The Black Stone (3 page)

Ursus snatched a last look down the road. The raiders were advancing, stepping over the bodies of his fallen men. As he turned back, he wondered about Agorix, though he knew he must be dead too. The odds never had been good but they’d fought well to a man.

As the warrior came forward, the raiders behind him stayed where they were. He was a foot taller than most of them, and in his hands was an immense double-bladed axe, the wooden handle reinforced with bands of metal. Ursus now saw that while the others were from the eastern provinces, the tall warrior had the face of a man from the northern part of the world. His eyes were pale, and the few tufts of hair poking out below the rim of the helmet were fair.

‘Nice try, Roman. A commendable effort.’ His voice was a low rumble, the Latin impeccable.

‘My men,’ said Ursus. ‘You’ll leave them as they lie?’

He wanted them to be found with their swords and – as importantly – the lead identity tablet each wore around his neck.

‘We will.’

‘The army will find you. And they’ll kill you.’

‘No more talk. You’ve delayed me long enough as it is.’

Ursus took a deep breath. By the great and honoured gods he was going to hurt this big bastard if he could. A bit of armour would have been handy, though, shield and helmet too.

The warrior stomped forward, axe held high. Ursus looked for a weak spot but the man clearly took his personal protection seriously; he was also wearing arm-guards and greaves.

Ursus stepped back. He’d just realised he didn’t particularly want to die at the end of some barbarian’s dirty, bloody axe blade.

‘The army will find you.’

He turned his sword upward and placed the tip against his throat. The last thing he saw was the warrior lower his axe.

Ursus drove the blade in. Cold iron gave way to warm blood and he slumped to the ground, his head coming to rest on Apelles’s leg. The sound of the raiders’ voices and their boots on the road grew faint as the black fog took him.

His last thought was of the girl. She was probably still waiting in his quarters: alone, confused and scared. It was not a good thought. Not good at all.

Gutha looked down at the Roman and shrugged. A centurion, perhaps. Hardly a glorious death but he
had
led a glorious charge; and he seemed like a man who’d done his fair share of fighting for the Empire. At least he’d chosen the manner of his death. Gutha could understand that.

‘Any of them left?’ he shouted in Nabatean. The only replies were the moans and prayers of the injured. He walked over to the bank and wiped his axe blades clean on the turf, then placed the weapon in the cart. He unbuckled his helmet, removed it and put it beside the axe.

He pointed at Reyazz, his second in command. The young man had already sheathed his sword and was flicking blood off his hands.

‘Place ten riders in a cordon around us until we’re ready to move. I don’t want any more surprises.’

Reyazz relayed the orders.

Gutha walked up to the front of the cart. The men were struggling with the other horses, all of which were desperate to get away from the dead animal. Gutha could see that some of the riding gear had been damaged. Another warrior came up from the front of the column.

‘They did the same to us, sir. We’re clearing the horse out of the way now.’

Gutha turned to Reyazz. ‘How long before you can get us moving again?’

‘Half an hour?’

‘Make it a quarter. Who did you send to check the barracks?’

‘Syrus. Commander, please, don’t—’

Unsure where the man was, Gutha shouted: ‘Syrus, come here!’

He heard a cry and saw a man running up from the rear.

As he waited for him, Gutha watched the others checking the fallen. From the looks of it, not one Roman was left alive.

‘You.’

The closest man turned round, a hulking fellow with a patch over one eye. ‘Commander?’

‘Put the Romans on the other side of the road. Nobody is to take anything from them. Our dead and those too hurt to move – lay them here on the bank.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Syrus came to a stop, breathing hard, already chewing his lip.

Gutha rested his hands on his belt and looked down at him. ‘You were sent to check the barracks?’

‘Yes, Commander. My men and I got very close. There wasn’t a single soldier. You were right: the festival, the drink—’

‘You were told to wait. To watch. To send a runner if anyone appeared.’

‘We did wait, sir. But we saw no one. We returned—’

‘Too early. Far too early.’

Syrus dropped to one knee. ‘My apologies, Commander. The fault is entirely mine.’

‘I’d say so, yes.’

