‘By what?’
‘By going too far too fast.’
Gutha was relieved to see his employer remain calm, despite the provocation.
‘Mighty Elagabal has spoken to me. Now is the moment.’
Ilaha composed himself, then walked on.
Gutha fell in behind him, holding his axe handle to stop it swinging. One way or another, he reckoned what happened in the next hour might affect not only his destiny but that of every man gathered in Galanaq.
Commanders Oblachus and Theomestor stood on either side of the doorway, a dozen guards lined up beside them. They all bowed as Ilaha and Gutha strode into the cavern. The twelve other ethnarchs were already sitting. Several men stood but Ilaha waved them back down with a genial smile. As dictated by tradition, each chief was accompanied by another man. Some were sons or trusted advisers, others bodyguards. All were well armed and several glanced curiously at Gutha’s axe.
The heavy door boomed shut. Gutha waited for Ilaha to sit down then took up a position by his right shoulder. Some of the ethnarchs looked attentive and keen; others would clearly be harder to win round. Mushannaf made little attempt to hide his contempt as Ilaha poured himself a drink with a remarkably steady hand.
‘Welcome, all, to Galanaq. A toast — to your safe arrival and the favour of Mighty Elagabal.’
Ilaha raised his goblet and drank. The others matched the gesture.
‘More than a year has passed since the Tanukh last met, since we ethnarchs sat together. At the meeting before that we were addressed by the Romans Marcellinus and Calvinus.’
Ilaha spoke clearly and precisely, the cavern amplifying his soft, earnest tones.
‘They thanked us for our efforts and sacrifices and told us we would now reap the rewards of fighting alongside them against the Palmyrans. We, the Saracens, were told our losses would be worthwhile, that we were still better off with Rome.’
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.’