interest to us all.’

Flaminius suppressed a yawn. ‘And what was that?’ he asked indulgently.

‘The veil of Tanit.’

Flaminius stood bolt upright. ‘The what?’ he exclaimed.

‘The Zaïmph,’ said Avidius Pollio. ‘Aha, it’s all coming together, isn’t it? You’ve been searching in all the wrong places when you were looking for trouble. Yes, the Garamantes were allies of the Carthaginians in the old days, and they worshipped many of the same gods. They still have a temple to Tanit. It must have been looted during the Roman attack, but apparently they’ve rebuilt it since then. And according to Claudius Mercator, the statue of Tanit now holds the very veil that was stolen from her temple in Carthage.’

‘Oh, come off it,’ said Flaminius with an uneasy laugh. ‘How could the veil have got there? There must be a thousand miles of barren mountains and deserts between Carthage and Garama. And why didn’t Cornelius Balbus see it when he sacked the city?’

Balbus had led the original Roman attack on the Garamantes. Surely he would have noticed the famous veil. By now it would have been on display in the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline in Rome.

Avidius Pollio shook his head. ‘It’s a mystery. Bear in mind that all this is the rumour of the wine shop. No doubt too plebeian for your own agents to report. And yet by now it’s the talk of everywhere from Alexandria to Carthage. But in lieu of anything else to keep you occupied, tribune, I’d like you to send one of your people to this public meeting and listen to what Claudius Mercator has to say.

‘With the situation so volatile in Carthage right now, we can’t afford to allow such rumours to be bruited about unchallenged. If the Carthaginians think that the veil of Tanit has been rediscovered, they are going to rally around it like a standard. And then it will no longer be their own children’s blood they’re shedding in sacrifice to the goddess. It’ll be the blood of Roman citizens, in the name of a mad dream of a resurgent Carthage.’

‘A mad dream for certain,’ said Flaminius, but the vision chilled him. ‘Very well, I’ll pop down to the Museum myself, and hear what Claudius Mercator’s got to say.’

‘You have an agent in the Library, don’t you?’ Avidius Pollio said, returning his attention to the sheaf of reports. ‘No need for you to go yourself.’

Flaminius patted his stomach. ‘I need the exercise,’ he said breezily. He was developing a paunch from recent inactivity. ‘Besides,’ he added slowly, ‘there’s been a little friction in that department. I don’t think Ozymandias—my man in the Library—is dependable anymore.’

He didn’t mention how he had alienated his agent. The legate would not approve. Ozymandias certainly hadn’t.

‘And supposing it turns out that wine shop rumour is true,’ Flaminius went on. ‘What do you suppose I should do about it, if the veil of Tanit has been found and is hanging up in the temple of a lost desert city? You realise that the whole thing could be nonsense. Claudius Mercator is a fantasist. He’s notorious for cooking up wild tales in the hopes that someone will finance his caravans. For all we know Garama never recovered from the Roman attack. It could be a dead city.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ said Avidius Pollio. ‘But if it turns out that Claudius Mercator did indeed see the veil of Tanit, then we have only one option. You must join the caravan…’

‘Join the caravan?’ Flaminius echoed. ‘Doesn’t Claudius Mercator have any say in the matter?’

‘Your cover will be that of a wealthy, idle young man about town,’ Avidius Pollio said, ‘who fancies a spot of adventure. It’s not far from the truth,’ he added waspishly, ‘apart from the wealth. Tell him you’re willing to finance his expedition as long as he takes you with him. You can chalk up any expenses to the legion’s account—within reason, of course.’

‘You want me to join a lunatic expedition to a lost city?’ Flaminius demanded. ‘Trek south over a thousand miles of sand and rock, all on the off chance that there’s a word of truth in traveller’s tales? Risk life and limb in the country of charioteering desert nomads? And then what do you suppose I do? Steal the veil of Tanit and wind up as dead as the cursed Gaul who nabbed it in the first place?’

‘You were the one who was fretting at peace,’ said Avidius Pollio, inspecting another report. ‘Yes, I want you to remove the veil and ensure it is known to be in Roman hands. It shall be hung up in Jupiter’s temple on the Capitoline with all the other enemy relics. That’ll show the Carthaginians.’ He grinned savagely.

Then his voice grew sombre. ‘Otherwise we’ll not see peace in Africa for a very long time. Carthage cannot be permitted to rise again! It will be a disaster for Rome if the Carthaginians so much as try!’

—2—

The Museum, Alexandria, Province of Egypt, Ides of October 124 AD

Flaminius was late for the lecture.

He’d made a habit of being late for lectures back in the old days, when he was a student in Rome. So many other things had taken priority: wine, women, gaming, hangovers, avoiding creditors… This time what delayed him was an unfortunate encounter he had been half expecting from the moment he entered Alexandria.

Riding up the Canopic Way, which still bustled with the colourful life of Alexandria even this late in the day, he came at last to the district of the city near the Small Harbour where the Ptolemies had established their palaces, and with them the Temple of the Muses—the Museum—and the famous Library. Great colonnaded buildings with high pediments, built of marble that gleamed in the light of the evening sun, they stood as intellectual counterparts to the Pharos lighthouse in the harbour, whose light was said to be the Light of the World. A bulwark against barbarism and superstition, a centre for learning where scholars from across the empire congregated, as they had done since Rome was little more than a robber village.

Robed scholars gathered in small, quietly conversing groups in the shade of the colonnade. Flaminius found somewhere to tie up his horse and went looking for the lecture theatre where Claudius Mercator would be addressing the public.

‘A public lecture?’ asked the Greek greybeard Flaminius first asked. ‘I don’t believe we have any scheduled. I certainly know nothing of any lectures for the public.’ He stressed the latter word as if he felt sullied by its utterance.

‘Claudius Mercator,’ Flaminius said patiently. ‘The famous merchant?’

‘The famous charlatan,’ said the Greek disapprovingly. His hands shook with palsy as he flapped them in dismissal. ‘I don’t think you’re likely to find him in the Museum.’

He turned away, as if the interview was at an end. Clearly he was about to saunter off to the far side of the court where several other Greek intellectuals were discussing whatever abstraction was the topic of the moment.

It was still hot enough for Flaminius to feel impatient. To help his pose as a young wealthy Roman throwing his money about in the provinces, he had donned a purple dalmatic that was in serious violation of several sumptuary laws, and hot to boot. His sweat pooled unpleasantly on his flesh beneath the garment, and as it did so, his temper became increasingly brittle.

‘I was told that he was addressing the public this evening,’ said Flaminius. ‘All Alexandria is speaking about his latest venture. Surely you’ve heard? He says he’s found a new route to the lost city of Garama, in the Libyan Desert.’

The greybeard looked blank. ‘I have heard nothing of the sort. How very interesting. I have read that in such regions live men who have lost the ability to speak and yet utter imprecations against the sun, which is inimical to their country, that other folk worship only the gods of the underworld, still others have no heads, but keep their eyes and mouths in their breasts, that still other people are hairy and bestial, and even have the heads of dogs. I read that serpents are so large in those regions that they devour one whole, and have been known to attack passing ships. Tell me, have you read Aristotle’s On the History of Animals…?’

‘Can’t say I have, friend,’ said Flaminius brusquely. ‘Maybe you should read less and spend more time keeping up to date. Is there anyone who’s likely to know where I should go?’

The greybeard shrugged. ‘Try the Library,’ he suggested, and moved away.

Flaminius bit his lip. He really didn’t want to set foot in the Alexandrian Library, but it seemed that Fate was against him.

And as he entered the vast, echoing marble hall with its long stacks of books, illuminated by shafts of light from openings in the roof, dotted with scattered groups or individual scholars, he saw with a sense of tragic inevitability reminiscent of Sophoclean tragedy that Ozymandias was manning the inquiry desk. Perhaps if Flaminius just gouged his own eyes out it would appease the angry gods…

‘Evening,’ he said breezily, halting by the desk. ‘I’m looking for a lecture.’

Ozymandias didn’t look up immediately. He had seen Flaminius coming—anyone approaching the inquiry desk across that echoing indoor desert could be seen from far off. But now he was making a notation in a scroll, then waddling across to another desk to compare the first scroll with a second, pausing to sharpen his stylus, brushing a stray thread off his linen loincloth… When he had made his point, he looked up.

‘Tribune,’ he said. ‘Is this a new code?’

‘Now, don’t be difficult,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’m supposed to be going to Claudius Mercator’s public lecture. Can you tell me where it is, please, and be quick about it? It started a quarter of an hour ago.’

‘And why should I help you?’ the Egyptian asked.

‘Because it’s your job,’ said Flaminius furiously, ‘and because I pay you a substantial stipend to provide me with intelligence. Usually rather more complicated information than this. Where is the lecture?’

‘Yes, you pay me well,’ said Ozymandias, ‘but do you pay me for information or do you pay me so you can make my wife your whore? That wasn’t in the contract.’

‘For Jove’s sake,’ Flaminius raged in a whisper that nevertheless carried so far that distant scholars turned to gaze at him in disapproval. He lowered his voice still further. ‘I’ve already apologised for what happened. We’d all had a bit too much to drink. You fell asleep, as I remember.’

‘Yes,’ said Ozymandias bitterly, ‘but I woke up. And what did I find? You and Nitocris… together. And it’s not as if I hadn’t suspected something for some time, but to actually see the two of you…’

‘Alright!’ said Flaminius. ‘There was one other time. But that was different. That was necessary.’

‘And this time was because you were drunk?’ Ozymandias asked. ‘And what about next time?’ he went on sadly. ‘What will be the excuse next time?’

‘I swore by the infernal gods I’d not go near your wife again,’ Flaminius reminded him. ‘Now will you please tell me where Claudius Mercator’s giving his lecture?’

‘Possibly,’ said Ozymandias, fidgeting with his stylus. ‘But you’ll have to make it worth my while. I need some strings pulled.’

‘Can we discuss this later?’ Flaminius said. ‘I’m here on an official mission, you know. Security of the empire at stake, all that kind of thing.’

‘When isn’t the security of the empire at stake?’ asked Ozymandias. ‘What about my own petty concerns?’

‘Your own petty concerns are petty, as you admit,’ said Flaminius. ‘So you can stick them up your loincloth and tell me where the lecture is, like a good little Egyptian.’

Considering Ozymandias had married his own sister—it was an accepted custom among the Egyptians, barbarians that they were, but it still gave Flaminius the shudders—he hardly commanded the moral high ground, to the tribune’s mind. But he did have the whip hand right now.

‘I’ll tell you that,’ the Egyptian said, ‘but you’ve got to do something for me.’

‘I don’t have the budget to increase your pay,’ Flaminius said wearily.

Ozymandias shook his head. ‘It’s not money,’ he said. ‘It’s my nephew.’

‘Which nephew?’

Ozymandias had whole tribes of nephews and nieces, some in Alexandria, some in other parts of the province.

‘Amasis,’ Ozymandias said. Flaminius groaned. ‘Yes, yes, the bumptious one,’ the Egyptian went on. ‘You’ve met him a couple of times. My cousin wants him to learn a trade, he wants to see the world. I suggested some merchant takes him on. I said I had friends in high places. Can’t you use your influence?’

‘A merchant?’ said Flaminius, gaping at him. ‘Well, I don’t known, perhaps there’s a chance I could put in a good word. But I won’t be able to do that until you tell me where Claudius Mercator’s giving his lecture.’

‘Promise?’ said Ozymandias. ‘Solemn oath, by Osiris and Isis and Horus.’ Flaminius nodded vigorously, and swore. ‘Lecture Theatre III,’ the Egyptian said. ‘But you’d better hurry—it’s already halfway through.’

Cursing the gods of Egypt and their stiff-necked sons, Flaminius hurried down a cool, shadowy marble corridor.

He halted at a doorway. Two big slaves with the look of Thracians stood outside two even bigger elaborately carved doors of cedar of Lebanon. From within came the nasal whine of a lecturer.

The bigger Thracian shook his bearded head. ‘You’re late,’ he rumbled. ‘You can’t go in, citizen, the lecture’s in session.’

‘I’ve got to attend it,’ said Flaminius desperately. ‘Can’t you make an exception?’

The Thracian eyed Flaminius’ flashy garments. ‘I don’t care who your father is, citizen,’ he said, ‘rules is rules. The lecture’s in session, nobody goes in.’

Flaminius blew out his cheeks. The day was not going well. He really wasn’t supposed to do this—apart from anything it was breaking cover. But he had to attend that lecture.

He produced the lance-head brooch that identified him as an agent of the Commissary, the imperial secret police. ‘In the name of the emperor,’ he said formally, ‘open those doors and let me inside.’

A few seconds later he was slipping through a grudging crack between the two doors, with a muttered thanks to the awestruck Thracians. He entered the quiet, musty atmosphere, pregnant with avid attention, of the lecture theatre.

Sitting in rows on a mosaic floor was a motley crowd of scholars and citizens. Standing in the open space before them, gesticulating eagerly, was a small, comical figure. A man in late middle age, with a bald head and an elegant, oiled beard, clad in a patched, second hand toga, he had swarthy Levantine features, a hooked nose, and wild eyes.

Flaminius pushed his way past the people sitting at the back, enduring many a disapproving look and a hissed ‘Shush!’, before settling down near the front.

‘…until Julius Maternus travelling from Leptis Magna briefly reopened the route…’ the man was saying.

Flaminius could only assume he was Claudius Mercator. He noticed, standing in the shadows behind him, a bearded, black skinned man clad in a leopard skin loincloth and a necklace of lion claws.

An Ethiopian, Flaminius told himself. Not a complete rarity in Egypt, Alexandria at least, nevertheless the inky blackness of his skin was an unusual sight.

‘His Geography, which I found in your wonderful library,’ Claudius Mercator added with a twinkle at the stony faced Greek scholars, ‘describes how he travelled for many weeks south across the desert from the Gulf of Syrtis, despite suffering greatly from the depredations of the nomads, and won through to Garama. Here Maternus became a confidante of the Garamantian king and rode with him in war against the fierce tribes of Agysimba, the king’s rebellious subjects, before exploring a great lake, and later returned to Rome with a two horned rhinoceros that was exhibited in the Colosseum.

‘When I tried to follow this route, I discovered that the wells had all been filled in by the nomads, and my first attempt was abortive. But I am glad to relate that I successfully discovered a new route, beginning at the oasis of Ammon. It is longer than that from Leptis Magna, but currently untroubled by the nomads.

‘Accompanied by a group of Nasamonean horsemen, I crossed the desert this summer and came down into Phazania, reaching Garama itself in disguise. It was while visiting the temple there disguised as a pilgrim that I noticed the presence of what could only be the famous veil of Tanit, which I believe has already become the gossip of the province. Sadly my disguise was penetrated and my companions and I were driven from the kingdom or killed as spies. My remaining companions vanished into the desert during the return journey. I alone, but for Menander, a slave I had purchased in the Garama market, successfully made it back into the empire this summer.’’

A scholar asked him a question about the temple of Tanit. He shrugged in reply. ‘Of cult matters I know nothing, but I do know that a second expedition will be sufficient to open up a new trail into the interior, leading straight to the heart of the Garamantes kingdom. Gold, ivory, slaves, salt, natron, carbuncles, and wild beasts for the arenas of the empire are all there for the taking of any man courageous enough to follow the stars and dare the pathless, waterless desert.

‘Another group of riders is now camped in the deserts of Cyrenaica, in Ammonium, on the edge of the empire, near the far famed temple of Jupiter Ammon. They are eagerly awaiting my return, having agreed to protect me on my journey. When I told them my tale they wanted to set out at once, without preparation, , so enthusiastic are they to join in my venture, but I am an old hand when it comes to caravans, and I knew that we must be properly prepared if we are to succeed, and winter would be a better time to travel than summer. And so I come before you all, beseeching your aid.’

‘You want our aid,’ said a grey bearded scholar. Flaminius recognised him with surprise as the palsied old Greek he had spoken to earlier. It seemed he had taken his advice! ‘Pecuniary aid, I assume. But what can you promise in return? Who benefits?’

‘Naturally,’ Claudius Mercator oozed, ‘any man bold enough to partially or entirely finance our caravan will be recompensed from the profits of the venture.’

But the old man looked oddly disappointed.

‘Profits, you say,’ said a tall, keen eyed fellow with a long moustache and beard of prematurely white hair. His voice was filled with world weariness An Arab of some kind, Flaminius thought, but a Hellenised Arab rather than a visitor from Arabia Felix: his Latin was good, and no doubt his Greek would be better. ‘And what profits will there be at the end of the road? The demand for all these commodities is large in Roman lands and elsewhere. But your costs must be great. What of these Nasamoneans you are employing? Mercenaries, are they? Are they not connected with the Garamantes? Why should they help you open up Phazania? Are they trustworthy?’

‘I would trust them with my life,’ Claudius Mercator protested. ‘Indeed I have already done so. They proved themselves better protection than the men who accompanied me on my first journey to Garama.’

‘But,’ said the tall Arab, ‘would you trust them with so rich a cargo as the one you describe? Are they nomads? Masterless men? Don’t trust them, that’s my advice. I trusted the Saracens of the desert as a boy, and learnt my error bitterly when they plundered my caravan in the night leaving me stranded hundreds of miles from the nearest waterhole: I was lucky to survive. Survive I did, and I went on to hunt every man of them down and bring about their death. But the only profit in that venture was to my honour. I made not a shekel.’

‘You will make many shekels from financing this venture,’ Claudius Mercator assured him. ‘You will be one of the first merchants to participate in the new trade across the Libyan Desert. They need oil, wine, glassware. In return they will trade slaves, gold, ivory…The potential for profit is enormous. Get in there at the start, and your profits would grow exponentially. But for that to happen, you need to ensure that the trail is blazed. No profit is made without risk, but the profit itself would be worth more than all the gold of Croesus, all the fabled trade of Tartessus. No? You’ll not risk your capital?’

‘I’ve not said that,’ the Arab began.

‘Nor have I,’ added the Greek thoughtfully. ‘In fact…’

Flaminius rose and stepped out onto the floor of the lecture hall.

‘I’ll risk my money,’ he said cheerily. ‘After all, I’ve got plenty of it to throw around since Pater passed over. Only a couple of stipulations, old man. Firstly, I come with you.’ He looked round at the sea of startled faces. ‘I’m bored with city life,’ he went on, ‘and the desert air would do me good. Oh, and another thing. I’d like to bring along a young friend.’

The Arab stared at him in utter bewilderment. The Greek peered at him, troubled. And Claudius Mercator broke out into laughter.

—3—

Alexandria, Gate of the Moon, Province of Egypt, Calends of November 124 AD

A month later, Flaminius was still feeling resentful at his initial reception.

He waited with only a single companion in the street outside the city’s eastern gate. As the sun rose in the late winter skies, he remembered the difficulty he had experienced.

Although it was nowhere near as hot as it would become later in the year, being much like Britain on a hot, rainless, summer’s day, it was still sultry enough to be causing him to scowl. He shaded his eyes and peered into the dusty distance. The road out of the city was already busy, with people of a dozen nations and hues passing by on foot or mounted: the latter on horses, dromedaries, even elephants. But there was no sign of the people he was supposed to meet.

He sat down on a chest that was part of the pile of luggage, and sighed.

‘Are they late?’ said Amasis, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Are they late, Uncle Gaius? Are they? Do you want me to run and see what’s keeping them?’

Flaminius glanced up at the lad wearily. ‘You’d probably better stay here with me,’ he said. ‘And I keep telling you, I’m not your uncle.’

Egyptian families, with their consanguineous marriages, got pretty complicated, but even if he had slept with the lad’s aunt occasionally, that didn’t make him family.

‘Sorry, Uncle Gaius,’ said Amasis. He peered up the street, adopting the same pose Flaminius had struck previously. ‘What do you think’s keeping them?’ he added.

‘Incompetence, probably,’ said Flaminius. He regarded the youth.

About seventeen winters old, Amasis had the skinny, angular look of most Egyptian youths his age, with long, sticklike limbs that reminded Flaminius of a mummy. He wore his black hair in short bangs over his forehead, and his ears stuck out like amphora handles. His nose was snub, his kohl rimmed eyes were black and deep. His linen tunic was cinctured with a narrow belt from which hung a dagger, whose pommel he caressed uncomfortably.

‘What do you mean?’ Amasis said. ‘Isn’t Claudius Mercator any good? They say he’s explored everywhere from Greater India to the Pillars of Hercules, opening up trade routes where there were none before. That’s what they say in the wine shops.’

Flaminius frowned. ‘Does your aunt know you go to places like that?’ he asked. ‘You should take wine shop rumour with a pinch of salt. He’s got about a bit, that’s clear. I really doubt he’s ever been as far as India. And what he’s best known for is getting money out of people by false pretences.’

‘But aren’t you giving him money?’ Amasis asked guilelessly. He grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth. ‘You’re financing his caravan.’

‘Not just me,’ Flaminius reminded him. ‘Vabalathus the Arab and the geographer Demetrius of Oxyrhynchus have equal shares with me in this venture.’

‘I never knew you were a rich man, Uncle Gaius,’ Amasis said thoughtfully, coming to sit beside him. ‘But if you’ve got such doubts about Claudius Mercator, aren’t you risking losing a lot of money?’

Before he had to answer this surprisingly perceptive question, Flaminius glanced in the direction of the city gates. His face darkened a little.

‘Here they come now,’ he said.

A cavalcade of beasts and men issued from the gates, causing the two spear-bearing auxiliaries on guard to press themselves back against the walls, cursing. At their head, sitting inelegantly on the back of a large, foul visaged dromedary, was Claudius Mercator. Walking alongside him was his Ethiopian slave Menander, who spoke so seldom Flaminius wondered if he spoke Latin at all. At their back was a mixed herd of camels, horses and asses, and a flock of mangy creatures Flaminius thought were sheep, although they could have been goats for all he knew. They stank almost as much as the camels. Presumably they were intended to provide food along the journey rather than to function as beasts of burden, unlike the camels, most of which were overladen with the baggage and wares Claudius Mercator deemed necessary for the journey. A few nondescript slaves completed the assembly, which lurched to a halt beside Flaminius and Amasis.

‘Ho, there, friend!’ cried Claudius Mercator, and he half fell, half jumped off his steed before waddling over. Over his shoulder he shouted orders to the sullen slaves, who began loading the spare camels with Flaminius’ luggage: some of it was very important, containing as it did drachmas and obols and other local currency to pay their way.

‘By Mercury, it’s good to see you could make it.’ He gripped Flaminius’ hand enthusiastically. ‘And who’s this? This the lad you want me to take on as apprentice?’ He shook Amasis’ hand too, then slapped him on the back so the boy almost fell in the gutter. He looked about him. ‘Where are my other backers? The Gate of the Sun at moonrise, that’s what we agreed upon.’

‘This is the Gate of the Moon,’ said Amasis pertly. ‘And it’s sunrise.’

‘Be quiet, lad,’ said Flaminius. Claudius Mercator often got in a muddle, but it was no use contradicting him: if you did, he’d get into a rage and say all manner of things. Then he’d show remorse, and that was even worse. ‘I’m sure they’re just delayed,’ he told the merchant.

They had come a long way since the public meeting in the Museum. At first, Flaminius’ offer to finance the caravan had not been taken at all seriously. That was understandable. The part he had been playing was of a young blade, a man about town, a dilettante doubtless mired in debt.

Vabalathus treated him with contempt, clearly considering him a liability. However, the Arab was too stingy to provide all the money Claudius Mercator needed, and was unwilling to risk his entire fortune on the venture. The Greek scholar, Demetrius, had inherited wide estates upcountry in the Oxyrhyncite Nome, and although he was too unworldly to truly appreciate his riches, he was willing to finance the caravan in exchange for a chance to broaden his knowledge of geography. Flaminius’ own involvement had been minimal at first, but he had eventually won their respect due to his munificence. Luckily he had the finances of the legion to draw upon, and as commissary officer this wasn’t too difficult.

At last both the Arab and the Greek appeared with their own coteries and the entire caravan set off west along the coast.

For several days they travelled through the fertile countryside surrounding Alexandria. Flaminius rode up at the front, sitting uncomfortably on a camel accompanied by Amasis. He knew that the others, particularly Vabalathus, suspected the lad was his catamite. He knew that they considered him a fool, and so he would be if he had voluntarily involved himself in this ramshackle venture. But he knew that this wasn’t the case.

By the end of the first week of travel, the countryside was becoming increasingly arid. They left the coastal route at the port of Paraetonium and headed south into the Libyan Desert. Some of the landscape still bore the scars from the Judaean revolt a few years back: burnt out houses and overgrown fields were visible on either side of the wide track. But even in times of unalloyed peace the country was dry for much of the year, even November.

Mimosas and baobabs and spiny acacias grew upon the dusty plains. Forts and outposts were seen from time to time, on the skyline or sometimes beside the road. Patrols of auxiliaries galloped from station to station, sometimes pausing to question travellers, including Claudius Mercator’s caravan, or to levy impromptu road taxes.

There was no one who recognised Flaminius with these patrols, to his relief, but it was a reminder that they were nearing the borders of empire. They were no longer in the Nile Delta, kept green and fertile by the annual floods, but instead out on the frayed edges of civilisation. From the desert raiders might come at any time, and they would be worse thieves than these auxiliaries. To Flaminius’ amusement, even the worldly wise Arab Vabalathus accepted these demands for bribes without any fuss.

They camped one evening beside a well in a grove of date palms. It grew bitterly cold as the night drew on. Several other groups of travellers were also staying the night here, including wiry, dark men with black hair and brown skins who wore little but loincloths of leopard skin despite the chill of the desert night. Claudius Mercator identified them to Flaminius as Nasamoneans.

‘The people of the sand, they’re called,’ he said, shivering beside their campfire and drinking against the cold from a small amphora. ‘They came under Roman sway not long after Cornelius Balbus’ days, and at that time lived by herding cattle on the coast in winter but travelled inland into the desert for the date harvest at Augila.

‘In the days of Domitian, however, they rose up against the publicans and even defeated the governor of Numidia, Suellius Flaccus. But he struck back when they were drunk from their celebrations and massacred them to a man while they slept. Now, the remnant of the tribe live as robbers or caravan guards. The riders who have agreed to protect us on our journey into the Garamantian kingdom are of Nasamonean stock for the most part.’

‘Are they safe?’ said Demetrius of Oxyrhynchus.

The sun had set over the arid land and now all that was visible were the flickering flames of the campfires in the grove. From the fire of the Nasamoneans came whooping cries and from time to time dark, dancing figures were visible against its ruddy light. It was probably a good idea to keep active and stay warm, but Flaminius wasn’t going to make that much of a fool of himself.

‘They look like utter barbarians.’ Demetrius tapped his lips thoughtfully, his head jiggling unconsciously. ‘Nasamoneans… I’m sure I’ve read that name somewhere.’

Vabalathus laughed. ‘Everyone is a barbarian to you, old bookworm, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘Oh, I know such folk of old. The Saracens of the Arabian Desert are the same. Thieves, throat slitters, willing to fight for anyone who will pay them; first in the fray and first to flee. Such people are born to a life where survival is paramount, but they can be ruled, if you show no fear and only strength.’

Demetrius did not seem to have had his worries assuaged, but he busied himself making notes on a waxen tablet he kept with him.

‘You say these riders are Nasamoneans “for the most part”, merchant,’ said Flaminius inquiringly. ‘What about the others?’

Claudius Mercator laughed. ‘I never asked them what city they hailed from. But their leader, though a veritable Libyan Amazon, sports a Carthaginian name: Dido.’

‘Dido?’ Flaminius stirred, troubled.

‘You say she’s an Amazon?’ asked Amasis excitedly. ‘A woman who fights like a man? I’ve heard stories in the marketplace. Didn’t Alexander the Great defeat the Amazons?’

‘The Libyan Amazons were an earlier breed,’ said Demetrius, not looking up from his note making. ‘Dionysius of Halicarnassus asserts that they flourished in Libya long before the Trojan War, and had no connection with the Amazons who Theseus and even, according to some authorities, Alexander, encountered.’

‘Amazons!’ Vabalathus spat. ‘No woman could fight. They’re all too weak. Your Greek myths are idle nonsense.’

‘I’ve known woman warriors,’ Flaminius told the group in general.

‘Gladiatrixes in the arena, you mean,’ Vabalathus said scornfully. ‘That’s just for the crowd. No woman could fight in a real fight. It’s just for show, a fantasy, pandering to the lusts of the Roman mob. Perverts, all of them.’ He gave Flaminius a look that suggested he included him in this sweeping statement.

Flaminius smiled coldly and said no more. He’d known a gladiatrix in his time, sadly now with the shades. But he’d also known a real warrior woman; a woman of Britain, Drustica of the Carvettians. But reminiscences of adventures in the back of beyond wouldn’t go with the role he was playing, his cover. This foppish man about town with his possible catamite would never have gone anywhere so unfashionable as the other end of the empire.

‘Do you really know some Amazons, Uncle Gaius?’ Amasis asked, wide eyed.

‘The Arab’s right,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’ve only met gladiatrixes. Not real Amazons.’

Amasis looked disappointed.

Claudius Mercator shrugged. ‘Dido is a woman,’ he said. ‘And she can fight.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘I’ve seen her fight off other nomads, she and her band. She was as skilled with a blade as any of her men.’

Vabalathus sneered in his beard.

That night, Flaminius fell asleep thinking of Drustica.

Some day he would return to Britain. He would see her again. He would resign from his work as an imperial agent and they could live peacefully in her tribal lands.

But when he slept, it was the name “Dido” that echoed through his dreams.

They rode on in the morning after a hasty breakfast of ground locust porridge with fresh sheep milk. Onwards they went, on into the west. Amasis told Flaminius endless stories of his hero, Alexander the Great: how he was somehow both the son of the last pharaoh, Nectanebo, and also of Jupiter Ammon, whose famous desert temple lay ahead of them.

He wasn’t the only one with funny ideas. Pilgrims became a more and more regular sight on the roads, people on their way to the temple to have dreams explained, or to sleep within the precincts in hopes of receiving prophetic dreams from the god. Flaminius, who found it hard to believe that any god worth the name would trouble himself with such an insignificant speck as this world, found the enthusiasms of these people amusing.

The land grew drier and drier. At night their sleep was sometimes broken by the coughing roars of hunting lions, and on one occasion in late morning Flaminius saw a tawny shape trotting alongside them some way from the roadway. He hated lions, had done ever since that unfortunate incident in the emperor’s private amphitheatre[2]. To his relief, the lioness seemed to think better of attacking this strange herd and soon vanished into the brush.

Soon there was no vegetation to speak of, only rock and sand and vast salt pans worked over by small groups of slaves guarded by overseers. Demetrius had read that these were the source of the famous sal-ammoniac, or Ammonian salt, used to cure complications of micturition.

Still the road led on in the direction of the setting sun. On either hand swept the great ocean of sand that was the Libyan Desert. Flaminius stared at the distant shimmering horizon, wondering how much they would have to endure before they reached the lost city.

Next day, the ninth out from the coast, the temple of Jupiter Ammon appeared in the distance. The sands gave way to trees and bushes that surrounded a broad blue lake, and another lake was visible beyond it. In the midst of this oasis stood a complex of buildings and avenues, surrounding a monumental edifice, pillars, portico and colonnades of gleaming stone, white, red and blue, with Egyptian frescoes. It seemed incongruous in this desert wilderness. Or did it represent the last outpost of civilisation? Certainly the empire ended here. Beyond it extended the Libyan Desert, seemingly to the edge of the world.

Amasis was bouncing up and down in the saddle with excitement. He turned to Flaminius, eyes bright. ‘He came here, you know, he came here,’ he gushed. ‘Alexander! He came here, he did.’

‘I heard you,’ said Flaminius wearily.

Amasis gave him a scowl, then called over to Demetrius, who was trotting alongside them on an ass. ‘He came here, you know. Alexander! Alexander the Great.’

The scholar nodded. ‘So I have read,’ he said. ‘It was here that he came after vanquishing Darius at Issus. The priests proclaimed him to be son of the god.’

‘They were wise men, those priests,’ commented Vabalathus cynically. Amasis nodded, not realising what the Arab was implying.

‘He was a god and the son of a god,’ the boy declared.

They did not enter the temple at once, but instead camped in a grove of date palms on the side of the nearest lake. Once camp had been made, and the animals penned, Claudius Mercator gathered his three financiers to his side.

‘I agreed to meet Dido and her warriors in the temple forecourt at noon of this day,’ he said. ‘We’re luckily making good time. I want you good people to come with me, gentlemen. Dido expressed some doubt as to my ability to raise the necessary funds, and…’ He paused to mop the sweat from his brow. ‘She is a ferocious woman,’ he added.

Vabalathus slapped him on the shoulder and grinned wolfishly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘we’ll protect you from this so-called Amazon.’

Claudius Mercator led them through the trees towards the temple. Soon they were out in the open walking among large crowds. Traders were everywhere, selling dates and spiced meats and rough wine, and statuettes of the god. Flaminius wondered how all these ardent enthusiasts financed their own journey here through these abysmal wastelands. And he was intending to travel even further.

The temple forecourt, at the top of the temple steps at the end of a long avenue of ram-headed sphinxes, was equally crowded. People were gathered around the steps, some seeking the shade of the colonnades, others talking and laughing in the open. Flaminius could see no semi naked, spear wielding desert warriors, but he supposed these Nasamoneans would not come in warlike array.

‘Where is the woman Dido, merchant?’ asked Demetrius a little testily after they had waited some time. ‘She could be anywhere in this throng.’

‘Patience, gentlemen, patience,’ Claudius Mercator urged. ‘She is a woman of her word. She…. And here she is!’

Flaminius turned. Three figures were swaggering towards them through the crowd. Two were dark skinned, lean, hawk faced men with leopard skin loincloths and lion’s tooth necklaces. They flanked a third figure, equally sparsely clad but slimmer and more curvaceous, though still very tall. He caught her face, what he could see of it. He gasped. So did she.

‘But… it can’t be,’ he said.

—4—

Ammonium, Libyan Desert, 17th November 124 AD

‘Who is she, uncle?’ Amasis asked.

Flaminius tore his eyes from the tall woman talking with her warriors on the far side of the campfire, and came to sit beside the boy.

‘I’ll tell you who I’m not,’ he said sternly. ‘And that’s your uncle.’ He took a swig from an amphora of sour wine.

‘Everyone in my family is my uncle,’ Amasis said dismissively, ‘unless they’re my aunt. But who is that tall woman? You were looking like you had seen a ghost when you all came back.’

‘She reminded me of someone I used to know, that’s all,’ said Flaminius. ‘But she can’t be.’

‘Why not?’ asked Amasis irrepressibly.

Flaminius looked again, seeing a woman with long, lustrous hair, massive in build, who would have been very attractive if it wasn’t for her broken nose. The resemblance was uncanny.

He returned his attention to Amasis. ‘Because Camilla is dead,’ he said. ‘Don’t you have work to be getting on with? You’re here to learn a trade, I seem to recall, not ask me awkward questions. Go on, be off with you; go and see if Claudius Mercator needs any help with something.’ Obediently Amasis vanished, possibly even in the direction indicated.

Flaminius drank deep. He’d never wanted to be responsible for a growing lad, he’d always made diligent use of prophylactics to avoid the exigency. Somehow or other, sleeping with your friend’s wife led you to the fate you’d avoided all these years. He couldn’t understand it. But it wasn’t the incorrigible young Egyptian who troubled him.

Dido looked the image of the gladiatrix he had met that summer. If he hadn’t seen Camilla mortally wounded, on the verge of death, he would have been positive that this leader of the Nasamoneans was the same woman. Surely they must be twins.

The shock of seeing someone seemingly returned from the grave had quite unmanned him, and he had barely heard the discussion between her and Claudius Mercator. The merchant had introduced his backers and Dido had greeted them politely, showing no sign of recognising Flaminius. Except—there had been something at the start, something in her eyes that could have been recognition. Flaminius had said nothing very apposite in reply to her greetings, and shortly after they had returned to the camp to seal the deal with wine.

Camilla had told him that her real name was Dido. She had not been a Carthaginian, but a Cyrenian of Punic stock. But he had seen her on the edge of death, in that river pirate village in the Nile Delta[3].

He rose to his feet. He must talk to her. To this Dido. Whoever she was.

‘The dead have been known to walk,’ said Demetrius, looking up shakily from the scroll he had been reading. ‘I can cite you any number of authorities to prove that life after death is a documented fact, both in spiritual form across the Styx, or in bodily form in this world: spirits reincarnated in other bodies, witches reanimating deceased cadavers, or vengeful corpses rising from the grave to wreak revenge against those who did them wrong in life…’

Flaminius had not realised that the man had heard what he was saying. ‘Thank you,’ he said through gritted his teeth. The old fool meant well, but he wasn’t helping. ‘If I want to learn more about your researches, I’ll let you know.’

Claudius Mercator came bustling up. There was no sign of Amasis, who no doubt had found a bush to sleep behind. ‘Good news, gentlemen,’ the merchant proclaimed. ‘Thanks to your fulsome financial contributions, Dido and the Nasamoneans say that there is nothing to stop us setting out into the desert tomorrow at sunrise.’ He looked sly, and beckoned closer Flaminius, Demetrius and Vabalathus, who had been drinking on his own a short way away. ‘Dido suggests, in fact, that we could start earlier. And if we set out at midnight, we shall miss the customs patrols who levy heavy taxes on those leaving the empire. I think you’ll all agree, gentlemen, that this would be a wise course?’

The Arab nodded. The Greek looked censorious. Flaminius grinned recklessly, but peered in Dido’s direction when no one was looking. Why was the big woman so eager to avoid Roman patrols?

‘First, however, gentlemen,’ Claudius Mercator said heartily, yet piously, ‘I think we’d all be best advised to make our necessary obeisance to the god of this sanctuary. Hadn’t we? And ask for just a little bit of his help in the weeks to come. Come along, everyone, if you’ve finished your evening meal.’

He raised his voice and began gathering together everyone apart from a couple of slaves, who were left behind to keep watch over their belongings. Flaminius found Amasis exactly where he had suspected, and woke him with a swift kick.

As they made their way along the avenue of sphinxes towards the temple, with Claudius Mercator’s body slave Menander carrying a struggling ram in his brawny arms, Flaminius drifted close to the Nasamoneans. Somehow he found himself walking up the steps alongside their tall leader.

‘Pleasant evening for a trip to the temple, don’t you think?’ he asked her.

She took a deep breath of the heady, incense laden air as they entered the sanctuary. Cressets lit the gloom, their light flickering across Egyptian frescoes and hieroglyphs that ornamented the walls. ‘You’re right, Tiro,’ she whispered. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve recovered. You looked quite unwell when I first saw you.’

He gave her a sidelong look. ‘I thought you were dead, Camilla,’ he whispered back. “Tiro” had been his name when he was posing as a gladiator, just as Camilla had been her own stage name.

