The Black Stone (44 page)

Some of the other chiefs were nodding.

‘I admit I believed it,’ continued Ilaha. ‘This Aurelian seemed capable. He defeated Zenobia, after all. And yet what do we find now? Chaos to our south and north. Trade down, profits down – for all of us. Yet again the Romans are in disarray.’

‘Rome is dying,’ said Kalderon, a loyalist who’d lost two of his brothers fighting the Palmyrans. He was a small but muscular man who loved leading his men into battle and enjoyed his reputation for taking on – and beating – larger foes.

Ilaha leaned forward. ‘The Empire remains divided, the west a separate domain. As ever, there is trouble from the Goths and another clash with Persia probably not far away. Rome is incapable of governing its own lands, too weak to destroy its enemies—’

‘Ilaha.’ Yemanek had raised his hand. Gutha had always found him impressive. He was one of the older ethnarchs, a burly man with a wild beard and a blotchy, red face. His appearance belied his temperament. He was moderate, pragmatic and respected by all at the table.

‘Every man here knows the situation. We have come to hear what you propose to do about it.’

Gutha half-expected Ilaha to berate him for the interruption but he simply nodded.

‘I would ask for a little patience, Yemanek. I shall tell you in due course. But first I shall tell you what I
do not
want. I do not want war. I do not want bloodshed – our people suffered enough under the Palmyrans. What I want is peace, and freedom – freedom to live and trade as we see fit. Not just for us, but for our sons and our sons’ sons.’

Gutha felt himself relax. This was the old Ilaha; assured, compelling, reasonable.

‘Let us consider what we give – and what we have given for two centuries – to Rome. We guard the eastern frontier and fight alongside them when the time comes. We journey to places they’ve never even seen, brave dangerous lands and barren deserts to bring them the incense and the spices they cannot get enough of. And what is our reward for all this? We must
give them
one quarter of all we earn.
One quarter.
What if the first Rabbel and our forefathers were here now? They would laugh – mock us for allowing ourselves to be so enslaved.’

‘It’s true,’ said one of the chiefs thoughtfully.

‘So someone tell me, then,’ continued Ilaha, ‘what they have given us in return?’

‘The road?’ offered another of the ethnarchs. Gutha thought he was about to take Ilaha on but then the man smiled: ‘Except of course that the forefathers you spoke of used an almost identical route.’

‘Indeed they did,’ said Ilaha. ‘Anyone else?’

No one responded.

‘I see that Yemanek is still eager to hear my proposal,’ added Ilaha. ‘It can be summarised as simply as this: what I want is a fair deal for the Tanukh, for our families, for our future.’

Gutha had to acknowledge it had been a masterful performance so far, especially as he had barely mentioned his sun god.

Ilaha picked up the leather folder sitting on the table in front of him and took out a piece of papyrus. The edges were ragged, the papyrus holed and yellowed. Ilaha held it up. ‘Any guesses?’

‘The treaty,’ said Yemanek.

‘The treaty. Well, a contemporary copy.’ Ilaha placed the sheet on the table. ‘The thirteen ethnarchs signed this not long after the Roman annexation. It is not an agreement in the true sense of the word – more a list of obligations for us to fulfil. I suggest a new arrangement, a real treaty. It will be simple, consisting of only three clauses. Firstly, we will retain and control the traditional tribal areas east and south of the Roman road. We also undertake to protect those lands.’

‘You are describing the situation as it is,’ said another ethnarch. ‘What’s new?’

‘At present, the Romans believe that they
allow
us that territory. This would enshrine our right to our own land in law.’

The ethnarch chose not to press him further.

‘The second clause: we will agree to defend any part of Arabia against any hostile force or invader. The third and final clause: import tax on all products coming into the Empire from or through our lands – and therefore subject to Roman tolls – will be taxed not at one quarter, but at one
sixth
.’

Silence returned as the chiefs absorbed this concept. After a while, a new speaker made his contribution. ‘The import tax has been at a quarter for more than a century.’

‘Things change,’ replied Ilaha sharply. ‘I doubt the Romans expected they would lose half their empire, or that a woman would almost take the other half.’

‘Calvinus will not negotiate on that point,’ said another of the chiefs. ‘We tried before when we began losing profits to the sea trade. His hands are tied. The quarter rate is universal.’

‘Not true,’ countered another man. ‘Reductions have been negotiated in the past.’