Gutha watched as a fifth injured warrior was laid out on the bank. ‘That the last of ours?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the man with the eye-patch. ‘Plus six dead.’

‘Strip all but their tunics.’

‘Yes, Commander.’

Only two of the wounded were moving. One man’s tunic had been slashed open, exposing a glistening cut across his chest.

‘Water,’ he gasped. ‘Water.’

‘Thing is,’ Gutha told Syrus, ‘we can’t take him and the other four. We’re in enemy territory. We need to move quickly, without drawing attention. And we can’t leave them alive because they know too much.’

Syrus was still down on one knee.

‘Get up.’

The younger man did so.

‘Best get to it,’ added Gutha.

‘You mean—’

‘Yes. All five.’

Syrus gazed up at the heavens and muttered a prayer. He drew his sword.

‘Water,’ pleaded the injured man. ‘Please.’

Syrus walked towards him then stopped. ‘Sir, could I at least give him some water?’

‘No. Best to be quick. Merciful.’

The men attending to the horses had stopped to watch Syrus.

‘Keep at it!’ Gutha ordered.

Syrus stood over the injured man. As he lowered the blade towards his throat, the warrior tried to swat it away.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why?’

Syrus stuck the blade in. The slick of blood that soon striped the warrior’s tunic was made black by the moonlight. His eyes remained open, even when his body became still.

The next man stirred. Despite the numerous messy injuries to his belly and groin, he managed to roll away. Syrus tried to pull his blade out of the first man but it was stuck. Something crunched as he twisted it this way and that before finally wrenching it free. Gutha heard a whimpering cry and initially thought the warrior was still alive. But the noise had come from Syrus. He composed himself then moved on to the next man. Gutha ran a hand across his head and cursed.

All this for a rock.

They rode on through the night, putting ten miles between them and the temple. At dawn, the bulk of the column continued south while Gutha, Reyazz and two others sheltered at a previously requisitioned barn, then moved on the following day. Numbers were now more of a hindrance then a help and, with the cart’s precious load hidden beneath a stack of reed-bales, they hoped to reach friendly territory.

It took nine days to reach friendly territory. Nine tense, long days spent avoiding army patrols, customs officials and curious locals. Once beyond the reach of the legions, they reunited with the main force and Gutha found the last few days of the journey far less taxing. He was looking forward to delivering the rock to his employer; partly because the long, complicated operation would be over, but also to see the mad bastard’s reaction.

The final obstacle was the lengthy mountain road, particularly the steep stretch that led down to the town. But the cart and its load survived intact. As they halted at the outer wall, the escort was dismissed, every last man having sworn an oath of secrecy. Once through the noisy, busy streets, they reached the inner wall. Only Reyazz was permitted to remain alongside Gutha. As the guards closed the doors behind them, other men came forward to take control of the horses. Gutha jumped down to the ground and looked around him, glad to be in familiar surroundings.

To the left of the gate was a sloping path cut into the rock which led up to a cavern. Within was the vast network of ancient chambers that Ilaha had now claimed for his headquarters. Gutha heard a cry, and saw the man himself rush out into the light, his purple cloak a vivid splash of colour against the pale rock. He looked almost giddy as he ran down the path, eyes fixed on the cart.

Gutha had worked for him for three years; and when they’d first met he’d gone by a different name. He’d been no more than an up-and-coming tribal chief then, with perhaps only a couple of hundred swordsmen at his command. Ilaha had always been a tad eccentric but there could be no denying his drive and energy, nor his ability to lead. Yet Gutha had observed a dramatic change in him – a change that seemed to gather pace with every passing day – and he now knew what to expect when he was in his priestly garb.

One constant remained, however: for Gutha the only factor that really mattered. The man paid well. Unusually well.

Holding up his cloak as he ran, Ilaha reached the bottom of the slope. The men had by now finished removing the reed-bales from the cart. As Ilaha approached, they and Reyazz withdrew, leaving Gutha alone with him. Ilaha lifted the sheet and peeked under it, then backed away, as if barely able to believe what he had seen.