‘I must have lain almost dead in that place for a long time,’ she murmured, tracing a long scar on her belly. ‘When I came round, it was to find jackals sniffing at me. They must have thought I was dead too. You left me to carrion beasts!’

‘Would you rather I’d buried you alive?’ Flaminius muttered. ‘Or cremated you? I remember that you wanted to be cremated.’

‘Instead you left my mortal remains for the beasts!’ she said scathingly.

‘I was in a hurry,’ Flaminius protested. ‘You told me about Arctos’ plot to kill the emperor. I couldn’t wait around. You were covered in blood. I thought you were dead.’ He shrugged. ‘After what followed in Alexandria and elsewhere, it didn’t occur to me to go back and make sure you were buried.’

‘When you saw me here, you must have thought I was a vengeful spirit,’ she laughed. Then when it echoed from the temple walls she looked around and put a hand over her mouth. ‘But what brings you here, Tiro? Snooping as ever?’

‘But what are you doing yourself?’ Flaminius said. ‘You returned from the dead to find I’d abandoned you. Then what? What are you doing leading these Nasamoneans?’ He eyed her up and down. ‘The leopard skin loincloth suits you,’ he added. ‘You seem to have forgotten the rest of your wardrobe.’

‘Why are you financing Claudius Mercator’s mission?’ she persisted. ‘Not that I’m complaining,’ she went on. ‘When I heard the merchant’s tale, I was ready to ride with him all the way to Garama, but he insisted we made preparations.’ She whispered in his ear, ‘Why is the emperor so interested in this caravan that he sends his best spy to infiltrate it?’

But they had reached the altar now. Here they had to adopt a suitably pious silence as Claudius Mercator, a fold of his toga hooding his head, sacrificed the bleating sheep to Jupiter Ammon. The god was depicted in the Egyptian fashion, with the head of a ram.

In return for a share of the meat, while Menander butchered the carcase, one of the local diviners carried out a haruspicy according to the Egyptian rite. ‘I see success in your venture!’ the man said, after receiving a bloody shoulder of sheep wrapped in leaves. ‘I see success. Here, you see?’ He pointed out a protuberance on the liver. ‘Your endeavour will be successful. And yet…’ His face darkened.

‘And yet?’ Claudius Mercator prompting, after signing to Menander to hand over one of the ram’s front legs. Once he had received it, the priest went on.

‘Your endeavour will succeed,’ he said. ‘All blockages will be removed, all that has frustrated you in the past will fade away. You have enemies, but you will also find that you have allies. I see a journey across the desert…’ He halted to scowl at Flaminius, who had found it impossible to repress a snort.

‘Please adopt a reverent silence while the diviner does his work,’ Claudius Mercator said reprovingly.

‘I also see death,’ the diviner ended. ‘Only one of you will return.’

With that, he sponged the blood off his hands, wrapped up the cuts of meat he had received in payment, and scuttled away into the depths of the temple complex.

‘Well.’ Vabalathus’ ironic tones broke the silence. ‘That was encouraging.’

The Nasamoneans were muttering amongst themselves. Amasis’ eyes were round. Demetrius was shaking but perhaps that was just the palsy. Claudius Mercator looked on the verge of tears.

Flaminius snorted again. ‘If you think you can believe a word that fraud said,’ he began.

Claudius Mercator looked at him in horror, then marched them all from the sanctuary. ‘I’ll not have such impious words spoken in the temple precincts,’ he said, leading them through the forecourt and down the crowded steps. ‘We have received a prophecy from a diviner inspired by the god. We must take his words very seriously.’

‘We’re all going to die!’ wailed Amasis. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Death is the lot of all mortals,’ said Demetrius gravely. ‘From the moment of birth, a man is dying. What matters is the manner of his life, and his death. Live a life of virtue, and your name at least will live on. And if what many cults say, you will be received into Elysium on the other side of Death’s dark river.’

‘The Greek’s right,’ said Vabalathus. ‘And so, no doubt, was the diviner. We’ll all die. But not before our time! The date of a man’s death is written upon his brow by the Moon Goddess.’

‘Philosophy notwithstanding,’ Demetrius went on, ‘I have so much yet to learn. I joined this caravan, financing it out of my own private fortune, in the hopes that I could expand the sum of human knowledge with a fuller account of the lands beyond the Libyan Desert. However, if I am destined to die in the attempt, I would be better advised to return to my studies in Alexandria…’

‘I too would not wish to hurry the day of my death,’ Vabalathus added. ‘And if the omens are against us…’

This time Claudius Mercator did break out into tears. His body slave, who had been arranging the remaining cuts of sheep meat to cook on the embers, came over to comfort him. Flaminius sighed.

‘Life is a gamble,’ he said, ‘and divinations are only as good as the diviners. Personally I wouldn’t trust that venal fraud to read my piss pot, let alone the entrails of a sheep. I say we go on.’

He had a mission, whatever any dubious prophecies maintained. He had to reach the temple of Tanit and steal the Veil before it became the focus for a Punic revolt in the empire. If he died in the attempt, well, life was short but he’d enjoyed himself as much as possible while it lasted.

Admittedly, in that case he’d never return to Britain, and Drustica… His resolve began to falter. Maybe they should throw it all up. Maybe he should embezzle the monies the legate had lent him and take the next ship for Gaul, sneak into Britain in disguise, or…

‘You’re all cowards,’ Dido snarled, looking round incredulously. ‘Call yourselves men? I’m braver than the lot of you. I’ll ride to Garama by myself if needs be.’ She glared at the Nasamoneans, and this seemed to spur them into greater courage. ‘Would you brave men leave it to me to carry out this mission? Open up the route to Garama? You can count yourselves out of the profits, if it’s me who does it.’

At this, Claudius Mercator wiped his eyes. ‘I couldn’t permit you to go alone, my dear,’ he assured her.

‘Good,’ Dido said. ‘And you’re still coming, aren’t you, Tiro?’

‘Flaminius is the name,’ he told her gently. ‘Yes, I’m coming.’

‘I’ll go if Uncle Gaius is going,’ said Amasis dolefully.

Flaminius turned to look at his fellow financiers. After a long pause, Vabalathus folded his arms.

‘Very well, we’ll chance it. After all,’ he brightened, ‘the diviner said all but one of us will not return. Perhaps the survivor will be me!’

‘I shall accept my fate with dignity,’ said Demetrius unsteadily. ‘I shall survey the lands of the Garamantes. And if it is I who survive, I will live to write an account of those people that will take its place alongside the geographies of Herodotus of Halicarnassus and Hecataeus of Abdera.’ He smiled. ‘But I am sure that we will be in good company, with our Nasamonean friends.

‘I have now remembered where I read the name of your people,’ he went on, addressing Dido, who looked at the palsied old man in surprise. ‘Herodotus tells a tale of a group of Nasamoneans, five youths, the sons of chiefs, who journeyed right across the Libyan Desert to the other side, reaching a forested country inhabited by pigmy sorcerers. They were taken as prisoners to a city on the banks of a great river infested with crocodiles—maybe it was the Nile, maybe it was the great river Nigris that Cornelius Balbus’ scouts explored after his attack on Garama. Nevertheless, they escaped in the end, although Herodotus is silent on how they achieved this, and returned to their own country as heroes. Tell me, how was it that your ancestors escaped the pigmies?’

Dido glanced uncertainly at her men, who radiated bafflement. ‘We don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’m glad that you’re willing to go on with this venture.’

Claudius Mercator looked eager. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said. ‘I’m also glad you’re still coming, gentlemen. Menander, is the meat cooked?’ The slave checked it with a finger, then nodded. The merchant clapped his hands. ‘Then I suggest we eat the sacrificial meal with due reverence and set out at first light. Perhaps, since we sleep in the god’s sanctuary, he will send us all prophetic dreams.’

‘Must I remind you of the original plan?’ said Dido. ‘We eat, then we set out. Otherwise the customs patrols will tax us into penury. Once we’re over the border, we’re in Nasamonean country.’

‘We’ll be safe, then?’ Demetrius asked, as they began the meal. ‘After all, your warriors are Nasamoneans.’

‘Once we enter Nasamonean country,’ said Dido, ‘our troubles really begin, by Juno. We’ll be out in the deep desert. Water will come from the water skins we bring with us and from occasional wells. As for the Nasamoneans, in the desert every man’s hand is against you, stranger or close kin. It will be a long hard journey through difficult terrain plagued by robbers, as Claudius Mercator knows so well.’

‘As I also know well,’ said Vabalathus, tearing into a fat hunk of sheep meat with his yellow teeth. ‘I know desert travel better than most people. It is well said that only one of us will return. Between the baking heat, the night cold, and the attacks of desperate men, it will indeed be a long, hard journey. Only the strong will survive.’ He bared his teeth. ‘But I have survived a dozen such journeys in the past. I am an Arab! Desert travel is in my blood. It will be more taxing to soft gutted city folk, philosophers and pleasure seekers and pederasts.’

Flaminius sat by the fire, eating. He kept his eyes on Camilla—Dido, if she preferred—on the far side. The woman had been successful in evading his questions while pumping Flaminius for all he was worth. Maybe she should be recruited by the interrogator corps. She knew all about him now, but all he knew was that she had somehow survived a seemingly mortal wound and reappeared on the far side of the province as leader of a Nasamonean warrior band.

Nasamoneans who knew nothing of their people’s history, and feared crossing their own territory.

—5—

Libyan Desert, Nasamonean territory, November 124 AD

The journey from the oasis of Ammon was fraught. Leaving at midnight, they made their way through the date palms to the edge of the vegetated area, with only occasional lamps lit to discern their route. Roman auxiliaries patrolled the vicinity, Flaminius knew, although the borders were as fluid as they had been in Britain when first he visited that northernmost province.

Soon, no doubt, Hadrian would establish a line of fortifications to mark this southern boundary, similar to the one he had begun in Britain. There was a general sense of entrenchment throughout the empire, the drawing of lines in the sand and the defining of areas of demarcation, the signing of peace treaties with traditional enemies like the Parthians, and the centralisation of power within the empire. Flaminius’ own work, spying both internally and externally, was a part of this growing emphasis on stability and security.

The night wind was chill on his flesh as he led his camel through the trees at the head of the procession. He knew that if they met a patrol and the worst came to the worst, he could use the lance-head brooch—insignia of an imperial agent—to free himself from imprisonment. The others would not be so lucky and besides, his cover would be blown.

In many ways he was reminded of journeying in Caledonia. They were leaving the very edges of empire for a land of true barbarism, where savage bands of warriors would harry them at every turn. Behind them were cities, temples, trade and learning. Ahead was… nothing. Nothing but sand, a howling wilderness roamed by barbarian nations.

But there was much that was different from Caledonia. The latter was a cold, dark, narrow land on the shores of the ocean, the furthest north a man could go without setting sail for Thule, if that mythical land of the midnight sun truly existed. Much of Libya was a great sea of sand, stretching southward and eastward into…who knew what?

Somewhere out there, he told himself as they left the trees and made their way across the cold sands, south and west of there, lay the lost kingdom of the Garamantes. Even further on, the countries of the pigmies and Ethiopians…the sources of the Nile… the lake of monsters… the city of sorcerers… Even if only a fraction of the stories he had heard held so much as a grain of truth, he was going into country more dangerous by far than the heather clad hills north of the Wall…

A week later, they were plodding down a narrow defile between two sand hills. The desert sun peered over the horizon as if watching their painful progress with disapproval. Claudius Mercator lifted a hand.

‘We’ll halt here,’ he said, surveying the little valley. ‘Here we can erect our shelters and get some sleep. We’ve come a long way under poor conditions. Rest now, and wait until the sun has passed its zenith. We will continue in the cool of afternoon and evening.

‘Dido, take some of your men and scout out the surrounding area. There should be a well in the vicinity, where we can refill our water skins. We don’t want to be surprised by any of your fellow countrymen while we’re doing so.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Flaminius.

‘So will I,’ said Vabalathus. It seemed he did not wanting to be outdone by this city bred fop.

‘And me,’ exclaimed Amasis.

‘You’ll stay behind and help the merchant,’ said Flaminius sternly. ‘Then erect our shelter and get some rest.’

Without waiting for either of the financiers, Dido kicked her horse into a gallop and rode off, leading three of her Nasamoneans up the side of a dune. Vabalathus followed, giving Flaminius a stark look as he waited for Amasis to dismount.

Once the boy was gone, Flaminius rode to the crest of the ridge to find Dido sitting her horse, surveying the sand that stretched away on all sides. Vabalathus and the Nasamoneans were fanning out in the open beneath her. They were in the true desert now. Not a scrap of vegetation could be seen, not a cloud scudded through the pitiless blue skies. There was no sign of any well or oasis.

Flaminius shaded his brow. Except for the dust clouds kicked up by the hoofs of the Nasamonean horses and the Arab’s steed, the scene was devoid of life.

‘What are you really doing here, Camilla?’ he asked her.

She looked at him in surprise. ‘This is my job,’ she said shortly, ‘Just as snooping is yours. After I found myself abandoned and alone in the Delta, I knew that Egypt would be too hot for me, even if I had helped you. One way or another, I made my way back home. Back to Cyrenaica.

‘I don’t know why, I knew that it had been a wasteland ever since the Judaean Rising. But I’d heard word that new colonies were being planned to repopulate the place. I hoped to adopt a new identity, find somewhere to settle down. Instead I met these men. The place was still wasteland, and riders from the desert roamed it without hindrance. Somehow I became their leader.’

‘Leading them to what I won’t ask,’ said Flaminius wryly. ‘And now you’re hiring yourselves out as caravan guards?’

‘It’s a living,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Better than fighting in the arena. I won’t ask why you have joined a merchant caravan.’ She looked fully at him for the first time. ‘We’ll need your sword when the raiders come.’

Before he could answer, she turned to shout at the Nasamonean scouts who were riding up the slope towards them. ‘Gesco!’ she cried. ‘What news?’

The lead Nasamonean, a grizzled, brown skinned nomad with one eye, shook his head. ‘No sign of a well,’ he said. ‘It must be further on.’

Vabalathus rode up from a different direction. ‘No sign of opposition,’ he said, ‘but I found tracks in the sand. Many horses and camels have passed this way.’

‘We must remain vigilant, then,’ said Flaminius quietly. Vabalathus sneered.

They returned to find a fully organised camp in the middle of the hollow, with the animals bleating in a pen in the middle, and a ditch dug around the shelters, which were made in Nasamonean fashion, of woven rushes and asphodel.

Dido stationed guards at all quarters on the heights, established a rota, and then took to her shelter. Already the sun was climbing high above the dunes. Flaminius sought his own shelter gladly. Amasis lay on his side snoring. Flaminius was soon asleep himself.

They woke in the afternoon and after a brief meal returned to their mounts. Soon they were riding up the defile. The reports from the sentries seemed to suggest that the desert had remained deserted all day. As was its wont, Flaminius reminded himself.

‘It seems to me,’ proclaimed Demetrius, sitting primly upon his ass as they proceeded towards the head of the defile, ‘that we go much too cautiously. It will take forever to reach the well at this rate, and our stocks of water are running low. I say we make haste.’ He lashed his ass with his reins and obediently it trotted faster, soon reaching the top of the defile ahead of the cavalcade. The scholar looked back down at them. ‘Make haste,’ he called querulously. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with young people these days.’

He broke off as the air hummed. Something long and black was suddenly jutting from his upper chest. He scrabbled at it in puzzlement, then pitched forward off his ass to land flat on his face in the sand.

As the old Greek fell, Flaminius thought he caught the sound of distant thunder. But the sky was clear.

‘Attack!’ Dido cried. ‘Juno! To your positions, men!’

There was a hurried scurrying as the Nasamoneans rode up the slope in a ragged crescent. Vabalathus galloped towards Demetrius’ prone form, and leapt down from his mount. Flaminius rode after him, shouting at Amasis, who was riding pillion, to keep his head down.

The gritty desert wind hit them as he crested the rise. Vabalathus looked up from Demetrius’ body. Other arrows stood or lay scattered in the sand on either side. ‘He still lives,’ said the Arab, ‘the old fool. But he’ll need medical attention. Luckily I am a physician…’

He broke off. Flaminius was staring out across the sands. Now the source of the thunder was plain. Galloping towards them, raising a great cloud of dust, was a horde of riders.

‘Men!’ Dido cried, riding past. ‘To your posts! Hold the ridge!’

Flaminius looked back over his shoulder. ‘Where did you put my sword, Amasis?’ he shouted over the growing thunder of hoofs. The air was now thick with stinging grit.

Amasis gulped. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I put it in one of the saddlebags with all the rest of your junk.’

Flaminius glared at him. ‘Idiot! Well, hurry up and find it for me!’

Amasis sat as if frozen to his saddle despite the baking heat. Flaminius cursed him frantically and clenched his fist. The Egyptian boy leapt down from his saddle and went hunting through the panniers.

‘Keep your positions, men,’ Dido called.

The sand drummed, the attackers rode towards them. They had the advantage of numbers, but the caravan had a better tactical position. The attackers had shot their bolts on seeing Demetrius, now they were making the mistake of charging uphill. If Flaminius only had his sword, he would feel happier. Vabalathus crouched over Demetrius, seemingly oblivious to the approaching riders. Perhaps the Arab was a fool, perhaps he was as brave as he claimed.

‘Where’s my sword?’ Flaminius bellowed.

‘Here it is—oh!’ Amasis produced it from where he had stowed it in a saddlebag then clumsily dropped it in the sand.

Flaminius leapt down from the back of the snorting beast, snatched up the sheathed sword in one hand, the youth in the other. He bundled Amasis on the back of the camel, then seizing the trailing reins in his left hand, guided it round to face back down the defile. With the sheathed sword he struck its hindquarters.

‘What are you doing?’ Amasis cried as he was carried off towards the back of the lines.

Ignoring his wails, Flaminius turned, shrugged the scabbard from the blade—it was a cavalry longsword, his favoured weapon. Not the short sword of the legionary, but the longsword used by auxiliary cavalry. These thoughts fluttered through his mind as he strode to Vabalathus’ side.

‘Get back,’ the Arab snapped. He had broken the arrow shaft and now the Greek was mumbling deliriously. Vabalathus dabbed at the wound with a piece of cloth.

‘We’ve got to move him,’ Flaminius was saying but then the riders were all around them. He swung round lifting his sword as he did and sheared through the throat of a screaming horse. Hot blood spattered the sand and the creature sank to its knees, throwing its rider in the process.

Dido was shouting something. Her riders galloped forward to meet the attackers. Flaminius gripped his sword in one hand and gestured at Demetrius with the other.

‘Get him out of the fight, Arab,’ he shouted over the ring of blade on blade that broke out above their heads.

Vabalathus shook his own head. ‘He can’t be moved,’ he insisted. His eyes widened. ‘Behind you!’

Flaminius turned. The fallen rider had risen and was coming at him with a long dagger. He swung wildly at his attacker, but the man got in under the swing and a shock of fire tore across Flaminius’ chest as he cut at him. Snarling with pain, the Roman clubbed his attacker across the crown with the pommel. The rider hit the sand with a thump just beside the insensible Demetrius’ feet. Irritably Vabalathus looked up again.

Flaminius didn’t wait to listen to the Arab’s disapproval. He turned again, sword lifted, and aimed a cut at the next rider who was thundering past. His blade sliced through the man’s foot and he fell from his horse. Flaminius grabbed at the creature’s reins in an effort to mount it, but was dragged from his feet and went tumbling over and over down the sandy slope. He hit the soft sand at the bottom with a thump that left him winded and dazed.

Dizzy, panting for breath, he lifted himself up. Above him the ridge was a scene of fierce fighting. The sand was pitted with hoofmarks on every hand. A trail of scuff marks showed where he had rolled down the side. His longsword lay glittering in the sunlight partway down.

At a thudding of feet from behind him he rolled over again. Standing on the other ridge was a figure on foot, watching the fight. As Flaminius watched, it turned and vanished behind the ridge.

So the riders were not the only ones involved. He’d been assuming that this was just a wandering band of raiders who’d struck lucky on finding a merchant caravan going their way, but maybe there was more to it than that. He looked back. Dido was bleeding from a dozen cuts as she fought a nomad somewhere in the middle of the fight. Weaponless apart from a dagger in his belt, he could do nothing to help.

He turned and began trudging up the other slope.

The ring of steel on steel receded into the distance as he hauled himself over the sandy ridge and saw the bustling scene in the hollow below.

—6—

Libyan Desert, Nasamonean territory, 24th November 124 AD

Standing at the edge of an expanse of dark sand, amidst scrubby vegetation, stood a small group of Egyptians. In the middle of them was a short, squat, elderly man in a linen kilt and wearing a linen headdress. He wore sandals upon his feet, and his scrawny limbs were darkly tanned. His hawk-like face was turned in Flaminius’ direction, although not directly focussed on the Roman, who seemed to have gone unnoticed. Clustered around the old man were other figures in similar garb, about eleven or twelve. Tethered nearby were camels, goats, and asses, the later weighed down with luggage.

Flaminius ducked down. Lying prone on the sand he began swarming forward until he could see into the hollow.

‘Now we’re for it,’ the elderly man was saying in Greek. He took off his headdress and mopped at his shaven pate with a scrap of linen. ‘This is what they do, you know. This is what they always do. Attack when you’re at your weakest.’

A tall young man with the same hawk nose said scornfully, ‘So this is Claudius Mercator’s new route. We’re barely halfway to Augila and it’s as bad as ever it was.’

The reference to Claudius Mercator puzzled Flaminius. Were they friends of his? In which case, why had they ambushed his caravan? The nomads who had attacked seemed like no more than raiders, but these Egyptians were apparently rival merchants.

He looked back over his shoulder. Blades winked and flashed in the sunlight, and the clatter of edge on edge still drifted across the intervening sand. It looked like Dido’s Nasamoneans were giving ground.

Flaminius crawled round the side of the hollow until he was close to the elderly man’s position, and out of line of sight from the group, whose attention was entirely on the crest of the rise. He drew his dagger, then leapt to his feet and raced down through the sand.

The old man turned in surprise, his son followed his gaze. The son started shouting but before the other merchants could do anything, Flaminius was among them, knocking the elderly man to the sand and pinning him. He placed the dagger point to the man’s scrawny throat.

‘Don’t anybody move,’ he suggested.

‘Cunning folk, these raiders,’ the young man said bitterly. ‘You draw off our guards and then sneak round to attack us. Well, what do you want? Our merchandise?’

The old man’s headdress had fallen off and his shaven headed gleamed greasily in the sunlight. He scowled. ‘Don’t give in to them,’ he gasped. ‘He is only one man. What kind of son are you? Defend your father…!’

Flaminius pricked him in his throat and he broke off abruptly.

‘That’s better,’ he said. He looked around the cluster of merchants. All were gazing at him as if he was some kind of wild beast. ‘I’m not a raider. You sent your raiders to attack us! Why was that, if you’re here on a trading expedition?’

Distantly, the sound of fighting drifted towards them. The merchants went into a huddle around the old man’s son.

‘Cowards, the lot of you,’ said the old man. ‘If I wasn’t so enfeebled by age, this Roman would be lying dead in the sand by now…’

‘Why are you here?’ Flaminius said insistently. ‘Your men are fighting my people. If you don’t call them off, I’m going to give you a new smile’—he traced a line round the man’s neck. ‘Got that?’

He sounded like a robber himself. But he was a desperate man. This fight could spell the end of his mission, and who knew what the repercussions would be.

‘We should do as he says,’ said one of the other merchants. ‘Sarapion, you must call off the Nasamoneans.’

So these merchants also employed the people of the sand.

The young man, Sarapion, shrugged angrily. ‘You know none of them will listen to me. Why don’t you call them off, Amenophis?’

The other merchant, an ill favoured fellow with a squint, stepped back, spreading his hands fearfully. ‘They’d rather cut my throat than obey my orders, they’ve made that plain. You know they only listen to your father. Isn’t that right, Rhampsinitus?’

‘Yes,’ the old man gurgled triumphantly. ‘Only I can speak with the Nasamoneans. Only I do they respect. You’ve taken the wrong hostage, you Roman robber.’

Flaminius’s left hand flashed out to grip the old man, Rhampsinitus, firmly by his scrawny throat. He hauled him to his feet. Keeping the knife pressed to the man’s windpipe, he glared round at the others.

‘Then you’d better speak with them,’ he said. ‘But if you do anything other than telling them to declare a truce and lay down their arms, you know what will happen.’

‘You think they’ll take orders when they see I’m under duress?’ Rhampsinitus demanded.

‘If they respect you so much, yes,’ Flaminius said, ‘I’m sure of it.’

Keeping Rhampsinitus between himself and the other merchants, he forced the man to ascend the rise. The sand was soft and dry and clogged his feet. As they climbed, leaving the other merchants down in the hollow, Flaminius said, ‘What is this place? A well?’

Rhampsinitus nodded. ‘It seems Claudius Mercator spread the rumours of a new route just to eliminate a rival.’

‘You were trying to steal a march on him?’ Flaminius said.

Rhampsinitus grinned sardonically. ‘It is I who will reopen up the trading route,’ he said. ‘Ivory, slaves, carbuncles, all will flow east into Egypt, and it will be I who is opener of the way.’

‘You’d steal another man’s work for your own profit?’

Flaminius would expect nothing else from a merchant. An unprincipled crew, the lot of them. But before Rhampsinitus could answer, they crested the rise.

On the far side, the dune was the scene of fierce fighting. Wounded or dead bodies lay scattered about the sand. Dido was fighting a naked Nasamonean. Other skirmishes were broiling on either side. Even Claudius Mercator was fighting. To Flaminius’ dismay, Amasis was in a knife fight with two nomads.

‘Enough!’ he bellowed, his voice carrying across the little valley between dunes. ‘Put up your swords! Put up your swords!’

He hissed in Rhampsinitus’ ear. ‘You tell them. Tell them or die.’

Rhampsinitus eyed Flaminius’ dagger. One of the attackers now had Amasis pinned and was about to stab him, but paused and looked round uncertainly. The other fighters had heard his words, but by no means did everyone heed them. ‘Very well,’ said Rhampsinitus at last. He turned to shout in a cracked voice, ‘Do as he says. These aren’t robbers, they’re fellow merchants!’

The fight came to an abrupt end. The dead were buried, the wounded were tended to. Rhampsinitus grudgingly invited his rival merchants to join him in the hollow, as if the place was his own property. The survivors settled their differences and ate a frugal meal.

‘Someone has filled this well in with sand,’ Claudius Mercator said perceptively, inspecting the boggy stretch with a revolted expression on his face. There would be no drinking water available now. He looked angrily at Rhampsinitus. ‘It’s as dry as my dusty throat. Just like the other route to Garamantian country. Did your people do this, Egyptian?’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Rhampsinitus, wide eyed. ‘Why would I tell them to destroy our only water supply? Admit it, you knew that the trail was impassable. You invented all those stories to lead us astray.’

‘You filled in the well,’ Claudius Mercator said accusingly, ‘then attacked us. I know you of old, Rhampsinitus of Heliopolis. Throughout my career you have dogged me. You lack the courage to open up new trade routes but you’ll happily steal the fruits of my own labour.’

‘A long time ago,’ Rhampsinitus began reminiscently, ‘I was no mere merchant, but a priest in the city of Heliopolis, owning rich estates in the Delta. Then I was persuaded to invest my fortune in one of your disastrous schemes. You ruined me, left me utterly destitute when your scheme fell flat. I took to trading in the hopes of regaining my wealth. Yes, I would steal from you, just as you swindled me! I…’

‘If the Egyptians didn’t do this,’ Flaminius broke in, ‘who did?’ Were there enemies out there, gathering among the dunes? Robbers?

‘The Roman makes a good point,’ said Vabalathus. He sported a long sword cut across his forehead, but had done nothing to bandage it despite his vaunted medical skill. ‘Now it seems we are no longer fighting each other, I say we despatch patrols to scout out the surrounding countryside. The men who did this will be waiting for us.’

‘Very good,’ said Claudius Mercator. ‘With our increased numbers we will be a match for any robbers. Once we are sure about the area, once we have located the robbers responsible for this outrage and dealt with them, we can continue to the Garamantian kingdom.’

‘I will not wait here for enemies to attack,’ said Rhampsinitus firmly. ‘Once again, you have ruined me, Claudius Mercator. One day, I will even the score. I will not wait here, nor will I ride on to find the next well is also spoiled.’

‘What do you intend to do, father?’ asked his son, who had come up to join them. ‘Our Nasamoneans will want paying. We cannot give up this venture. We have enough water to continue to the next well. We don’t know that it has been filled in unless we go to find out.’

‘We can and we will,’ said Rhampsinitus. ‘We will not chance it. The next well will also be filled in, without a doubt. We shall return to Ammonium and work out a way to recoup our losses.’ He turned to face Sarapion, and Flaminius thought he saw a signal pass between them.

‘Very well, father,’ said the young man placidly. ‘You had better tell our warriors. They won’t take it from me.’

They walked away.

‘Ha!’ said Claudius Mercator triumphantly. ‘So may all my enemies fall by the wayside. I shall open up the road to Garama, I and no other.’ His lip curled as the Egyptian traders gathered up their goods and possessions to begin the long journey back to Ammonium.

‘What if the wells have indeed been filled in?’ said Demetrius shakily. He peered at the sand that surrounded them. ‘We cannot carry enough water to keep us for the whole journey. We’ll die out there without water. We’ll… die.’

He had recovered from the arrow, which had only gashed him shallowly in the chest, although he had been stunned by the fall. Vabalathus had tended him like a true son of Hippocrates, neglecting even his own wounds in the process.

Claudius Mercator grinned. ‘You forget,’ he said. ‘I know a quicker way. It will reduce travelling time by days, and we need not worry about wells, as long as we ration our water.’ He turned to look where the other merchants were riding disconsolately from the hollow. ‘Rhampsinitus is a fool. We will prevail, and we will win through.’ He turned and went to check the water supply.

Amasis was sitting with Dido, deep in conversation. The woman was demonstrating sword cuts and thrusts with a broken reed. Flaminius went over.

‘It looks like we go on,’ he said, coming to sit down beside them.

Dido looked up. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘My warriors would not wish to run away with their tails between their legs because of a minor problem, Tiro. They are desert folk. They are not afraid of a small thing like this well.’

A cloud of dust on the eastern horizon represented the retreat of the Rhampsinitus caravan. ‘It deterred their fellow countrymen,’ said Flaminius wryly. ‘And I can’t say I blame them. They leave us with a mystery. Who filled in the well? The Garamantes? Do they operate all the way out here, out in Nasamonean country? And if so, why is Claudius Mercator so sanguine about winning through to Phazania? Besides, if the Garamantes are so hostile, what hope do we have of opening up a trade route? Won’t the king of the Garamantes disapprove? Claudius Mercator didn’t do very well last time…’

‘If you’re so full of misgivings,’ said Dido, ‘why are you backing this expedition?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I have my reasons,’ he said cagily.

‘Yes,’ said Dido coldly. ‘And knowing what kind of man you are, Tiro, I can be certain they’re not straightforward. Still,’ she said, relenting, ‘I understand what you mean. Either Claudius Mercator is keeping something back, something that neither we nor Rhampsinitus knew—some secret that will make getting to Garama a genuine possibility…’ She broke off.

‘Or?’ Flaminius promoted her.

She looked levelly at him. ‘Or our bones are destined to bleach beneath the desert sun. We have water supplies only for a few more days. Unless we can find wells to provide drinking water, or unless Claudius Mercator truly can provide us with a short cut, we’re doomed.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘What Claudius Mercator has in mind remains to be seen,’ he said. ‘Naturally he’s been guarded, to frustrate chancers like Rhampsinitus. But your own reasons for joining the caravan must be very pressing,’ he probed, ‘if you’re willing to trust your life to the claims of a known fantasist.’

Dido didn’t reply.

Amasis looked up from where he was practising the fighting technique Dido had been showing him. ‘Are we going to get in any more fights, Uncle Gaius? Do you reckon? Do you?’ He thrust the reed at Flaminius, who snatched it from his hand.

‘I sent you to the back of the caravan, boy,’ he said. ‘And what did I see? You fighting two nomads. You could have been killed! Several men were. Did you see them? Blood and guts on the sand? What will your aunt say to me if I go back and tell her that it’s your bones bleaching in the desert sun?’ Angrily, he shook the reed. ‘I should beat you with this for your disobedience, boy.’

Instead he snapped it over his knee.

‘He fought well,’ Dido protested, ‘for an Egyptian. You can’t cosset and coddle the lad forever. We’re out in the desert now. Only the strong survive. There will be many more fights like that one before we reach the temple, and you won’t be able to save the day with your usual sneaky tricks.’

She rose and walked away. As she joined her warriors Flaminius watched her in silence.

‘Temple? What did she mean, temple?’ Amasis asked, looking mournfully at the fragments of reed.

‘Just what I was wondering,’ said Flaminius thoughtfully.

—7—

Libyan Desert, Nasamonean territory, November 124 AD

The journey continued across the wind-blown sands, where mirages gave the illusion of rivers winding across the horizon, only to vanish as the travellers drew closer. Fear of further attack receded as the dusty days and chilling nights passed by. Whoever had filled in the well made no attack on the caravan, although on the second and the fourth day out, Flaminius thought he saw distant dust clouds, suggesting many horses and men at their rear. For a while he was anxious, expecting their mysterious shadows to attack whenever they made camp for the night, but nothing happened. He almost forgot about the sight, although he did mention it to Dido.

‘You think we are being trailed?’ she asked as they rode along together.

‘It seems likely,’ said Flaminius. This was after the second appearance of the dust clouds. As on the previous day, the source of the dust was beyond the horizon, but it was moving, for certain, and it was heading in the same direction as their caravan. ‘After all, why would nomads, whether wide ranging Garamantian robbers or Nasamoneans, fill in a well and not make an attack?’

‘But Claudius Mercator, all due respect to him, brought enough water from Ammonium to last us a week,’ said Dido, indicating the bulging water skins that still weighed down many of the camels. ‘Where other merchants would depend on the wells and use their beasts of burden to transport merchandise, Claudius Mercator concentrates on keeping us alive.’ She patted the case at her saddle bow, which contained a hunting bow. ‘Enough game is available, even out here, to supplement our provisions.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘But the robbers don’t know that,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Unless they have inside information.’ She returned his gaze blandly.

‘Do you think someone among us is a traitor?’ asked Amasis suddenly, in a loud, penetrating voice. He was sitting pillion with Flaminius, and had been unusually silent throughout the exchange. Flaminius scowled at him to be quiet and glanced around at the other riders. No one seemed to have overheard the boy, which was a mercy. Unless they were concealing their reaction. Which would suggest that they were traitors indeed…

Dido shook her head. ‘We’ll face whatever comes when it comes,’ she said decisively. ‘No need to conjure up terrors where there are none. This desert has evil spirits enough without evoking more.’

She spurred her mount and galloped up the line to speak with Gesco and another Nasamonean called Hamilcar. Flaminius watched her go. Had the talk of traitors unnerved her?

The following day, the tenth since they left Ammonium, the land began to change. Although no less barren and arid, it was now beginning to rise, as if they had reached the shores of the sea of sand and were now travelling into a rocky hinterland. Crossing a rocky ridge they came down into a fertile valley where date palms towered from amidst verdant vegetation. It seemed momentarily as if they had left the desert behind them. Flaminius glimpsed the roof of a temple amongst the trees some way off.

‘Is this the Garamantian kingdom?’ asked Amasis, wide-eyed.

Claudius Mercator was riding past, and he laughed, overhearing the boy’s words.

‘No, lad,’ he said. ‘Remember your geography instruction? This is Augila, the chief oasis of the Nasamoneans, only halfway on the journey. What did I teach you?’

‘“Next to the Ammonians, at the distance of ten days’ journey along the ridge of sand, there is a second salt-hill like the Ammonian, and a second spring. The country round is inhabited, and the place bears the name of Augila. Hither it is that the Nasamoneans come to gather in the dates…”.’ the boy began, parrot fashion.

Before Amasis could continue his recital, a group of men rode up. They outnumbered the expedition three to one.

‘You must pay the tax, Romans,’ said their leader in broken Greek. ‘You are no longer in the empire. Pay us a talent in gold, or goods to that value, or you will progress no further.’ His men underlined the threat by drawing swords.

‘Robbers!’ said Amasis in wonder.

‘What right have you to demand tax from peaceful travellers?’ called Vabalathus.

‘You are foreigners,’ said the leader. ‘You may stay at Augila and refill your water skins, but first you must pay us the tax. We are not robbers, as the boy claims, but the rightful owners of this country. And since the Romans have driven us out of our hereditary pastures, we must raise our own taxes however we can.’

‘Augila was the most important town of the Nasamoneans,’ Claudius Mercator told his fellow travellers, after handing over a payment in merchandise, ‘but after the tax revolt, it became their only centre. The Nasamoneans came here for the date harvest, in the old days, yet now it has become their base for their depredations. But there is a temple to Jupiter Ammon, twin to that in Ammonium. In its heyday, Augila was a counterpart to Ammonium. Isn’t that right, Gesco?’

The one eyed Nasamonean leader glanced at him, startled, and gave a quick nod, then muttered something in his beard. Like the other Nasamoneans, he had made no attempt to speak to the Augilans.

He led the way through the palms. Beyond stretched open fields where women tilled the soil, and on the far side was a lake, on whose shore a great temple stood. Houses lay on every hand, and the oasis was busy with travellers. When they rode into the temple precincts, they found the place quiet apart from a few worshippers and a couple of priests who wore expensive robes and expected rich offerings.

‘We’ll make camp by the lake,’ the merchant decided, looking around the fertile area, ‘and offer up sacrifice to Ammon for a successful journey. Then we’ll continue in the morning.’

He went to chivvy the slaves into filling the empty water skins down by the lake.

The next morning, they departed the oasis and began to make their way through the barren hills. They were now travelling west-south-west, having been heading due west since departing Ammonium. All was still and quiet. There was no sign of other merchants. Antelopes grazed on sparse vegetation, pheasants were to be seen among the rocks, and the Nasamoneans spent much of the day hunting them while giving wild whooping cries.

Flaminius felt strangely uneasy at this noise, which seemed to defy the sombre spirits that hung over the land. Perhaps the Nasamoneans felt the same, and this was their way of defying the unseen presences. The air was still, but seemed to be filled with grains of sand. Looking back over his shoulder as they climbed out of a defile near sunset, he saw, very distantly, perhaps as far back as Augila, the same dust cloud that had dogged them for much of their desert journey.

They camped that evening and went on in the early morning. This time greater dust clouds were visible on the horizon ahead of them. So many that at first Flaminius was afraid that an entire army was massing. But when he heard the truth from Claudius Mercator, he did not feel any easier in his mind.

‘It’s not the season,’ the merchant said darkly. ‘I ride in winter to avoid such problems.’