Three others spoke simultaneously and suddenly the ordered debate began to unravel. Ilaha raised a hand. ‘Please.’

After a while, his fellow ethnarchs quietened.

‘I do not expect Calvinus to accede simply because we ask him to. It is we who must change his mind. With your agreement, I will send an emissary to Bostra with a copy of the new treaty for him to sign. At the same time, we will leave here and I will ask each of you to gather every last swordsman you can spare. We will make camp, tens of thousands of us, within sight of the fortress at Humeima. We will be close to the Via Traiana and only two days’ ride from Aila. We will leave Calvinus in no doubt about the seriousness of his position.’

‘A sixth
is
reasonable,’ said one of the chiefs before glancing around at his compatriots. ‘And for us, it would turn loss into profit.’

‘But if he refuses?’ asked Uruwat. Gutha looked at the old ethnarch; only his fine blue tunic and silver rings marked him out as a man of means.

‘We will block the road until he concedes,’ said Ilaha. ‘Trade will grind to a halt, the Roman coffers in Bostra will empty.’

‘They will attack,’ said Uruwat.

‘Good,’ replied Kalderon, who was sitting beside him. ‘We have been lapdogs long enough. Shame upon all of us that Zenobia could push the legions out of the east, yet we won’t even stand up for ourselves on our own soil.’

‘Remind me,’ said a deep voice. ‘What happened to Zenobia in the end?’

It was Enzarri. Gutha was surprised it had taken him so long. Of all the ethnarchs he was generally considered the most loyal to Rome. Ilaha – and everyone else – had been taken aback that he’d even agreed to attend the meeting. But had he done so only to foil Ilaha’s plans in person? Use the occasion to advance his own cause?

Enzarri was a tall, handsome man with a mane of black hair. A notorious drinker and womaniser, he was nonetheless immensely popular amongst his own tribe and with many other Arabians. His reputation had been enhanced during the Palmyran wars and the Romans had decorated him many times. Even now – even here – he wore the golden bands on his wrists.

‘Tell me, Ilaha,’ he continued. ‘Are you also keen on being dragged to Rome in chains?’

Almost imperceptibly, Ilaha’s jaw trembled.

Enzarri continued. ‘My point is, the Romans may be on the back foot and their response may be slow, but there
will be
a response. Aurelian is marching eastward with tens of thousands of men.’

‘You probably wish you were with him.’

Enzarri glared at Kalderon. ‘Unlike you, I respect my fellow chiefs and the traditions of this Confederation. I meant no insult to Ethnarch Ilaha. I simply wish to remind him of certain realities.’ Enzarri turned back to his host. ‘The Romans will wipe Palmyra out in weeks, days even. The Emperor will show them no mercy this time. And you would choose this moment to provoke him?’

Ilaha had calmed himself down. ‘As direct as ever, Ethnarch Enzarri. I thank you for your contribution. But there is one crucial difference between us and the Palmyrans. Zenobia attacked Rome, took territory that had never been hers. I – we – are asking for no such thing; merely control over our own lands and the right to provide for ourselves.’

Kalderon was still eyeballing his fellow ethnarch. ‘Your lack of insight surprises me, Enzarri. The Romans could never do to us what they did to Palmyra. We have no cities to raze, no standing armies to meet in battle. If it came to it, we would strike when and where we wanted to then disappear into the desert. They would get lost or die of thirst. They couldn’t defeat us with ten legions!’

Three other men cheered and banged their fists on the table.

Ilaha smiled. ‘Kalderon is right. We do not want war, but we must show our strength to get what we want. The Romans know they need us. They
will
negotiate.’

Enzarri looked at Mushannaf, then Uruwat. It was obvious to Gutha that while perhaps half were onside, these three were not the only ones to harbour doubts.

Ilaha seemed sure he would never get a better opportunity to bend the Confederation to his will. He leaned forward once more. ‘The Tanukh must speak as one. If I am to communicate our demands to Calvinus he must see that we are in agreement.’ Ilaha tapped the treaty. ‘Shall I burn this, free us from enslavement?’

‘Do it,’ demanded Kalderon.

Ilaha took out a second, newer sheet. ‘I have here the agreement, written up with the three clauses I described. Shall we all sign it and despatch it to Bostra at dawn? A show of hands, perhaps?’

Of the twelve other ethnarchs, six raised their hands immediately. Several others appeared to be wavering.

Enzarri spoke up. ‘I believe there are some other issues worthy of discussion.’

