Nick Brown - The Black Stone

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.’

‘I’ve warned you before about lying.’ The crone sounded like a little girl with hands around her throat. ‘What about the man who spilled the blood of horses and then his own?’

Gutha was never quite sure how she did that; was she really a sorceress or just exceptionally well informed?

‘Centurion, I think. Ambushed us on the way out. Lost a few men but they didn’t slow us down for long.’

‘There’s no possibility that someone could have followed you here?’ asked Ilaha.

‘Not a chance.’

‘I want them to know I have the stone, but at a time of my choosing.’

‘The Emperor will have heard of it by now. He is coming east to put down the Palmyrans himself.’

‘He knows,’ said the old woman. ‘He knows what he has lost.’

‘It was well guarded,’ said Gutha. ‘I imagine he’ll do whatever’s necessary to get it back.’

Ilaha looked irritated. ‘I believe we have been through this before.’

‘We have. But there can be no turning back. You have started along a dangerous road now.’

‘I?’

‘We.’

Ilaha leaned forward onto the table. ‘There will be no turning back, Gutha. It is good that the Emperor comes east now. The invincible god of the sun aids us by bringing him here. It will only hasten his demise.’

Gutha didn’t like the sound of that. The man wasn’t just becoming more unstable and more arrogant; he was becoming more ambitious.

‘I have been busy while you’ve been away,’ Ilaha continued. ‘Our allies have been summoned.’

‘ Potential allies.’

Ilaha ignored him. ‘They will gather here on the last day of the month; and when I show them what I have, every last one will pledge himself and his men. But even before then we must show them that the tide is turning, that Rome has already lost control. We must stay in the shadows no longer. All of Arabia must see that our time has come.’