‘What is it?’ Amasis asked. ‘It looks like Alexander the Great and his whole army is on the march!’

Claudius Mercator shook his head. ‘Those are no ghosts,’ he said ominously. ‘It is a sandstorm.’

Flaminius turned to look again. Now the entire skyline was boiling with great clouds of brown and grey, swirling and rolling across the rocky hills towards them. His mouth felt dry, drier than the desert wastes that surrounded them. He could feel it in the air, although even the outliers of the storm had yet to reach them, tiny atoms of dust, stinging against his face. As they plodded on into what seemed like certain doom, the first gusts of wind stirred up dust devils.

‘We can’t ride into this,’ Dido announced, looking up from a muted conversation with Gesco, who trotted at her side. ‘Merchant, that storm is big. What provision have you made for this?’

Claudius Mercator shook his head, repeating his assertion that this was not sandstorm season. ‘If you had ever been as foolish as to cross the desert in spring, you would know that those months are plagued with storms that come up from the interior. No one crosses the desert in spring unless they have good cause. But this is winter. There should be no storms.’

The dust devils were growing, demon princes of sand that tugged insistently at the manes of horses, the cloaks of travellers, the tails of sheep and camels. It felt like a hailstorm, but the air was hot. Hot and dry and sterile.

Still the clouds of dust rolled over the craggy hills towards them. Fear clutched at Flaminius’ heart. He glanced nervously at Claudius Mercator to see the man’s lips moving as if in prayer.

‘The gods can’t help us now,’ he shouted above the growing roar of the storm. ‘You fool! We’ve got to get into shelter.’

Galvanised by his voice, Claudius Mercator pointed towards the little valley below. A line of rocky cliffs might provide some kind of protection. His headdress was whipping wildly in the wind. He opened his mouth to shout something then fell back, choking, as sand filled it.

Flaminius whipped up his mount and galloped towards the low valley. In a frightened rout, the rest of the caravan followed him. Even as they came down to the valley floor, the outliers of the sandstorm poured over the hills like an invading army, and descended upon them.

The universe seemed to plummet into the chaos from which it arose. Shouting futilely against the deafening roar of the storm, Flaminius urged his mount on, but it was blown off its hoofs. He found himself flying through a cataclysm of flying sand, to hit the hard ground so hard he was momentarily stunned.

When he came back to himself, the storm was fully upon them. Wailing, disembodied voices shrieked and cackled all around him—the voices of spirits? Every superstitious fear ran rampant through his mind. All he could see was a fog of flying sand in which struggled dark figures of men and beasts. Someone grabbed hold of him and he turned to see Dido, hands gripping his tunic, her eyes wide with terror, her mouth opening and closing. Flaminius pulled her down into the shelter of a ledge of rock.

She thrust her lips to his ear and shrieked, ‘We’re going to die! This is it, Tiro! This is the end!’ Then she seized his head and turned it. He felt the hot warmth of her lips upon his. ‘Love me!’ she wailed. ‘Love me!’

She seemed to have lost her mind with fear. Tightly she clung on to him. He was sure she was sobbing. He had seen her fight in the arena before immense crowds. And yet she was terrified. Frightened for her life.

But that made sense, really, because surely she was right. They were going to die.

She clung to him and he held her close. She smothered him with kisses. Her body was warm and soft against him. He found himself responding. He tugged at her loincloth, she at his tunic. Free at last, they sank into the boiling sand together…

Flaminius woke again to stifling hot, blind nightmare. He was buried beneath what felt like tons of sand. Wildly he struggled. Something else was there in the choking darkness, struggling like him. He panicked, lashing out.

In a spray of sand he sprang out into bright sunlight. Gasping for breath he looked about him.

The level sands burst open and out came Dido, choking and wheezing, her face blue. Flaminius seized her and hauled her and himself from the sand where they had been entombed. Panting for breath, brushing sand from their bodies, they peered around.

The sand lay flat and wide on all sides. In places, large hummocks showed where rocky hillocks had been. Dotted around them nearby were smaller hummocks. The closest one, in the lea of a rock, was a camel, its fur thick with sand. It looked like it had asphyxiated.

‘We were almost the same,’ Flaminius murmured.

He heard noises from behind the camel, coughing and wheezing. Seizing the carcase in both hands he rolled it over bodily. Later on, thinking back, he marvelled that he had been able to do this, but somehow fear had given him Herculean strength.

Trapped in the space between the camel and the rock was a small figure tucked in a foetal position. Two beady eyes peered up from a face dusted with sand. Flaminius reached in and helped Amasis clamber out into the sunlight.

The boy brushed himself down vigorously. He looked at Flaminius then at Dido. ‘What were you two doing?’ he asked. When neither answered, he scanned their sandy surroundings. ‘Are we in the same place? Where is everyone?’

Dido was investigating another hummock. She brushed sand away to reveal a face. It was Gesco. Gently, she closed his madly staring eyes. She rose, and dusted herself down.

‘No need to bury him,’ she said. ‘He’s already interred.’

A shadow slid across the sand. ‘I read that the Nasamoneans insist on being buried in a sitting posture.’

Flaminius whirled round to see Demetrius standing atop a hillock. His clothes were also in tatters, and he leant on the broken shaft of a spear.

‘You’re alive,’ Flaminius exclaimed as the old man limped down to join them. It seemed miraculous that the Greek scholar of all people should remain while tough old Gesco was dead. ‘Have you seen any other survivors?’

Demetrius shook his head. ‘I found many bodies,’ he said, ‘but most were of livestock. I also found some slaves, some other Nasamoneans.’ He looked curiously at Dido. ‘It is strange that you are so ignorant of your own warrior’s burial rites.’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Flaminius. His tempest of superstition at the height of the storm had blown itself out, and practical matters were more pressing. ‘We must find the others, if any survive. We must also find supplies.’ He gestured at the endless sands. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere, and it’s getting hot. We’ve got to find shelter and food and water.’

‘We should go back to Augila,’ said Amasis. ‘They can’t rob us this time, we’ve got nothing.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’m glad someone’s using their brains.’ He looked uncertain. ‘Does anyone know which way we should go?’

‘We came from the east-north-east,’ said Demetrius. He glanced at the sun. ‘Depending on the time of day, that could be… this way,’ he pointed in one direction, ‘or that. Is it morning or afternoon? Does anyone know? I must have lost consciousness at the height of the storm and all sense of time has left me.’

‘Same here,’ said Flaminius. ‘And Amasis never knows what day it is.’ He aimed an affectionate mock punch at the boy.

‘Going by my belly,’ Dido patted it, ‘it’s a long time since we last ate. From what the merchant was saying, we had only a few more days’ journey to the borders of the country of the Garamantes. I vote that we go that way instead of turning back. Let’s look around for supplies and survivors.’

After some debate they agreed to this course, though Flaminius had misgivings. They found no survivors, man or beast. They did find one full water skin, however, and a bag containing dates. Flaminius had his sword, Dido her bow. The latter would be useful for hunting game, the former for fighting off robbers.

‘No sign of Claudius Mercator or Vabalathus,’ Flaminius commented at the end of the search. ‘And most of the Nasamoneans are missing.’

‘Maybe they’re buried deep in the sand,’ said Dido.

‘Or maybe they recovered earlier,’ Flaminius said, ‘and continued. We may find them if we hurry. Let’s hope we meet them on the way to the green fields of the Garamantian country.’

But the following day they found themselves in a landscape like the back hills of Hell.

—8—

Libyan Desert, Al Harūj al Aswad, 6th December 124 AD

After a day’s journey, Flaminius was no longer disorientated. Unless the sun no longer rose in the east in this eerie region, he knew where all the cardinal points lay. They were heading south-south-west again, in the hopes that this would bring them to Phazania and Garama, when they found their way blocked by a wide expanse of cinders and blackened rock, from the midst of which rose mountainous black cones of rock.

It stretched into the distance, where a heat haze hung shimmering in the air. Already they had encountered illusory expanses of blue amidst the sands that had seemed like great lakes. For a while Flaminius wondered if this new sight was not another mirage, if less pleasing on the eye.

‘Looks like the pits of Tartarus.’ He remembered the countryside near his friend Karus’ villa, the tortured blackened ground at the foot of Mount Vesuvius. ‘Or the floors of the forge of Vulcan, when the Cyclopes have been slacking on the sweeping up.’

Dido turned to him, eyes wide. ‘We can’t be expected to cross this,’ she said. ‘We must be on the wrong road.’

‘This was the direction in which Claudius Mercator was leading us,’ Demetrius commented. ‘Ergo, we must continue in this direction.’

‘But no caravan trail would go this way,’ Dido said. ‘The sand was difficult enough, but this—it’s like the floor of a furnace.’

A distant wind stirred up dust devils of ash.

‘The cosmos is a place of balance and harmony,’ Demetrius said as if addressing a lecture hall, ignoring the unending waste of blackened earth. ‘In the far north it is cold, and the ground is frozen for much of the year; in the remote south, northern cold is counterbalanced by extreme heat.’ He gestured at the burnt ground. ‘Here the heat, perhaps of the sun, has burnt so fiercely that the ground is charred and blackened.’

What Demetrius said made scientific sense, and fitted the facts as Flaminius knew them: in the north was Drustica, cold and proud, while in the south was Dido, sultry and tempestuous.

‘It reminds me of the old story of Phaethon,’ he said, ‘the sun god’s boy, who rode out in his father’s chariot and made such a hash of it he burnt up much of the earth. The lesson to this story,’ he added, with a meaningful look at Amasis, who was paying no attention, ‘is that youth should pay attention to its elders and betters.’

‘What’s that, Uncle Gaius?’ the boy asked, glancing up. Without waiting for an answer, he added, ‘Do we have to cross this?’

Dido was decisive. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We have to go round.’ She looked at Flaminius. ‘I don’t know what this is, Vulcan’s forge, Phaethon’s funeral pyre or what. The Nasamoneans didn’t mention this place. But we can’t be expected to cross it.’

Flaminius pursed his lips. ‘Demetrius says that our direction lies straight across.’

Dido shook her head. ‘Impossible. We go round it.’

As if it was settled, she turned and began marching southwards. With a look of dismay at the others, Flaminius followed her. Casting uncertain glances around them, the Greek scholar and the Egyptian youth brought up the rear.

But getting around Phaethon’s funeral pyre proved very difficult. After a day of following the edges of the great expanse of ash it became clear that it extended south for many miles, just as it stretched westward seemingly forever. As the sun set, they built a fire against the night chill using dried camel dung brought for the purpose and some scrubby brushwood collected along the way. During the journey, Dido had brought down an antelope that had been grazing on vegetation that grew incredibly amid the field of cinders, and they skinned and gutted this to cook it on the embers of their own fire.

‘We’re getting nowhere,’ Flaminius said after the meal was over. It was very dark, except for the glow of the fire and the sheen of starlight from the constellations that leapt extravagantly across the clear desert sky. Demetrius had gone to sleep. Amasis was perched on a hillock of sand nearby, supposedly on guard duty during the first watches of the night; although when Flaminius had last gone to check him, he was curled up and snoring.

Now it was only Flaminius and Dido. No mention had been made of their lovemaking during the storm. The threat of death sometimes caused women—and men—to act irrationally. To make one last attempt to create new life before Death came for them. Or had she always desired him, and had it been her last wish to sleep with him? They had grown close when they fought together as gladiators; and later, when she and Maccabeus had led him through the Nile Delta to the rebels’ stronghold, she had pretty much thrown herself at him. He’d forgotten about it, what with everything that had happened since.

The fire lit her large limbs with its orange glow, and struck highlights on her face, but her eyes were in shadow as he regarded her.

She poked the fire awkwardly. ‘Looks like it’s just us now,’ she said. ‘I…’

‘I…’ he began, interrupting her inadvertently. They both halted, and laughed. ‘Go on,’ he told her.

She shook her head. ‘No, you,’ she said.

‘I was just going to say that circumstances could be better,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Why is it always like this between us?’ He patted the sand. ‘Come and sit here,’ he said.

To his partial surprise, she came over obediently and sat heavily beside him. ‘At least it’s drier than the Delta mud,’ she said, flinging a big arm round his shoulder. ‘What are you doing here, Tiro?’

A little bashfully, he slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Just my work,’ he said.

She nodded, and asked no more. She leant her head against his and together they watched the flickering of the flames. A desert vixen screamed somewhere out in the darkness. A night breeze was blowing. Flaminius could smell the stench of ash in the air, coming from the black hills.

‘You work for the emperor,’ she said thoughtfully.

He turned his head and pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘I told you that, didn’t I?’ he whispered. ‘I thought you were dying, in that camp in the swamps.’

‘I survived,’ she said, reaching up to caress his face. ‘I’m a survivor, Tiro. Yes, you told me, though I knew already. But why did an imperial agent join a doomed expedition into the desert?’

She sat up, pushing him from her a little. ‘Because it is doomed,’ she added. ‘We only have water for three more days’ journey, if we ration it scrupulously. We’ve seen no sign of water as we skirted this expanse of ash, and surely there’s no water among those blackened hills.’

‘But it could be that Phazania is on the other side,’ Flaminius said. ‘It could be that if we go straight across, we’ll reach the Garamantian kingdom. And that is an oasis that leaves Ammonium and Augila in the shade, by all accounts. So I say we forge on across that devastation, instead of circling the edges. It’s said to be twenty two days’ journey from Augila to Garama, and although we’ve gone astray since the sandstorm, we had travelled about half that before disaster struck. I say we go straight over.’ He didn’t mention that the calculation was based on a group on horse- or camelback, and they would be walking.

She didn’t question it, to his relief, but instead looked thoughtful. She said nothing for a while. They sat close. He caressed her hair but she shook her head, shook him from her.

‘You don’t suggest the obvious solution,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘To go back. However close we may be to Garama, we could be sure of water at least in Augila. Perhaps we could hire more Nasamoneans there, if we could find any desperate enough to join us.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I don’t think we should go back,’ he said. ‘It would waste time.’ He sighed. ‘I think I can trust you,’ he added. ‘I’m not here to finance any caravan—good thing too, since it seems to have foundered…’

‘I know the emperor sent you,’ she said.

Flaminius laughed. ‘I doubt the august Publius Aelius Hadrian has a clue about what half his operatives are up to,’ he said, ‘but yes, I was sent on a mission for the empire. I have to get to Garama.’ Haltingly, he explained. She listened in silence.

‘Very well, Tiro,’ she said. ‘In that case, it would be futile to return to Augila. And it would be futile to skirt this area in the hopes of finding a way round. We go across. And unless we can find sweet water amid all that ash, let us hope the Garamantian kingdom is no more than three days’ journey away. Otherwise that plain of ash and rock will be our burying ground.’

A little later Flaminius took over the watch from Amasis, who went to sleep in the more comfortable situation of the campfire. The Roman sat up on the hillock listening to the night noises of the desert and pondering. Claudius Mercator’s caravan had been more disastrous than most. He remembered the words of the diviner in Ammonium. Only one of you will return… Already they were down to four. And if he insisted they travel on, some of them might die of thirst amid ashy hills, others might be killed by the Garamantes if they reached the other side. Only one would return! Would Demetrius of Oxyrhynchus die? Would Amasis? Flaminius hoped not. Would Dido die?

Or would he?

He couldn’t die. He had to get through to the temple in Garama, steal the veil, and then make the return journey. A pretty tall order, even he had to admit. Right now, getting to the temple seemed beyond hope. As for getting back into the empire—maybe the diviner was right. All but one of them would die. But which one?

The next day, Dido woke him. She had taken the last watch, and she seemed weary when she shook him awake. Amasis and Demetrius were both up, Amasis bouncing around full of life and energy, Demetrius complaining about his sciatica. They ate cold smoked gazelle meat then packed and prepared for the journey.

‘Dido agrees with me that the best approach is to go straight across the ash,’ Flaminius told the other two. ‘It seems likely that the Garamantian kingdom lies on the other side.’

‘That would make sense,’ said Demetrius, head shaking as if denying his own words. ‘The kingdom is cut off from all other lands. If rough country like this surrounds it, no wonder. I seem to recall some reference to black mountains in the account of Cornelius Balbus’ expedition.’

‘There, what did I tell you?’ Flaminius said, almost shaking with relief, rounding on Dido. She grinned.

‘But that can’t be right,’ the scholar added doubtfully. ‘Cornelius Balbus and his men came from the north, from Leptis Magna. They marched due south, rather than west from Egypt. These can’t be the mountains he mentions.’

Flaminius’ heart sank, but he said, ‘Still, we can take it as a good sign. Come on, we’d better start. We only have three days’ water left.’

The ashy ground crunched beneath their feet as they began the journey. The blackened rock piled up on every hand, great slopes of black basalt with gritty sand lying between them. They tried to keep to the sandy stretches, but frequently had to clamber across stretches of basalt, or even thread their way through a bewildering labyrinth of defiles in the black rock, its walls higher than Flaminius’ head.

They drew close to one of the cones, which reared hundreds of cubits above them. It looked much like Vesuvius, as Flaminius remembered the mountain from his visits to Baiae, although it was somewhat smaller. But while Vesuvius was but one extrusion of Vulcan’s realm amid pleasant vineyards and olive groves, this was an ashy pimple on a vast skin of similar excrescences.

At Amasis’ suggestion, they climbed partway up the cone, leaving Demetrius guarding their scanty provisions. The Egyptian boy galloped ahead up the grey, gritty slope.

‘We should be able to see the far side if we climb high enough,’ Flaminius panted as he and Dido followed the boy. She nodded, too breathless to answer.

But when they reached a flattish ledge some way up the side, halting for breath, all they saw was endless black rock and ash stretching towards the distant shimmering horizon. The sun blazed down upon the burnt ground from an empty sky, and Flaminius’ throat was dry. Black mountains broke the monotony of basalt, but served only to make the alien landscape seem all the bleaker, all the more hellish. A smell of brimstone hung in the unmoving air. It seemed like the end of the world.

Dido brushed sweat from her eyes. ‘Any sign of the other side?’ she asked.

Flaminius shook his head wordlessly, and led them back down the mountainside.

They rested in the shade of the cone until the afternoon, and continued when it was cooler. All that could be heard was the crunch-crunch-crunch of their feet in gritty sand. All that could be seen was mile upon mile of ash and basalt, broken up by the very occasional acacia. No breeze stirred the air or cooled their skin, and the stink of brimstone grew stronger the further they went.

They camped in a hollow where sparse grass and other vegetation grew. From somewhere came the distant gurgling of a stream, but Flaminius was too listless and dispirited to suggest they look for it. The smell of brimstone told him that any water they found would be undrinkable.

They had barely enough left in the water skin to wet their mouths on awaking. The sun seemed fiercer today than yesterday, and the rocks they had to cross were hot enough to burn. The desolation stretched to the horizon. They had to keep on walking, keep on until they reached the land of the Garamantes. But how long would it take on foot? Would they run out of water? Would they be forced to drink from the sulphurous pools dotted about the hollows in the rock?

On the morning of the third day, Flaminius climbed a hillock and looked west to see that there was no end to the black desert. Dark mountains fanged the edge of the sky, and between these voracious teeth extended wastes of ash and basalt. Nothing stirred in this barren, lifeless expanse. Not even a vulture was visible in the blue skies.

They had barely any food, and the water was running out. What vulture would waste its time picking the skin and bones they would leave when they died in this endless wasteland?

Something made him look back. Perhaps it was to assess their chances of returning to the wholesome desert from which they had come. There had been game there for the hunting, and perhaps water among the rocks that was not poisonous with sulphur… He halted, and put his hand to shield his eyes. He stood there a long time, watching.

‘What can you see, Tiro?’

He glanced down to see Dido standing in the ashy hollow. ‘Dust,’ he said, flapping tiredly towards the horizon. ‘A column of dust in the far distance.’

Her face fell. ‘Another sandstorm?’

He shook his head. ‘More like another caravan. But far away. Far, far away. Too far to help us.’

Amasis joined them. Even the Egyptian youth looked weary and dispirited.

‘How far is it to the other side?’ he complained. ‘You said three days.’

Flaminius gritted his teeth. ‘I see no sign of any end,’ he admitted.

This was all his fault. Would even one of them return to fulfil the diviner’s prophecy? It would be none of the people in his party. And who else had survived the sandstorm?

Amasis pointed at the nearest mountain. ‘We should climb up there,’ he said. ‘You can’t hope to see anything from that little rock.’

Flaminius tried to argue. It would be a waste of effort, he explained to the boy. They couldn’t waste their flagging energies on futile endeavours. But Dido agreed, and so did Demetrius when he joined them.

In the end, of course, it was Flaminius himself who ascended the cone on his own. No sense in them all risking their necks.

Halfway up the cliff, he reached a narrow ledge that ran around the mountainside. Here he halted, exhausted with the exertion and the endless heat, and paused for a rest.

As he did so, he must have dislodged something, because with a clattering smack, a heavy object bounced down to land on a narrower ledge, level with his eyes.

It was a skull. A human skull.

Flaminius gazed into the face of Death, and Death grinned back derisively.

He looked up. On a higher ledge he could see a scatter of bone, very white against the black basalt. Looking back down the slope he saw the tiny dots of his three companions far below him, clustered together protectively like frightened children. They were the only specks of life in a vast, harsh landscape that rolled endlessly towards every horizon. He leant his forehead against the hot basalt and closed his eyes.

‘That’s it, then,’ he found himself saying, in tones of strange relief. ‘It’s all over. We’ll die in this place.’

There was a clatter of footsteps and something blotted out the heat of the sun. A voice said, ‘So there you are. We were wondering when you would catch up with us. You can see Phazania’s borders from higher up this peak. What was that you were saying, sir?’

—9—

Libyan Desert, Al Harūj al Aswad, 10th December 124 AD

Pushing himself upwards, away from the rock, Flaminius turned to see Menander’s dark, bearded face gazing at him from further down the ledge. Claudius Mercator’s taciturn Ethiopian body slave was clad in sand- and salt-crusted rags, his face was drawn and gaunt, but otherwise he looked no different from when Flaminius had last seen him. But he must have spoken more in the last moment than at any point since Flaminius had met him.

Flaminius looked about in surprise. ‘Where did you come from?’ he asked. ‘I thought you must have died in the sandstorm. How did you get here?’

Menander beamed at him and chuckled. He saw the skull on the little ledge, and picked it up with an expression of distaste. ‘An unsuccessful predecessor,’ he murmured, gazing deep into its bony orbits. ‘No doubt climbed up here to survey the land around, like us.’ With a sudden flourish, he flung it out into empty space. As Flaminius watched the white shape plummet in a parabola towards the distant rock, the slave added, ‘Come with me, sir. You can meet your fellow survivors.’

‘But…’ Flaminius glanced back down the cliff to where Dido and the other two now waited patiently for his return. Amasis was staring, puzzled, towards the rocks some way off where the skull had landed, smashing into pieces as it did.

Already Menander had vanished round the corner. Flaminius hurried after him.

The ledge widened out as it curved round the cone, and an unstable slope of rocks led up the side towards the peak. Menander was already halfway up it. He looked back briefly at Flaminius toiling below, and his voice drifted down.

‘Make haste, sir,’ he called, then turned and continued his ascent.

Flaminius scrambled up after him, leaping from rock to rock, hunting for better routes up the slope. As he did so, other voices drifted down, engaged in relaxed conversation. He thought he heard Claudius Mercator’s fulsome tones, and Vabalathus’ boastful voice.

‘…who’s that, Menander?’ Claudius Mercator was asking as Flaminius pushed his way up between two baking hot black rocks. ‘That young fop? I thought he died in the sandstorm. No stamina, these young men about town…Oh.’

His voice broke off. Flaminius climbed up onto a long narrow ridge of rock to find Menander facing a small group consisting of the merchant, the Arab, and a semi naked Nasamonean who he didn’t really know, but who he remembered had been Gesco’s right hand man. All turned to stare at him.

‘So it’s true,’ said Vabalathus, lip curling. ‘The straggler returns. How you survived alone for so long…’

‘I’m not alone,’ said Flaminius, striding up to join them. ‘I’ve been travelling across this hellish wasteland with others…’

‘That catamite of yours survived?’ Claudius Mercator said sympathetically. ‘He must have been a great comfort in your loneliness.’

‘He’s not my catamite,’ Flaminius snapped. ‘He’s supposed to be your apprentice. And he hasn’t been my only companion. Demetrius the Greek and Dido were both with me.’

‘Dido lives?’ asked Claudius Mercator eagerly. ‘That is good! The rest of us are camped in the valley below.’ He gestured to the west.

From up here it was possible to see, far away in the heat haze of the west, across seemingly endless fields of ash, the shimmer of vegetation. Indeed, as Flaminius examined the awe inspiring view, he noticed spots of greenery amongst the basalt desert. Small lakes and ponds of trapped rainfall dotted the black stone floor, and around these grew shrubs and bushes. But these were occasional oases in an otherwise bleak expanse of black rock and ash. On the far horizon was something else, something green. An oasis, perhaps, but far larger than Ammonium or Augila.

Flaminius shaded his eyes and peered futilely into the haze. All he could make out from here were... fields? Forests? He couldn’t tell. But it was a large tract of fertile country in the depths of the desert.

‘Is that Phazania?’ he asked. ‘Menander told me you can see it from up here.’ He lowered his hand and looked about him. The ridge they stood upon was the lip of a great bowl of rock, like the cone of Vesuvius. Below him on that side the vent descended as if into the depths of Hades, but in its shadowed depths he thought he saw sand, as if the crater had been filled in by one sandstorm or other.

On every hand, the black waste swept away into the haze, range after range of similar peaks marching away like well-disciplined legions.

Claudius Mercator nodded. ‘That is the Garamantian country. And by travelling this way we have shortened the journey by several days. A pity that a most unseasonable sandstorm should have caught us napping.’ He looked bleak. ‘Half our merchandise was lost, most of our sheep and camels, and indeed many of the Nasamoneans, plus all the slaves bar Menander.’

Flaminius grinned bitterly, noting how the merchant prioritised these things. ‘And how did you escape the sandstorm?’ he asked curiously.

‘I was almost lost,’ Claudius Mercator said frankly, ‘as we thought you and the others were until now. Hamilcar here was very upset to think that Dido had been killed…’

The Nasamonean (was that a Nasamonean name? Flaminius didn’t think so) nodded darkly but said nothing. Hamilcar was a bearded man of Flaminius’ age, with wide, visionary eyes.

‘If it hadn’t been for Vabalathus,’ Claudius Mercator went on, ‘we might all have been drowned in the sand. It was he who encouraged us to ride onwards through the storm.’

‘We lost a few in the process, but it was every man for himself,’ Vabalathus added. ‘I remember a time in the Arabian Desert…’

‘So you just rode out on me!’ said Flaminius. ‘It’s good to know who you can trust on an expedition like this.’

Vabalathus smiled coldly. ‘What matters is that Phazania is opened up to trade and that we investors receive a steady return.’

‘Neither Demetrius nor I would have seen any return on our investment,’ Flaminius remarked, ‘buried in the sands of the Libyan Desert.’ He peered over the edge. A long way below, at the foot of the great slope, smoke was trailing upwards into the air, and he caught the briefest whiff of cooking fires. ‘Is that where you’re camped?’ he inquired.

Claudius Mercator nodded. ‘We came up here to see how far we had to go before we reached Phazania,’ he said. ‘This is not the route I took last time; that lay some distance to the north. It was Hamilcar who suggested I send Menander to look back and see if any of the others were still with us. You have him to thank. Otherwise you might have been wandering these barren wastes until the end of time.’

‘I left the others on the far flank of the mountain,’ Flaminius told them. ‘Are you going back to your camp now? I’d better go and collect them. I’ll meet you at the western foot,’ he added over his shoulder as he hurried towards the slope.

Brimming with excitement, he made his way back down. Only a short while ago, he had thought he was going to die here in the desert, far from any life or civilisation. He had thought the few survivors of the sandstorm doomed to wander until thirst and hunger finished them off, that they would never find the Garamantian kingdom, or anything else. But now that he had seen that far-off fertile land, that lost valley in the midst of the sands, he felt renewed hope.

Quite what would happen when they reached this mirage of a country, he didn’t really know. Claudius Mercator wanted to open it up for trade. That would entail some fierce negotiations, since it seemed that the king of the Garamantes wasn’t keen on foreigners. Maybe they would find supporters amongst discontented nobles or even an ambitious crown prince. Divide and rule was the Roman way.

Not that Phazania was ever likely to become a province of the empire. Whatever politicking the merchant would need to stoop to in order to fulfil his mission was of no great interest to Flaminius. His own mission was far more important.

It would take a long time before they reached the city of Garama, he was quite sure of that. Even now that they would be riding again, on camels or other mounts, it was still likely to take at least a ten days’ journey to reach the city—the temple—the veil of Tanit. And after that? After he had committed this sacrilegious theft (quite how he would pull that off, he had yet to determine), even if the curse of the goddess didn’t pursue him, the chances were that mad eyed fanatic priests would pursue him across the Earth to regain their relic.

‘Tiro!’

He looked up. Advancing towards him along the ledge was Dido. ‘Tiro!’ she said. ‘I thought you must have fallen! When you didn’t come back for so long I thought—that is, we thought… Did you climb right to the peak?’

He embraced her. ‘Good news!’ he said. ‘We’re not alone in this wilderness. I met the others. At least some of them. Vabalathus, Claudius Mercator…’

She drew back and examined him closely. ‘Did any of my warriors survive?’

He nodded. ‘Some of them,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Hamilcar is with the merchant.’

They started walking along the ledge to the place where both of them had climbed up. ‘Hamilcar…’ he added slowly. ‘That’s not a very Nasamonean sounding name…’

She looked at him defiantly. ‘It’s not? How many Nasamoneans have you met?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe none at all,’ he told her. ‘Hamilcar is a Punic name. Carthaginian. Like your own.’

‘For your information,’ she said tartly, ‘Punic names are common amongst the nomads. Just as they sometimes worship Egyptian gods like Jupiter Ammon, they also sometimes adopt Punic names.’

‘Do the nomads worship Punic deities?’ he asked.

‘How should I know? What are you trying to suggest, Tiro?’

She was beginning to sound hostile. They halted at the edge of the ledge.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just curious.’ He gestured at the way down. ‘Let’s go and get the others.’

She studied him for a while. Then without speaking, she began the descent.

It was mid-afternoon before the four of them, Flaminius, Dido, Demetrius and Amasis, finally limped into the merchant’s camp at the foot of the black mountain. They were a bedraggled little group, stained with ash and dusted with sand, nursing cuts and bruises from falls sustained while crossing the rocks that littered the base of the slope.

It had taken a lot longer than Flaminius had expected, and partway through their journey the sun had risen so high and grown so hot, they were forced to take cover beneath a huge, house sized, fallen rock. Quite what the desert was like in the dog days of summer Flaminius had no desire to learn. He had some experience of the Thebaid in Upper Egypt, patrolling that desert against Libyan or Ethiopian raiders, and it had had been enough to have him pining for the heather clad peat bogs of Caledonia. Yet this ashen wasteland was even worse.

At the cool, shady base of the big rock they found a still pool. After some tentative investigation, Flaminius found no reason to think it poisonous. There was no smell of sulphur. He filled up their water skin.

‘When we finally get to the merchant,’ he told his companions, ‘we should have enough water to share. And when we reach Phazania, it looks like water flows in abundance there, going by the green of the vegetation.’

‘I wish I’d been allowed to climb the mountain with you,’ Amasis complained, after drinking his fill. ‘I’d like to see where we’re going.’ He looked balefully out at the basalt waste framed in the entrance to their little cave. ‘I’m sick to the back teeth of this desert.’

Even his seemingly irrepressible high spirits had been buoyed down by this infernal journey. It had been hard going, to say the least, particularly the last day or so. But now that they were reunited with Claudius Mercator—almost, anyway—they stood a chance. They were no longer alone in the wilderness.

It still took an absurdly long time before they got out of the waste of blackened boulders and came down into a sandy hollow beside a small lake of turquoise water. Baobab trees grew here, small beside some Flaminius had seen, but trees nevertheless, and scrubby grass swathed the edges of the pool. Encamped beside it in rush and asphodel shelters was what remained of Claudius Mercator’s caravan. A small pen contained the sheep, camels were tethered nearby, and three men in leopard skin loincloths sat by the pool.

They leapt up, seizing hold of spears, as the four stragglers came clattering down the rocky slope. One of them raised a hand. Flaminius recognised him as Hamilcar, the Nasamonean with the oddly Punic name. The others halted and lowered their spears, then lifted them high in the air with a resounding cheer.

Flaminius was baffled by this show of enthusiasm. When Dido strode proudly past him and went to talk to her warriors, everything became clear. They hadn’t been greeting him but her.

One of the shelters opened up and out crawled Claudius Mercator. He rose, brushing fragments of dust and chaff from his knees, and crossed over. ‘There you are, Flaminius,’ he said as Dido went to sit with her chattering warriors. ‘And Demetrius!’

The old man was hobbling along steadfastly. It was admirable, the iron will that propelled that withered, palsied old body. But his aches and pains had delayed them on the final leg, and Flaminius had found it difficult to suppress his impatience. He had taken it out on Amasis, who had been whining in less philosophical fashion.

‘All your investors are with you now,’ said Vabalathus, who had been tending to his tethered camel. ‘You will still have creditors at the end of the expedition, unless you are more successful in whittling us down later on.’

Claudius Mercator laughed uncomfortably.

‘What does he mean?’ Amasis whispered to Flaminius.

Flaminius grinned affably. ‘All Vabalathus is saying,’ he said loudly, ‘is that our caravan leader will make more money in the long run if a few of his investors die along the journey. Of course, it’s not true...’

‘No indeed,’ said Claudius Mercator, gesticulating in dismay as he waddled forwards. ‘I have no desire to see any of my investors departing for the shores of the Styx. By no means…!’

‘It’s not true,’ Flaminius went on, ‘because the monies accrued will still be posthumously owing to our various estates. I know that those who inherit from me will be most assiduous in pursuing such assets.’

He gave the merchant a cold smile. If that was indeed the plan, to leave the investors in the desert to die, Claudius Mercator would achieve nothing with him: the legion was providing his investment, and Avidius Pollio would hardly turn up his Roman nose at the profits that might result.

‘Of course,’ said Claudius Mercator, looking glum. ‘Of course.’

Having successfully sown the seeds of dissension, Vabalathus smiled coldly. ‘Now, gentlemen, I think it’s high time we made our way into this… Promised Land.’

—10—

Phazania, 10th December 124 AD

The fields of black rock and sand gave way to patches of greenery as they descended into the lush, fertile land beyond. The contrast between bleak, hostile desert and the vista of palm groves and ploughed fields could not have been greater. Big horned cattle grazed in the meadows, and here and there men in robes spread some kind of white marl on growing crops. Vineyards terraced the upper slopes, olive groves flourished in the lower valleys. Everything was lush and green despite the blazing sun, except for occasional stretches of arid land.

Flaminius wondered how such a paradise had come about in the midst of the desert. Was it a freak of the gods, or the work of men? Smoke trailed to the desert sky from small settlements among the palm trees. Far off in the distance, mountain peaks were visible. Somewhere in that direction lay the lost city of Garama.

The caravan was much smaller than it had been when it set out from Ammonium, or even from Alexandria’s Gate of the Moon. Half the merchandise had been lost in the sandstorm, and there were fewer people too, and only mounts enough for the most important. But Claudius Mercator led them into the great valley with pride in his gaze, in the tilt of his head. The others followed him, on camelback or on foot, looking about in mingled wonder and fear.

‘How could such a place exist, in the midst of the desert?’ asked Dido. ‘It’s impossible. It must be the blessing of the gods.’

Vabalathus gave a scornful smile. ‘Nothing more than good irrigation,’ he told her. ‘In Arabia and in the Parthian Empire too, they have wrested water from the very rock to feed crops and plants. Have you never heard of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon?’

‘One of the Seven Wonders of the World,’ Flaminius remembered.

‘Rightly so,’ said Vabalathus, ‘since Mesopotamia is as arid a country as this.’

‘But in Mesopotamia they have two great rivers to water their lands,’ Demetrius said knowledgably. ‘Just as in Egypt, the inundation of the Nile fertilises the countryside. I see no rivers of any size in this land.’

There were channels in the rock, low valleys where vegetation grew in galleries as if alongside rivers, but only occasional stagnant pools and reed beds were visible at the bottom of the mist hung valleys. Flaminius had seen the like in the Thebaid, and on the journey to Ammonium. He drew their attention to these anomalies.

‘Wadis, we call them in my land,’ said Vabalathus importantly. ‘During the rains, they flow like rivers in any northern country. But they will not be the sources of irrigation. My guess is that the natives use underground tunnels like the Parthians.’

They followed a narrow track alongside a wadi towards a settlement among the date palms. A scene reminiscent of Ammonium met their eyes at first: an overseer watched slaves as they dug salt from a rocky hill. But soon the travellers were passing agricultural land where colourfully robed women marled the fields using long mattocks. Dark faces looked up to watch them passing.

‘We’ll make friends in this village,’ said Claudius Mercator, gesturing at the settlement. ‘Win them over with gifts and presents. That will give us a foothold in the locality. Then we can go on to palaver with the local chiefs, and work our way up to the king of this country.’

In amongst the trade goods were oil lamps, ceramic tableware, and amphorae containing olive oil and wine, all of which the merchant had learnt went for a good price in this country. Not that the villagers were likely to have much of the famous gold, ivory, slaves or salt to trade. Such goods would be under the control of the local chief, Claudius Mercator explained.

‘Why did you not adopt this approach on your last journey?’ Vabalathus asked. ‘I assume you did not. Otherwise, surely you would not be repeating such tactics this time.’

The merchant shook his head. ‘Last time was a scouting mission,’ he said. ‘I took only a few goods, and made very little in return. But what was more valuable than profit was what I learnt of the country.’

As they drew nearer the village, robed men began to move in from herding cattle or hunting, clutching long leaf bladed spears. Women came in from the fields, joining others outside their houses, weaving and dying, grinding grain and cooking food, came to gather in the village square. The caravan entered the village, Claudius Mercator making signs of peace. As a small deputation gathered to greet them outside the biggest hut, he turned to Menander.

‘Go and tell them we come to trade,’ he told the Ethiopian.

‘Yes, master,’ said Menander.

He trotted forward, and addressed the sceptical, suspicious looking Garamantes. Meanwhile, Claudius Mercator directed the three Nasamoneans in laying out some of the cheaper merchandise on bolts of cloth in the middle of the square. Some of the silent village women came forward and examined them with expressions of muted delight. The spear carrying men looked on grave faced, and Menander palavered with the tall, dignified, bearded man with the long ringlets and feather headdress who Flaminius took to be the village headman.

‘They say that we need the permission of King Gulussa to trade anywhere in Phazania,’ Menander reported. ‘It may take many months for the message to reach him and that he will take some persuading. The headman apologises, but that is the way of things in Garama. Like most provincial officials, he shows little respect for his betters.’

