‘The new arrivals in the town concern me too,’ added Gutha. ‘We chose this place because it is remote. Safe.’
Ilaha turned as he spoke, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Is it not a cause for celebration? These men are not even affiliated to the loyal chiefs but they have heard what is happening here. They are curious, eager to join us.’
‘To join what exactly? I am concerned that you intend to go beyond what is practical, what is possible.’
‘Mother told me you would try this.’
‘Try what?’
‘To dissuade me. Limit me.’
‘My view has stayed consistent throughout. There have to be limits. I did not agree-’
Ilaha held up a hand. ‘Your agreement is not required, Gutha. You have given your counsel. And I have heard it. Now, will you do my bidding?’
Gutha bit his tongue, even though Ilaha had never previously treated his advice with such disdain. To protest more would risk a permanent rift between them. Ilaha might not be governed by pragmatism, but he was.
‘Of course.’
Ilaha walked back through the light. ‘Mushannaf has agreed to come and see me in a few days’ time but I have it on good authority that he means not to attend the meeting of the chiefs. I want him dealt with before the others arrive.’
‘That situation is in hand. If you cannot persuade him, I will.’
‘Mushannaf is influential. He has no interest in the divine and his people are little more than money grabbers — but he commands many swords.’
‘He won’t be a problem.’
‘Excellent. Now, you must rest.’ Ilaha walked up to Gutha and put a hand on his chest. ‘You deserve it.’
Gutha had never particularly minded the fact that Ilaha sometimes touched him. But he now found himself struck by an urge to reach down and crush those slim fingers under his.
‘Thank you.’ He stepped back, Ilaha’s hand slipping off him as he made for the passageway.
‘Oh, Gutha.’
He stopped and turned.
Ilaha took the amulet from his neck and offered it to him. ‘Please.’
Gutha didn’t want the thing, didn’t want it anywhere near him in fact. But he had gone too far earlier; it seemed wise to accept the gift. He put out his hand.
‘No, let me.’
Glad they were alone, Gutha bowed his head. Even so, Ilaha had to stretch to his full height to get the chain over his neck.
‘Perhaps it will help you.’
‘Help me?’
‘To believe.’
When he awoke later, the amulet was the first thing Gutha saw. The chain was hanging from the chair next to his bed, the gem catching a little light from outside the inn. He imagined the crone’s eye somewhere within — spying on him, trying to enter his mind.
‘Get hold of yourself, man,’ he muttered, grabbing a blanket and throwing it over the gem.
He looked out of the window and guessed it was early evening. He was still stiff from the ride but not tired enough to sleep through until morning. He was, however, hungry, and hopeful that Qattif would be back that evening to meet him as planned.
He pushed himself up off the bed, the timbers protesting noisily. He always half-expected the thing to collapse but the innkeeper insisted he could find nothing stronger. Gutha would have settled for longer; only by sleeping diagonally could he fit his entire frame on what was supposed to be a double bed.
He splashed water onto his face from a bowl then pulled on his trousers, a sleeveless tunic and a pair of sandals. Bowing his head — as he had to do everywhere other than the inn’s parlour — he stepped into the corridor. There was no need to lock or even close the door. He rented the entire second floor and each of the four rooms contained some of his gear: clothes, riding equipment, weapons; one was devoted entirely to his armour. Most of his time with Ilaha had been spent on the move and he found it quite pleasant to have a base at last. Even so, he kept only a fraction of his money there. Every few weeks he would send Qattif or another lackey to various moneylenders outside the province. That way he could always leave at a moment’s notice, confident the bulk of his earnings were secure.
Downstairs, the parlour was surprisingly busy. As Gutha entered, a group of youths sitting by the hearth became suddenly quiet. They looked like desert folk: dusty robes, home-made knives at their belts and not a sword or a decent pair of boots between them. They stood and bowed to him.
Gutha acknowledged them with a nod, then went to sit on his usual stool at the bar. The other customers were all warriors — about fifteen of them, some familiar faces — and they also bowed. Gutha was still unsure how it had all started — the bowing. The gesture had never been sought by him or suggested by anyone else. The first time he’d really noticed it was after that scrap with the Palmyran cavalry. Gutha admitted to himself that perhaps it wasn’t that surprising — he had pulled five of the bastards off their horses and slain a dozen in all.
Alome, the innkeeper’s wife, leaned on the bar opposite him and tutted. ‘You kill a jolly atmosphere quicker than a leper, Master Gutha. You’ll be costing my husband money.’
‘Take it off my bill,’ replied Gutha with a grin. He liked the old girl — she was the only one who treated him like a normal person.
Alome scratched a blotchy insect bite on her cheek and gazed at him. ‘Those locks of yours — so pretty.’
As a child growing up in Gerasa, he’d got used to having the only head of blond hair in the entire city. He’d had a pretty face then too.
‘Shame about the rest, eh?’
‘Not so bad,’ she replied. ‘Rugged.’
‘That’s one word for it.’
Alome took a jug from a shelf and poured him some wine.
‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked.
‘Yesterday’s lamb stew or today’s chicken and vegetables.’
Gutha tried to make up his mind as he took his first drink.
‘Stew always tastes better the second day,’ said Alome as she retied her apron.
‘Stew it is.’
‘Oh — Qattif came in earlier. I told him you were sleeping so he said he’d be back this evening.’
As she went off to fetch the food, Gutha became aware of someone standing over his left shoulder. ‘It is inadvisable to creep up on me. Stand where I can see you.’
The young warrior came forward. Despite his brazen approach, he was wringing his hands. ‘My apologies, sir. Might I speak with you for a minute?’
‘As long as you keep it to a minute.’
‘We arrived this morning, sir, and wish to join the forces of Lord Ilaha.’
Forces? Lord? Gutha had heard those words a few times recently too. Who came up with this stuff?
The youth’s beard was patchy; his face soft and unmarked.
‘Why?’
‘Lord Ilaha is the most powerful of all the chiefs, sir. They say he will protect us from Palmyra, from Persia — even take our lands back from Rome. The sun god wants him to rule us. We know that you are a great warrior, that-’
‘You should go to the tower. See Commander Theomestor or Commander Oblachus.’
‘I will, sir. Would we be able to-’
Gutha turned away. ‘Minute’s up.’
The youth returned to his friends.
Gutha looked at the other warriors, thought of the other full inns and the men billeted across the town. No wonder Ilaha was feeling so full of himself. Perhaps he was right to seize the moment.
But things were moving fast. Too fast. If they didn’t control events, events would control them.
He had just finished his second plateful of stew when Qattif came in. The Saracen hung his sand-encrusted cloak on a hook, greeted Alome and her husband, then made his way over to Gutha. Qattif was of nomad stock like the youngsters: a tall, stringy specimen with a beak of a nose and a heavy beard greying below his chin. He brushed sand out of it, then sat down. ‘Nasty wind getting up.’
As Gutha downed the last of his bread, Alome took his plate and whistled. ‘By Our Lady of Light, in my old village that could have fed a family for a week. Anything else?’