‘You have spoken enough,’ said Kalderon.

‘What is it, Enzarri?’ asked another of the chiefs impatiently.

‘The raid on Ruwaffa. An unprovoked attack that the Romans might easily interpret as an act of war. Does our host deny responsibility?’

‘I do not know who was responsible,’ said Ilaha flatly. ‘If you do, please share the information with us.’

Enzarri glanced up at Gutha. ‘Perhaps he knows?’

Gutha resisted the temptation to meet his stare.

‘You should be wary of making unfounded accusations,’ said Ilaha.

‘It’s true I have no proof,’ conceded Enzarri. ‘Though the same cannot be said of the two raids on temples within my territory. Men were killed, treasures taken.’

‘You would blame me for brigandage within your own lands?’ asked Ilaha.

‘Witnesses I trust recognised some of the warriors,’ continued Enzarri. ‘They were your men.’

‘That is idle rumour,’ countered Ilaha. ‘Not proof.’

‘You have spoken today of enslavement,’ said the older ethnarch. ‘My people worship a dozen different gods.’ He gestured around the table. ‘And how many within all our lands? A hundred or more. Tell me, Ilaha, under your leadership will they – will we – be able to worship freely? Or will you demand that we all prostrate ourselves before
your
sun god?’

Ilaha had put his hands under the table so no one could see them shaking.

Yemanek was about to speak but Enzarri wasn’t finished yet.

‘Today you carry a sword and appear to be one of us. But it is said here, among your own people, that you consider yourself more priest than warrior these days, that you spend most of your time engaged in religious ritual with your … elderly friend.’

‘Watch yourself,’ warned Kalderon.

Despite the tension, it was clear to Gutha that even the more sympathetic of the chiefs wanted to hear a response.

Ilaha seemed to be fighting to control himself. He eventually took a breath and leaned back, the tension gone from his arms.

‘I could answer you now, Enzarri. I could. But I should prefer to wait until after the ceremony tomorrow. I think what you see will give you all the answers you need.’

After a long silence, Yemanek spoke. ‘My friends, it is perhaps better in any case that we all take time to consider Ilaha’s proposal. I suggest that we reconvene tomorrow to make a final decision.’

‘As ever, you speak with great wisdom, Yemanek,’ said Ilaha. ‘Shall we meet here at the same time?’

Yemanek and the other ethnarchs gave their assent, Enzarri included.

As the chiefs rose and left, Ilaha stood by the door, maintaining his composure until the door was shut.

Then, fists clenched, he stalked back to the table.

Gutha took his axe from his shoulder and put it on one of the chairs. ‘Overall I think that went fairly—’

Ilaha swept a hand down, sending a goblet clattering into a corner. ‘That piece of shit Enzarri. I’ll bleed him white and feed him his own innards.’

Ilaha grabbed the sheet outlining the new treaty and crushed it into a ball. ‘They almost signed it. I almost had them.’

‘You may still,’ said Gutha, electing not to mention his previous warning about the temple raids. ‘Perhaps if you told me what you have in mind for tomorrow.’

The door opened. Mother walked in and one of the guards shut the door behind her. She looked at Ilaha, who was leaning against the table. He didn’t even move when she walked up to him and placed her hand upon his shoulder. Gutha took a step backwards. He could smell her.

Ilaha turned to him. ‘Enzarri has no more than fifty men here. Take Oblachus and Theomestor and as many warriors as you need. With him dead, the others will fall into line.’

‘That would be a terrible mistake,’ said Gutha.

To his surprise, the old woman agreed. ‘He is right.’

‘I want him dead,’ said Ilaha, his eyes wet and bright.

‘What happened?’

Ilaha told her; and the process of repeating it all seemed to calm him down.

‘Enzarri’s time will come,’ said Mother, stroking Ilaha’s back. ‘You can rest easy tonight, my son, for tomorrow they will see. They will see the true power of Mighty Elagabal. They will kneel before him and they will kneel before you.’

Ilaha closed his eyes.

‘I wish I was so certain,’ said Gutha.

The crone smiled; a joyless smile that cracked her wrinkled face. ‘You will kneel too.’

The ceremony began at midday. For an hour beforehand the beat of drums and the clanging of bells rang out from beyond the inner wall. When the noise stopped, the doors opened and the guards lined the road all the way to the town. Once the men of Galanaq had entered, the ethnarchs came out to lead their warriors inside.