Claudius Mercator clasped his ringed hands together. ‘Oh,’ he said loudly, so that the headman could hear his tone if not understand his words, ‘we do not come to trade!’

‘We don’t?’ Flaminius was puzzled. Why else were they here if not to trade?

A large woman in a brightly dyed robe was shrewdly inspecting a wine mixing bowl. Her clothes and ornaments were the richest of all the village women, and she was clearly chief wife of the headman. Claudius Mercator picked it up off the cloth and presented it to her with an elaborate flourish.

‘Tell the headman that this is a gift,’ he told Menander. ‘A token of my esteem. The first of many.’

The headman’s expression became less dignified and his bloodshot eyes lit up with greed. He made a long, circumlocutory pronouncement. Flaminius didn’t understand a word, but he could recognise self-interested sophistry in a thousand tongues. The man sealed the deal with Claudius Mercator with a strong handshake and then invited the merchant and his companions to enter the chief hut for drinks.

They spent much of the evening and into the night lazing in the chief hut, drinking and eating. Most of the men seemed to see the visit of the merchant caravan as an excuse for a feast while their wives and children cooked and cleaned, pounded grain and tended the crops. The cattle, deserted by the men, seemed quite able to cope with their loss. Amasis drank an entire mug of beer and was violently sick, to Flaminius’ embarrassment. And as the sun set over the western peaks, the men got together to perform a dance with many stamping feet and swaying hips, and voices raised in chorus, to the pounding throb of a drum.

‘They seem to live an ideal life,’ Flaminius told Dido. After the horrors and exertions of the journey, this warm welcome was overwhelming. ‘It’s like a return to the Golden Age.’

She gave him a sardonic look. ‘If this is your idea of the Golden Age, you can keep it,’ she said, glancing at the hard working women toiling outside.

Claudius Mercator was still talking to the headman and his cronies through the medium of Menander, who seemed to know all the languages of the area, but the merchant needed his slave less and less as he grasped the rudiments of the Garamantian tongue. The headman had received more presents that had been vetted satisfactorily by his chief wife and he seemed very pleased with his guests.

One of his cronies, however, a big, handsome fellow with a supercilious curl to his lips, his face ornamented with bizarre cicatrices and tattoos, watched the proceedings with distinct disapproval. In an interlude while the women were serving more pitchers of the potent local beer, Flaminius edged over to Claudius Mercator and addressed him in an undertone.

‘You’re making a big success with the headman,’ he said, ‘but keep an eye on some of his underlings. That one,’—he indicated Cicatrix with the slightest nod of his head—’needs some attention.

Claudius Mercator sighed and looked harassed. ‘I’m doing my best here,’ he said. ‘But these people really are the smallest of fish. I can’t afford to be too lavish with my gifts or we’ll have nothing left to ease our way with when it comes to the big chiefs.’

Flaminius raised his hands and shook his head. ‘I’m just pointing out that not everyone is happy here. Not trying to tell you how to do your job.’

As the light of the fire dimmed down and a nail paring of a moon rose above the date palms, beer sodden forms curled up on reed mats and went to sleep. The headman staggered off, promising his new friends a hunting expedition in the morning, held up by two of his younger wives and with his chief wife scolding him as they retired to a smaller, cosier hut nearby. The guests and the villagers slept where they had been drinking.

Flaminius remained awake for some time. Although he had picked up a taste for beer during his time in Britain and Egypt, he had not drunk as deeply as some of his companions. Dido had also been quite abstemious, as far as politeness permitted, but now she snored quietly nearby.

Also awake, sitting in a thoughtful pose on the far side of the hut, was the big handsome man with the cicatrices, who had seemed so displeased at not receiving any gifts. Flaminius lay down by the fire but kept his eyes open and fixed them on the envious man.

Just as he was nodding off, the big man rose abruptly and slip out of the hut like a shadow—so quiet it belied his size. Flaminius waited until the light pad of his bare feet receded into the night then sat up.

He shook Dido awake, since she was closest to him, gripping her bare shoulder firmly and putting a finger across her questioning lips.

‘What is it?’ she whispered suspiciously. ‘If you expect another dose of what you got during the sandstorm, that was…’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘Did you see the headman’s friend? The big man with the scars and the petulant expression?’

She looked hazy. ‘I think so. Seemed to resent the headman receiving all those gifts. He must have a high opinion of himself. But it’s not done to gossip about your hosts while under their roof…’

‘Look,’ Flaminius said, indicating the spot where Cicatrix had sat all evening. Dido peered over. She looked back.

‘He’s gone,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Gone to his own hut and his own wives?’

‘He’s just departed,’ murmured Flaminius. ‘Looked very surreptitious. We should follow him.’

‘I know you’re some kind of spy, Tiro,’ she said, ‘but this is…’

He rose. ‘I’ll go alone, then,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to know why I might be missing in the morning.’

He strode from the hut.

Outside, the light of the crescent moon glimmered on the dusty ground of the village. A fence of thorns and roughhewn wood surrounded the huts, and Flaminius thought he saw a figure crossing it, climbing over it rather than leaving by the gates. At the latter, two spear-bearing sentries nodded over hippopotamus hide shields.

Just as Flaminius was about to follow the figure, assuming it hadn’t been a trick of the moonlight, a hand came down on his shoulder. He spun round scrabbling for the sword at his hip.

He relaxed, recognising Dido. ‘Why did you creep up on me like that?’ he hissed.

‘I realised what you were saying,’ she murmured. ‘Sorry, too much of that beer. You think our big friend is going to make trouble for us? He didn’t look the type.’

‘They never do,’ said Flaminius. ‘Come on.’

He led her up a passageway between two huts, negotiating their way round a mysterious obstacle that turned out to be a parked chariot. Beyond it stood the section of stockade that the figure had been climbing.

‘I saw him, I think,’ he said, ‘going this way.’

‘Over there?’ Dido seemed about to make some kind of complaint, but then had second thoughts, pushing past him and leaping up onto the top of the fence. She turned to help him up beside her.

Beyond them were a few outbuildings, barns, byres and the like. The date palms framed starlit fields. Somewhere a cow lowed, somewhere else the wind moaned among the trees. Otherwise it was a silent night. He could see no sign of the figure he had seen, and in this hazy half-light there was no hope of finding any tracks.

‘What now?’ she said.

Flaminius sighed. ‘We keep alert,’ he told her. ‘Maybe he’s not making trouble. And maybe he is. We’ve no hope of following him under these conditions, so I suggest we go back to our beds. But we’ll take it in turns to keep watch. I suggest you wake Hamilcar from his drunken slumbers to share the watch.’

He halted suddenly. Dido stared at him, mouthing ‘What?’ and he motioned her to listen. The distant rumble of chariot wheels ebbed into the night.

‘Even so, don’t you think it’s a bit ridiculous keeping watch in a friendly village?’ she asked as they made their way back to the chief hut. ‘Are you even sure that he has left the village? And if so, why would he?’

Flaminius wasn’t sure. The figure he had seen climbing the palisade was quite possibly an illusion, a trick of the moonlight. He had just guessed that it was Cicatrix. It could have been a thief from another village, if it had existed at all. Maybe Cicatrix was in one of the other huts, curled up with his wives, or his livestock, or whatever he cuddled at night.

But it could be that he was halfway to Garama, or another of the Garamantian cities, bringing news of strangers. And if King Gulussa was forewarned, that would put them on the back foot at best. For all he knew, the king might send his charioteers to burn the village. Most of these barbarian monarchs were more than half mad, in Flaminius’ experience.

‘All the same,’ he whispered to Dido as they returned to the hut again, stepping quietly to avoid waking the sleepers, ‘it would be best to be on our guard. We’re beyond the empire now, in barbarian country. Rome’s writ does not run in these wild lands, and civilised behaviour is the last thing we can expect. We might be murdered in our beds.’

‘I’ll take first watch,’ Dido whispered after studying him doubtfully for a while. ‘You really need to get some sleep.’

—11—

Phazania, 11th December 124 AD

The next morning Flaminius was feeling rested and refreshed, not to mention excited. The promised hunt, it transpired, was a fixture. Flaminius liked nothing more than a spot of hunting, but it had been a while since he had really had had the chance—other than hunting for the pot during the journey, which really wasn’t the same. He wasn’t so keen on all the gralloching, or whatever you called it, that came afterwards, but charging about the countryside and making a hullabaloo was a favourite pastime of his.

Except they wouldn’t be riding. They would be hunting from chariots.

‘Chariots?’ he asked.

Claudius Mercator nodded, and gave a nervous laugh. ‘In these barbarian countries, chariots are still used in warfare,’ he said, ‘not to mention hunting. They’re not just part of a spectator sport.’ He huffed. ‘A Roman citizen like me has a reputation to think of. I wouldn’t know one end of a chariot from the other.’

Charioteers were the dregs of society, along with gladiators and catamites and actors. In the line of duty, Flaminius had fought in the arena. But he had never ridden in a chariot, let alone driven one.

‘Luckily I have not led such a sheltered life,’ said Dido. ‘I have been a charioteer as well as a gladiatrix.’ She gazed round the others grouped in the hut, a defiant expression on her face. ‘We can hardly turn down our host’s offer. It wouldn’t be polite.’

‘And courtesy is very important on such occasions,’ said Vabalathus knowledgably. ‘Chariots are not unheard of in the East, although they’re not used in warfare, not like in Darius’ day. I went hunting Hyrcanian tigers in a chariot when I was in Parthia. I, too, will not turn down this offer.’ He shrugged. ‘What will we be hunting? Gazelle? Lion? Elephant?’

Claudius Mercator turned to look, troubled, at Menander, who was standing in the entrance with a stony expression on his dark face.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ the merchant admitted. ‘For some reason Menander refuses to discuss it. I’ve picked up a smattering of the local tongue, and they have a few words of Punic, which I can also speak… As I understand it, from what the headman has said, the animals we’re hunting live in caves. They are very swift, running faster than horses, eat snakes and lizards, and screech like bats.’

Impatiently, Vabalathus said, ‘Thanks for the natural history lesson. But what are they? You should flog your slave until he gives you a better answer.’

Claudius Mercator looked diffident. Flaminius sighed.

‘Look, does it matter what we’re hunting?’ he asked. ‘We’re obliged to go along with whatever these people offer, otherwise we’ll lose face. If Dido and Vabalathus are both experienced charioteers, then they can drive while others take care of the hunting.’ He was tired of lazing around, and was itching to get on with the day. ‘I suggest I go with Dido, Claudius Mercator with Vabalathus.’

‘What about me?’ complained Amasis. ‘Aren’t I going hunting? It’s not fair, I never get any fun. Why can’t I come with you?’

‘You’re too young,’ Flaminius told him. ‘And you’re not here to go hunting with barbarians, you’re supposed to be learning a trade. Besides, Demetrius won’t be coming either, will you?’ He glanced at the Greek, who shuddered and rubbed his stiff limbs. ‘Nor will Hamilcar and the Nasamoneans, unless there are some who can handle a chariot. So you can all stay here and keep an eye on our belongings.’

Dido shook her head. ‘I suggest we all make a gesture of joining in with the hunt.’

‘I won’t be able to come,’ said Demetrius firmly. ‘My old bones, you know…’ He looked at Flaminius. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep an eye on your catamite.’

‘Thank you,’ Flaminius said, turning away to talk to Claudius Mercator. The last word registered as he did so and he glanced back resentfully, but Demetrius was intent on a scroll he had produced from his saddlebag. He’s not my catamite was on Flaminius’ lips, but he kept quiet. Denial would be taken as confirmation.

Damn Ozymandias, landing him with this idiot boy!

The hunt began later that morning. Chariots led by as many as four horses were driven out from stables dotted about the village and its surrounding lands. As they went to join the headman, the villagers were looking about them in puzzlement.

‘What’s up with them?’ Flaminius asked the merchant.

Claudius Mercator spread his hands. ‘I can get no sense from Menander this morning,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Perhaps Vabalathus is right, and I should thrash him. But it never seems to do any good,’ he added mournfully. ‘Somehow he always makes me feel guilty.’ He frowned. ‘All I can gather from them is that someone is missing. Or a chariot is missing.’

‘Or someone drove off in a chariot during the night,’ suggested Dido, giving Flaminius a meaningful look. ‘I notice that the big man with the scars on his face isn’t here.’

‘Possibly, possibly,’ said Claudius Mercator absently. ‘It’s of no consequence to us.’ He examined the chariot that had been allocated him as if it were a wild tiger, and turned to look for Vabalathus. While the Arab showed the merchant what was needed from him, Flaminius drew Dido to one side.

‘Are you certain it’s of no consequence that our sulky friend drove off in the night without telling anyone?’ he asked her.

She shook her head. ‘Of course not, Tiro,’ she said. ‘What is less certain is where he has gone. To King Gulussa in Garama, perhaps?’

‘But we’ll be going there anyway,’ said Flaminius. ‘What do you suppose our friend hopes to achieve?’

‘We’ll keep a weather eye open for treachery,’ she said, leading him to the chariot.

She sprang up into the car and stood with her feet widely spaced, gripping the reins in both hands. Four horses stood snorting in the traces, sizeable beasts though not as large as those Flaminius had ridden while a tribune of auxiliary cavalry: a bay, a piebald, a skewbald, and a grey. He made himself known to the horses, letting them get his scent as he fed them handfuls of tough grass.

Diplomacy complete, he joined Dido up on the creaking boards of the car. She was looking impatient. From here, he could see the plain surrounding the village was busy with chariots. As well as this one, and the one crewed by Vabalathus and the nervous looking Claudius Mercator, and another chariot packed by Dido’s Nasamoneans, half the men of the village were in chariots.

‘You’re good with horses, I’ll give you that, Tiro,’ Dido conceded grudgingly. ‘We’ll make a charioteer of you yet. Now, I’ll be sitting here, you’ll be standing beside me. These chariots are bigger than the sort I used to drive in the races at the Carthage Hippodrome, although the horses are smaller. Here are the javelins that will be your responsibility.’

Flaminius hefted a sheaf of throwing spears of an unfamiliar design. They seemed rude and sophisticated besides those he remembered.

‘The moment we sight our quarry,’ she went on, ‘I want you up and flinging them. I seem to remember you’re not a bad shot,’ she added, looking him up and down, ‘despite other inadequacies.’

‘Charming,’ he murmured.

The chariots began to set out across the baobab studded plain, the headman in the lead. Flaminius braced himself as the boards beneath his feet juddered and shuddered. The wheels turned, the horses galloped, and dust rose in clouds almost obscuring their view. He wondered how long it would be before they reached the hunting grounds.

He looked back, and waved once at Amasis and Demetrius, and the dark, disapproving Ethiopian slave, who all stood in the village gateway along with the womenfolk. Then the dust and the surrounding vehicles blocked his view, and he turned, gripped tightly onto the sheaf of javelins, and concentrated on avoiding being flung from the chariot.

Dido crouched over the reins, flicking them from time to time. The horses galloped along, manes streaming in the wind. Rumbling chariots were on either side. Flaminius gathered that some of the hunters came from outlying settlements. It felt like a war party.

They came out into the open now, the acacias and thorn bushes falling away on either side to reveal rolling grasslands, green and vivid in the winter sun. Dust clouds hung in the air, and Flaminius’ eyes were streaming, while sweat poured unabated down his face and neck. They were in the second rank of chariots, with Vabalathus and Claudius Mercator somewhere ahead of them. Flaminius didn’t recognise any of the chariot crews bouncing past on either side. Dark faces met his gaze, while the white feathers of their headdresses fluttered frantically in the wind of their passing.

A shout came from the vanguard. Flaminius rubbed his eyes, braced himself against the walls of the chariot and tried to see what the hubbub was about. But the dust was so thick, all he could see were dim shapes of speeding chariots. He tapped Dido on the bare shoulder with the haft of a javelin and she looked up irritably.

‘Looks like all the fun’s over there,’ he shouted over the noise of the wind and the rattling of the chariot. ‘Can’t you get some more speed out of these nags?

More shouting drifted on the dusty wind. A grove of trees and bushes stood in the middle of the plain, and chariots were shooting back and forth. As he watched, several things shot out from the trees and dash across the dusty plain. They were visible only for a second before the curtains of dust drew in and the careering chariots made vision impossible. But what Flaminius had seen left him feeling uneasy.

He crouched down to shout in Dido’s ear, ‘Did you see that?’

‘See what?’ she yelled back, still intent on the reins. ‘Have we flushed the quarry from the coverts?’

‘You could say that,’ he told her.

‘So don’t keep it to yourself,’ she shouted. ‘What are we hunting?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he bellowed. ‘I…’

He halted, unable to find the words, and she looked up puzzled. The chariot bounced over some snag in the ground and she hastily returned her attention to the four horses.

What exactly had he seen that so disquieted him? It had been only a brief glimpse. But surely it couldn’t have been… people. They had run too fast, more like cheetahs than men. Nevertheless they had run on their back legs, looking over their shoulders as men would when pursued…

‘Aegipans,’ Dido suggested when he managed to communicate this in broken shouts. ‘Aegipans or satyrs or some of the other manlike creatures that dwell in these parts.’

Flaminius had leafed through a scroll or two of Pliny’s Natural History before setting out on this mission, and he remembered all sorts of wild stories about Libyan fauna, including accounts of hairy men dwelling in the forests, satyrs and aegipans as they were called. But the shapes he had seen had not been hairy, as far as he could see. They had looked like nothing more nor less than men. Just what was going on here? Was this war, or some kind of punitive raid?

‘Try to get ahead,’ he shouted. ‘I want to see just what it is that we’re hunting.’

She whipped up the horses and skilfully guided them through a gap between two racing chariots, then past several more. Flaminius had followed the races in his time, supporting the Blues at one time, the Greens another. But watching slaves and peregrines hurtling about the Circus Maximus from the safety of the cheap seats was one thing, standing upright in a chariot as it was driven at speed across the uneven ground of a Libyan oasis was quite another.

He half crouched, half knelt and gripped onto the sideboard with his free hand. Every bump sent a shock through his entire body. He would never take up charioteering as a career, whatever happened to him, although he liked the feel of the air in his hair and the sense of speed was more exciting than riding even the fastest horse. It was like battle: he was caught in an ecstasy somewhere between exhilaration and profound fear for his life.

They burst from the line of chariots to see two more ahead, and beyond them a plain across which rolled clouds of dust. Skittering across the withered grasses were three or four figures.

Despite the dust and the grit in his eyes, Flaminius could now see that they were definitely man-shaped. Man, or woman. One seemed to be male, another female, and two or three others were smaller than them, as if they were children.

Dido drew level with one of the two chariots in the lead. Within it Vabalathus was lashing his horses onwards while Claudius Mercator clung rigidly to the juddering crossbar, staring in numb horror at the javelins in his hands. Ahead of them the headman’s chariot streaked after the fleeing figures. They were fast, whatever they were, Flaminius could give them that much. But he didn’t rate anyone’s chances against chariots.

The ground rose and in places there were outcrops of rock. He wondered how well the chariots would fare on uneven ground. Already he felt like he would be vibrating for the rest of his life from the shaking he had received.

He shouted across to Claudius Mercator. ‘What in Hades are we hunting? They look like people!’

The merchant turned. His face was pale, and he clung to the chariot in fear. He shook his head speechlessly.

Vabalathus looked up, grinning ferociously. ‘We can’t lose face in front of our hosts,’ he reminded him. ‘We must observe the customs of the country! If they hunt people rather than beasts, we must hunt people too…’ He broke off at a jubilant shout from the headman.

Their host had brought down one of the running figures with a lucky cast of a javelin. The others were still running towards the rocks as if they had yet to realise that one of their number was down. As the headman’s chariot rumbled to a halt, the fallen figure writhed in the dust like a speared fish.

It was one of the children.

The two chariots, one driven by Vabalathus, the other by Dido, screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust. Meanwhile, the headman jumped down from the running boards of his own chariot and strode towards the speared child. In the distance, on the edge of the rocks, the other figures had halted and were looking back.

They were very dark, Ethiopians like Menander.

The headman placed a triumphant foot on the fallen child’s flank, seized the javelin. Then he looked up and grinned at his guests as they climbed down from their chariots. He spread the fingers of his other hand to indicate the pride he felt at bringing down this quarry. The child twitched at the end of the javelin.

—12—

Phazania, 11th December 124 AD

Sweat poured down Flaminius’ face. Normally, he accepted whatever life threw at him, however distasteful, avoiding involvement unless it was necessary or part of his duty. This small boy spitted on the headman’s javelin like a speared fish should be nothing to him.

And yet, the moment Dido brought the horses of their chariot to a whinnying halt, even as Vabalathus drove up in a cloud of dust, Flaminius leapt down onto the sparse soil and strode over to the headman, shouting he didn’t know what. He shoved their host backwards so he staggered away a few steps, then seized the javelin and wrenched it from the black skinned little boy’s thigh. The boy was bleeding copiously. He looked up at Flaminius with the blank, fearful eyes of a wild animal. The others of his tribe were watching silently from the rocks.

Flaminius gestured at the prone boy, making shooing gestures as he would at a chicken. Abruptly, the boy leapt to his feet and shot off like a startled lizard. He was fast! He vanished into the rocks with his fellow tribes-folk even as Flaminius dropped the javelin and turned to face the headman defiantly.

The Garamantian was astounded. His mouth opened and shut, opened and shut as he stared in goggle eyed incredulity at this foreign guest who was so discourteous as to interfere with another man’s sport.

‘They’re people…!’ Flaminius raged. ‘Not animals, people!’ He picked up the javelin again and shook it, feeling foolish. ‘Keep this for game, not people! What have they ever done to you? What….?’

The others had disembarked from their chariots and were watching him. Dido lounged by her chariot, arms folded across her bare breasts. Claudius Mercator peered from Flaminius to the headman and back, gaping like the latter. Vabalathus strode forwards forthrightly.

‘What’s got into you?’ he bellowed at Flaminius. ‘Are you sick, man? He’s sick,’ he added, turning to the headman with a conciliatory gesture. ‘Possessed by evil spirits, maybe.’ He scowled at Flaminius. ‘Is that it? What’s got into you, you fool? We need these people’s aid if we’re to open up this country for trade.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ said Claudius Mercator, barrelling up at this mention of something he understood. ‘You mustn’t alienate these people. They’re our only toehold in this country!’

He approached the headman and tried to speak to him in what Flaminius assumed was broken Garamantian, his tone as conciliatory as Vabalathus’ gestures.

Dido walked up to join them. ‘They’ve got a point,’ she said, hands on her hips. ‘You don’t want to make them angry. You…’ Her last words were lost in a thunder of wheels and a cloud of dust as the rest of the chariots halted in a ring round them.

Puzzled looking Garamantes looked down at the contretemps. The headman spoke with Claudius Mercator. The merchant wailed and cried, pointed to the heavens, put his hands to his heart, stamped his foot, and finally knelt on the floor and flung dust on his head. Then he rose and handed the headman all the gold and jewels he wore.

Excited, the rest of the villagers swarmed down from their chariots and surrounded them, asking questions, shouting, arguing. Flaminius stood in the middle of it all, feeling hot and irritable. He looked at the inaccessible stretch of rocks into which the people had vanished. They had been so fast! But who were they?

‘They’ve been here since the beginning,’ Claudius Mercator lectured him in the middle of all the jostling, having recovered a little after his demonstrative display. ‘On the coming of the Punic folk to their original lands, the Garamantes fled here from Lake Tritonis where had settled their heroic ancestor Garamas, grandson of Minos. The dark skinned people were here already, dwelling in caves, living by the chase. They raided cattle from the Garamantes, and a state of war has always existed. Except it’s not war. The Garamantes don’t think of them as human. They hunt them and ea…’ He broke off as the jostling of the crowd grew greater. White eyes rolled in dark, angry faces.

‘You see what you’ve done, you young Roman fool?’ shouted Vabalathus. ‘You’ve turned them against us with your high handed interfering ways. Typical Roman! You’d happily watch a criminal crucified or mauled by beasts, or two fools hacking at each other with swords in the arena. But faced with the customs of people beyond your experience…’

Claudius Mercator looked around apprehensively. The mood of the crowd was ugly. Now the headman, weighed down with the merchant’s desperate gifts, seemed to be trying to reason with them, despite the fact that it was the slight to his honour they wanted to avenge. The merchant put a pudgy arm round Flaminius’ shoulders.

‘You see, when you’ve dealt with barbarians as long as I have, you get used to this kind of thing. They can be very friendly! Usually they are, even if they always try to cheat you. You can’t let them do that, of course. But you have to turn a blind eye to… They have their ways, you see. Ways that are…’ Words failed him. He shrugged. ‘Barbaric.’

Next Claudius Mercator tried to speak to the headman, but his command of the Garamantian tongue was inadequate to express his feelings. Besides, the man was preoccupied with the complaints of his own people.

‘Tiro should have controlled himself,’ Dido said darkly. ‘We’re in danger now.’

‘I can’t seem to get through to this fellow,’ Claudius Mercator said dolefully. ‘I wish Menander had come with us.’

‘He probably didn’t want to go hunting children!’ Flaminius said. ‘This must be why he didn’t come with us! He knew what these barbarians were up to!’

‘If you want to profit from trading with barbarians,’ said Vabalathus, who was starting to look perturbed by the growing anger of the crowd, ‘you have to face facts. They’re not civilised, like we are.’

‘But you’re an Arab,’ said Dido. ‘Not a Roman citizen. Doesn’t that make you a barbarian?’ she added bitterly.

‘But I…’ Flaminius broke off when the headman fell back against him, his skull colliding solidly with the Roman’s ribs. He had been pushed by a group of his own people. For a moment Flaminius was sure that the Garamantes were going to set upon them. He set his hand on the pommel of his sword which he wore as usual at his hip. Then he halted, listening.

The rumble of chariot wheels reached his ears. Dust was billowing beyond the crowd, and it was this that had caught the people’s attention. The reverberation ceased abruptly, and then the dust began to settle, revealing more chariots.

The headman staggered to his feet with Flaminius’ aid. Together they stared at the newcomers.

‘More of your people?’ Flaminius asked. The headman shook his head, but whether this was in incomprehension or the reverse he didn’t know.

Ringed around them, cutting off every quarter but the impenetrable rock field behind them, the new chariots were filled with Garamantian warriors, these more splendidly clad than even the most pretentious of the villagers. The chariots were brightly painted and drawn by splendidly fettled horses, gaily caparisoned, snorting in apparent scorn of the nags that drew the villagers’ vehicles.

In the middle of the crescent that kept both the villagers and their guests penned was a larger chariot, from the back of which fluttered an emerald green banner. Standing in the car, dwarfing his charioteer who crouched before him, was a Garamantian chieftain at least seven feet tall, wearing a headdress of ostrich feathers and a brief robe of printed antelope hide. His face was serene, implacable, and cruel, fringed by a thick woolly beard; his eyes, even from this distance, were bright and compelling.

At his side cringed another man, almost as big, clad almost as splendidly, clutching a feathered spear as he spoke deferentially to the large chieftain. Flaminius thought he recognised him, but it was too far away to be sure. The chieftain turned and addressed the headman in a booming voice.

The headman’s face turned ashen. He shouted back in a stammering voice, but the chieftain interrupted him, gesturing with the assegai he held. All the villagers fell to their knees, dropping their spears as they did so. Silence settled over the scene, broken only by the moan of the desert wind. Flaminius looked uneasily around him. Each of the new chariots contained watching forms, fully armoured, well-built warriors who competed with Hadrian’s Praetorians for sturdiness.

The chieftain barked an order and a group of them got down and forced their way through the parked chariots of the villagers, over the prostrate villagers themselves, to approach the group of foreigners. As the spear carrying nobles swaggered towards Flaminius and the others, pausing only to lash out with spear butts at grovelling villagers, the chieftain spoke again, at length.

Claudius Mercator perked up. ‘Is that Punic he’s speaking?’ he said in surprise.

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Vabalathus impatiently. The warriors had halted, ringing round the merchant and his companions, spears levelled and glinting in the sunlight.

‘Now let me see,’ Claudius Mercator muttered vaguely. ‘I think he’s saying…’

‘He’s saying that the villagers have been harbouring Roman spies,’ Dido interrupted. ‘That they shall be punished for their treachery, their crops burned, their beasts slaughtered, their children sold into slavery…’

Flaminius glanced at her and she nodded. ‘Yes, he’s speaking Punic. He had a good teacher.’

‘Seems like an extreme way to treat the villagers,’ Flaminius commented.

‘Keep quiet,’ snapped Vabalathus. ‘It’s your sickly city bred ways that got us into this mess.’

Flaminius rounded on him. ‘It’s my fault that this chieftain’s retinue has come here? I don’t think so. See that man in the chieftain’s chariot? Remember him?’

‘Look, he’s speaking with the chieftain,’ said Dido quietly.

It was true. An argument had broken out between the chief and the big, scar-faced man beside him. The big man was flinching at the angry tones of the chieftain, but still he spoke defiantly.

‘He was at the village,’ said Vabalathus thoughtfully. ‘He had vanished in the morning.’

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘We saw him leave, didn’t we?’ He nudged Dido.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

He scowled at her. What was she talking about?

Suddenly the chieftain struck Cicatrix across the face so he fell to the floor of the chariot. The chieftain turned to speak to the foreigners. Dido listened, then shouted back something. A shouted conversation ensued.

‘What are they saying?’ Flaminius asked Claudius Mercator, who was listening closely. He looked up.

‘The chieftain, I think, is saying that he will forgive the villagers for harbouring spies,’ he said, ‘but the headman will be dismissed. It seems that the big man has ambitions to replace him. The chieftain says he is merciful and will not create unnecessary suffering.’

‘And what’s Dido saying?’

Claudius Mercator frowned. ‘She seems to be trying to palaver with him. He says we must be taken to the city as well, to be tried for spying. Dido is speaking in our defence.’

Flaminius had never expected to have a retired gladiatrix represent him in a court of law.

Among the barbarians beyond the Rhine and the Danube it was customary for legal disputes to be settled by recourse to duels between champions, assuming that the gods would establish the innocence of one or other party by bestowing victory on their representative. He could imagine Dido excelling in such a violent role, but she had no legal training as far as he knew, and he could see from the stormy expression on the chieftain’s face that she was not making a success of her first case. As the argument wrangled on with no sign of any conclusion, he nervously watched the silent warriors who still surrounded their little group.

‘Dido, ask him what the laws are concerning merchants,’ he said when a lull came in the barbaric proceedings.

‘Keep out of this, Tiro,’ she said harshly. ‘You’ve been enough help for one day.’

‘Now just a minute,’ he said angrily. ‘None of this is my fault. Very well, it was wrong of me to interfere with the rights and privileges of the Garamantes to hunt children for the table, but the present situation is nothing to do with me. Obviously our friend over there’ —the big man now couched in the chariot at the chieftain’s side, nursing his bruises in silence—’saw our presence as an opportunity to progress along the course of honour. You’ve got to persuade the chieftain that we are not spies, but are in their lands solely to trade.’

‘Would you have me lie to them?’ Dido said sardonically, opening her big eyes wide. ‘The only one among us who has any intention of trading with them is Claudius Mercator. And you couldn’t trust that old fraud for a second.’

Impatiently, Flaminius pushed her aside and strode forwards. His intention was to communicate with the chieftain by signs, futile no doubt, but better than waiting for Dido to show sense. But the moment he moved, sword in hand, towards the far-off chieftain, the spear carrying nobles surged forwards yelling.

Instinctively, he fought back. A Garamantian lunged at him with a spear and he dashed it to one side with his sword, then brought the blade swinging back. The noble bashed it away with his hippopotamus hide shield, but then another man came in at him, gashing him across the thigh. Flaminius whirled round, brought his sword chopping down. The spear snapped audibly, the spearhead thumped to the ground. Another man tried to bring him down and he leapt to avoid the spear, sliced at his attacker with his sword, opened up the man’s cheek with the tip. White teeth grinned momentarily through the cut that filled up with blood even as Flaminius landed, turning to fend off another lunge from another man.

‘Roman fool!’ Vabalathus drew his own sword and came to attack him.

Flaminius turned, dashed the sword from Vabalathus’ hand. More Garamantes jostled forwards and the Arab was knocked away. Flaminius was fighting for his life. Maybe the Arab was right. Maybe he was a fool. He didn’t even know how he’d reached this point. Another Garamantian lunged at him but he snatched the spear by the haft and hauled him forwards. The man was dragged off his feet. Flaminius wrapped his left arm round the man’s neck and placed his sword blade to his throat, looking warningly at the rest of the Garamantes. They halted and looked about them uneasily.

‘Now,’ said Flaminius, ‘I think this gives me a bit more negotiating power.’

‘Tiro!’ Dido shouted from nearby. ‘Look!’

Flaminius looked. She was pointing at the chieftain’s chariot. Standing beside the chieftain himself were three figures: Demetrius, Menander, and Amasis. All had been badly beaten. The chieftain pointed his assegai at Flaminius then at the hostages. His meaning was clear.

Cursing, Flaminius lowered his sword.

—13—

Phazania, 11th December 124 AD

Under guard, Flaminius was marched to join the others. Vabalathus gave him a withering look. Claudius Mercator wrung his hands. Dido shook her head.

‘You lunatic, Tiro,’ she said. ‘Let me handle this. I can talk to them. You… all you can do is act the fool.’

Flaminius thought this unfair. The Garamantes had attacked him, after all. Was he not supposed to defend himself? Diplomatic, but there’d be no future in it. Besides, Dido had made very little headway with the chieftain.

‘Thanks for your loyalty, friend,’ he said to Vabalathus. The Arab had regained his sword. He sheathed it now with an audible clang, then turned his back on him.

The wounds of the men Flaminius had fought were tended to. Dido was taken through the ranks of the Garamantes to the chariot where she spoke with the chieftain for some time.

She returned sometime afterwards, her brow furrowed, her eyes dark and thoughtful.

‘I’ve spoken with Osorkon,’ she said, then paused. ‘That’s the name of the chieftain,’ she added. ‘A very cultured man, he learnt Punic while in Leptis Magna as a boy. He accepts that we are merchants who wish to trade with the Garamantian kingdom, not Roman spies—although he has his doubts about you, Tiro,’ she added, with a look at Flaminius.

‘Don’t we all,’ grumbled Vabalathus.

Flaminius shot the Arab a glare. ‘What about Amasis and the others?’ he asked Dido. The hostages had been removed from sight shortly after he backed down. He was anxious about them, naturally, the boy most of all.

‘They were sitting under guard in the chariot,’ Dido said, ‘but I didn’t get a chance to speak to them. They seemed subdued.’ She paused.

‘What of the chieftain?’ asked Claudius Mercator. ‘This Osorkon, as you call him. You say he accepts that we are merchants.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘because he has examined our merchandise.’ Again she paused. ‘You won’t like this, merchant. He’s confiscated it.’

Claudius Mercator turned ashen. ‘Confiscated our merchandise?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. After he received word of our coming from Bagas, that’s the big man who betrayed Gildo, the headman, he set out from his castle with all his warriors. They came to the village to find it deserted apart from the women and children, and our three friends. And our merchandise.’

‘My merchandise,’ Claudius Mercator stressed through gritted teeth. ‘I paid you and your men,’ he indicated Hamilcar and the other two who stood under guard nearby, ‘to protect it.’

‘Our merchandise,’ Vabalathus corrected him. ‘We paid for it.’

Dido grimaced. ‘Well, now it belongs to Osorkon, until such a time as he feels willing to relinquish it.’

‘This is monstrous,’ Claudius Mercator announced, as if it had just occurred to him.

‘So he’s stolen our trade goods,’ said Flaminius impatiently. ‘What does he intend to do now?’

‘He says he is very keen to encourage trade,’ Dido explained, ‘as long as he benefits from it. He is high in the favour of King Gulussa and controls the castle and city of Talgae, half a day’s ride from here. He said that if we wish to trade in the kingdom, he is willing to put in a good word with his king—in return for certain concessions.’

Claudius Mercator bustled self-importantly. ‘Of course, concessions will be considered,’ he said. ‘But only after an adequate period of negotiation.’

‘He offers an opportunity for that,’ Dido said, ‘if we return with him to his castle.’

Flaminius looked around at the Garamantian warriors who surrounded them. ‘What an elegant invitation,’ he commented. ‘I take it that it’s one we can’t refuse.’

Half an hour later they were crossing the plains, driving in the direction of the aforementioned city. They had been allowed to retain the chariots loaned to them by Gildo, but it didn’t look too good for Flaminius, standing behind the crouched figure of Dido as she drove him onwards. They rumbled on across the dusty plains, the merchants and their three Nasamonean guards, surrounded on all sides by Osorkon’s chariots. An honour guard, it was called, but its meaning was plain: although they had been permitted to keep their weapons, they were prisoners. And Demetrius, Amasis and Menander remained in the chieftain’s chariot as hostages.

They passed several villages surrounded by fields and groves, each no doubt of as great importance as Gildo’s village if not greater. In between stretched sand flats and sand hills. Flaminius wondered if the villages had been established in existing oases or if their fertility was enhanced by irrigation works of the kind Vabalathus had alluded to. In the distance, mountain peaks were visible again, and Flaminius wondered if water could be brought down from them somehow.

All this was irrelevant, of course, unless the irrigation system could be used in some way to their advantage. What mattered was that he gained access to the temple in Garama, and removed the veil of Tanit before it could fall into the hands of Punic rebels. Studying Dido as the woman expertly guided the chariot through the clouds of dust, he wondered.

‘Look ahead!’ she cried suddenly, shouting over the rumble of many wheels. Flaminius peered through the clouds of dust. A city rose from the plain ahead of them; green squares of fields and groves of palms were visible outside the massive walls, which girdled a hillock upon which stood many flat roofed, white walled houses. Looming over the city was a great castle of stone. Flaminius guessed that this citadel was their destination.

His suspicions were proved right after the Garamantes led them to the great gates of the city, which were hastily flung open by guards to allow the entrance of Osorkon and his retinue. The prisoners were encouraged to follow shortly afterwards, with the rest of the Garamantes following behind. As they entered the city, the streets were crowded with people, who made way for the passing of the chariots as they made their way up the dusty lanes towards the castle on top of the hill. Shops lined the main street, and all was hustle and bustle, with workshops producing goods, traders hawking goods, citizens buying goods…

The idea that such trade thrived so far from the borders of the empire, indeed in the midst of the howling wilderness, was incredible. Flaminius had heard all about the Garamantian kingdom, more than he really wanted to know, but never had he realised it was so civilised. And yet they hunted people for sport.

They entered the courtyard of the castle and a set of gates closed with a pronounced thud behind them. The chariots and horses were led away by slaves while Osorkon’s retainers marched the foreigners into the castle keep.