His cloak was embroidered with gold thread, the back covered by a lustrous sun. Though he was wearing a tunic and trousers underneath, Gutha could tell that he’d lost yet more weight. A wonderful rider and formidable swordsman, Ilaha hardly ever seemed to carry a blade these days and spent little time outside. And the weight lost from his fair, almost androgynous face made him seem gaunt, though his dark eyes had not lost their compelling power. It took him a long time to drag them off the rock.

‘You did it,’ he said in Greek. ‘You brought it to me.’

He dashed forward and grabbed Gutha’s tunic, then pulled him down and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I heard it, Gutha,’ he whispered. ‘I heard it. I knew you had it. It’s been speaking to me for days.’

Ilaha abruptly let go and yelled at the men. ‘Where are those logs and ropes? Get it inside at once!’

Gutha was sleeping when the guards came for him. He swiftly dressed and followed the pair back through the town to the inner gate. They escorted him as far as the cavern, then silently joined the other sentries there. Gutha peered inside, at the rows of mounted torches that narrowed into the passageway beyond. The scent of blood – rust and rot – breathed out into the night. He took a last gulp of fresh air and entered.

After fifty paces, the passageway reached the high-roofed chamber that Ilaha now referred to as the temple. Braziers had been lit, casting a fuzzy orange glow. Gutha smothered an oath as he realised that what he had taken for statues were in fact Ilaha’s priests. All ten of them were there, heads bowed, each man wearing an identical scarlet cloak and cowl. They stood in a circle around the rock. Gutha knew he should have kept walking to the passageway opposite but he still hadn’t taken a good look at the thing. The priests – who were allowed to speak only to Ilaha – did not react as he walked over, stopped between two of them and gazed at the black stone.

It seemed small: the conical top no more than five feet high, the rounded base no more than six across. The composition was unlike anything he’d seen: a honeycomb pattern topped by a grey, almost metallic sheen. Etched upon the surface was marking upon marking but every time he thought he saw a familiar word or letter or image, the lines seemed to shift. He moved around it, past another priest, and the very colour and shape of the rock seemed to change. He blinked; and put it down to tiredness or a trick of the light.

Gutha looked down. The rock was mounted on a plinth surrounded by a circular basin filled with water. Connected to the basin were four channels that ran out to the chamber’s walls, each ending below a large iron hook. Gutha saw the blood in the water and went to see which animals had been sacrificed to the sun god.

He found a calf, a goat and a lamb; and smelt the shit they had voided when their throats had been cut. Having traversed the whole chamber, he approached the last hook.

The yellow-beaked eagle was still breathing. It had been tied on by its wings, its neck merely nicked to ensure a slow death. The bird’s chest was twitching weakly, but as Gutha came nearer, its talons scraped the air, vengeful claws desperate for something to tear into.

Gutha watched it a while longer, then continued on towards Ilaha’s quarters. He passed two closed doors. The third was open.

‘Gutha?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come in.’

A small, sparsely decorated cavern. Ilaha – now barefoot and without the cloak – was sitting at a hexagonal table. In front of him was a jug and some fine glasses.

‘Please, sit.’

Gutha did so and cast a wary glance towards the rear of the room. The old woman was sitting in a chair by the hearth, facing away from them.

Ilaha called her ‘Mother’ but Gutha couldn’t believe she was a day under eighty and as Ilaha couldn’t be much more than thirty, he reckoned she was actually his grandmother. Gutha was glad she was well away from him. Apart from the fact that she stank, he hated even looking at her. Her face was more lines than skin, her eyes opaque and yellowed, yet her white hair was as thick as his and hung down as far as her waist. Despite her age, she was never ill and always available to advise and guide her ‘son’. To Gutha, her very existence seemed unnatural.

‘Wine?’ said Ilaha.

‘No, thank you.’ As Gutha settled into the chair, the frame groaned under his weight.

Ilaha looked tired and pale but those dark eyes somehow still shone. ‘Did you feel it? Did you feel its power? I believe I can hear it beating like a heart.’

‘I am relieved it is finally here.’

‘Reyazz did well?’

‘Exceptionally. He thinks the real stone is lighter than the one we practised with – that’s why they were so quick. Twelve minutes in and out. There was a little trouble getting the frame on but the rollers and the ramp worked to perfection.’

‘So everything went to plan?’

‘Pretty much.’