‘Of course.’ Kalderon started doling out orders.
Another guard carrying a lantern approached from the direction of the platform. He was one of the pair Gutha had left to protect Ilaha. ‘Commander.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Just sitting there. With her.’ The guard came closer and whispered. ‘Sir, the stone has gone.’
‘Tell no one.’
Gutha rode on.
Once at the crane, he dismounted and ran up the steps. Ilaha and Mother were kneeling beside each other on either side of an oil lamp.
‘How dare you show your face?’ snarled the crone. ‘You have let them take the stone.’
Ilaha’s eyes were bloodshot. ‘How could Mighty Elagabal allow this?’ he wailed. ‘How?’
Gutha crouched close to him and was surprised to feel the platform wobble. He felt it with his hand and realised it was made of wood. He examined the surface near the lamp — it had been cleverly painted to resemble the natural colours and contours of the rock. He tapped it with a knuckle; it sounded hollow.
‘What …?’
He found the edge of the compartment and saw that it formed the whole front section of the platform. He noticed a small hole, then saw several more.
He thought of the priests. Usually there were ten of them but there had only been nine present at the ceremony. Suddenly everything was clear.
Gutha laughed. ‘The voice of a god, eh? What about the light — some other trick, I suppose? And Kalderon was happy to play along.’
Ilaha bent forward and pressed his face into his arms.
Mother pushed her long white hair away from her face and glared at Gutha, still defiant. ‘What do you care, mercenary? Sometimes it takes a little persuasion for the weak-minded to see the truth.’
‘I know you.’
‘You know nothing.’
‘I know who you are. Kara Julia.’
Her wizened features froze.
‘I know who you are,’ repeated Gutha. ‘And I know what you are capable of. Was this deceit your idea? Or has everything been your idea from the beginning? Is there anything you wouldn’t do to see him rule? He is not his grandfather. He is not Elagabalus.’
‘I am Elagabalus. I am.’ Ilaha turned to the old woman. ‘Aren’t I, Mother?’
Gutha shook his head. The hag disgusted him; more than ever he’d have happily run her through. Though Ilaha evidently didn’t know it, he had spent his whole life as a plaything for this deluded, murderous creature.
She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are. You are, my son.’
‘Then why has the god of the sun betrayed me?’
‘He has not,’ she said softly. ‘Others have done that. You will rule, my love. The traitors are dead and their thieving accomplices will not escape these mountains alive.’
‘Oh?’ said Gutha. ‘And who is going to stop them?’
‘You,’ said Mother. ‘To atone for your failures this night.’
‘No.’ Gutha got to his feet. ‘I have stayed here far too long as it is. I should have listened to my instincts.’
‘He will rule,’ repeated the old woman. ‘And there can still be a place for you at his side.’
‘Next to you? No thank you.’
Ilaha looked up. ‘Remember that golden mask, Gutha? The one you couldn’t take your eyes off? I know you want it. Bring the stone back and it’s yours.’
Gutha hesitated; he wasn’t about to reject that offer out of hand. Looking at it logically, he had plenty of men at his disposal and the thieves had had less than an hour’s start. They were also burdened by the cart and limited to a single escape route. The old bitch was probably right — they didn’t have much of a chance.
That Gerrhan mask was worth twenty gold ingots at least.
‘Very well. A fair trade. But then I leave. All ties are severed. We never see each other again.’
‘Whatever you want,’ cried Ilaha. ‘Just get the stone.’
‘You must be quick,’ said Mother. ‘Bring it back before the others even know it is gone.’
Gutha ran back down the steps. He had a stop to make before leaving.
Cassius was almost glad of the pain; it gave him something else to thing about other than their predicament. He lay on the dirty straw, the smell of manure thick in the air, his ankle throbbing, his cheek aching. He had no idea how long he and Simo had been there, waiting for the inevitable moment when a guard entered the outhouse and discovered them. And yet undiscovered they remained.
‘We must try and move. Oblachus is bound to have this area searched before too long.’
Simo was no more than a bulky shape to his left. ‘Where to, sir?’
‘I don’t know — the camp? Perhaps someone made it back there. Help me.’
Once up on his left foot, Cassius lowered the right once more. By putting the weight on his toes, he could just about move unaided. ‘By the gods, that hurts.’
‘With a little time and some light I can strap it, sir.’
They put their packs on and walked around the divide into the other stall. With some calming whispers from Simo, the calf remained quiet. He left Cassius against the wall, then edged forward. He looked over the top of the door but hurried back straight away.
‘Guards. They’re working their way along the street.’
‘Is there time to …’
Cassius could hear them chattering in Nabatean. ‘Back where we were. Now.’
The voices got louder as they returned to their hiding place. Cassius hobbled over to the wall that divided the outhouse from the dwelling next door. He ran his hands over the stones — some of the lower layers felt less than solid.
‘This wall’s roughly made, Simo,’ he whispered. ‘Come here, see if you can find a gap to work on. Quietly, though.’
The Gaul crouched down. Cassius moved back to the wooden divide and peered around it. The calf shuffled its hooves and snorted.
The black figure was framed by the entrance and silhouetted by the lights beyond. The bolt snapped back. The guard spoke to another passing by who gave him a lantern. Cassius glimpsed a young face and heard a blade slide out of its sheath.
He retreated as carefully as he could, gritting his teeth with every spark of pain from his ankle. Simo was standing still. Cassius leaned in close and whispered in his ear. ‘One man. We have to deal with him.’
‘There are a couple of missing stones down low near the corner. We can make a space.’
‘There’s no time. You have to help me.’
‘Sir, I cannot.’
‘You …’
Cassius could hear the guard’s feet sliding across the straw. He moved back to the divide and put his hand on his dagger. The yellow glow of the guard’s lantern illuminated the back of the outhouse — a rotten length of rope, half a candle, the stones of the wall. Cassius gripped the dagger handle and held the sheath. He pulled the blade out inch by inch, wincing at every inkling of noise. When it was finally free, it felt as heavy as a sword.
The guard took two more steps.
Cassius closed his eyes. Please, Jupiter. Stop him. Turn him back.
The guard spoke in Nabatean. It sounded like a question.
All Cassius could think of was what Indavara always told him. Him or me. Him or me.
The guard asked the question again. He sounded young. Frightened. He took another step. Cassius saw a foot in a poorly made sandal and the end of his sword.
Another step. Cassius saw the hand holding the sword. A small, undamaged hand. He was young.
Cassius drew back the dagger. He would go for the throat — stop him crying out.
Him or me. Him or me.
He had forgotten the pain in his ankle.
Another step. Cassius saw his arm, his shoulder.
He drove the dagger handle down onto the guard’s skull. It connected with a dull crack and the man staggered into the wall. He dropped his sword then the lantern, the straw softening the noise.