They were shown into lavishly appointed chambers on the far side of the keep, where more slaves came to wait upon them. A set of double doors led outside, and two spear carrying guards honoured them with their presence. Refreshed and washed by the slaves, they gathered in the main room, whose drab stone walls were enlivened by costly wall hangings of exquisitely dyed fabric. Flaminius looked around at the company, smiled worriedly at Amasis, and said:

‘We’re prisoners, aren’t we?’

‘They do us much honour,’ protested Claudius Mercator. ‘More than the last time I came to this land. But now you see the wealth of this land, I am sure you realise that your investment was a wise one!’

‘I seldom agree with this Roman,’ said Vabalathus, ‘but it seems to me that he is right about one thing. The Garamantes are holding us prisoner. They still think we are spies.’

The doors opened and in waddled an elderly Garamantian with the look of a chamberlain or major-domo. He beckoned to Dido and addressed her in faltering Punic.

‘It seems I must leave you, gentlemen,’ Dido said to the others. ‘I’ve been asked to speak with Osorkon.’

Claudius Mercator seized her hands. ‘You understand that you must bargain for our very lives?’ he asked in tremulous undertones. ‘Do not fail us!’ He peered at Menander, who was sitting glumly nearby, paying his master no heed. ‘If only they would accept my own negotiations! I could talk with them via my slave…’

‘They don’t like Ethiopians,’ Dido said brusquely. ‘Luckily, I can talk to Osorkon. Don’t worry. I will ensure that you and your investors receive the best bargain possible.’

She was led from the room. Flaminius gave Claudius Mercator a cynical look, and went to talk to Amasis and Demetrius.

They were in a huddle beside Menander. He had not had an opportunity to speak with them on the journey. All still bore bruises and looked dispirited, even Amasis. ‘I hope they didn’t hurt you too much,’ he said awkwardly.

Amasis looked up, rubbed at his side, then shrugged and looked away. ‘I’m alright,’ he muttered. ‘I’m worried about him.’ He nodded at Demetrius, who was gazing off into the distance as if pondering the secrets of infinity.

Flaminius laid a hand on the Greek’s shoulder, and Demetrius cringed, then peered fearfully at him. His brow cleared, and he said, ‘Why, isn’t it…Flaminius? I thought we were prisoners of the Garamantes. Have you come to set us free?’

Flaminius looked embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid that we’re all prisoners now,’ he said, ‘but they seem to be treating us well. You haven’t touched your food,’ he added, noticing some cooling rice and meat on a platter nearby.

‘I thought it best not to,’ Demetrius whispered. ‘It might be poisoned. Poisons are neutralized by taking asses’ milk; henbane more particularly, mistletoe, hemlock, the flesh of the sea-hare, the juice of the white hellebore, pharicon, and canary clover: the same, too, where coagulated milk has been productive of bad effects, for the beestings, or first curdled milk, should be reckoned as nothing short of a poison. We shall have to mention many other uses to which asses’ milk is applied; but it should be remembered that in all cases it must be used fresh, or, if not, as new as possible, and warmed, for there is nothing that more speedily loses its virtue. The bones, too, of the ass are pounded and boiled, as an antidote to the poison of the sea-hare… ‘

‘His mind is broken,’ Amasis whispered in Flaminius’ ear, drawing him to one side. ‘They treated him very badly.’

‘And you?’ Flaminius looked at the boy. Amasis grimaced.

‘I’ll get over it,’ he said. ‘I thought they were going to kill Menander!’

Flaminius looked at the Ethiopian, who was glaring silently at the ground. ‘These people enslaved you, didn’t they?’ he asked him, curious. ‘Where are you from originally?’

Menander looked up, and gave him a baleful glare. He nodded at Claudius Mercator, who was talking animatedly with Vabalathus and Hamilcar on the far side of the chamber. ‘He bought me in Garama,’ he said. ‘My homeland is to the south of here, many days’ journey.’

Flaminius’ eyes narrowed. ‘You knew we would be hunting people, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘That was why you refused to come with us.’

‘I am a slave,’ Menander said tranquilly. ‘I do as my master bids. I return to this land of horror to serve him. But I will not hunt my own…’

‘What does he mean?’ Amasis asked. He seemed to be returning to his old inquisitive self, and Flaminius was pleased to see this. Quite what Nitocris would say when she heard what he had been subjected to, he hated to imagine. ‘You were hunting people?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘Dark-skinned people, who live among the rocks or in caves. It seems our hosts consider them to be animals. They’re the aboriginal inhabitants of this country, it seems. But maybe Menander can tell us more about them…’

Both turned to look curiously at the slave, who opened his mouth to speak. Then the chamber doors opened again and in walked Dido.

Claudius Mercator bustled over to her, followed by Hamilcar and the other Nasamoneans. ‘You are back already!’ he rejoiced. ‘Or has our host refused to cooperate?’

‘How long will we remain prisoners?’ asked Hamilcar. ‘Should we not make some attempt to break out of this place?’

‘Set your minds at ease, gentlemen,’ said Dido smiling mysteriously. ‘I’ve made a deal with our host. Tomorrow, we’re going to Garama to see the king!’

Claudius Mercator seemed uneasy. He tutted. ‘I wish I had been present to guide you in your negotiations,’ he said. ‘Better that I had been the negotiator myself. Menander was so useful in the past! I’m afraid you may have given away something of value to us, made some concession. You’re only a fighter, after all, not a merchant.’

Dido stiffened. ‘I’m sure you’ll find, merchant,’ she told him levelly, ‘that I bargained to get us the best deal we could. At a fair price.’ She held up hand to forestall any questions. ‘I’ll tell you the details when it’s time for you to know. Let’s just say that it will not weaken your position when it comes to opening up the country for trade, if that’s what worries you.’

‘It concerns me, too,’ said Vabalathus. ‘I want the details of your negotiation. What have you done, sold us out to them?’

Dido shook her head vigorously. ‘I assure you, I’ve done nothing of the sort. I’ve just made a deal, that’s all. The bargain will benefit us all. Osorkon has vowed to Ammon himself that he will do all in his considerable power to smooth our way in Garama. Furthermore, he has agreed to return the merchandise so you can show the king a sample of your wares.’ Amid the jubilant cries of Claudius Mercator and Vabalathus, she added, ‘We set forth this afternoon. I suggest we spend the intervening time making all necessary preparations.

‘Oh,’ she said as if something had come back to her. ‘One last small matter. Part of the deal is that Tiro comes with us… under armed guard.’

There was consternation throughout the chamber.

—14—

Talgae, Phazania, 11th December 124 AD

‘Why’s that, might I ask?’ Flaminius inquired coldly.

Dido gave him a surprised look. ‘You did attack them,’ she pointed out. ‘One of Osorkon’s retainers will be scarred for life! Naturally, they want you under restraint.’

‘I fought in self-defence,’ said Flaminius heavily, ‘as well you know. They attacked me when I went to speak with Osorkon.’

‘You quibbled this particular clause, I hope,’ said Claudius Mercator hopelessly. When she shook her head, he sighed. ‘This is why it would have been better for me to be present,’ he explained to her, as if to a small child. ‘A man of my experience and character… You see, these people will always add such clauses! Seeing what they can get away with, you understand. If you bow down to them, accept everything… well, it gives the impression that they can push you around. Once you’ve given ground in negotiations, you’ll never regain it.’

‘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 Claudius 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 travellers 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.

‘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 the 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.

That morning the sand beyond the trees lay flat and bare on every hand. It had been much like a lesser version of the sandstorm during their journey to this terrible country. The end result was the same, though. And there was no sign of the chariot his uncle had stolen.

He leant against a date palm on the edge of the oasis, gazing out across the sand. In the distance, the Garamantes were making a cursory search. Had the chariot gone? Or had it just been buried?

A thought struck him.

‘Maybe the chariot landed on top of him,’ he said to himself. ‘Maybe he was buried under it, and that’s why they didn’t find him anywhere nearby.’ He frowned. ‘Maybe he’s still buried.’

Should he tell the Garamantes? They could dig him out, but if they did that they would keep him prisoner and hand him over to the king. And then he would be executed as a spy.

‘He got away, lad,’ came a familiar voice. ‘And good luck to him.’

Startled, Amasis looked back to where he had left Demetrius by another tree. The Greek was blinking up at him, shading his eyes against the morning sun.

‘What was that you said?’ he asked. He frowned. ‘Do you know what happened last night? I thought you were asleep.’ And witless even when he was awake, he avoided adding…

‘I heard what people were saying when I woke up,’ the Greek told him. ‘My, I missed quite an exciting time! But I’m glad that your master has got away. They were going to betray him, I understand.’

Amasis crossed over to him. ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed.’

They began walking back to the shelters where breakfast was cooking over a fire. ‘I have been unwell,’ the Greek acknowledged. ‘I have been out of sorts. And yes, I have been paying little heed to recent events. But I saw what was happening. If they catch him, your master will be killed. I hope he stays free.’

‘Thank you,’ said Amasis. ‘I’m worried that he might have been trapped under the chariot. And then there was that storm.’

‘If he has been lying under the chariot all that time,’ said Demetrius, ‘then he will have gone to a better place beyond the River of Death.’

Amasis felt a sudden sense of incommunicable loss, compounded with a feeling of utter isolation, hundreds of miles from home in the middle of an uncouth foreign land. He gazed piteously at the Greek, who gripped his arm.

‘Mustn’t give in to despair now,’ said Demetrius firmly. ‘Look at Menander over there’—the slave had been responsible for the cooking— ‘he doesn’t despair, do you, Menander? And the gods know you have more to despair about.’

‘Man conquers the world by conquering himself,’ the slave remarked, handing them both bowls of the interminable locusts in milk.

The Garamantes returned soon after, their search having proved fruitless. Amasis wasn’t sure if he was glad or not. If they had been successful, his Uncle Gaius would have been a prisoner, with a high chance of being executed. But since they hadn’t found him, it reinforced Amasis’ idea that he was buried under the chariot and the sand. He remembered Menander’s wise words. They sounded like a proverb from one of those philosophers at the Museum rather than the words of a slave. Yes, he must conquer himself—and then, like Alexander, he might conquer the world. He should stop worrying. What would be would be.

By the middle of the day they saw a great walled city, where palm trees grew beside blue pools among flat roofed houses, temples and fortified palaces. At regular places along the wall stood tall towers, and the sun flashed on the spears and burnished armour of guards in these towers or patrolling the parapets. Great gates also stood in the walls, and through them passed a busy traffic of chariots and people on foot or riding camels and asses. The city stood amidst another oasis, where reeds grew around a great blue lake.

‘Here we are,’ Demetrius remarked. ‘Our destination.’ He had a scrap of papyrus in his hand and was making detailed notes with a reed pen, dipping it from time to time into an inkpot held by Amasis. The boy felt glad. It was the first time the old man had shown as much interest in his surroundings since Osorkon’s men had come to the village.

They entered the city as the dusty streets were beginning to quieten down for the noontime rest, but Osorkon did not call for a halt, instead leading the chariots towards the fortified palace on the far side. Here guards stood in the shade of the great gateway, and their captain challenged the approaching chariots as they drew up before him.

Osorkon himself spoke with the man, and soon the captain was ushering them through, holding up a hand to his face as the dust was stirred up by their chariot wheels.

Within the grim walls of the fortified palace, all was tranquil. Gardens were visible beyond a wide courtyard where they parked their chariots, fountains tinkled and birds sang among the trees. Even the dust seemed to have vanished from the air, replaced by a mist of water from the fountains. Slaves came to meet them, stalwart Ethiopians like Menander, who led Osorkon and the foreign travellers into a large building.

Inside it was cool and dark. Cressets flickered on the walls of high roofed passages that led to a large audience chamber. On the far side was a throne behind which stood an emblem of a winged sun disk. It was empty. The wide floor before it was ranked with Garamantian guards who carried leaf bladed spears and had assegais at their hips, wrapped themselves in the hides of lions and cheetahs and wore bright feathers in their headdresses. Otherwise they were naked but for a few ornaments. Each one must have been at least six foot tall. Amasis felt like a pigmy in their presence as he led the shuffling Demetrius alongside Osorkon, Claudius Mercator, Dido, Vabalathus, and the Nasamoneans.

With a flourish of trumpets, an arched doorway swung open and in waddled a big, bearded man who wore a pshent upon his brows and a lion skin over one shoulder. In one hand he carried a sceptre. Guards and slaves walked at his elbow as he made his way to the foot of the throne.

Here his followers drew away to stand with the other attendants, and only the big man ascended the throne, wheezing and panting and pausing a couple of times to mop at his brow with a square of linen. Finally, he flung himself into the seat and gazed gruffly down at Osorkon and his companions as they knelt before him. He beckoned to a chamberlain who came to crouch beside him. Pointing at Claudius Mercator, who was trying to look inconspicuous at the back, he whispered in the chamberlain’s ear. The chamberlain rose and spoke in a resounding voice to Osorkon.

Osorkon’s brown face paled. He turned to look at his companions, then back to the king. He began speaking. But King Gulussa shook his head, gestured with his sceptre. He whispered into the chamberlain’s ear. The chamberlain spoke again, and ushered forwards the guards, who surrounded the kneeling travellers, spears levelled.

Dido spoke urgently to Osorkon. The chieftain’s face was a picture of woe. He gabbled something in reply, then a guard struck him with the butt of his spear and he went down. Dido’s face was white.

‘The king says we are all accused of being Roman spies,’ she whispered. ‘And that we will be imprisoned, tried, and executed if found guilty.’

‘Can’t we at last try to palaver?’ Claudius Mercator said. ‘We’re not spies! Oh, why did Flaminius have to run away like that! It was so thoughtless!’ Dido could only shake her head and indicate Osorkon’s prone figure.

The guards surrounded them. Dido drew her sword and shouted something to Hamilcar. The Nasamonean produced his own blade, as did his two companions. The guards lunged with their spears. There was a fight, which the king watched from his throne with wide, excited eyes.

But it was an unequal struggle. Soon three Nasamoneans lay full stretch on the throne room floor. Seeing herself surrounded and alone, Dido dropped her own sword in token of surrender.

The guards dragged them, the stunned Osorkon included, from the audience chamber.

—18—

Phazania, 18th December 124 AD

Flaminius awoke in darkness.

It was hot and stifling darkness, and yet his garments were soaked through. Water hung in the air, but he could smell the spicy scent of sand. Grit rained down onto his face, and he snorted it away, but still it cascaded from an unseen roof above.

He could hear water rushing all around him, but from above came the muffled sound of spades. Moving a little, he discovered that he was lying in a stream, although he could still see nothing. His clothes were heavy with water and the stifling air was filled with grit.

The sound of digging grew louder. He peered up into the darkness, gradually beginning to make out a curving roof of sand, or sandy rock. He lay in a stream of water. He could see it now. He was half in and half out of the channel. Above him a shaft entered the ceiling, but something seemed to be blocking it. Even as he realised this, a beam of light shot down, striking the rushing water with its diffuse glow. He lay right in its path.

A hole had appeared in the blocked end of the shaft. The sound of digging grew louder, and the hole opened up bit by bit as if gnawed at by dozens of mouths, the light grew brighter, the beam widened. Flaminius peered up in puzzlement.

He could hear voices now, too, though he couldn’t understand what they were saying. What had happened? Where was he? He searched his mind for memories. The last thing he remembered was the sudden lurch of the chariot as it hit some kind of obstacle and went over. He had been flung from the car, but a black mouth had opened up in the desert and swallowed him. That couldn’t be right.

The digging grew louder, the voices floated down, the beam of light grew bigger. At last Flaminius saw a head and shoulders silhouetted against the light, peering down. It vanished, and excited shouting floated down. They had seen him! Instinctively Flaminius rolled over, out of the shaft of light, into the wet darkness.

Now he thought he knew what had happened. The chariot, careering madly across the desert, had hit the shaft of an irrigation channel, of the kind Vabalathus had described. He had somehow been thrown down it. Then it had been filled in, or partially blocked. He remembered the wind as he and Amasis made their escape. Perhaps the sand had blocked up the shaft.

Amasis. What had happened to him?

The patch of light on the running waters of the channel vanished, and Flaminius heard scuffling noises from above. He peered up the shaft to see with a shock a shape swinging down it on the end of a rope. Whoever had been digging out the shaft was coming down to investigate. It was probably only a Garamantian farmer, unblocking his irrigation channel after the storm, curious to see someone down in the tunnel…but Flaminius thought it high time he found some way out.

He turned and waded away.

Following the narrow channel downstream he passed another shaft down which filtered desert sunlight. Either this one had not been blocked by the storm, or the farmers had already cleared it. He halted, with the foaming water flowing round his wet legs as he gazed up at the bright circle of light. He made a futile attempt to jump up into the shaft, intending to chimney his way up to the top. But his flailing hands slipped from the edge of the shaft and he fell with a loud splash.

Shouts echoed from the tunnel behind him, and he heard the distant thud of footsteps, magnified by the enclosing walls. The farmers, or whoever they were, were coming after him. He waded onwards as fast as he could.

He passed several other shafts, but did not stop to try and climb them. Now he could see dim light from somewhere ahead of him. The tunnel began to narrow, the roof to lower. The water rushed forwards as if as eager to escape the subterranean environment as Flaminius.

He had to scramble along on his hands and knees as the sound of pursuit came down the tunnel behind him. He was sure that his pursuers were more curious than anything—what was a man doing in their irrigation system?—but if they discovered that it was a foreigner who could not speak their language, they would report it to the local headman or chief. And then, with or without the treachery of his erstwhile companions, he would suffer the fate of a spy.

Again he wondered what had become of Amasis. Had the boy survived the crash? Had the Garamantian warriors caught up with him? Why had they not thought to search for him down in the tunnel?

It had been night, he supposed, dark and windswept. And warriors would know nothing of agriculture. Perhaps they had not noticed the shaft entrance. After all, he hadn’t! Or perhaps the chariot had demolished it. Certainly the sand had covered it up. Blocked it completely…

There it was! The exit! Right ahead of him, the water was rushing out of a hole through which shone desert sunlight. It was so narrow he felt like a cork in an amphora neck, but he forced himself on, squeezing through the slender, wet space. For a moment he thought he was completely stuck, that the farmers would find him blocking the channel just as his chariot had blocked the shaft. Then with a Herculean effort, he forced himself through to come splashing out into the bright sunlight.

He lay motionless in the oddly ridged channel, gasping for breath, waters rushing around him as the sun blazed down. Then he heard more noises from inside the channel, and forced himself to his feet.

He was standing in a series of channels that rushed from a hole in the sandy bank beside him into a fertile area of trees and fields. The water channel clearly fed the fields and groves. In the distance, a stout woman was placidly hacking at the earth of a field with a long mattock. But she had not noticed him.

He crouched down and peered into the narrow tunnel. It was pitch black in there, and he could see nothing, but there was a growing sound of moment. He hurried away from the channel, into the cover of the trees.

Avoiding a small settlement, he reached the edge of the grove where the desert stretched on all sides, empty but for tussocks of grass and occasional thorn trees. His clothes had steamed into stiffness as he had walked through the heat. His pursuers had not made it through the channel: perhaps they had given up, gone back to their maintenance duties.

He didn’t blame them. He wasn’t their concern. But what now? He had to get to Garama, but where was it? Where was he, for that matter? Lost in the desert, that was where. Furthermore, he had lost all chance of stealing the veil of Tanit. And he had lost Amasis.

He put a hand to his brow, which was slick with sweat. His body was aching. He leant against a tree for support. Was it a new bout of fever? That was all he needed. He had thought he was over the sickness that had plagued him on his arrival in Egypt, but it haunted him.

He tried to orient himself by the sun. From the temperature he thought it must be afternoon. He had been lying in that irrigation channel for hours. What had happened to the caravan in the meantime? They must have continued gone to Garama, giving him up for lost. He gave a savage grin. That would put a spoke in their wheel, their plans of handing him over to the king as a Roman spy. What would happen now? Then he remembered Amasis again.

There had been no sign of the boy down in the tunnel. He must have been flung in another direction. Either he was in the hands of the others, or he was lost in the desert. Flaminius didn’t like the idea of explaining his absence to Nitocris and Ozymandias, but his mission had to take precedence.

Hearing voices, he looked up to see a small group of men coming across the sands. He ducked behind the tree and watched from cover. Their garments and limbs were stained with dried mud, and they carried spades, substantiating his theory that they were his former pursuers. In silence he watched them enter the oasis along a narrow path, talking and arguing, and vanish into the trees.

If he remained here, he would be discovered. If he set out across the sands, he would be visible for miles around. It looked like the men had not given up their search but instead had decided to look for him topside.

He was hungry, and ironically enough thirsty too. Once the men had gone, he went deeper into the trees himself, to where he remembered the last water channel. Lying flat on the bank he drank thirstily from its stream with the gusto of a lion at a watering hole. Then he examined the surrounding trees for any fruit. Of course, at this time of year there were none.

He couldn’t set out into the desert without water or provisions, but he had nothing with which to make a water skin, and no food to hand. And the people of the nearby settlement were searching for him.

He returned to the edge of the oasis. If it was afternoon, the sun would be westering. It was slanting down over the line of cliffs on the horizon, running east to west. Garama must be further east.

He heard loud discussion coming from the direction of the little settlement. No doubt the natives were debating what should be done about this intruder. Perhaps word of his disappearance had been put about by Osorkon and his warriors. Well, it was past the hottest time of the day. He would make for the hills and follow them to Garama. And if he died in his attempt to fulfil his duty, well, the gods that he didn’t believe in him would be kind to him in the afterlife. Right?

Casting worried glances around him, he left the dusty oasis and walked out into the open.

The sun was setting over the distant hills and he had walked just about as far as seemed reasonable when he heard the drumming of hoofs and the rumble of chariots. Whirling around, he saw a cloud of dust on the horizon, coming from the vicinity of the oasis. The farmers had contacted the local chiefs, it seemed, and now a war party was after him!

He started running for the nearest rocks. Although he had not yet reached the highest hills, he was now among rock-strewn cliffs. No one could get a chariot up onto those crags, and if he could climb up there, it would cut down some of the advantage these Garamantes gained from their vehicles. Surely they couldn’t follow his trail across the windswept sands. While still in the open he must have been visible for miles around, but now he was in cover. They were quartering the area for him, but the dust flung up by their wheels and the hoofs of their horses had betrayed them.

Reaching the foot of a cliff, he searched for a way up. As he did, he detected movement from the shadows among the rocks. Halting, he peered into the gloom.

It must have been some kind of animal, hopefully not something that would threaten him. There would be snakes and scorpions among these rocks, and that was dangerous enough. But what he had glimpsed had been bigger. Perhaps a leopard. He swallowed uneasily, and forced himself to go on.

Half an hour later, as the sun set luridly over the western cliffs, he reached a wide ledge two thirds of the way up the rock wall. The chariots were visible in the darkening desert, and they seemed to be bearing down on his very position. Had they followed his tracks across the sands? They could hardly know where he was. He barely knew himself.

He heard movement from behind him and turned. Something vanished out of sight round a curve of rock.

Between his pursuers below and whatever it was up here he seemed to be surrounded by enemies. What was stalking him through the rocks? Beast or man? Friend or foe? He doubted he had any friends in Phazania, except perhaps Amasis, assuming the boy still lived.

He continued his ascent, treading as softly as possible, but it was getting dark and the wind blew cold. He needed somewhere to sleep, somewhere out of the wind. He was sure that his Garamantian pursuers had no notion of where he might be, but what of his unwanted companion or companions up here?

Turning a corner he saw a wide sweep of rock before him which, to his amazement, held a kind of primitive fresco showing huge, round headed men hunting beasts with spears. Transfigured, he gazed at the rock carvings in awed silence. Only the fall of night deterred him.

Voices drifted up from below. He tore his eyes away, and peered down into the shadowed valley. His blood ran cold.

Parked in the sandy valley floor were four or five chariots.

Had they decided to make camp for the night? He crouched down behind a spur of rock and watched as figures jumped down from the chariots and cast about them. Had they followed him here by some arcane arts, or was it simply a coincidence? He bit his lip. Surely they had no idea that he would be up here, so high above.

A light glimmered in the gloom, a red light. A campfire. They had stopped to make camp. If only he could afford that luxury himself! But he had no option other than to freeze up here on the cold desert cliff. The wind moaned through the rocks and he shivered.

He rose. He must seek shelter from that bitter wind.

Stepping carefully, he made his way past the great cliff face of the rock carvings. The ledge narrowed, then widened out into a little bay. On the far side rose another cliff. In it, darker than the gathering darkness, yawned a narrow cave mouth.

Invigorated by his discovery, not pausing to consider that it could be the lair of some beast, not heeding the shadows that crawled after him in the darkness, he scrambled up towards it.

The echoes told him that the darkness hid a narrow space, about as narrow as the tunnel he had traversed earlier that day. Hands outstretched, he shuffled down a passageway, slipping and stumbling on sandy rock. Then he turned a corner, and a cavern opened out before him, fire lit, its walls intricately carved with scenes of hunters and warriors.

Sitting beside a fire in the centre of the chamber was a small group of figures. Flaminius halted. This cave was inhabited. Who these troglodytes were he did not know, but he didn’t want to risk their wrath. He turned to leave.

Crouching in the mouth of the narrow tunnel were three other men, lean, dark skinned Ethiopians with close cropped curly black hair, naked but for loincloths. Over their shoulders hung bows, and quivers of arrows hung from their loincloths. In their hands they held flint tipped spears.

They advanced towards him in menacing silence.

—19—

Phazania, 18th December 124 AD

‘Greetings!’ Flaminius said in Greek, the only language he knew that might possibly be spoken within a thousand miles of here. He raised a hand to show he was unarmed. ‘I seek shelter. I’m a traveller, lost in these hills.’

The central warrior opened his mouth and out came a series of strange clicking noises. Flaminius stared at him, then at the others who were listening to this first man’s speech as if it was sage wisdom. He looked back at the warrior who was now scowling at him for his inattention. More clicks and squeaks followed, and deep ‘tock’ sounds that resembled a child’s imitation of dripping water. The warrior gestured behind him and down, as if towards the foot of the cliffs.

‘Oh!’ said Flaminius. ‘The Garamantes?’ He tried to indicate the chariot people with hand gestures. Then he shook his head. ‘No, I’m not one of them,’ he told the warriors. ‘I’m running away from them.’

He mimed desperate running, turning his head now and again as if to look out for his pursuer. The first warrior scowled blankly at him, but one of his companions began to laugh, a wholly natural laugh at odds with the squeaking, clicking, tocking sounds that seemed to serve as language for these people. The third warriors joined in, slapping his bare thigh and holding his belly. The first warrior looked from one to the other in bafflement, but Flaminius grinned.

Another of the Ethiopians appeared, scrambling down the passage from outside. He was small enough to traverse the tunnel deftly, without shuffling along like Flaminius. Panting, he squeaked urgently at the first warrior.

The first warrior jabbed a hand irritably at Flaminius. His men stopped laughing and one gestured with his spear for Flaminius to go down into the cave. Then the remaining three turned and hurried back up the passage.

Flaminius’ captor ushered him down the rocky slope to the fire where the other people had been sitting, watching the exchange with concern. They were also dark skinned Ethiopians: youths, women and children made up the small group, the women as scantily clad as the men, wearing only loincloths. Their hair was as close cropped as the men’s. Somehow, they seemed familiar.

His captor clicked urgently at the others, gesturing at a narrow crack in the cave wall. Flaminius gathered that this was an escape route. Were the Garamantes climbing the cliff in pursuit of him? Now he had brought trouble, not just for himself, but also for the troglodytes.

They gathered their possessions. Suddenly, one of them, a woman, peered into Flaminius’ face. She seized his arm, and clicked volubly at him, gesturing at a boy nearby, who had a newly healed scar in his torso, what looked like a spear thrust. Then she turned and fired off a rapid series of clicks at the warrior. The warrior lowered his spear, and stared in Flaminius in awe.

Flaminius shrugged, baffled by the sudden change. All the troglodytes gathered round him, some reaching up to touch him, all clicking away. The troglodyte warrior shushed them at a clash of arms from outside. It was followed by the pound of running feet from the main cave entrance.

Suddenly it all clicked. Flaminius knew exactly where he had seen these people before.

The warriors burst into the firelight, two of them with fresh wounds weeping blood. They ran down into the cavern at incredible speed, like the people Gildo and his Garamantes had hunted. Everyone dashed towards the crack in the cavern wall. The woman took Flaminius’ hand and urged him in that direction.

A big Garamantian appeared in the passage, shouldering his way clumsily as Flaminius had. His cold face surveyed the scene when he halted at the entrance into the cavern.

Flaminius snatched a spear from one of the troglodytes, turned and flung it across the fire lit cavern. It struck the Garamantian dead on in the middle of his chest and he fell back with a short cry, effectively blocking the narrow entrance.

More Garamantes appeared in the passage, shouting curses. They started trying to lever it out of the way.

The troglodyte woman tugged at Flaminius’ hand. The rest of her kind had vanished into the crack in the other wall. Flaminius watched the vain efforts of the Garamantes a moment longer. Then, grinning with satisfaction, he followed the little woman into the fissure.

The Garamantes shoved their dead comrade down into the cavern and tumbled out after it, into the fire lit space. They peered around them, cursing in confusion. But the cavern was empty.

Meanwhile, Flaminius was trying to keep up with his new friends as they dashed through the starlight. They were incredibly fast, almost supernaturally so, and their eyes must have been better than his, since they shot over the rocks like lizards without stumbling, while Flaminius tripped and fell flat on several occasions. The faithful troglodyte woman remained with him, however, and he was also helped by the boy with the spear wound.

He remembered how he had helped these people near Gildo’s village. That had been the start of his troubles, not that they knew that. But it seemed that they felt they owed him something. And yet he wasn’t out of trouble yet. Running through the night on rocky slopes wasn’t his idea of sensible behaviour. Where were they going? He had no hope of getting that out of them. Even if they had been less intent on flight, he couldn’t understand their language—if a cacophony of clicks and squeaks could be called a language—and they didn’t understand him. Hardly a basis for mutual understanding. But it was actions not words that mattered now.

They had left the Garamantes far behind now. His hopes of escape had previously been futile. The natives of these parts knew the desert, knew the country, and he knew next to nothing. He must have been visible for miles as he crossed the open sands, until he went to ground among the rocks. They knew the territory better than him, knew where the paths led. But now he was with people who knew the place even better, it seemed.

They were in a narrow defile between two rocky cliffs. The moon had risen now and she cast her eerie light upon the scene as the troglodytes issued through the gorge. Flaminius was near the back, with the woman and the boy. He threw worried looks over his shoulder until the woman touched him gently on the hand and gave him a shake of her head.

‘They’re not coming?’ he asked. She squeaked at him. ‘You think we’ve thrown the hounds off the scent?’ She clicked something else, then reached up and put her hand to his lips to enjoin silence.

They followed the others through the defile. It grew so narrow that Flaminius was in danger of leaving what remained of his skin on the rocks. All that day he had been negotiating narrow tunnels and defiles, from the irrigation channel in the morning to this gully. He was beginning to feel a new yearning for the wide open desert... But he was safe from pursuit. The only question was, safe to do what? He still had to get to the city, enter the temple, steal the veil—then travel all the way back to the empire. It would be a long road, assuming he survived that far…

His thoughts ended abruptly as he stumbled out into a wide, grassy valley. Crags rose on either hand. A stream trickled at the base of one cliff. Humped shapes among the grass emitted an occasional snort or lowing sound, and Flaminius guessed them to be some kind of cattle. Beyond the stream, flickering red dots suggested inhabited caves where fires burned, at least twenty of them. He had reached Troglodyte City.

He was led across the grassy valley floor, past the sleeping herds, across a ford of stones and up a sandy slope to the mouth of the biggest cave. Sentries stood on guard outside, but the small group gave a password, and they were allowed into the fire lit cave beyond. The other own cave had been an outlying settlement of this troglodyte polity.

Within, the cave seemed to be filled with figures, some eating and drinking, others lounging by the fire. Sitting on the far side of the fire was a bearded, paunch bellied troglodyte, resting one hand on a long wooden club while he gnawed at a beef bone in the other. At his feet crouched a younger female. This was the only example of anything like marriage that Flaminius was to encounter among the troglodytes, whose females otherwise seemed to choose their own mates. The consort was very fair, very beautiful if your tastes ran in that direction, but Flaminius focused on the man he took to be their leader.

The warriors Flaminius had met in the other cave made obeisance, and clicked at some length. When they finished, the big troglodyte rose to his feet with the aid of his club, flung his beef bone to his consort, and came round the fire slowly and dignifiedly to peer at Flaminius’ face. He was taller than his subjects, almost Flaminius’ height.

‘You speak Greek?’ he asked.

Flaminius stared at this bestial savage in dawning comprehension.

‘After a fashion,’ he said. ‘My tutor said I spoke it like a barbarian, but it’s good enough to get by in Alexandria.’

‘Alexandria,’ said the troglodyte tyrant reminiscently. ‘And how goes it in the greatest city in the world?’

‘You’ve been to Rome, too?’ Flaminius asked.

The troglodyte scowled. ‘Rome? Where is that? I went to Alexandria when I was a boy. A beautiful place. They called me Melanthus there, when I and my brother were sent north by our father to learn the ways of the northern folk. I worked as a warrior for the noble queen known as Livia of the Red Lantern until I returned here on my father’s death. I do not think I ever heard of anywhere called Rome. It must be a small place. What do you think of my city?’

Flaminius looked about him. The cave walls were painted with primitive scenes of hunting and warfare. The people wore loincloths and little else, although Melanthus himself had hung round his shoulders a cloak of what looked and smelled like camel skin.

‘It is very impressive,’ he said. ‘And all those herds in the meadow outside? Are they yours?’

‘Yes,’ said Melanthus proudly. ‘The greatest herd in these lands. A tribute we levied from the people of the chariots.’

‘The Garamantes?’ How had this scruffy band of pigmy cavemen levied a tribute from the rulers of this country? The troglodytes must have stolen them, driven them off. Flaminius remembered hearing something about them being cattle raiders. No wonder so much animosity existed between them and the Garamantes.

Melanthus shuffled awkwardly back to his place, where his young wife waited his return. He patted the ground nearby and invited Flaminius to sit.

‘You may have any woman you desire,’ Melanthus added, ‘except for my consort.’ Then he clapped his hands and clicked at his subjects.

They brought Flaminius a wicker tray containing meat that tasted like chicken, although he later learnt that it was snake, something crunchy that reminded him of locust until he noticed its scorpion tail, and a clay pot containing what proved to be some kind of fermented milk. It seemed that the cattle who provided tribute were used chiefly for milk, while snakes, lizards and scorpions provided meat.

He ate voraciously and drank thirstily. The woman whose son he had saved came to sit beside him.

‘May I ask what brings you to my city?’ Melanthus asked after the Roman had eaten and drunk his fill.

‘Chance, really,’ Flaminius said. ‘I was fleeing from the Garamantes—oh, er, your tributaries.’

Melanthus grunted. ‘That barbarian folk fret against my rule. Sometimes the levy has to be made forcibly. Most of the time, in fact. One day I shall gather my armies and ride upon their pestilential village, the place called Garama, and crush them like scorpions beneath my heel.’

Flaminius decided to humour the old fellow. ‘I’m sure you’ll triumph over the insolent rebels,’ he said. ‘You are a most hospitable host,’ he went on. ‘I only wish I could make some kind of restitution.’

‘But you are a hero among my people,’ said Melanthus in surprise. ‘I had already heard of your exploits. You rescued my young nephew from a rogue band of my tributaries. The woman beside you is enamoured of you. They are common folk, of course,’ he added, ‘barbarians themselves, with their cacophony of a language, simple minded and superstitious. I recognised this on my return from civilised lands. But they are good people in their own way.’

He smiled broadly. ‘They believe that you who will lead my armies against the rebels,’ he added.

Flaminius looked from Melanthus to his naked citizens with their stone tipped spears and their clubs. He remembered the ferocity of the chariot people, and looked away in consternation.

—20—

Garama, Phazania, 19th December 124 AD

Amasis leaned against the wall, revelling in its coolness, listening to Vabalathus’ heated tones.

‘…must come to terms with these savages!’ he was saying. ‘I’ll not come all this way for a profitless venture. So no more talk of escaping. Instead, we must beg an audience with King Gulussa.’

‘We have tried that,’ Claudius Mercator reminded him. ‘He refuses to speak to us.’ The merchant shook his head. ‘It has been no more of a success than my initial venture in these lands. No, I’m sorry if you feel you have lost money, but the only option is to escape and return to civilisation.’

‘You make that sound very easy.’ Until now Dido had listened to the discussion between the Arab and the Roman merchant in silence. So had Amasis, but he felt no desire to interrupt. Let them argue it out. He had nothing to say. As long as he didn’t get executed, that was all.

Osorkon said something in Punic. Dido translated for the benefit of the others who couldn’t understand it. ‘He says that he rues the day he spared our lives. He has lost position, standing, and now he will lose his life.’

‘He can escape with us,’ said Claudius Mercator. ‘In fact, with his knowledge of the country, he will be of vital assistance.’

Amasis looked round the cell. It was cold and dank, with one barred gate outside which stood Garamantian spearmen. Paillasses of straw lay on the cold rock floor, and a crock of water sat with empty bowls on a low table. The prisoners were gathered in the middle for the most part. Amasis sat by the wall, with Demetrius, who lay on a paillasse suffering some kind of gaol fever, and Menander was with him, tending to the old man. Reaching over, the boy mopped at the old man’s brow with a grimy rag. He knew one thing for a fact: the Greek was going nowhere.

He had seen little of the city outside, but what he had noticed was like the town they had stayed at, seemingly a long time ago, when they first entered this country. The houses were white walled and flat roofed, with open courtyards. The streets were busy with people, some on foot, and others on camelback. It was strangely like Egypt, although the people were swarthier, if not as dark skinned as Ethiopians.

This whole venture had been meant to be an education for him, an apprenticeship. Well, he had learnt one thing about the trade of merchant: it wasn’t for him. He shuddered. People had died along the route, good people quite probably, although he’d never really got to know the Nasamoneans. Then there was his uncle’s disappearance. What would his mother say when he got back to say that he had lost Uncle Gaius? Not that he really was his uncle, of course. He wasn’t even an Egyptian. But he was family all the same, in some obscure, amorphous way.

Claudius Mercator had been talking to Osorkon. Vabalathus was listening intently, as if trying to decipher the Garamantian’s Punic. The discussion didn’t seem to be getting very far. At last, Claudius Mercator flung up his hands and crossed the cell to sit on his paillasse in deep dudgeon.

His discontented gaze fell upon Menander. ‘How is the Greek?’ he asked tenderly. Dido, Vabalathus, and Osorkon were talking on the far side of the room.

Menander looked up. ‘Not good,’ he said in his rumbling voice.

Claudius Mercator came to sit with them. ‘You can see that we can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘We have to escape.’

‘No one is disputing that,’ said the slave. ‘It is only the means that are questionable. In short, how should we escape?’

