The Black Stone (15 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Shame about the rest, eh?’

‘Not so bad,’ she replied. ‘Rugged.’

‘That’s one word for it.’

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

‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked.

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

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

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

‘Stew it is.’

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

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

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

‘As long as you keep it to a minute.’

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

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

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

‘Why?’

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

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

‘I will, sir. Would we be able to—’

Gutha turned away. ‘Minute’s up.’

The youth returned to his friends.

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

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

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

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

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

Alome cast a speculative look at Qattif.

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

‘Apparently.’

‘Exciting times.’

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

‘I do.’

‘Took you long enough.’

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

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

‘And that other matter?’

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

‘And?’

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

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

‘Did this Gallani mention any other family?’

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

‘Who says peasants don’t understand irony?’

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

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

‘Sorry. All I could get.’

‘Could you find this village?’

‘You know me. I can find anything.’

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

Qattif exhaled loudly.

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

‘Very generous. I will leave—’

‘At dawn.’

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

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

‘You know you can trust me.’

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

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

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

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

He had long been aware that requests for a quiet, easy life were unlikely to elicit results. Upon being told by his father that he was to join the army he had embarked on a frenzied – if brief – period of worship; all to no avail. And considering how things had gone since that point, it seemed the denizens of the heavens were intent on putting him through trial after trial until he succumbed. Since arriving in Syria three years ago, he’d often felt like a bottle tossed around on a sea; and eventually he’d been tempted to forgo worship entirely.

But he had survived. And he knew that in many ways the gods had been kind. They had given him a rich, powerful family; a healthy, handsome body; and a mind that invariably outperformed those around him. He wasn’t perfect – swordplay and other martial skills didn’t come naturally, and he had a damaging tendency to lose all sense where women were concerned – but the latter was a common affliction and he was trying to address his other weaknesses.

This new-found sense of clarity had led Cassius to ruminate on the words of Marcus Aurelius:
Nothing happens to anybody that he is not fitted by nature to bear.

Had the gods placed him in these situations to serve Rome? Set him these challenges precisely because he was well equipped to deal with them?

An appealing concept, but one that rather fell down in the face of logical appraisal. His own poor judgement had twice set in motion events leading him to face danger and death; that and the demands of Abascantius and Chief Pulcher. On the other hand, his arrival on Rhodes at precisely the right time to take up the Memor investigation had suggested a divine hand.

As he queued in front of the Temple of Jupiter, waiting to buy a libation, Cassius tried to put such questions aside and concentrate on the here and now. Whatever the gods’ intentions, they seemed determined to place him in harm’s way again. So be it; but Cassius reckoned he was owed something in return for his previous accomplishments and was prepared to spare an hour of his evening to make one important request.

He handed over a coin and took the clay cup of wine, then hurried up the steps and between the two gargantuan columns on either side of the entrance. The wooden doors were each a foot thick and studded with massive iron bolts. Two young priests whispered prayers as every worshipper entered.

Cassius liked the cool air of temples; the quiet, too. He’d remembered to change into his soft walking boots and he strode swiftly across the immaculate marble floor, past the interior colonnades to the podium at the rear.

Another pair of priests flanked the platform, silently watching over a dozen of the kneeling faithful. Cassius didn’t enjoy having to mix with commoners but there was nowhere else to go if one wished to commune with Jupiter. The altars here were not intended for sacrifice, merely to accommodate the hundreds of libations offered daily. Cassius found a space for his cup, then a space below the podium for himself.

Lifting his scabbard to make sure it didn’t scrape on the floor, he knelt on one knee. He didn’t want to look up at the statue until he was ready to speak but it was hard to ignore the whispered entreaties filling the air:

‘God of gods, let Aurelia be freed. We have waited so long.’

‘A son, a son, a son.’

‘Not bronze, silver. Mighty Jupiter, let it be silver.’

‘Father of the gods, I beg you to cure him.’

To Cassius’s dismay, more worshippers arrived and surrounded him. One man was clad in little more than rags, his sandals held together with rotting lengths of twine. He immediately embarked on a swift and remarkably articulate request for nothing more than enlightenment. More distracting still was a legionary. This man offered a cordial nod to Cassius, then bowed his head and whispered his prayers. His right arm was a stump that ended six inches below his shoulder. It was heavily bandaged and spotted with yellow and red.

Admonishing himself for wasting time, Cassius gazed up at the statue. It was a fine rendering, perhaps twice life size, composed of pale grey marble. The heavily bearded god was sitting, eyes no more than hollows in the stone, bronze sceptre held in his left hand. Cassius extended his arms upwards and whispered the words.

Father Jupiter, revered god of gods, I come with an offering, one of many I have given in recent times. I pledge to come again to your dwelling-place whenever I can and give for the rest of my days. In return I ask only for one thing. Do not let me face this journey alone.