Claudius Mercator shook his head. ‘We got away last time, you remember?’

Amasis hadn’t heard much about the merchant’s previous journey to this country, certainly not that he had been forced to escape. ‘What happened?’

‘Last time,’ said Claudius Mercator, ‘my companions were captured when we entered the city in disguise. We got here, of course, and spent some time living in the city at a lodgings house, but our disguise was penetrated. We were captured, but with Menander’s aid I and a few others escaped. Sadly the rest were killed before we could escape, including the Garamantes who had helped us.’

Amasis looked hopefully at the slave. ‘How did you escape?’

Menander grunted. ‘I was sold as a slave in Garama,’ he explained. ‘The merchant bought me while he was living here, along with other merchandise that he lost after his Garamantian friends were betrayed. I had my own friends in the city, among the slaves, and they assisted our escape by creating a diversion. But we were imprisoned in another place than this, one less secure than the king’s own dungeon.’

‘They were waiting for you,’ said Amasis to Claudius Mercator. ‘It was foolish of you to go before the king after your previous experiences.’

‘How could I have been recognised?’ the merchant asked feebly. ‘Last time I was here, my body was stained dark brown and I wore Garamantian clothes. Besides, the king did not meet me... You should see the market, lad!’ he enthused suddenly. ‘The riches of this country are unbelievable. Gold dust, natron, carbuncles…’

‘Slaves,’ said Menander.

Claudius Mercator nodded. ‘The most priceless jewel of all,’ he said, ‘or so I thought when you aided my escape. Now I have brought you back here and we will meet the deaths we escaped last time. All the wealth of this land will mean nothing to me if I lose my life.’

‘I did not travel to Alexandria and back with no reason,’ said Menander. ‘Not to face death again, that is. I assure you, master, we will escape. We will not die here.’

Tears glistened in Claudius Mercator’s eyes. He gripped the slave’s brawny biceps and smiled in appreciation.

‘That sounds good,’ said Amasis. ‘So how are we going to escape?’

When no one answered, he looked round the cell. It was belowground, under the palace, and there were no windows. Only the barred gate led out into a dank, torch-lit, subterranean passage where the warriors stood, torchlight glimmering upon their dark limbs and sharp spear points. Menander followed his gaze.

Claudius Mercator studied the slave expectantly. He had grown used to relying upon his Ethiopian companion, and expected him to solve all his problems. Amasis hoped the merchant’s faith was not ill founded. He wanted to escape, he wanted to go back home, he never wanted to travel again. He would train as a scribe, like his Uncle Ozymandias had wanted. It had sounded a dull life when it was first suggested to him, and he had thought he wanted anything but boredom.

But now that he had seen excitement, he had seen deserts and mountains and barbarian tribes, sandstorms and battles, imprisonment and starvation, all he wanted was to spend the rest of his life cross-legged on a reed mat, writing with a reed pen on a sheaf of papyrus. What he wrote didn’t really matter, but as long as no excitement was involved, that was fine by him.

He looked across the cell. The others had crowded round the barred gate and were speaking to the guards in low voices. Osorkon was doing most of the talking, but Dido and Vabalathus made their contribution from time to time, which the Garamantian chieftain translated. Vabalathus glanced at the others, eyes hooded.

Amasis reached out and tapped Claudius Mercator on the arm. When the merchant tore his expectant gaze away, he nodded in the direction of the others and said, ‘What do you think they’re up to?’

Claudius Mercator followed his gaze, and his eyes narrowed. ‘That’s a very good question,’ he said. ‘I think I should go and speak to them.’

He shuffled across the room. Amasis took another look at Menander, who seemed to be deep in a trance, then heard a groan from Demetrius. He went to tend to the sick old man.

Claudius Mercator returned with Vabalathus at his side. The merchant was grinning with relief, the Arab looked haughty. Dido followed, still talking to Osorkon.

‘We’re getting out of here!’ Claudius Mercator said excitedly.

Menander awoke from his trance, Amasis looked up from mopping Demetrius’ brow. ‘Of course we are,’ said the boy, looking distastefully at Vabalathus. ‘But how?’

‘With the aid of these warriors,’ said Vabalathus, looking at him as if he was an idiot.

Amasis scowled over at the spearmen. ‘They’re going to help us?’ he asked. ‘Why would they do that?’

‘Osorkon may have lost standing, but he still has friends among the warrior caste,’ said Claudius Mercator, ‘and they are angry that he has been imprisoned. Rebellion is brewing.’ He gave Menander a look. ‘We don’t need your aid any more,’ he added.

Menander raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know you can trust them?’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Amasis, but no one listened to him. He went back to tending Demetrius.

Dido came to join him a while later.

‘What do you think about this escape attempt?’ she asked quietly.

He looked up in surprise. She hardly ever spoke to him. He found this hulking, tall woman quite frightening, even though he suspected that she and his uncle were lovers.

‘Well,’ he began, ‘I don’t want to die here.’

Dido shook her head. ‘Nor do I,’ she said, looking around her. ‘But I don’t trust them.’

‘Who?’ Amasis asked. ‘The guards?’

She bit her lip. ‘The guards, Osorkon. Vabalathus.’

‘Vabalathus?’ Amasis hissed. ‘He’s on our side, surely.’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘You know he’s learnt to speak Punic?’

Amasis was impressed. He could only speak Egyptian and Latin. ‘That was quick,’ he said.

‘I don’t know if he picked it up along the journey,’ said Dido, ‘or spoke it already. It’s similar to Arabic in many ways, of course. But now he speaks it fluently with Osorkon, and I seem to have been frozen out.’

‘You think they’re plotting something?’ Amasis’ head ached with all this intrigue. ‘But what can they be planning other than escape?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Do you really think those guards are going to help us get away?’ he added.

‘They’ve been promised wealth,’ said Dido. ‘A share in our profits.’

‘What is a promise of wealth worth,’ Amasis breathed, ‘if it comes from a man who has nothing? If we get away, Claudius Mercator will enrich them as soon as he’s become rich himself…? It makes no sense. I don’t believe it.’

‘Claudius Mercator is willing to believe it,’ said Dido. ‘And so is Menander, which seems strange. That Ethiopian is a man who knows more than he says.’

‘But you don’t believe it,’ said Amasis.

She shook her head. ‘Do you know where they intend to execute us?’ she murmured.

‘I don’t,’ said Amasis. ‘Where?’

‘In the temple of Tanit,’ she told him. ‘Where Claudius Mercator tells us he saw the Veil.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ said Amasis. ‘Are you saying you want to get into the temple? Why? Why not just escape, if it’s possible?

‘What do you think, Menander?’ he said, turning to address the slave, who was back to tending Demetrius.

‘Little good will come of implicating ourselves in palace intrigue,’ he said. ‘And yet we cannot passively wait until they take us away and kill us. I say we take the chance, slim though it may be.’

Claudius Mercator overheard, and clapped him on the back. ‘I’m glad you see things our way,’ he said. ‘The guards will allow us to escape just before the relief guard comes. In the confusion the changeover creates, we will be able to get away.’

Dido moved closer to Amasis. ‘It’ll be a disaster,’ she said. ‘I say we wait for a better opportunity.’

Amasis looked down at Demetrius’ sweat soaked face. ‘We’ve got to get out of this cell,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get Demetrius away.’

‘You think they’ll let you bring a feverish old man on this escape attempt?’ she asked. ‘He will slow everyone down. They won’t put up with that, they don’t care about him. Demetrius will stay here, mark my words. And I’ll be staying with him. What about you, boy? Will you abandon the old man?’

Amasis gave her a piteous look. He couldn’t leave here without the Greek. He couldn’t leave the old man here to die. Could he?

He peered at Demetrius again. The old Greek was shivering violently, and sweat was pouring from his brow. Amasis bit his lip. The Greek scholar wouldn’t last long without medical help. But what could a young Egyptian lad do except wipe the sweat from his brow?

He reached forward to do precisely that.

—21—

Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

Flaminius sat on a convenient rock in the cave mouth and watched the troglodyte warriors practising in the meadow below. The banks of the stream and the nearby grassland swarmed with the small dark figures, all practising battle formations and tactics in which he had instructed them. Further off, their cattle herds were grazing under the watchful eye of some of the women. Big horned cattle, just like the ones he had seen outside the Garamantian villages.

Melanthus appeared from the cave, wheezing and hobbling along with the aid of his club, his consort and several other women accompanying him, one of them the woman whose son Flaminius had saved. The troglodyte tyrant was smiling.

‘My warriors have shown great improvements since you began training them,’ he commented. ‘Now they will be better able to levy tribute from my subjects, the Garamantes.’

‘You mean you still aren’t willing to consider an attack on Garama?’ said Flaminius. ‘You just want me to take your warriors on a cattle raid?’

Wheezing and grumbling, Melanthus sat himself down on a nearby rock, arranging the women round him.

‘We won’t attack Garama,’ said Melanthus. ‘The walls are too high, it is too well defended. Even were you to show us how to build siege engines and war machines of the kind you describe, we are too few to prevail against the so-called king of the Garamantes. That rebel!’

Flaminius looked away. Building siege engines would be impossible with existing resources, even if he possessed any real knowledge of siege warfare. And the troglodyte tyrant might be a deluded megalomaniac in many ways, but he was canny enough to realise that his subjects would be committing suicide if they were to attack Garama. Flaminius couldn’t ask that of them. But it left him stuck here, in the middle of nowhere.

When Melanthus asked him to train his warriors in the most up to date of military tactics, Flaminius had agreed with some misgivings. The tyrant was little more than a brigand, using his power over his people, and the natural defences of his enclosed little world, to prey upon the Garamantes simply to enrich himself and reaffirm his power, justifying his raids with this fantasy that he was a ruler with rebellious subjects who owed him tribute. How much of this was old fashioned hypocrisy, and how much the crazy tyrant had persuaded himself that it was true, Flaminius did not know for certain.

But Flaminius had his own agenda, his own secret mission. He had accepted this irregular commission, bringing a scruffy band of cave dwelling Ethiopian barbarians up to date on modern fighting techniques, in the hopes that he could persuade them to march on Garama, providing him with an opportunity to steal the Veil of Tanit. At first the language barrier had been a problem, since they understood nothing of Latin and he could make out nothing of their squeaking and clicking. But they had a kind of sign language, and his tribunes seemed to be picking up something of his vocabulary.

‘Where do you want to make your first attack?’ he asked, turning back to Melanthus. ‘Your legion is as well trained as it could be in such a short space of time. Luckily, they are good fighters already, and all they needed was a bit of Roman discipline and direction.’

Melanthus was still pretending he had never heard of the Roman Empire. Like Amasis, the troglodyte tyrant was full of tales of Alexander the Great, and had wanted his warriors fighting in phalanxes. Flaminius had quietly overruled him. Now the troglodytes were arranged in centuries and cohorts. Although they were a few cohorts short of a maniple, Flaminius was strangely proud of his barbarian legion.

‘You will take them into the desert to scout out the cattle herders,’ Melanthus told him. ‘Camp at one of the less frequented oases. When sufficiently fat herds are sighted, strike fast, strike well. Slay as many rebels as you can, take as much tribute as possible, pen the cows in the sand near the oasis, then return to reconnaissance and repeat the process.’

‘That will mean taking a lot of water and supplies,’ said Flaminius doubtfully. ‘How long do you expect us to survive out in the desert?’

Melanthus shook his head. ‘As long as it takes to levy the tribute, which has been set this year at two hundred head of cattle, or the equivalent in merchandise. Preferably cattle.’

‘It could take months to gather that many.’ Flaminius intended to be back in Alexandria by spring at the latest. ‘And my legion is to spend all that time out in the desert? What about supply lines? Will this small valley even be able to provision them for so long a campaign?’

‘My warriors,’ Melanthus emphasised the pronoun, ‘are masters of desert survival. It is all they know. It is their life. Many hail from more arid valleys than this. They live on snakes and lizards and scorpions, can find water in the most parched land. They need no supplies, they can live off the land.’

‘Impressive,’ said Flaminius. ‘If the Romans knew their secrets not even the Libyan Desert would remain unconquered.’ He noticed Melanthus’ expression. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I don’t think Rome has any designs on your country. All she’s interested in is making money… Thinking of which, we still haven’t really discussed my fee.’

‘You will be paid by results,’ Melanthus replied evasively. ‘A proportion of the tribute you gather.’

‘So you said,’ Flaminius snapped. ‘But what proportion?’

‘Look!’ said Melanthus, pointing down at the meadow. ‘They prepare for the mock battle.’

The women flocked forwards, clicking excitedly. The one whose son Flaminius had rescued—he still couldn’t pronounce her jaw-cracking name—took his hand in a delicate little paw and led him to a better viewpoint. He darted a resentful glance at Melanthus. The tyrant had wriggled out of committing himself.

His priority was to achieve his mission. All this was no more than a distraction. But even if the tyrant planned to cheat Flaminius out of his payment, he was at least providing food and shelter. Even willing concubines, it seemed, he thought, as the woman laid her head in his lap, although he wasn’t sure his tastes ran to troglodytes—however pretty.

His thoughts turned to Dido. Where was she now? And the others? Were they still “guests” of the Garamantian king? Had Claudius Mercator secured a profitable trade deal, or was his head rotting on a stake on the city walls? And what of Amasis? Had the boy been recaptured or had he escaped into the desert? Either way, Flaminius thought darkly, he was probably dead.

The two battle lines of troglodytes met in the centre of the meadow, practice spears thrusting, warriors jostling back and forth. One side began to give ground, and Flaminius noticed Melanthus peering doubtfully at him. The other side pursued, but as the wings of the apparently broken line came round to surround their opponents, it became clear that it was that old tactic, the feigned retreat. Soon one side was completely encircled by its foes and victory was assured.

‘So the Carthaginian Hannibal defeated Rome,’ Flaminius told the tyrant. ‘We learnt from experience, however, and went on to make our city mistress of the world.’

The two sides separated and another encounter was fought. One side fled before the other, turning from time to time to make lightning attacks then retreat again before the enemy could get to grips. This time, Flaminius had drawn upon the tactics of Fabius Maximus, Fabius the Delayer, who had defeated the Carthaginian invader using guerrilla raids and surprise attacks, avoiding pitched battle, gradually whittling down the foe.

The troglodyte woman snuggled up to him, squealing in excitement. Affably, Flaminius smiled at her, but his thoughts turned once more to Dido.

—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 outside 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!’ Menander 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.

As he climbed hand over hand, the echoing splashing of his pursuers came from directly below, followed by shouts. They had reached the shaft, seen his swaying figure proceeding up the rope. Did they have bows? He would be safe from arrows, he realised; the bow strings would be too wet to be of use if they did. Did they have throwing spears?

He glanced down. All he could see were dark shapes in the foaming water, upturned faces, eyes and teeth glinting in the weak moonlight as they observed his progress in a grim silence. They made no attempt to follow, but after all, how could they hope to? He was climbing the only rope. When he finally reached the top, he would haul it up behind him so they couldn’t use it to follow him, and he and his master together would make their escape.

But why hadn’t his master replied? What had happened up on the surface? Had the merchant already run, abandoning his slave as he had abandoned everyone else? Menander couldn’t believe that. He had helped the master escape last time, tended to him, waited upon him, helped him as a slave should help his master.

When he first became a slave, he had resolved to make a better job of slavery than he had of his earlier life. He had vowed to serve his master. And his master had responded in kind. But now… had he been abandoned?

And in that case… was he finally free?

At last he reached the head of the shaft. Still his pursuers waited below him in the water, showing no sign of trying to climb after him. Above was only the short stone lined shaft to the top, and the coping stones of the wellhead. Still hanging from the swinging rope by one hand, Menander reached up to seize hold of the rough stone. He got a firm grip, then let go of the rope with his other hand, holding onto the bast rope with only his knees and ankles, and grabbed another stone.

Now he hauled himself into the stone walled shaft by main strength, teeth gritted, his already aching shoulders a blaze of agony. Keeping hold on one side, he let go of the other and reached upwards, finding purchase further up the shaft wall. In silence broken only by occasional grunts that escaped him and went echoing down the well shaft, he hauled himself up to the level of the coping stones, thighs still clamped around the rope, until the cold, stinging, sand-filled wind hit him as his head appeared over the top of the well. Cautiously, he peered out upon the desert night.

The dark shapes of date palms stood on every side. He could smell their sweet, resin scent that he remembered from his childhood. The air was very cold and the wind was moaning. Except for that, it was silent. A slender crescent moon hung in the sky.

His eyes narrowed. A huddled shape lay upon the ground in the open between the well and the surrounding palms.

His blood ran cold. ‘Master?’ he hissed. ‘Is that you?’

The shape stirred feebly, turned towards him. Menander shook with horror. An arrow jutted from its chest.

‘Go back!’ came Claudius Mercator’s voice, once so strong and vibrant, now a breath of the desert wind. ‘Go back! It’s a trap!’

‘I cannot,’ Menander said. ‘The guards are waiting for me. And you are hurt.’

Climbing out, he hurriedly approached his master. Kneeling, he inspected the arrow.

There was a rustle from the surrounding trees. Claudius Mercator waved a hand desperately and feebly in their direction. Menander looked up to see dark figures stepping out from cover. Warriors, spearmen, archers. Garamantes. And one Arab.

‘Your escape attempt has failed,’ Vabalathus said with a laugh. At his side was a big Garamantian who looked like Osorkon. ‘You are surrounded. If you try to run, slave, like your master did, these archers will fill your stinking black hide with arrows.’

The Garamantes echoed his laughter.

Claudius Mercator tried to speak. Menander leaned closer to hear him. ‘…traitor…’ the merchant was muttering. ‘…why? ... would have made you rich as Croesus…’

‘What is the fool saying?’ Vabalathus shouted.

Menander looked up. ‘He asks why you betrayed him, when he would have made you richer than even your avarice could desire. I assume you made a deal with the guards. Was Dido in on this? Was that why she remained behind?’

Vabalathus shook his head. ‘She knew nothing of this. I don’t know why the big slut stayed behind. Maybe she lusted after that catamite! Or did she want to bed the Greek after his death? Yes, I would have had my share of the profits, if the merchant had not botched the whole venture.’

Still talking, he stalked forwards. ‘But now the guards have foiled this escape attempt they will explain to the king that it was with the connivance of Osorkon and myself. We will then know his favour, and I shall palaver for the trade concessions myself. Demetrius is dead or might as well be. Flaminius has vanished into the desert. And now Claudius Mercator himself breathes his last. The diviner said that only one of us would return, and that will be me.’ He raised a clenched fist. ‘I will be the richest merchant of all!’

Menander sprang upon him like a lion, seizing him and whirling him round to shield himself and Claudius Mercator. The Garamantes were training their bows on the small group.

‘No!’ shouted Vabalathus. ‘Don’t shoot!’

Menander saw Osorkon gesture to the archers. He let go of Vabalathus and flung himself down to cover Claudius Mercator.

The air whistled. Vabalathus shrieked, and his twisted figure, riddled with arrows, crumpled and fell to the sandy ground.

Menander hauled Claudius Mercator to his feet, slung the man over his broad back, and turned towards the well in time to see another Garamantian warrior climbing out of it. He cursed, realising he had forgotten to haul up the bucket rope behind him. They wouldn’t have been able to escape that way anyway.

He turned and ran. The Garamantes reached for more arrows from their quivers but before they could fit them to their bows, the Ethiopian charged straight through them, knocking two or three off their feet before vanishing into the shadows of the trees. Arrows hummed through the air but there was nothing to suggest they had hit their mark.

Osorkon shouted angrily, and gestured for the Garamantes to run for their parked chariots.

—24—

Phazania, 21st December 124 AD

Flaminius was sleeping in a dugout roofed with freshly cut saplings when he was woken by a troglodyte scout.

He sat up, dashing the sleep from his eyes, and tried to work out what in Jove’s name the fellow was jabbering about. One problem with being retained as commanding officer for a barbarian war band was the fact that they couldn’t understand him and he couldn’t understand them. A definite communications problem. Back in the legions, when he was an auxiliary tribune, the barbarians had been taught basic orders at least, and they couldn’t get on in their troop if they didn’t speak fairly decent Latin, if not Virgilian standard…

‘An attack?’ he guessed. He asked again in the crude sign language they had devised, but the troglodyte drew back his head in the gesture that amongst these people meant a negative. He led Flaminius outside.

After a day or two of raiding they had retreated to an area of rocks below the cliffs within sight of a walled city. Flaminius understood it to be Garama itself. Lowing cattle were penned nearby, audible if not visible in the darkness, and the ground was pockmarked with the troglodyte’s dugouts, which they excavated like jerboas while on the march. Now these burrows showed peering faces, drawn by the distant rumble of chariots.

‘Garamantes!’ Flaminius cursed.

They were too close to the inhabited areas, and yet how were they to carry out their mission if they remained in the desert? Already they had had been pursued from one settlement by Garamantes in chariots. The troglodytes had run like lizards, so fast they reached the rocks before the chariots could get more than a few of them. Flaminius had only escaped when two of his barbarian legionaries sacrificed their own lives. He could still picture their mangled forms, crushed under the chariot wheels.

He ran to the bottom of a rock, scrambled up it followed more deftly by two troglodytes. At the top they looked out across the starlit desert. Very far away, a low black line against the starry horizon, the walls of Garama were visible. Between the city and the camp amongst the rocks stretched a wide waste of blackness. By day it was a plain of sand and rocks, with occasional settlements, lying between the city and the mountains. By night it was impenetrable darkness, although tonight there was the slightest sliver of a moon, but it had vanished behind a cloud. It was from the plain that the sound of the chariots came.

‘They know where we are,’ Flaminius muttered. He had taken to talking to himself, surrounded as he was by people who squeaked rather than spoke and understood not a word he said. ‘We’ll have to do something about that.’

Down from the rock he leapt, the two troglodytes following, and went to marshal his legion in the open space beyond their dugouts. With signs, he indicated that he was taking a vexillation out to scout.

Moments later, he was at the head of a band of spear carrying troglodytes, marching out from the cover of the rocks and into the dark, cold, desert night. Sand crunched beneath their naked feet, but otherwise they went in utter silence.

The night was still except for the growing rumble of chariot wheels. And something else, drawing closer and closer—sprinting feet? Someone running, not caring who heard, or perhaps too desperate. Was it another troglodyte, maybe one of his legion cut off from the others, pursued by the foe, trying to get back to the camp?

He was about to lead his scouts in that direction when the moon came out from behind a cloud and at once the desert was bathed in silver. And he saw a sight that he would never forget.

Racing across the plain were six or seven chariots, crewed by burly Garamantian warriors, their spear points shining in the moonlight. Running just ahead of them was a figure that seemed strangely deformed and monstrous until Flaminius saw that it was a man carrying another man in his arms. The Garamantes were hunting him.

He gestured to his warriors. With a wailing yell, they charged down from the rocks.

The chariots rumbled on across the plain. Flaminius doubted they had noticed the suddenly appearing interlopers, so intent did they seem on their quarry. The chariots sped across the plain, the troglodytes raced towards them.

Flaminius gave the sign to halt and his legionaries formed up into two lines. First the forward line then the rear flung flint tipped javelins. Two flights of missiles hissed through the air, shrilling like geese above the marshlands of the Nile Delta. They passed over the desperately running figure and sank down towards the chariots.

At once it was chaos and confusion; some javelins speared charioteers, others brought down galloping horses. The chariot line broke, some chariots collided. Some came to a screeching halt.

Flaminius gave another sign, and the two lines of troglodytes flung their second javelins. He had equipped them like the legions of Caesar’s day, with two javelins for missile weaponry, and hand axes instead of short swords for hand to hand fighting. More Garamantes fell.

It was too much for most of them. As the running figure reached his saviours, several surviving Garamantes steered their chariots round and galloped back towards the distant city.

The running man halted, gasping for breath. He seemed to be at the edge of his exertions. Swaying on his feet, he placed his burden gently down in the sand, then rose to face Flaminius. The crescent moon shone on his dark face.

To the Roman’s perplexity, Flaminius’ troops flung themselves down at the newcomer’s feet.

‘Get up!’ he barked, bewildered. ‘Jove curse you, get up!’

Three of the chariots that had remained swooped up, archers loosing arrows as they came. The newcomer turned in horror, but the troglodytes rushed forward to protect him. Several leapt aboard the chariots and began to fight the Garamantes.

Flaminius strode up. He had lost control of his troops, but it seemed to be a small matter. Who was this man? They had bowed before him as they had before Melanthus. And who was the other person, the one who he had carried so far and under such difficult conditions?

Flaminius stumbled over the huddled form, and bent down to investigate it. His eyes narrowed.

‘Claudius Mercator?’

He looked up and the other man turned from where he had been watching the troglodytes fight.

‘We must get my master to safety,’ Menander said. Flaminius stared at him in silence.

The troglodytes trailed back from the chariots. Some had killed the warriors, others had killed the horses, cutting steaks from their steaming carcasses. Horse meat was nutritious and tasty, Flaminius knew, but as a cavalryman he regarded it as a waste of good horseflesh. He tried to communicate his disapproval to his troops but they paid him no attention.

Menander went to the jubilant warriors and began clicking in their barbarous tongue.

‘Those Garamantes will come back with reinforcements,’ Flaminius said after Menander fell silent and some of the troglodytes picked up the unconscious Claudius Mercator. ‘We have a camp among the rocks with more men.’

‘They told me.’ Menander led Flaminius after the troglodytes. ‘We’ll have to leave this area and return to the hills. Osorkon’s future depends on bringing my master back to the king. But I do not know if Claudius Mercator will survive. Some fool shot him.’

The broken shaft of an arrow projected from the merchant’s chest.

‘What has been happening since I last saw you?’ Flaminius asked, but Menander seemed not to hear him. Feeling as if he had just lost his command, Flaminius followed the others.

Back in the camp, Menander sat down beside Claudius Mercator’s sleeping form, which lay in a sandy hollow, tended to by troglodytes. They had lit a fire to keep him warm and were feeding it with twigs from the thorn bushes that grew sparsely in the area. He recovered consciousness gradually.

Flaminius knelt beside him.

‘It’s young Flaminius!’ the merchant wheezed. ‘We were going to Garama together, weren’t we?’

‘I thought so,’ said Flaminius. He still had a mission to complete. But he didn’t think Claudius Mercator was going anywhere. ‘Your slave seems to be getting on well with these barbarians I met.’

Claudius Mercator peered blearily at Menander, who was surrounded by admiring troglodytes. ‘So he is,’ the merchant muttered. ‘He helped me escape, you know.’

‘Escape what?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Escape who?’ A thought struck him. ‘What of the others? What of Dido—and Amasis?’

‘Your catamite is safe,’ Claudius Mercator said reassuringly. ‘He stayed in the dungeons with Dido and Demetrius. He wasn’t fool enough to put his mouth in the lion’s maw.’

‘What of Vabalathus?’ Flaminius asked. ‘And why was Osorkon pursuing you?’

He listened in dismay to the merchant’s story. Claudius Mercator had to pause several times to regain both his breath and his scattered wits. At last Menander took Flaminius to one side.

‘Even with the best physicians Alexandria can provide, my master does not have long to live,’ he said. ‘Please permit him to spend his last moments in peace.’

‘Very well,’ said Flaminius, ‘but maybe you could answer a few questions of mine?’

Menander raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course,’ he said.

Brutal as it might sound, Claudius Mercator had only himself to blame. Flaminius was more concerned about completing his mission. Oh, and freeing Amasis from the Garamantes, of course. No small matters, either of them.

Flaminius and Menander sat together in the lea of a rock. About them the troglodytes were preparing for the march south into the hills. Several of them remained at Claudius Mercator’s side, tending him in accordance with the slave’s orders.

‘You seem to have lot of influence in these parts,’ Flaminius said wryly. ‘Of course, you’re an Ethiopian yourself, aren’t you? No wonder you speak the language. I can’t get my tongue round it.’

‘Indeed I am,’ said Menander. ‘I was born in the mountains south of here, on the road to Agysimba. That is where my people have their home country. But it is a hard, harsh land, and we came north into the Garamantian kingdom in hopes of better pickings. That was when I was sold into slavery.’

‘So you are of the same tribe? I had never guessed. You seem a lot, well, better fed. More like Melanthus. Do you know him?’

A troglodyte ran up. Menander addressed the newcomer in clicks, and he replied volubly. Frowning, Menander turned to Flaminius. ‘My master wishes to speak with you. Follow the warrior.’

Flaminius rose. ‘Very well,’ he said, heavy hearted. The troglodyte led him to where the merchant lay in the flickering light of the camp. All around, the troglodytes were waiting with the patience of Egyptian idols.

‘Are you able to make another journey?’ Flaminius asked, crouching down beside the merchant. ‘It seems your slave has influence amongst these people. We’ll be getting you back to the safety of their caves. The Garamantes can’t get there in their chariots, and the ravines are a labyrinth fit to baffle Theseus. We’ll be safe for the time being, although we’ll need to get into the city later—to rescue the others, apart from anything. I suppose they’ll do what they can for you there.’

Claudius Mercator shook his head. ‘I’m at the end of my last journey, sir,’ he wheezed. ‘I won’t make another, not in this life. Such a shame. I had plans, you know. Every venture I made, I told myself that I would buy lands and estates with the profits, but the self-same profits ran through my fingers like the desert sands. And so I must needs set out on another expedition.’

‘Financed by other people,’ said Flaminius ruefully. ‘And they always wanted paying.’

‘I paid them,’ the merchant protested. ‘I paid them out of the profits. Sometimes I miscalculated the profits, I’ll confess. I’m not a seer! I can’t foretell the future.

‘The diviner at Ammonium,’ he went on. ‘He was a true prophet when he said only one of us would return. I hoped that it would be me. I suppose we all had the same selfish thoughts. But it was not to be. All because Vabalathus betrayed me. Well, he got his just deserts.’ He looked sad. ‘And now, so have I. All but one of us will return. Will it be you, Flaminius? Will it be Dido? Or your catamite?’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be me.’

He began coughing.

Flaminius put his hands on the man’s shoulders, urged him to lie back. ‘Don’t exert yourself any further,’ he said.

‘But I must,’ the merchant wheezed. ‘I have something to tell you. Come closer.’

Flaminius had to lean very close to make out the whispered words. ‘A confession,’ Claudius Mercator went on. ‘Sometimes I told… I told lies to encourage people to finance me.’ When Flaminius protested that this was a minor sin, he shook his head wildly. ‘I go now to the Underworld. Tell Menander that when I die, he will be free…’ He frowned. ‘Do you think I will be punished for what I have done? The lies I have told?’

‘Don’t worry yourself about it,’ said Flaminius. ‘You should be at peace in your last moments. Forget any untruths that may be troubling you.’

‘But I have to confess,’ the merchant insisted, ‘Only then will I go to my rest with a clean heart. Come closer!’

Flaminius leant to place his ear beside the dying merchant’s mouth. As he heard the man’s final words, his expression changed, hardened. Claudius Mercator’s voice trailed away.

Sitting up, Flaminius examined the merchant’s still face. It had changed from its usual florid complexion to something the colour of wet clay. His chest stopped rising and falling. His head rolled limply to one side. The troglodytes gathered round, staring in awe. Menander joined them and stood looking sadly down.

‘What did he say to you?’

The slave seemed to resent it that his master had spoken his last words to another man.

Flaminius rose to his feet. ‘To start with, Menander, you’re a free man.’ The slave looked stricken, as if unable to believe the words. ‘He said a lot more,’ Flaminius went on. ‘Much of it concerns my own reasons for being here, and I can’t speak of it to you, or anyone else. But one thing is clear. We can’t return to the caves, even if you have found your long lost tribe…’

‘I have found much more than that,’ Menander said quietly.

‘No doubt,’ said Flaminius. ‘But we still can’t go back.’ He turned and looked out across the plain. The distant walls were barely visible in the light of the moon. ‘We still have unfinished business in the city of the Garamantes. But the gods are smiling upon us. We’ll need an army to get back in there and free our comrades. And that’s exactly what we’ve got!’ He turned back to Menander. ‘You can command them. You seem to have more influence with these people than I do. Naturally, since you’re of their tribe, and you speak their language…’

‘Naturally,’ said Menander, ‘since I am their rightful ruler.’

—25—

Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

Amasis woke to a sandaled foot thudding into his ribs.

Groaning, he tried to roll away, but the cold, dank rock wall barred his escape. Flinching, he held his hand up to block out the light of a blazing torch. Hands seized him and he was dragged up onto his feet. From nearby he heard a cry of pain and anger.

He was still in the dungeon cell underground. The gate stood open, and the cell was crowded with burly figures who he recognised as Garamantian warriors. He saw no sunlight, but something told him that this was another day. On the far side of the cell, four warriors had forced Dido to the ground and one was cruelly twisting his hand in her hair. Sweat ran down her face and blood trickled from her lips but her mouth was now clenched shut.

More guards marched in, dragging Osorkon between them. They flung him to the ground and laid into him with the butts of their spears. He struggled to rise but the attack was unrelenting. Soon he fell facedown and did not stir.

Another guard glared at Amasis. He bared his teeth at the boy, seized him, and forced him to look down at Demetrius’ paillasse. To Amasis’ sick horror, the old man was worse than ever.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he shouted.

The man flung him down across the old man, who grunted in pain and terror but did not awake.

The guards swept out of the cell, leaving Osorkon groaning in the middle of the floor. Amasis got up from where he lay across Demetrius and turned to look first at Osorkon, then Dido, who had also been flung into a corner.

She rose, rubbing at her bruises ruefully. ‘Something’s made them angry,’ she observed.

Amasis peered at Osorkon. ‘Do you think the others escaped?’ he asked tentatively. ‘We couldn’t escape, could we? We couldn’t leave Demetrius. Could we? Could we?’

Dido gave him a tired grin, then reached down to ruffle his hair as if he was only a small boy. ‘We couldn’t,’ she agreed. ‘We had to stay behind.’

‘But they’re going to kill us now,’ he said. ‘Demetrius is on the verge of death, and we’re to be taken to the temple of Tanit and killed.’ He looked at Osorkon, who had sat up but was avoiding their gaze. ‘What do you think happened to him?’ he added. ‘He was taken away before the others escaped.’

Dido addressed Osorkon in Punic. The chieftain looked up and stared sullenly at her. He muttered something.

‘The escape attempt failed,’ she told Amasis. She asked another question, and Osorkon shrugged, said something else. ‘He thinks all the others were killed.’

Amasis gasped. He looked at Demetrius. The old man was still breathing, but he seemed to have fallen into the kind of sleep you don’t wake from. Uncle Gaius had vanished. Now Vabalathus, Claudius Mercator, and Menander had all died in that failed escape attempt. An unworthy voice within told him he had been right not to join them. Now only he and Dido survived—and Osorkon was back with them. But the Garamantian hadn’t been part of the original caravan. He hadn’t been at Ammonium when the diviner gave his divination.

‘Only one of us will return,’ he whispered to himself in horror. He looked from Dido to Demetrius again. ‘Only one.’

‘What’s that you’re saying?’ Dido asked, coming to kneel beside him. ‘He’s not telling me anymore,’ she added, with a nod at the sullen looking Garamantian. ‘I think he’s got something to hide about his part in the escape attempt. And Demetrius isn’t saying much either. And you?’

‘I said,’ Amasis gazed at this hulking female with the gentle look in her eyes, ‘that only one of us will return.’

‘What’s that?’ she said uneasily. ‘Turned prophet now?’

‘You don’t remember the diviner?’ he said. ‘At the oasis. The temple of Jupiter Ammon.’

‘Oh,’ she said, nodding slowly. ‘Oh yes. I remember. And you think it’s true? Only one of us will return from this cursed expedition?’

Amasis gave a hollow laugh. ‘I didn’t know whether to believe it or not,’ he said. ‘I mean, you’re told to believe the god and the priests and everything they say, but my uncle…’ He broke off suddenly.

‘Go on,’ she said, her voice as gentle as her eyes.

‘I wish I knew if he was alive or not,’ he said wretchedly. ‘If I knew for sure, I’d pray to Osiris for his soul. But he didn’t believe in that.’

‘Tiro didn’t believe anything much,’ said Dido. ‘Not in the gods, not in prophecy or magic.’

‘Do you believe?’ Amasis asked.

She nodded decisively. ‘I believe in the gods,’ she said. ‘I believe in Celestial Juno, and all the rest. I used to pray to them all the time. They kept me alive when…’

‘When what?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ she said moodily.

‘Why do you call my uncle by that name?’ he asked her. ‘Tiro?’

She laughed. ‘Why do you call him “uncle”?’ she asked. ‘You’re not Roman: he’s not Egyptian. You can’t be related. Can you?’

The youth shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s not a blood relation,’ he admitted. ‘But I call a lot of men uncle.’

She grimaced. ‘You’re not his catamite, are you?’ she said. ‘Not like the others think? Thought,’ she corrected herself with another grimace.

Amasis shook his head vigorously. ‘No! He’s a friend of the family. He worked with my Uncle Ozymandias. I think my aunt Nitocris worked with them sometimes too.’

She eyed him quietly. ‘Do you know what he does?’ she asked. ‘You know he’s not a rich Roman aristocrat just as much as I do.’

He frowned. ‘He works for the emperor,’ he said. ‘But why do you call him Tiro? You know him from another time, don’t you?’

She nodded, and took a deep breath. ‘Amasis, until this summer I worked as a gladiatrix...’

‘Really?’ Amasis’ eyes were big and round. ‘In the arena? You fought lions and things?’

She scratched her head. ‘You’ve never been to the arena, have you?’

He shook his head. ‘Only the races. They only let citizens in the arena.’

‘Not in the crowd, no,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I didn’t fight animals, that’s a venator’s job. No, I fought men. And other women, occasionally.’

‘But now you work as a caravan guard?’

She nodded. ‘I had to get away from all that,’ she said. ‘During the summer, during the inundation, things got too hot for me.’

Amasis looked away. ‘There was a gladiators’ revolt, I heard,’ he murmured. ‘The gladiators and the Bucolics, those river pirates from the Delta. They were marching on Alexandria. That was the rumour in the marketplace. I was scared! But nothing happened.’

She nodded. ‘They were defeated before they reached the city. But none of that would have happened if it hadn’t been for your Uncle Gaius.’

‘What did he do?’ Amasis asked wonderingly.

‘He penetrated the conspiracy,’ she said. ‘To do that he had to work as a gladiator. An apprentice gladiator, if you like, a novice. People call them tyros, and that’s what we called him.’ She nodded. ‘That was how I came to meet him.’

‘How dangerous it all sounds.’ Amasis narrowed his eyes. ‘You were part of this conspiracy?’

She looked away and sighed. ‘I was a fool. I worked for them, for a man they call Arctos, but he betrayed me.’ Unconsciously she rubbed at the scar on her belly, which had been inflamed by the filthy conditions in the cell. ‘So I betrayed Arctos in return,’ she added. ‘I told your uncle all I knew, and he rushed off to the rescue of the empire, leaving me in the marshes to die.’

‘He left you to die?’ Amasis was shocked. ‘That doesn’t sound like my uncle!’

‘Face up to it,’ she said bitterly. ‘He left me dying.’ Her face softened, and shrugged. ‘He had work to do. His precious empire to save. And he thought I was dying anyway.’

‘You weren’t,’ Amasis suggested.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I survived the wound. I’m tough. That’s one reason why I became a gladiatrix.’

‘But why did you join this plot in the first place?’ Amasis asked. ‘I heard they were planning to kill the emperor, who was supposed to be coming to Egypt.’

She looked away. ‘I didn’t know the whole story,’ she said. ‘Arctos didn’t let everyone in on his secrets. Tiro had to work it out from what I could tell him. You ask me why I joined the plot. Well, why did I become a gladiatrix?’

Amasis was puzzled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Is this a riddle?’

‘More a rhetorical question,’ she said. ‘I grew up in Cyrene, before it was destroyed in the Judaean Revolt, but I’m of Punic stock. My family was impoverished, and I was sold into slavery when I was still a little girl. My Roman master, he…’ She halted, and swallowed several times before continuing. ‘I was a young girl, but already I was big for my age. He thought I was older, maybe. Well, I showed him who was boss. He grew so afraid of me, he sold me on. He had a lot of trouble, too. No one would take me on, until a gladiator impresario came to town…’

‘You’re a slave?’ Amasis said in sudden horror.

She shook her head. ‘I’m a freedwoman,’ she told him. ‘I earned the wooden sword for my work in the arena. Camilla the Amazon Queen they called me. I appeared in amphitheatres from Alexandria to Carthage. Oh, we went to Antioch a couple of times, too. Yes,’ she gave a cracked laugh. ‘I was freed. Lucia Apuleia Camilla is my Roman name, though I prefer Dido. I’m a citizen, you know? I can vote.’ She nodded several times. ‘I’m privileged.’ She paused. ‘Except…’

‘Yes, you are privileged,’ Amasis said. ‘My uncle Ozymandias, he was a slave and now he’s a citizen. He helps Uncle Gaius by working for the emperor. But why did you join a conspiracy?’

‘At the time, it seemed like a good idea. They said that gladiators were better people than others, than the citizens who never risk their own lives. It made sense at the time. And I was angry, even if I had been freed. I hate—hated—Rome.’

‘But you helped my uncle defeat the conspiracy,’ said Amasis. ‘So that’s alright.’

Her eyes were bright. Suddenly she laughed. ‘It’s alright, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m a loyal citizen these days, naturally. All that’s behind me. Thanks to your uncle. He made me see the truth.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Amasis firmly. ‘I just wish I knew where he was! I expect he’s going to come and rescue us,’ he added.

She shook her head. ‘He’s gone to join the others. On the other side of Death’s dark river, as the Greek would put it.’ She indicated Demetrius’ unmoving form.

Amasis shook his head. ‘He’ll come for us,’ he insisted. ‘After all, isn’t that what you thought?’

‘Me?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘That’s why you stayed behind when you could have escaped with the others. Wasn’t it? That was why I stayed behind. You talked me out of it, admittedly, but I made up my mind when I realised that Uncle Gaius would come for us.’ He leaned closer, and glanced in the direction of Osorkon. The Garamantian was gazing out of the barred gate with a hopeless expression in his face. ‘I’m glad we didn’t go with them,’ he added. ‘But, well…’

‘Only one of us will return,’ she intoned. ‘You, do you think? Or me? Or maybe it will be Demetrius!’

‘Don’t joke about it,’ Amasis said angrily.

‘I’m sorry, boy,’ she said. ‘Just trying to lighten the mood.’

Amasis accepted her apology. Osorkon was shuffling moodily round the cell.

‘It needs lightening,’ he admitted. ‘But Uncle Gaius will come for us. You just see it. He’ll be smashing that gate down any second now, and we’ll ride off back to Egypt before the next sunset.’

‘What if he doesn’t?’ Dido asked quietly.

‘He must!’ Amasis protested. ‘Otherwise…’ He stared at her. ‘Otherwise we’ll be taken to the temple.’

She nodded. ‘We’ll be taken to the temple of Tanit. Do you think you could fight your way out of there?’

‘Fight?’ His eyes widened. ‘Oh yes! That’s a good idea. We could fight our way out. Like Alexander the Great! You, me...’ He glanced up. ‘Even Osorkon.’

The Garamantian was gazing down at Demetrius. Amasis moved protectively to the silent old man’s side, and mopped at his brow with his rag. His face fell. He touched Demetrius’ cheek. His eyes met Osorkon’s. The Garamantian nodded starkly, and stamped away.

‘Is Demetrius…?’ Dido asked.

‘Yes,’ said Amasis in a choked voice. ‘He must have… while we were talking.’

Osorkon had reached the far side of the cramped cell. Hearing the others talking, he swung round and barked something harsh and angry. Dido looked up, her face pale. She spoke with him at some length. Snivelling, Amasis brushed away his tears and looked worriedly from one to the other.

Osorkon’s reply was curt. Dido sighed and glanced down at Demetrius. She reached forward and gently closed the corpse’s staring eyes.

‘What did Osorkon say?’ Amasis asked her.

Dido smiled bleakly at him. ‘He says the Greek was lucky,’ she told him. ‘Death took him painlessly in his sleep. It will take us tonight, he says, when we are brought to the temple, in fear and agony. Do not shed tears for him, boy, he exhorts you. Weep for your own fate, he says. Weep for yourself.’

Amasis gazed in horror at the Garamantian.

—26—

Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

The troglodyte army marched through the dawn, across the sandy plain towards the more fertile countryside surrounding Garama. Occasional herders had been seen in the distance, but they had broken and run, abandoning their cattle on the appearance of this well-disciplined army traversing the dusty murk. Flaminius worried about them. They would be likely to raise the alarm. But they already anticipated attack.

‘The Garamantes who fled last night will have returned to the city,’ Menander said as they marched. ‘We must be prepared.’

‘All you need is to keep the Garamantian forces ready while a small force makes its way down the well and into the irrigation channel.’ Flaminius did not mention how disadvantaged the troglodytes would be on foot against chariots. ‘The real fighting will begin when we reach the dungeons—or the temple.’

Flaminius had all about the escape, and how Amasis had remained behind. Was it because he wanted to tend Demetrius? Or had the lad suspected that the whole escape had been a trap? The first suggested the boy had more compassion than Flaminius had thought, the latter suggested more cunning. Neither rang true. And then there was Dido. Why had she remained behind?

‘I’ve already told you,’ Menander said. ‘I have no wish to sacrifice my own people in order to help free a few foreign interlopers.’

‘From what you say,’ Flaminius remarked, ‘the Garamantes are on the edge of civil war. They’re your people’s traditional enemy, right? So if Fate smiles on you, you may wind up neutralising that threat.’

‘My brother spoke in such a magniloquent way,’ Menander mused, ‘and my people cheered him on for it. He believes it himself, that the Garamantes owe him tribute. His raids have cost my people dear. When I spoke out against it, spoke of returning to the mountains of the south from which we came, I was shouted down. He poisoned my people’s minds against me, and I was cast from the throne that was mine by right, exiled from the city. I think he had already told the slavers who caught me that I would be coming. But now they have known several years of his rule…’

The Ethiopian was growing more and more agitated. It was not just Garamantian country that was on the brink of insurrection. But the high politics of neither people interested Flaminius very little. He had his own priorities.

‘You say Amasis and the others will be taken to the temple today?’ he asked.

‘Indeed,’ the Ethiopian replied. Menander had agreed to aid his former comrades, his former master’s partners. ‘If we reach the well in time, you may be able to free them from their cell. But every delay will make it likely that we will have to attack the temple itself.’

‘I understand,’ said Flaminius.

‘Should you not return after two hours, my people are under orders to retreat,’ the Ethiopian added. ‘I will not risk their lives more than necessary.’

‘I understand that too,’ said Flaminius, ‘but won’t you show us the way? I know what the irrigation channels are like. But you have been in this one. You’ve given me some idea what it’s like, and how long it will take before we come under the city walls, but it would be better if you were to join us.’

Menander shook his head. ‘I am risking the lives of my people for you,’ he said. ‘This is the last war my people will fight in these lands. We will return to the valley and I shall take power back from my brother. Then we shall journey south, beyond the reach of the Garamantes…’

Before Menander could outline his plans any further, the scouts who had been despatched earlier were sighted in the distance. Once again Flaminius marvelled at their speed.

‘It looks like they have an urgent message,’ Menander remarked. ‘I will order my people to adopt defensive positions.’

They reached the cover of a small pyramid and the troglodytes arranged themselves in its lea while they awaited the scouts. Flaminius scrambled to the top and scanned the desert ahead for signs of trouble.

The sun beat down. It was far off noon and yet already the desert, that had been so icy by night, was like a furnace. The glare of the sun was blinding. He shaded his eyes with his hand. Flat sand stretched away to the horizon. The monotony was broken up only by pyramids like this one, and Flaminius was reminded of the Egyptian tombs near Heliopolis, though none were on the titanic scale of the Great Pyramid. A breath of wind whispered across the waste, stirring up vortices of sand that danced in the air like evil spirits. A larger dust plume, drawing closer, indicated the approaching scouts. Otherwise nothing moved in all that arid country.

But in the middle distance stood groves whose date palms must be irrigated by channels leading from the cliffs behind them. Flaminius had been unable to understand why the Garamantes needed such watercourses in Garama, since a blue lake was visible outside the city walls. But Menander explained that although it had once contained sweet water, attracting the Garamantes to settle at this site, in recent years the lake had become brackish and saline, and the people needed the irrigation channels to bring purer water from elsewhere. Life in the desert was marginal and precarious. Such land bred fatalism, and a hardy race. Given the chance, Flaminius could learn to respect such people who tamed the wilderness and made it fertile.

The farmland, palm groves, olive groves, and fields, grew in number the closer the eye was drawn to the city. By the time the walls and gates were visible, the country around was so fertile and well farmed it could be any land in the empire. Herds cropped grass in some fields, crops grew in others, and semi naked men and women were visible in all. All seemed busy and peaceful. But he knew that must be an illusion.

The desert proper lay on the far side of the city. Garama itself stood on an outcrop overlooking a desert that stretched into the dusty expanses beneath a silver sky so it was difficult to determine where sand ended and sky began. A haze hung over the endless desert, and all was without form or substance, as if it had descended into the chaos that sophists say existed before the beginning of the cosmos…

Or was it a haze? It seemed to be growing closer, swallowing up Flaminius’ view of the agricultural lands. It was like the sandstorm that had hit the caravan even before they reached this land.

He leapt down from the pyramid. Menander was conversing in clicks with the scouts who had just arrived. All around them the spear carrying troglodytes were alert, wary, nervous.

‘The Garamantes! In their chariots!’ Flaminius cried. ‘They’re coming!’

Menander whirled round. ‘The scouts saw the chariots gathering outside the city. But you’ve seen them?’

Flaminius seized a spear from where it lay and brandished it. ‘I’ve seen the dust from their wheels. They’re coming through the arable country towards us. If we’re to reach the well, we will have to fight out way through.’ He halted, ear cocked. Menander stared at him.

The rumble of many hundreds of chariot wheels could now be heard, growing closer and closer.

‘We must go out to meet them,’ Flaminius said. ‘We have to fight our way through their ranks.’

Menander issued orders. Soon the troglodytes were marching forwards, leaving the pyramids behind. This could not be a defensive war, and besides, they would need a position to retreat to. Flaminius marched with a picked squad of troglodytes, men he had got to know in the last day or two, who he was sure were good fighters. They would be coming with him into the tunnel and even into the city, if only they could negotiate their way through the oncoming chariots.

He remembered his first command. What an unruly gang of barbarians they had been! Frisians, in the northerly parts of Britain, the debatable lands beyond Eboracum. Fine fellows, of course. He had been so young. Good thing he had a few stolid decurions to keep them in line. His first command. Fine fellows…

He had not been entirely candid with Menander; the chances the troglodytes had against the Garamantes were low. Although he had spent a few days training them in modern Roman warfare, they had no cavalry. Infantry would not prevail for long against heavy horse or chariots without cavalry to assist them. And their training had been scanty. There had been so little time. And all he had been asked to do was train them as raiders. They were unprepared for a massed battle.

He remembered Amasis’ hero worship of Alexander the Great. The boy would be disappointed to know that he had missed out on their very own Gaugamela. But was he Alexander or Darius?

Flaminius’ companions were naked but for loincloths, carried flint tipped javelins and ostrich feather shields. They had no armour to speak of, barely any clothes even, and their splayed feet were bare. And yet in the faces of each warrior was a look of fierce exultation. For too long had they lived among the rocks, only able to launch hit and run raids on the charioteers who hunted them as if they were beasts. Now everything had changed. They were facing their foes on the field of battle. And if some were fated to die, at least it would be a glorious death.

In the distance, the rumble of wheels, of what must be every chariot in the city of Garama, grew louder and louder and louder. Now the rolling wall of dust blocked out all sight of the city or the arable country. The chariots themselves were hidden as if by the spell of some sorcerer. Only the shaking of the sandy ground betrayed their approach.

Sweat pooled on Flaminius’ skin. He had made a mistake, he knew it now, a fatal mistake: leading barbarian tribesmen against civilised—semi civilised—armies? He should have fled in the night, embarked on the long journey back to Alexandria and reported the mission a failure, leaving Amasis and Dido to their fate. Now all were doomed. They would die far from the empire.

He remembered the diviner’s words. Only one of them would survive? Maybe Amasis would return to Alexandria with stories of adventures in the desert. Or would it be Dido? She was a survivor, Flaminius knew that much. He couldn’t see her allowing herself to be killed by Garamantes. What did she have in mind? But he doubted Demetrius would be the last survivor…

Now the wall of dust towered over him. It was like the sandstorm, but with it came the drumming of hoofs and the thunder of chariot wheels. He brandished his spear. ‘Charge!’ he yelled. ‘Charge!’

The troglodytes squealed and shrieked their own eerie war cries. They ran into the choking dust.

The first chariots appeared from the fog, wheels turning, horses whinnying and panting for breath. Garamantes stood or crouched in the chariots, archers, javelin men, spearmen. Spears and arrows flashed in the dusty air, swooping down. Troglodytes fell before the spears, or were crushed under the hoofs of horses. Others flung their own javelins. Now Garamantian charioteers fell, to be caught up in the traces to be dragged behind their own vehicles like Hector behind the chariot of Achilles. Others leapt down, spear or assegai in hand to fight the troglodytes in the dust.

Flaminius found himself dodging chariots, sprinting at the head of his troglodyte strike force. He must seem so slow to his companions, and yet they were all running so fast they had passed through the first lines of chariots. Behind them was another line, stationary now as the first had engaged the enemy. Some rode round and round the edges of the fight, flinging javelins and darts, but visibility was limited. It was only this that gave Flaminius and his companions any hope.

They avoided fighting if they could. Flaminius bled from a scalp wound sustained in a brief skirmish, one of the troglodytes was wounded, and another had fallen with a Garamantian arrow in his back. The rest ran on. They had to make it to the grove containing the well Menander had spoken of. Flaminius had no idea where it was, particularly in this dust. But one of his men did—luckily, still living.

At last they burst out of the dust cloud. Ahead of them rose the distant city walls. They had reached the edge of the farmland. Flaminius felt relief. Relatively unscathed, they had got through the battle that still thundered and clanged and clashed behind them. But now came the hardest part.

His troglodyte companions led him in the direction of the palm trees, scampering like lizards in the hot air. Panting for painful breath, Flaminius hurried after them.

—27—

Garama, Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

Amasis was dozing when the barred gates screeched peremptorily open and Garamantes shouldered their way in. They grabbed Osorkon and Dido, then came for the startled boy.

Demetrius’ corpse had lain in the corner since death, attracting flies. There had been no flies near the cell before, but now they seemed to come from all quarters of the world, attracted by Demetrius of Oxyrhynchus’ mortal remains. The very fact of his death had been distressing, but to be locked in a cell with his stinking corpse as flies swarmed in clouds, had been… there were no words that would do it justice. Horrifying and absurd at the same time.

Osorkon had shouted for the guards, but the guards had not come. Corpses rot quickly under such conditions, with the damp from the subterranean walls, and although the guards had been conscious by their absence, the flies had come in myriads. The cell hummed to their noise. All three prisoners had tried to swat the insects, lashing out at great amorphous clouds of black, buzzing evil, trying to defend Demetrius’ corpse from their endless assault. In the end, they had sat as far as they could from the stinking corpse, gagging and retching and swatting vainly at passing flies.

Osorkon had gone mad, kicking and banging at the barred gates for so long it almost disturbed the flies from their feast. Amasis, nauseous, cowered in the corner until Dido came and put her arms round him. Both stared numbly at the frenzied Garamantian, who seemed to have superhuman resources to draw upon. But his fight with the door was as futile as the struggle with the flies. At last, exhausted and ashamed, Osorkon slumped down in one corner, head bowed, hands loosely knotted between his knees, and seemed to fall asleep. Still the flies buzzed and crawled, buzzed and crawled, and the rank stench of necrotic flesh filled the air.

Amasis clung to Dido like a child to its mother. He thought that she and his uncle had been lovers, but he didn’t see her hulking, big breasted form in terms of desire, only comfort. Perhaps Dido herself derived some comfort from comforting him. From what he had heard of her life, she had no experience of motherhood, little experience of the soft, womanly life. How ironic that it should be in a stinking desert cell infested with flies, in close proximity to death, that she should find another aspect to her character.

After a while, she pushed him gently away, and went to speak with Osorkon. Amasis crawled away into the far corner from Demetrius’ corpse, wrapped himself up in his long arms, and tried to sleep.

That was when the guards came. Amasis heard Dido squawk something in Punic, a complaint—he guessed it was about Demetrius’ corpse and the flies—but they grabbed her and Osorkon, hauling them protesting to their feet while others came for Amasis. One stood over Demetrius’ corpse, face pale with disgust, swatting angrily at the flies with a quirt. Another barked an order at him, and he turned away from the corpse.

‘You can’t just leave him there!’ Amasis choked.

Osorkon said something, and Dido relayed it to Amasis. ‘They’ll have him taken away later and buried by slaves,’ she reassured him. ‘They don’t want his ghost to haunt them. Forget him,’ she added harshly. ‘He lived his life of virtue, now he’s crossed Death’s dark river to be received into his Elysium. Our own lives are what matter now.’

The guards urged them out into the passage.

‘Where are they taking us?’ Amasis wanted to know. Dido’s face was blank.

‘To the temple of Tanit,’ she said.

But as they came out into a daylight that was almost blinding after the darkness, the city was not jubilant with excitement at a popular spectacle in the offing. Amasis remembered Alexandria on execution days. There was a sense of euphoria, of expectation, of relief that it was another whose sins had found him out, of cruelty and joy.

He’d been to a few executions with other boys his own age, other layabouts and lazybones like himself. Everything had been joyous, with hucksters and traders cashing in, men drinking in the wine shops. The drama of spectacular death livened up many a day, although Amasis always went from such events silent and sobered. It was the build-up to the execution that had always been such fun. The execution itself had been too much for him.

As they were marched through the streets between the whitewashed, flat roofed houses so strangely reminiscent of the Egyptian quarter of Alexandria, there were none of the jeering crowds he had anticipated. A brooding anxiety hung over the city, as if a storm was building. As if even the prospect of an execution did not excite the people buying and selling cloth, or metalwork, or pottery. From time to time he thought he heard distant thunder. Dust clouds were visible outside the walls. Another unseasonable sandstorm?

‘What is it that makes them so miserable?’ Amasis asked Dido with a cracked laugh. ‘Shouldn’t they be happy that foreign spies are going to their deaths?’

Dido spoke with Osorkon, who walked before them, downcast, his eyes on the dung strewn paves, avoiding the gaze of the indifferent crowd. He looked up and around, as if noticing the anomaly for the first time. Then he questioned the chief guard, who replied curtly and aimed a blow at him.

Clutching his cheek, Osorkon spoke to Dido again.

Dido’s face flushed with excitement. ‘An army is at the gates! The king has decreed our execution in an attempt to put heart into the people. But it seems that his ploy isn’t working. Maybe he’ll postpone it… Listen!’

In the distance, from beyond the walls, Amasis heard the clash of blade on blade and embattled shouts. It wasn’t a sandstorm, it was a battle! Despite himself, he felt his blood stirred.

‘But who is attacking?’ he asked. ‘Rebels?’ Osorkon had friends among the warriors. Was this them, come to release him? To release them all?

‘No,’ Dido said after a short exchange with their companion. ‘That rebellion died when the escape attempt went awry. His friends betrayed him. That’s why he was brought back to the cell. No, the word is that the troglodytes have issued forth from their caves to attack the city.’

‘Troglodytes?’ Despite himself, despite the impending threat of execution, Amasis was fascinated.

The chief guard shouted something and the rest hustled them onwards. Some of the shopkeepers and artisans put down their tools or their merchandise and came to follow the procession, but the rest remained where they were, indifferent to the coming spectacle.

They turned a corner. Ahead of them stood a large building with a wide flight of steps that led up to a pillared colonnade. Gates, tall enough for a cyclops to walk comfortably through them, stood open. Robed priests and court officials and the richer citizens stood in rows, fear and uncertainty on their faces.

Amasis halted in his tracks. A guard had to prod him with his spear to get him moving again. Dido had also seen what had so transfigured him.

‘How did they get here?’ she muttered.

With the priests and courtiers, in apparent dignity and honour, stood the Egyptian merchant who they had met in the desert, Rhampsinitus. With him were some of his people including his son. They looked censoriously down at the captives, showing no sign of recognising them. But now the prisoners were mounting the steps, and the merchant and his followers were soon out of sight.

‘It seems they did a better job of getting here than we did,’ said Amasis.

‘This is good,’ said Dido to herself as they reached the top of the steps.

‘What’s good about it?’ Amasis hissed. ‘We’re going to die! Don’t you understand that?’

She flushed, surprised he had heard her words. ‘It’s good because there are barely any guards in the city,’ she said. ‘All the warriors are out fighting the attackers. It will make escape that little bit easier.’

‘Was this your plan all along?’ he asked. ‘To be led by armed guards to the temple where they intend to execute us—sacrifice us?—and then to escape? You really think we can?’

But before she could answer, the guards marched them into the gloom of a high vaulted outer sanctum. The only light source was a deep well in the floor from which flickered great fires. A stone statue stood in the shadows on the far side. Otherwise the chamber was deserted and silent.

Or was it? Amasis cried out as priests appeared from the shadows, as if they had appeared by magic. With them was King Gulussa. As the three prisoners were ushered in, and the citizens followed them into the temple, the king addressed the congregation in rich, rolling tones. The prisoners were forced to kneel before him as he exhorted the frightened looking crowd. Amasis had by now picked up a smattering of the local language from listening to the guards and Osorkon, but he understood only a little of the king’s words. However, the tone of the king’s voice was unmistakable.

They were presented to an angry crowd as spies, as traitors, as wicked foreigners who represented a threat to the peaceful lives of the Garamantes. Under normal circumstances his address would be inflammatory enough, but with an enemy army at the gates the king’s words provoked immense anger and hatred.

The guards had to use their spears as clubs to force back the more enthusiastic members of the angry mob. Amasis turned away to gaze at the flickering flames that licked up from the great shaft. Beyond it leered the faces of the goddess of the Garamantes. Her hands were outstretched as if holding something.

‘Tanit.’ Dido peered across the flames. The goddess’ statue was indistinct in their poor light. It was as if the woman was looking for something.

‘Amasis,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Do you remember I asked if you were willing to fight your way out?’

He stared at her. He’d forgotten the conversation, but now it came back. How exciting it had seemed back then. Now he saw how foolish he had been even to consider it. They were weaponless, surrounded by armed guards. And the crowd was angry, and it outnumbered them many times.

‘Are you crazy?’ he hissed. ‘Is this your plan? Fight our way through that throng?’

‘What else can we do?’ she asked. ‘The priests will cast us into those fires! Very well, let them! You don’t deserve to live, if you’re not willing to fight for your own life!’

Stung, Amasis turned to her. ‘I’ll fight,’ he said. ‘I’ve fought before.’ Before he joined this caravan he’d been on the fringes of a couple of minor street brawls. ‘But how do we get out of here?’

‘I’ll sound out Osorkon,’ she said. ‘If he’s agreeable, we’ll attack the guards, then fight our way out. You saw those priests appear, and the king. There must be a backway out of here. Then we steal horses, and ride from the city. Agreed?’

Amasis looked doubtful. It would sound spectacular in a story, but it seemed unlikely now. He gazed at the flames again. King Gulussa seemed to be reaching the climax of his address. Dido was now whispering to Osorkon. He looked doubtful but desperate.

King Gulussa stopped speaking. The guards advanced.

Dido leapt at the closest guard, seizing his spear shaft and whirling round with a kick that floored him and left her holding the spear. Consternation broke out. She menaced the other guards.

‘Come on!’ she cried.

Osorkon attacked two guards. One sank his spear into the man’s thigh. Osorkon crashed his fist into the other’s face and blood spurted out. Amasis looked on in horror and amazement. A guard came for him. He dodged out of the way, then crouched down and rolled at his legs, bringing the startled guard low.

Springing up, he saw three guards surrounding him, and grabbed their comrade’s fallen spear. He gave a bark of a laugh when they halted. Then he lunged at one. Another charged at him from the right, he swung round to parry the thrust. This was amazing! This was like all the stories! A fight in the barbarian temple! Alexander never did anything like this!

Then Osorkon fell, three spears in him, to sprawl twitching on the temple floor.

Amasis looked around in fear. Where was Dido? She had started the fight, she had got them into this. Where was she now?

Dido shouted out in horror and despair behind her. What was she doing? He looked back hastily.

She had somehow climbed over the fire pit and was facing the statue of the goddess.

‘It’s not here!’ she cried again. ‘It’s not here!’

She turned, and her despondent eyes met those of Amasis. Then a comet seemed to explode as something struck him across the back of the skull. One of the guards had sneaked up on him when he was distracted, he realised…

He fell forwards but never felt himself hit the temple floor.

—28—

Garama, Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

Through the fog of war came Flaminius, armed troglodytes at his heels. Into the arable country surrounding Garama, into the grove where stood the well Menander had described. The fields were eerily silent, deserted. The farmers had fled, and Flaminius couldn’t really blame them.

The wellhead resembled the one he had seen on the journey to Garama, a circular stone wall at just above knee height. A rope twined of bast vanished into its depths.

The troglodytes gathered around it. From what Menander had said, Amasis and the others had probably been taken to the temple.

It would be a long journey underground. But what else could they do? Enter the city openly? With the majority of warriors fighting in the plain, that might be a possibility, but then Flaminius and his allies would have to fight their way into the temple. This way, they would have a chance to surprise them. And they’d better get a move on. But somehow Flaminius was reluctant.

‘Come on,’ he told his companions.

One of the troglodytes seized the rope, swung his legs over, and vanished into the gloom. The rest of the troglodytes scrambled one by one down the well. After a final look around the grove, Flaminius seized the rope and climbed after them.

Partway down, his numb hands lost grip of the rope and he fell. Hitting the water with an echoing splash, he regained his footing to see he had drenched the troglodytes who were waiting for him. Dripping with water, he pointed commandingly downstream.

As he led the troglodytes along the narrow channel, he was reminded of the slave tunnels beneath Hadrian’s villa and his helter-skelter journey through them, so long ago. This journey was less hectic, but also wetter and more cramped. Progress was greatly improved when the troglodytes showed him how best to traverse the subterranean passage: feet partway up the wall, running as fast as they could, out of the water, rather than having to slosh and wade.

Since there was no light, he had to feel his way, and he fell into the water several times before he got the rhythm of it, but it was much faster. Trust troglodytes to know the best way to travel underground.

A shaft of light appeared in the darkness ahead of them. It must be the first of the wells Menander had described, he realised. It was a good sign, then, but they were still a long way off. Flaminius wondered if the executions were still likely to take place, now that the city was under attack. Or would the captives remain in their cells until the king felt he had the leisure to despatch them? If they burst out into the temple only to find resistance and no sign of Amasis, or Dido, or Demetrius… No, he told himself, they would have to check the cells first. Luckily Menander had been clear in his instructions.

Another well went past overhead. Flaminius’ calves were aching from all this hopping. Another. Several more.

Sometime later he halted, seeing more light glimmering down. It wasn’t the harsh desert light that he had come to associate with the wells, it was softer, though still bright in the pitch darkness. They had reached the way up to the cells.

From Menander’s instructions, they had to climb upwards here to locate the narrow passage that led into the dungeons. His troglodytes had halted when he did, but they were chattering uneasily amongst themselves. In the dim light, Flaminius gestured to his companions to climb up the wall. Proudly he showed them how to do it, having seen the pitted finger- and toe-holds that Claudius Mercator had not noticed during his precipitate descent.

The wall curved outward, and at one point he almost slipped and fell into the water below. Now the troglodytes scrambled up deftly on either side of him, their hands and feet instinctively finding holds in the almost total darkness.

Finding the opening of the horizontal shaft by feel, Flaminius seized hold with both hands and heaved himself up, then scrambled forwards on hands and knees. There was an appalling stench in the air, a smell of death.

It was very dark in the shaft but light filtered from somewhere ahead. He collided with something in the darkness, something cold hard and solid. Dazed from the impact, he realised he had reached the end of the tunnel. From what Menander had said it was some kind of secret door or hatch. Gritting his teeth, not wanting unsolvable mysteries at this stage of the game, he banged at it with his fist.

Propelled by his assault, the stone hatch dropped away, and light rushed into the low tunnel. Blinking, he scrambled on hands and knees out into a stone passage. Steps led up one way, in the other direction stood a barred gateway. The light seemed to recede. It was pretty gloomy in here, he realised, after his initial shock, the light from up the steps being the only illumination. Torches stood in sockets but they had been doused.

The stink of death grew stronger as he went down the passage. He heard the humming of flies.

He gripped the bars and peered into the cell. Something lay in the shadows on the far side, something that seemed to be moving. The smell of rotting flesh hung in the air.

The troglodytes joined him, holding their noses between their fingers and making vomiting sounds. Scowling, Flaminius shook the bars. The gate creaked open a little way. He heaved it back, then entered the cell.

A cloud of black flies rose to buzz angrily around the small chamber. Flaminius’ gorge rose.

‘Just the old man,’ he muttered when he saw what they had settled upon. ‘He must have died in there. The others must be in the temple.’

Seeing the blank looks on the troglodytes’ faces, he gestured back the way they had come.

—29—

Temple of Tanit, Garama, Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

Seeing Amasis fall, struck down by the Garamantian’s war club, Dido’s first instinct was to run. To run—but where? To his aid? That would be suicide. He was surrounded by warriors and priests. To run away? Out of the temple? But she could find no exit other than the great archway. Behind her was only the great statue of the goddess these people worshipped, its arms akimbo, holding—nothing. And as for the hidden entrance through which the king and his priests had entered the temple, there was no sign. She gripped her spear firmly as the Garamantes turned their attention away from the prone figures of Osorkon and Amasis, and focused it upon her.

The flames from the trench roared upwards. What fed them she could not see, but she was now grateful for their presence. Between them and the solid temple wall was only a narrow ledge, the route she had taken to this platform at the feet of the statue of Tanit. This was the way they would have to come—except they could just fling a javelin at her, or shoot her down with arrows.

The king shouted out orders, and two archers stepped forwards, fitting arrows to their bows. They drew, loosed, and Dido flung herself prone. The arrows whizzed over her, and stuck with a thud in the breast of the monumental stone image of the goddess. Dido gasped with horror.

So did the king. So did the priests. As Dido rose to a crouch, the priests gathered round King Gulussa, talking volubly, gesticulating wildly. The king’s face was like thunder. Pushing the priests aside, he marched up to the archers and struck one of them, shouting at him. Then he turned and pointed at the spearmen.

They marched to the ledge. Did relaxed a little. She was safe here. The Garamantes were not so impious as to risk desecrating the image of the goddess with their arrows. She heartily approved—especially as it now meant that she need only fight them one at a time as they came along the ledge. She gripped her spear again, and went to meet them. One would stand against many this day. If Amasis lived, he would wish he had seen this. It was just what his boyish imagination yearned for.

And if she died, she would die at the feet of the goddess.

The guards came down the ledge in single file. She stood at the point where the ledge met the platform. Flames flickered from the deep trench, crisping the hairs of her skin, their light playing on the head of her spear. The faces of the Garamantes were featureless in the fire-lit gloom, their massive hands wrapped round their spear shafts as if for comfort. The first one reached the far end, halting, faltering.

The king bellowed something from the other side of the fire. He was speaking Garamantian, not Punic or any tongue Dido knew, but somehow she could tell that his words were, ‘By all the gods! She is but one woman!’

The first man stepped forward, lunging at Dido. She dodged to one side, to the very lip of the trench, and his spear clanged against the stone wall where she had been standing. She reversed her spear, using it as a quarterstaff, and swept her opponent from the slippery paves. With a despairing wail, he fell, arms waving desperately, into the fires below.

‘The goddess has her sacrifice!’ Dido laughed. There was no humour in that laugh. It was the bark of a wolf, the angry chattering of an ape. It was not a human sound.

The next guard came running. Dido whipped back her spear, dodged his attack, lunged. Her spear sank into his bare chest, and she turned, muscles bulging with the strain, with the guard struggling on the end. Over the fires she held him, spitted on the spear. He cried out in agony.

Another man came running. She dipped her spear and it was enough to slide the first warrior off so, half cooked, he plunged down into the holocaust. His comrade, angry out of all measure, thrust his spear into Dido’s side. Pain shot through her as she turned, blood sprayed the wall. She gave ground. He came after her. She rushed him, ignoring the wound in her side, dodged his thrust, and shoved him off the ledge.

With a wail, he vanished into the flaming maw.

Now the Garamantes were less eager. She had proved the strength of her position. Archers were deployed again; she no longer stood in front of the image of the goddess. As arrows whizzed through the air, she darted across and crouched before her protecting bosom, grinning.

The flames crackled high. Did the priests have no way to control them? Or to douse them? Or would that also be blasphemy? She supposed so. The goddess was kind, her worshippers were confounded. Now all she had to do was ensure that she stood at a point where she could guard the ledge but keep the goddess at her back, and…

And what? She could keep this up indefinitely, but she would need food. Without food, with the fresh wound in her side, she would weaken. If only she could find how the priests had entered the temple so mysteriously... She moved up and down the platform, stamping her feet and listening for a hollow sound, but heard nothing. Was the way out somewhere in the walls? Did the statue itself contain an escape route? But surely these priests would not so desecrate their goddess. Then where was it? Because there must be a way. They had not appeared by magic.

Or had they?

‘Woman!’

She looked up at the voice. A short, squat man stood nervously on the far side of the fire, an elderly hawk-faced man in a linen kilt and a linen headdress. It was the Egyptian trader, Rhampsinitus. Behind him stood Garamantian spearmen.

‘Woman!’ Rhampsinitus repeated. ‘King Gulussa bade me to speak with you.’

‘Why can’t he speak for himself?’ she asked defiantly.

‘He speaks no Latin or Greek,’ said the Egyptian, ‘Nor Punic, either,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Some of the Garamantes speak that language and I know that you do. But you also speak Latin, as do I. So they demanded that I should speak with you.’

‘How did you get here anyway?’ she asked, playing for time. ‘Last I knew, you and your whole caravan were running back to Ammonium, tails between your legs.’

Rhampsinitus’ worried face broke out into a cunning smile. ‘A ruse,’ he boasted. ‘We followed the Mercator caravan at a distance, and gained access to the Garamantian kingdom after losing you after that sandstorm.’ He shrugged. ‘We gained audience with the king, amassed a great profit and made many friends in this region. We were preparing to return home when we were asked to attend the temple to witness the death of foreign spies.’ He looked smug. ‘Your own expedition has hardly prospered, has it?

‘And now you’ve been asked to negotiate with me?’ Dido demanded.

He nodded. ‘As an especial favour to his highness King Gulussa,’ he confirmed.

‘What does he want?’

‘He wants you out of his temple!’ Rhampsinitus said, as if it should be obvious to anyone. ‘This city is under siege, and here you are, in the holy sanctum. You have killed his guards, committed unspeakable sacrilege…’

‘Is this negotiation or condemnation?’ Dido was keeping an eye out for an attempt to get to her while the merchant staged this distraction, but it seemed that the guards refused to come near. ‘He was willing to execute me without cause. If he wants me gone, he should promise me safe conduct...’

Not that she was desperate enough to trust the words of this king. All Gulussa wanted was to winkle her out of her strong position and then kill her.

‘I’m not authorised to make any such promise,’ Rhampsinitus began.

‘Then get back to your friend the king,’ said Dido, ‘and tell him that I won’t settle for anything else. I’m not a spy, whatever he may claim. You know as well as I do that Claudius Mercator came to this country in good faith, wishing to open up new trade links with the empire.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m nothing but a caravan guard.’

‘In case you think his position weaker than your own,’ Rhampsinitus said, ‘he and his men do hold a bargaining counter.’

Dido’s eyes narrowed. ‘And just what do you mean by that?’

The Egyptian stepped aside, and gestured towards the guards grouped around the king. One of them was holding Amasis up, a blade to his throat.

Dido’s mind raced. ‘Your king is nothing but a cheap bandit,’ she said scornfully, peering at Amasis. The boy was still unconscious. ‘Why should I care about the lad?’ she added.

Rhampsinitus seemed shocked. ‘He’s one of your own!’ he said. ‘If one of my people was taken hostage by robbers…’

‘Robbers is about right.’

‘…I would do everything the gods permitted to ensure his safety,’ the Egyptian finished.

‘Thank you for your advice,’ Dido said. ‘Maybe I’m not so principled. Maybe the boy means nothing to me. And maybe he’s only a carcass. He shows no signs of life.’

Rhampsinitus seemed startled by this. ‘Let me speak with the king,’ he said, and withdrew.

Dido watched uneasily. The Egyptian hobbled across the temple to the group around King Gulussa and made a point of examining Amasis’ motionless form, rolling back eyelids, checking for a heartbeat. Dido surveyed the chamber as a whole. Most of the priests and courtiers had been moved outside by the guards, all except Rhampsinitus’ son Sarapion, who lingered anxiously by the arch.

Now only the king himself, the high priests and the guards remained. Osorkon’s body had been dragged away. Amasis hung in the arms of one guard. She almost felt as if she could afford to relax. Surreptitiously, she tested the ground at her feet for signs of a hatchway. All she needed was to find the secret passage and then she’d be out of here.

Leaving Amasis behind, if indeed he still lived. She bit her lip. Despite her protestations to the contrary, she had grown fond of the lad. And she had achieved nothing here; the most she could hope for was to rescue him. The others were dead, it seemed. And as for Tiro, surely he was dead too. Only one of them would survive. She believed in the gods implicitly: the diviner must be right. So Tiro was dead. And Amasis must be dead. Or would it be Amasis who would survive? She could see no way out of here for herself.

Rhampsinitus came hobbling back over.

‘As you can see, we have examined the boy. He is alive but comatose. The priests say he will recover if he is cared for adequately. Under these conditions, however, he is unlikely to survive…’ He paused uncertainly, looking back over his shoulder.

There was a commotion from beyond the temple arch. Dido looked up suspiciously. What new trick was this? A hubbub from outside, cheers and shouts of joy. What was happening now?

Warriors rushed into the sanctum. The king turned in anger from speaking with the high priest and barked at the newcomers. They halted, bowed low before him, and then gave a hurried message. The king’s face cleared. He lifted his hands in jubilation.

Dido watched in perplexity as the others shook hands, slapped each other on the backs, even danced. Rhampsinitus questioned one of the priests.

Then he came back, grinning again.

‘The pressure has eased for his highness,’ he said. ‘The army your friends raised has retreated.’

‘My friends?’ Dido was astounded. ‘What friends? Do you mean Tiro? It’s his army?’

‘He fled into the hills and raised an army of troglodytes, it seems,’ the Egyptian said with a laugh. ‘But now he is in retreat.’

Dido lurched suddenly, as the ground beneath her seemed to shake. She staggered backwards, grabbed hold of the statue for support. Was it an earthquake?

Rhampsinitus stared at her in bafflement, as if he suspected some trick. The temple was still, the only noise coming from the jubilant Garamantes.

Again the floor shook. Now a flagstone began to lift. A figure appeared in the gap. It climbed out, followed by others.

Dido cried out in sudden joy.

—30—

Temple of Tanit, Garama, Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

Flaminius took in the scene at a glance. Flames leapt up from the trench that took up much of the temple floor. Behind him towered the statue of Tanit, two spears jutting from her breast, her empty arms held akimbo. Beyond the crackling fire pit the temple was crowded with priests and warriors.

Dido crouched at the foot of the goddess, gazing in wonder at him and his troglodytes as they issued forth.

‘Where did you spring from?’ she asked in amazement.

‘Never mind now,’ said Flaminius. ‘We’ve come for you. Are you the only one?’

‘Demetrius is dead…’ she began.

‘I know that,’ he said, ‘I’ve just been getting acquainted with his mortal remains. What about Amasis? Osorkon? I know all about Menander and Claudius Mercator, don’t worry about them.’

‘Osorkon is dead,’ she said. ‘Amasis…’

He grabbed her. ‘Where is he?’

Silence fell over the temple, broken only by the crackle of flames. A troglodyte chattered something. Flaminius looked up.

Advancing towards them across the temple was a group of Garamantian guards. ‘Amasis is with the king,’ said Dido finally. ‘They say he lives.’

Flaminius saw, beyond the advancing guards, King Gulussa, urging them on. Beside him, Amasis was visible, in the custody of a priest, but looking around woozily.

The Roman turned to the troglodytes and led them to the statue of the goddess.

‘What are you doing?’ Dido shrieked. She ran forwards as Flaminius and the troglodytes began pushing it forwards.

‘Get out of the way,’ Flaminius said impatiently, still pushing.

The stone base of the image rumbled. As the first Garamantes reached the ledge the statue toppled forwards. Flames leapt up as if to greet it and it crashed down on the fire pit, effectively bridging it. Flaminius climbed up onto it, assegai in hand, and the troglodytes swarmed up behind him. Angry at this sacrilege, the Garamantes charged to meet the onrush of the troglodytes.

Two ancient enemies met in that temple, two tribes who had been opponents since the dawn of the ages. Assegais clashed, spears flashed in the firelight, bloody bodies fell. The goddess was down, but lives were sacrificed in that temple as they had never been before.

Leaping down from the end of the statue-bridge, Flaminius cut down two burly Garamantes with a single scything blow. More came against him. He shoulder barged one, stabbed another, kicked a third in the crotch so he fell writhing to the ground. Already he was halfway across the temple but the priests were flocking for the far entrance. The king ran with them, but one of them still held Amasis.

Halting, Flaminius seized a fallen spear from the ground. Hefting it briefly, he flung it like a javelin, straight across the gloomy chamber. It struck the running priest in the back and he fell, dropping Amasis as he did so. The boy rolled free and tried to rise but was kicked or trampled upon by the fleeing priests.

Flaminius fought his way through the throng. Guards came at him but he cut them down until at last he reached Amasis. Already the king had vanished down the steps, priests at his heels, while his guards fought and died, fell to the flint tipped spears of their hereditary foes. Flaminius lowered his assegai and stooped to hold a hand out to the confused lad, but as he did so another assegai flashed down out of the gloom. He dodged, but tripped over Amasis and fell sprawling. The Garamantian attacker lifted his assegai again.

Then a third blade smashed though his skull in an explosion of gore and he fell. Dido stepped forward, assegai in one hand, other outstretched to help Flaminius to his feet. Flaminius ignored her helping hand and rose to help Amasis to his feet.

‘What happened?’ Amasis asked. ‘What hit me?’

‘We hold the temple,’ she said, ‘but they’ll be back. Time we were leaving.’

Fallen Garamantes lay in twisted attitudes in sticky pools of blood. The flames of the fire pit licked around the blackening statue of Tanit. On the other side of the pit, the hatchway still stood open.

A clatter of feet from the temple steps heralded the appearance of more Garamantian warriors. Flaminius shouted to the troglodytes and gestured for the hatchway.

As they retreated, the captain of the Garamantian guards shouted something in his own tongue and his warriors flooded into the temple.

Down stone hewn rungs Flaminius and the others went, following the troglodytes into the depths. At the other end they found a small room. A tunnel led off towards the front of the temple and Dido moved towards it, but Flaminius showed her where the troglodytes were heading. A narrow, low doorway stood uncovered one wall.

‘What is this room?’ she shouted.

‘A secret room of the priests,’ said Flaminius. ‘But it has its own secrets, known only to rebel factions among the warriors. It’ll take too long to explain. Go.’

She followed the troglodytes.

The journey out of the city was nightmarish. Blundering along half flooded channels in pitch darkness, running against a strong current with pursuing warriors behind them, it seemed to recede into scenes of endless horror in her mind. She had failed. Everything had gone wrong. Everyone had died but Flaminius and the boy. Now they were running like jerboas fleeing desert foxes through the shadows of an underworld.

After endless running they paused beneath a shaft of light. In its dim glow, she saw Flaminius’ face.

‘We’re past the walls now,’ he said. ‘Not far, and then there’s the well. We climb that and we’re free.’

‘Free?’ she panted. ‘We’ll never be free until we escape this country. If we ever do…’

Dido turned at the sound of fighting from further down the passage. Troglodytes appeared from the darkness, fighting a rear-guard manoeuvre against Garamantes.

Dido hefted an assegai she had taken from a fallen warrior in the temple. Flaminius pushed forwards, splashing to the aid of his fighters. At the head of the pursuers stood a huge Garamantian. He cut down one troglodyte then turned to make a cut at another. Flaminius sprang into the breach to meet his blow, and the ring of blade on blade echoed from the walls, cutting through the roar of the water.

Flaminius glared into the man’s frenzied eyes. Behind the Garamantian were more of his people. Roaring like a lion, the big Garamantian swung his sword, left, right, left. Flaminius brought his own assegai up to parry a blow but it was knocked from his hand into the water.

At the same time the Garamantian’s wild blow had been so strong his sword blade sank halfway into the rocky wall. Eyes wild, he tugged at it, desperate to sink it into Flaminius’ heart. Weaponless, Flaminius flung himself at the Garamantian, seizing him in a wrestler’s hold. They fought together, feet slipping in the rushing waters as warriors from either side struggled to get past them.

Flaminius stamped down on the Garamantian’s bare foot, heard the man grunt in pain, but then found himself seized round the throat by a massive hand. He smashed his clenched fist into the man’s ribs but they were shielded by muscle. Then he reached up and seized the man’s other arm, wrapped a leg round his opponent’s ankle. The man tightened his grip round Flaminius’ throat.

In the corner of the Roman’s sight something flashed in the light from the shaft above. The grasp tightened suddenly, Flaminius’ breath rattled from his mouth as his windpipe was crushed in the man’s grip. And then it was gone, the crushing grip relaxed, the hand fell away, the man himself fell with a splash into the water.

Gasping for breath, Flaminius turned to see Dido. She grinned at him, wiping her bloody blade, then lifted it again as another Garamantian bounded across the fallen body of his comrade, razor sharp spear thrusting towards them.

Flaminius lashed out with his foot, catching the man in the crotch. A low blow, it wouldn’t have got the approval of the arena crowd, but it did the job. The man fell sideways, striking his head on the side, then tumbling down on his dead comrade’s body, half blocking the narrow channel. The other Garamantes were shadows against the darkness, eyes glinting as they held back.

‘Back!’ shouted Dido. ‘Back down the tunnel!’

Amasis rose from where he had been crouching in confusion and waded desperately on. It wouldn’t be far until they reached the next wellhead and then they would be able to climb out. And then?

Flaminius was still debating this when they reached the next pool of light. The bucket still hung at the end of the rope. The Garamantes were still following in the distance. He drew his assegai and turned to face their direction, gesturing with his free hand to Dido and the troglodytes to climb up. As the first of the troglodytes began ascending the rope, Dido came to stand at Flaminius’ side, Amasis with her.

‘Get up there, lad,’ Flaminius said, gesturing at the rope.

‘But I want to stay behind and fight!’ the boy protested.

‘Up there!’ Flaminius shouted.

Upset, Amasis turned and began to climb up after the troglodyte. Even as he did, so the first of the Garamantes burst from the darkness. Seeing Amasis climbing up, he flung his spear.

Flaminius cut him down, but even as he did, Amasis dropped from the rope, spear piercing him, and fell without a cry into the water.

Flaminius shouted at Dido.

‘Get him over your back. Tell the troglodytes to haul you up after them. Then throw the rope back down for me. If I don’t come up straightaway, I’m probably dead.’

Dido did as he bade. Communicating with the troglodytes was not easy, but they seemed to understand what she meant. The last of them reached the top. With Amasis over her back, she grabbed the rope in one hand, put her foot in the bucket and waited for the troglodytes.

Slowly she ascended, looking back down. Below, Flaminius waited in the shadows, assegai in hand, for the Garamantes. As she was lifted up through the roof and into the well shaft, the enemy warriors burst out of the darkness and Flaminius was forced backwards, assegai swinging. Then she was hauled upwards and the Roman vanished from sight.

As the clash of blade on blade echoed up the shaft, she reached the top. Two troglodytes took her burden from her and helped her climb over the coping stones. Beyond was a grove of trees, and the sun shone down on farmland where the wind blew dust devils amongst the fields. As soon as she was over, she snatched the rope from their hands, bucket and all, and cast it back down the shaft.

‘Tiro!’ she cried, peering down into the darkness as the bucket rattled down into the gloom, the rope unwinding. What could she see down there? Even as she watched, a struggling figure fell into the water, and black blood rushed down the channel. The rope swung backwards and forwards. Assegais flashed and clashed. Who was friend and who was foe down there?

The troglodytes joined her, staring down into the confusion. Dido shouted again.

‘Tiro! The rope! Grab the rope.’

Still the figures duelled and fought and struggled. Still the rope swung back and forth, bucket at the end, unheeded. Then another figure fell, and another seized the rope.

‘Pull!’ shouted Dido, miming the action to the troglodytes. Even as they began hauling, an assegai flicked out of the shadows and caught Flaminius in the breast. He did not fall from the rope, but slumped forward, one foot in the bucket, lying against the rope, one arm wrapped almost negligently round it.

‘Pull!’ sobbed Dido, and they hauled on the rope again and again. The words of the diviner echoed round and her head as the rope went up and up the shaft: Only one of them would return. Only one. Only one. Amasis lay on the ground nearby, unmoving and unregarded, pierced by the spear. She didn’t dare try to remove it for fear that the shock would kill him outright. Flaminius dangled limply from the rope below, a dead weight spinning round and round as he was hauled upwards. Down at the bottom of the well, dark figures watched. One flung a spear but it missed Flaminius and hit the side of the well. Another tried to leap up after the ascending figure, and succeeded in grabbing hold of the edge of the shaft, but then his hands slipped and he fell back with a splash into the water.

At last Dido and the troglodytes dragged the rope over the side, Flaminius, bucket and all, tipping the bleeding form onto the sandy ground. Troglodytes leapt to the copingstones, yelling and jeering down at the frustrated Garamantes. These latter vanished into the shadows of the tunnel, no doubt to trudge back up the channel to the city and tell the king of their failure.

Dido went to Flaminius’ side, but he rose unsteadily to his feet and clung to her. She embraced him. ‘I thought you were dead.’ She examined the shallow wound that wept blood from his chest.

‘Never mind me,’ said Flaminius, ‘What about Amasis?’

She went over to check him. Her face fell as she looked up. Flaminius frowned urgently.

She shook her head.

—31—

Outskirts of Garama, Phazania, 22nd December 124 AD

Flaminius knelt beside the lifeless form. The troglodytes gathered round. All this way, all these deaths—and for what? For nothing. There had been no sign of the Veil in Tanit’s temple, but that had come as no surprise.

‘We can’t stay here,’ Dido said. ‘The Garamantes will be searching for us. Those who pursued couldn’t follow us up the shaft, but they’ll find another way. We’ll have to move.’

‘I’ve got to bury Amasis.’ Flaminius was scrabbling frantically at the soil. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘Tiro,’ Dido said patiently. ‘Did you not hear me? We can’t stay here. Your army has vanished into the hills. The Garamantes will be coming for us. I realise you cared about the boy, but…’

She broke off. The troglodytes were helping Flaminius dig a shallow grave.

Indecisively she walked to the edge of the trees, and looked out in the direction of the city walls. Already people were visible, peasants on their way to scavenge now that the battle was over. The guards would be coming this way soon too. They knew their position. Perhaps the Garamantes wouldn’t guess that their prey would be so stupid as to remain here… They should be on the trail of the troglodyte army, fleeing into the hills!

She returned to the wellhead. The troglodytes were good diggers, and they had excavated a grave of some depth. As she joined them, Flaminius and one of their number was lowering Amasis’ body into the dark hole.

‘There are people coming,’ she reported.

Flaminius looked up, pained. ‘Let them come,’ he said, flinging a clod of earth down into the grave. ‘You go, if you want to,’ he added generously, as the troglodytes added their own earth.

‘You know I can’t,’ she said coldly. ‘I understand your grief…’

‘His spirit will haunt us if we don’t bury him,’ Flaminius told her.

She stared at him. This wasn’t the Tiro she knew, always so scornful of the gods and the supernatural. She wondered if it was a ruse. But to what purpose? It seemed that Flaminius’ own spirit was broken.

She couldn’t leave him. Oh, not for the sake of any finer feelings. But she had no chance of survival, alone and on the run in a hostile desert land. She would find safety in numbers, or at least so she hoped.

With a sigh, she joined the others at the graveside.

Shortly afterwards, they were making their way out from the narrow strip of farm lands, entering the rocky plains that ended in the lea of the great cliffs. Behind them, in the distance, the walled city was again noisy with life. Chariots had been seen. Patrols would be out looking for them.

On the edge of the plain they found a scene of devastation, the aftermath of the battle; fallen corpses, broken gear, smashed chariots, dead horses, all picked over by scavengers. Vultures flew away squawking to circle overhead, desert foxes slunk away only to return to their feeding as the small group hurried on. Human scavengers were also visible, picking over the field for what they could find, but there was no sign of warriors. They must still be in the city, or searching the farmland for fugitives.

But it was an uneasy journey, out there in the sand and rocks. They were conspicuous, however much they ducked behind rocks, visible for miles to Dido’s mind, and their trail was clearly indicated by the circling vultures. They reached the foot of the cliffs as the sun was setting.

Looking back, they could see no sign of pursuit, but chariots were still visible in places in the farmland. Perhaps the Garamantes had not thought they would be so suicidal as to run off into the barren rocks. Or perhaps they feared these hills. This was where the troglodytes lived, Flaminius had said. Unwary Garamantes might have an unpleasant surprise.

Halfway up a narrow defile they found a cave out of sight of the plain and settled in it for the night. The troglodytes used the withered branches of a small tree to start a fire, and two of them caught snakes among the rocks. Snake meat was much like gamy guinea fowl, Dido discovered, although she had no desire to eat it in future.

In the morning, the troglodytes were gone. ‘Out hunting?’ she asked Flaminius hopefully.

He shook his head. ‘They’ve returned to their kingdom of the caves, Troglodyte City,’ he said. ‘Joined up with Menander’s army. I should think a revolution is imminent in the troglodyte realm, even if King Gulussa has clung on to power in Garama.’

‘We’re not going to be involved, are we?’ Dido asked.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘This is where we part ways with our friends,’ he said. ‘They left us meat.’ He showed her the carcases of an orangetail lizard and three snakes, including a horned viper. ‘It’s just their way of saying thank you,’ he said with an affable smile.

Dido studied him. Flaminius seemed to have recovered his wits this morning. She had found his behaviour yesterday disturbing, not that it had been a surprise. He had buried a boy he was fond of, who had meant something to him. It had left its mark. But after sleep and food of sorts his wits seemed no longer to be wandering.

It was not the fact that he had feared the anger of Amasis’ spirit that had troubled her; she understood such fear. She believed in ghosts, gods and much else. It was the fact that it was him, of all people. She had never known him show any kind of fear, and he had always been scornful of the supernatural.

She herself believed in it devoutly. And yet…

‘What now?’ she asked. ‘We’re hunted by the Garamantes. Your friends the troglodytes are fighting amongst themselves...’

‘This mission is now aborted,’ said Flaminius. ‘Time to return to civilisation.’

Hanging the snake carcases from his belt, he led her up the rocky defile and out into the bleak hill country. Nothing lived here except snakes and lizards, it seemed; even the troglodytes dwelt in hidden valleys further away. The silence was like a palpable thing, crushing the two tiny figures with its weight as they plodded through bleak, barren immensity beneath a blazing sun.

They were travelling east along the ridge of rocky hills, in the direction of Talgae and the black mountains, when they encountered travellers as lonely as themselves. Keeping to the rocky defiles meant avoiding the busy trade routes where there was a chance of being seen and recognised as fugitives, although neither Flaminius nor Dido had more than a vague idea of where they were going. But at least they were alone, and sometimes they even had food to eat, snakes that Flaminius caught at some risk, and brackish water to drink from occasional water holes in the rocks. But they were steadily weakening.

Turning a corner they saw that they had company.

Hurrying across the rocks were two figures, one overweight and panting, the other young and sleek, though both showed the stains of travel. As Flaminius and Dido appeared, the bigger one turned to glare at them, then increased its efforts to escape, leaning upon its companion for support.

‘Melanthus,’ Flaminius called out. ‘Your majesty, it’s an honour to meet you again.’

Dido glance at him in surprise. ‘You know this man?’

Melanthus and his female companion came to a halt, and turned to watch their approach.

‘What is it you want?’ the troglodyte tyrant asked. ‘I send you out to levy tribute from my unruly subjects, and what happens? My brother turns up out of the desert and leads that army you trained so well to banish me from my own kingdom!’

Dido followed Flaminius down to meet them. The girl who was helping the portly figure eyed her, and clicked her tongue at her disapprovingly. Flaminius laughed.

‘And where are you going now?’ he asked. ‘To raise another army?’

Melanthus sat down on a rock. ‘Can you help me?’ he pleaded. ‘Can you help me raise a new army? I would go to Alexandria, where I lived in my youth. I will offer all the riches of my kingdom to anyone who will fight for me…’

‘Empty promises.’ Flaminius shook his head. ‘You’re a dreamer, Melanthus,’ he said disparagingly. ‘I met your brother—in fact, I’ve known him for a while. You had him sold into slavery because you thought he threatened your power.’

‘He did!’ said Melanthus in outrage. ‘He did threaten my power! He was a coward when he ruled, and he was justly ousted from his throne. I had him sold into slavery because it was better that he did not return and cause trouble. I could have had him killed, of course, but I did not want it said that I had a brother’s blood upon my hands… And now he turns up out of nowhere at the head of the army you trained, and casts me out of my kingdom. Says my citizens would rather take their chances in the mountains of the south. He can go all the way to Agysimba for all I care. It is my city, and I shall rule it!’

‘Rule what?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Rocks? Sand? Menander will lead your former subjects to a better place, where they are not preyed upon by the Garamantes. No one wants you to rule them.’

Melanthus’ brows contracted in a scowl. ‘It was you who brought this about,’ he said accusingly. ‘I offered up the hospitality of my caves and my people. You could have had any woman you wanted, and as much lizard meat as you liked. But you chose to betray me.’

‘Is this true?’ said Dido. ‘Tiro, by Ceres, what have you been up to?’

Melanthus rose painfully to his feet, gesturing at his woman, who helped him. He shuffled round to face Flaminius. ‘I go now, but you have not heard the last of me,’ the troglodyte declared. ‘Depart from my presence henceforth with my curse, traitor! In the name of all the gods I curse you! I curse you!’

Still cursing, he shuffled away, back the way they had come, leaning on his woman as he went.

Dido’s laugh broke the silence that fell after Melanthus vanished over the rise. ‘Was that the great tyrant of the troglodytes?’ she asked. ‘He spoke good Greek.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘He seems to have worked as a whore’s protector in Alexandria in his youth. I think the old king sent both his sons to the city to receive an education. Melanthus certainly seems to have picked up some colourful language. When he returned to his people’s land, he used his wiles to have his brother deposed and sold into slavery.’

‘Just what has been going on since you vanished from the camp?’ Dido asked. ‘Why did you go anyway?’

Flaminius gave her a dark look. ‘I overheard your plans,’ he said, and walked on.

The next day, they had no choice but to leave the increasingly impassable hills and follow the traders’ road. They were still some days’ journey from the borders of Gulussa’s kingdom. Food was more plentiful here than among the cliffs, and they found groves of date palms and an occasional oasis or irrigation channel. But they were too close to civilisation, such as it was in these parts, for comfort. It was not long before they encountered enemies.

Surrounded by warriors they were marched into a bustling camp in a small oasis off the road. Both were bleeding from a score of cuts, and were weaponless, having fought unsuccessfully for their freedom. Dido walked with her head bowed. This must be it, she thought, the end of the journey.

‘We found these wandering along the road,’ said their captor. Like the others they had fought he spoke Greek as well as Melanthus, if not better.

‘Let me look at them,’ came a familiar voice. ‘Why,’ the speaker added, ‘I think I know these fugitives. I believe there is a price on both their heads.’

‘Would you sell us to our enemies?’ Flaminius asked contemptuously.

Dido looked up. Sitting on a camp chair by a fire was an old Egyptian. Standing beside him, arms folded, was a larger, more muscular young man with a similar cast to his features. She recognised them at once as Rhampsinitus of Heliopolis and his son Sarapion. Grouped around them were the other Egyptian merchants.

As Flaminius faced Rhampsinitus defiantly across the fire, the Egyptian laughed.

‘What a disaster Claudius Mercator’s expedition was,’ he said in Greek, smirking up at his son. ‘Is this all that remains? Two bedraggled gangrels? Where is my old friend and rival?’

‘Claudius Mercator is dead, Egyptian,’ said Dido bitterly. ‘I remember you, Rhampsinitus. I remember you in the temple of Tanit. How you connived and conspired with the Garamantian king against us.’

‘Hardly,’ Rhampsinitus said with a laugh. ‘It was you who desecrated the temple, spilled blood in the sacred precincts. And then someone upset the statue! Such impiety.’

Dido hung her head.

‘They would have shed Dido’s blood in the same sacred precincts,’ Flaminius said. ‘I rescued her. They would have killed her as a spy.’

‘They are touchy about foreigners in this land,’ Rhampsinitus informed him. ‘Tricky negotiators, too. All my bargaining skills had to come to the fore, but it was well worth it.’ He opened a small coffer in which winked red stones.

‘Garamantian carbuncles,’ muttered Flaminius.

‘Yes,’ said Rhampsinitus, ‘and over there we have natron, salt, ivory, gold… All gained at a remarkably good price.’

‘What did you have to make such a profitable trade with the Garamantes?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Oh, the usual merchandise,’ Rhampsinitus said slyly. ‘Some of it worth its weight in gold. Oil, wine, glassware. But, ah, intelligence proved to be the most valuable commodity.’

‘You sold us out!’ Dido spat. ‘You told the king that we were spies!’

Rhampsinitus hooted with laughter. ‘You’re at my mercy, woman,’ he said, ‘so don’t take such a high handed tone with me! I disposed of a rival with the aid of the king of this highly sensitive country. My first plan of filling in the wells was foolish, I don’t know what I was thinking of. It was much better to follow Claudius Mercator’s new route, steal a march on you when the opportunity arose and sow the seeds of trouble for you. And you reaped a bitter harvest, it seems. Sometimes we must stoop if we would conquer. Now Phazania is mine, for trading at least. I have reopened the trading routes. I am a rich man.

‘And rich men,’ he continued, ‘can afford to be magnanimous. No, I won’t betray you to the king. To seek recompense for any trouble I have put you to, I offer you both places in my caravan guard.’

He rose.

‘It is a long journey back to the empire, and we all know how fraught it is,’ he said. ‘Due to my machinations you are fugitives in this country. Fight for me—I will return your weapons—and in return I will feed you and shelter you. And we will forget and forgive. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds like a bargain,’ said Flaminius.

That night, they were both on guard duty. Dido was unhappy.

‘Rhampsinitus feels he owes us something,’ she said. In the distance a lion coughed, but it was too far away to represent a threat. Concealed in that dark night could be all manner of perils, robbers, wild beasts, perhaps even troglodytes. ‘I think he’s wrong.’

Flaminius was astounded. ‘If you consider what that avaricious Egyptian baboon put us through with his lies to King Gulussa…’ he said. ‘Of course he owes us something! A job and a means of returning home is the least he could do.’

‘But were they lies?’ she said. ‘When he told the Garamantian king we were spies, wasn’t that the truth?’

Flaminius halted and stared at her. ‘You know full well that I’m an imperial agent,’ he said. ‘But he doesn’t know—unless you told him.’

She shook her head. ‘I told him nothing. But I know you are a spy. I was willing to denounce you to them myself. Rhampsinitus outdid me, accusing us all. But I am as much of a spy as you.’

‘I know,’ Flaminius said. ‘The Punic rebels sent you.’

‘You realised?’ She stared at him. ‘I have been working for them since I fled Egypt. No one but rebels or criminals would take me on.’

‘You denounced me as a spy because you thought I threatened your own mission,’ Flaminius observed. ‘And I would have done; we were both sent to steal the Veil of Tanit.’

‘The rebels thought it would be a rallying point, a standard for their cause,’ she said.

Flaminius nodded. ‘So did my legate.’

‘But it wasn’t there!’ she protested. ‘I will return to Carthage with a story of failure. The Veil was said to be hanging from the arms of the statue of the goddess—the one you desecrated,’ she added without rancour.

Flaminius laughed bitterly. ‘It was never there,’ he said. ‘It was nothing more than a mirage of the desert.’

‘But Claudius Mercator…’ she began.

‘The merchant confessed to me,’ he said, ‘as he lay dying. He told me that he invented the whole story. His first expedition was a failure, so he invented his story of the Veil of Tanit, made sure it was the talk of Africa, in the full knowledge that the rebels would want to possess it and the empire would want it destroyed. I think he knew who I was all along. But I don’t think he realised that you and your Nasamoneans were Punic, although it was pretty obvious to me.’

‘All a lie,’ she whispered, gazing into the desert night. ‘All a lie. All those deaths… treachery… and it was all a lie.’

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius blandly. ‘The fabulous story of a fantasist, who has paid the ultimate price for his lies.’

She flung down her spear. Flaminius said nothing. In silence he watched as she walked alone, out into the desert.

—32—

Camp of the Twenty-Second Legion, Nicopolis, Province of Egypt, February 125 AD

Flaminius stood before Avidius Pollio’s desk, waiting in silence as the legate read his report. Wearily, he gazed out of the window at the barracks blocks outside, where a late winter sun shone down upon the fortress of the Twenty Second Legion. All was quiet and still, an air of order hanging over everything. A couple of junior tribunes walked past, chatting to each other in excitable, boastful tones. Flaminius cast his mind back to the days when he’d been a young tribune, just as brash and arrogant and insufferable, even if he had been the lowest of the low—tribune of auxiliary cavalry.

The return journey had been less fraught than Rhampsinitus had been expecting, although they had known a few clashes with nomads along the way. Nevertheless, the unprincipled Egyptian merchant had been true to his word, paying Flaminius handsomely with money advanced on the sale of the carbuncles he had bought in Garama.

It had been a lonely journey, all the same. Flaminius had ridden much of the way sunk in his own thoughts, not wishing to join in the conversations of the merchants. His previous journey had been a particularly luckless one, and he was oppressed by a weariness of spirit that had haunted him until he reached the oasis of Ammon, where he offered a plump wether to Jupiter Ammon in thanksgiving to the god. It had been as the diviner had prophesied: only one had returned. What had happened to Dido Flaminius didn’t know for certain, but everyone else who had set out on that ill-starred journey had died as surely as the hapless Gaul who stole Tanit’s veil all those years ago.

The caravan of Rhampsinitus returned to Alexandria late in the evening. The streets were quiet, and after they reached the Egyptian’s warehouses down by the canal, and the merchandise was unloaded and stored safely, Flaminius felt impatient to leave. As soon as possible he took his pay from Rhampsinitus’ scribe, and made his way through the streets.

He would have to make his report to the legate but at that hour it had been too late to be bothering Avidius Pollio. He had a different report to make that evening.

He had sent a letter from Ammonium to Ozymandias but it had been very formal. He had been unable to put his feelings into words. All he had managed to say was that he would be returning before the end of winter. He still had to explain what had happened. But it would be better if they heard it from his own lips.

And so he went to the house of Ozymandias. The porter let him in, looking him up and down censoriously—he was still travel stained from his desert wanderings. Holding up a lamp, the man set off to inform the master and the mistress.

Shortly afterwards, he was shown through into the atrium where Ozymandias and Nitocris played at being real Romans. Both lay a little stiffly on couches, wine cups in their hands, food on a table between them. Ozymandias rose to greet him.

‘Flaminius,’ he said. ‘It’s very late. Have you returned from your journey?’

‘Where is Amasis?’ asked Nitocris.

Flaminius looked sadly at her. She was just as beautiful as the first time he had seen her, though she was a woman now, a girl no longer.

‘May I have some wine?’ he asked awkwardly. It occurred to him that he had sworn a vow by the infernal gods never to go near her again.

‘Of course,’ she said, clapping her hands. A slave brought Flaminius an amphora and poured him a cup. He sat down without being invited, on the edge of an ornamental pond.

Ozymandias was staring at him, trepidation clear on his face. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked at last. ‘Wasn’t it a success?’

‘Where is Amasis?’ Nitocris’ voice was tremulous now. No longer was she the lady of the house, she was the frightened young girl Flaminius remembered.

‘He didn’t come back,’ Flaminius said after watching a fish swim from the cover of one lily pad to another. ‘I’m afraid Amasis is dead.’

Nitocris shrieked and ran inside.

Ozymandias sighed and looked away. ‘This is going to be difficult to explain to my cousin,’ he muttered abstractedly. ‘What happened? Have you brought his body back for embalming?’

‘It’s hundreds of miles from here to Phazania,’ Flaminius told him. ‘And I left a little precipitously…’

‘I can imagine,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Nitocris won’t forgive you for this. We both know the kind of life you lead. What you do. You’ve dragged us into it enough times.’

Flaminius gestured at the opulent surroundings. ‘You would be still in the gutter if it wasn’t for me,’ he reminded the Egyptian angrily. He relented. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think things would go as badly as they did. I wouldn’t have agreed to bring him along with me if I thought it was going to be so dangerous.’

‘Danger follows you wherever you go,’ said Ozymandias grimly. ‘Or maybe you bring it with you. How did it happen?’

Flaminius gave a brief account of the journey. Ozymandias listened absently.

‘Wasn’t there anything you could do to avoid his death?’ he said. ‘And then you ended up working for this man who betrayed you all! Rhampsinitus of Heliopolis? I’ve heard of him. He has a bad name in Alexandria. So did Claudius Mercator…’

Flaminius knocked back his wine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m tired. I’ve just got back. I’ll have to go.’

And with that he left, took himself a room in the seedy Egyptian Quarter, and spent the rest of the night drinking alone. Now, sitting in Avidius Pollio’s sunlit office, he was regretting the decision.

‘This is very interesting,’ the legate remarked. He looked up. ‘A shame you couldn’t keep the woman calling herself Dido in your custody. Just walked off into the desert you say? The effect you have on women! It’s about time you got yourself a full time mistress.’

Flaminius stroked the plume of his helmet. He had taken the opportunity to change into dress uniform before marching into the legate’s office, but it felt strange to be wearing such clobber after months in civilian dress.

‘It’s not like you, tribune, to allow a prisoner to escape,’ the legate added reprovingly. ‘She could have provided useful information regarding the rebels in Carthage.’ He leafed through the report again. ‘You must admit, this isn’t very substantial. As far as intelligence on the rebels is concerned, I mean.’

‘Sir,’ said Flaminius.

‘But a very thorough account of these barbarian tribes,’ Avidius Pollio added generously. ‘The fullest account we have in the files is a copy of Flaccus’ punitive expedition about seventy five years ago. Not much more up to date than Cornelius Balbus’ own report. It would appear that things have changed greatly in Garamantian territory.’

He looked up. ‘But now Rhampsinitus of Heliopolis has taken on the mantle of Claudius Mercator, I suppose we will have closer links with the Garamantian people. Still, imperial policy today is tending towards consolidation and demarcation. Lines in the sand, tribune, that’s what the empire is about these days, not military adventures. It would take a real braggart to repeat the Balbus expedition. Look at Britain! Never properly settled, a constant problem, a running sore, neither in nor out of the empire. At least the emperor has come up with a compromise solution. It might even work. And no doubt he’ll deal with these southern borders in much the same manner...’

‘The whole mission was based on a lie,’ said Flaminius.

Avidius Pollio sat back and regarded him in silence. He picked up the report again and scanned through it.

‘The Zaïmph was destroyed by fire from heaven, according to the best accounts, during the mercenaries’ revolt,’ he said off-handedly. ‘And Scipio performed the evocation of Tanit that brought the goddess to Rome, where we offer sacrifice to her as Celestial Juno. She is on our side these days, has been for centuries. Those rumours that the late Claudius Mercator was spreading were nonsense, anyone who’d had a decent education could see that. But we had to be certain. Besides, what if the rebels faked something? It’s possible that they still will! If you hadn’t let their agent escape…she might get back to them and make her own report.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Flaminius dismissively. ‘Are you saying, sir, that you knew all along that Claudius Mercator was lying?’

Avidius Pollio looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Not as such. I wouldn’t say I knew. But it seemed a definite likelihood. Well, no harm done finding out, is there?’

‘The entire caravan was wiped out,’ Flaminius said. ‘Except for me.’

‘Dangerous business, going into barbarian territory,’ Avidius Pollio told him. ‘This is why his imperial majesty is so keen to curb any adventuring beyond the borders. Even with several legions, things can turn nasty. Surely a survivor of the Ninth Legion can understand that. Why these merchants go to such lengths, and all in search of filthy lucre…!’

The legate stared out of the window. ‘Demetrius of Oxyrhynchus will be missed, of course, in his own scholarly circle. The Museum will have to be informed. But I’m sure they will be grateful for whatever geographical data you can provide. Subject to vetting by myself, of course.’

‘I’ll get in touch.’ Surely an intelligence officer could be trusted to know what was and wasn’t a security issue, Flaminius thought. Avidius Pollio went back to reading through the report.

The legate did not seemed impressed by what Flaminius had achieved out in the desert. Hadn’t it all been a waste of time, not to mention a waste of life? He very much doubted that Dido ever got back to her fellow rebels. The desert had been perilous enough in company. Walking off on her own like that had been suicide, as sure as if she had fallen on her own sword in front of him. Then again, he had thought her dead before.

He remembered how she had clung to him during the sandstorm. How frenzied their lovemaking had been, in the face of certain death... That incident hadn’t got into the report, of course. Avidius Pollio did not require that level of detail.

‘If there’s nothing more, legate…’ he said.

Avidius Pollio looked up from the report in surprise. ‘You can wait until you’re dismissed, tribune,’ he said mildly. ‘You may be an imperial agent, but I am your legate. Please try to remember that.’ When Flaminius looked back stonily at him, he relented. ‘Very well, I’ll contact you if there is anything else I want to speak to you about. You’ll want to settle back into your rooms, I suppose, and read up on the reports of your agents. Oh yes, and a message came from you, from Rome.’ The legate looked disapproving as he produced a papyrus scroll. The seal was broken, Flaminius noted as he received it. ‘Appears to be written in code,’ the legate added, with more disapproval. ‘I believe it’s from the Commissary.’

Excited, Flaminius opened it. It was indeed written in code, a variation on the Caesar cipher known only to himself and Chief Centurion Probus’ immediate staff.

His heart pounded. What did the old man want with him? This was the first communication he had received since he was sent to this province. His eyes flashed across the coded message. It was curt and to the point, certainly the work of the chief centurion himself.

When he finished it, he had to read it through twice more before he was certain he had deciphered it correctly.

When he had reassured himself that he had not misread the message, he lowered it and saluted the legate smartly. Avidius Pollio looked up from the report again, eyebrows raised expectantly.

‘Yes, tribune? Was there anything else?’

‘Sir,’ said Flaminius. ‘When did this message arrive?’

‘Just after Saturnalia, as I remember,’ said the legate, after a quick discussion with his scribe. ‘The same time we received news that the emperor had ended his wanderings of the empire and was returning to Rome. They say he’s intending to close the Gates of Peace in the temple of Janus, marking an end to all hostilities in and around the empire. Spending so long out in the barbarian wilderness, you’ll not be up to speed on these recent developments. Why do you ask?’

Flaminius glanced at the message again.

‘Curious,’ he said. He brandished the scroll. ‘This message, which your staff saw fit to open,’ he went on, with a bitter look at the scribe sitting quietly at his own desk, ‘is from the Chief. Chief Centurion Probus in the Peregrine Camp in Rome.’ He scanned it again. ‘It demands that I report myself to him at once. Extremely urgent, it says. My replacement will be despatched forthwith.’

He looked up. ‘I’m being recalled to Rome.’

The story continues in The Londinium File (2019)

[1] Better known today as red carnelian.

[2] See ‘Murder in Hadrian’s Villa.’

[3] See The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit.