Last Act in Palmyra Read Online Free PDF Page B

she had only stopped because I was in her way.
    â€˜Do you want to get past me?’
    â€˜I can wait.’ She was gasping. I grinned at her. Then we both turned to face out across Petra, already a fine view, with the widest part of the gravelly road in the valley below snaking away past the theatre and a bunch of tasteful rock-face tombs, then on towards the distant town.
    â€˜Are you going to fight with me all day?’
    â€˜Probably,’ growled Helena.
    We both fell silent. Helena surveyed the dusty thongs of her sandals. She was thinking about whatever dark issues had come between us. I kept quiet too, because as usual I was not entirely certain what the quarrel was about.
    *   *   *
    Getting to Petra had been less difficult than I had feared. Anacrites had taken great pleasure in implying that my journey here posed intolerable problems. I simply brought us by sea to Gaza. I had ‘hired’ – at a price that meant ‘bought outright’ – an ox and cart, transport I was used to handling, then looked around for the trade route. Strangers were discouraged from travelling it, but caravans up to a thousand strong converged on Nabataea each year. They arrived in Petra from several directions, their ways parting again when they left. Some toiled westwards to northern Egypt. Some took the interior road up to Bostra, before going on to Damascus or Palmyra. Many crossed straight to the Judaean coast for urgent shipment from the great port at Gaza to the hungry markets in Rome. So with dozens of merchants trekking towards Gaza, all leading immense, slowly moving strings of camels or oxen, it was no trouble for me as an ex-army scout to trace back their route. No entrepôt can be kept secret. Nor can its guardians prevent penetration of their city by strangers. Petra was essentially a public place.
    Even before we arrived I was making mental notes for Vespasian. The rocky approach had been striking, yet there was plenty of greenery. Nabataea was rich in freshwater springs. Reports of flocks and agriculture were correct. They lacked horses, but camels and oxen were everywhere. All along the rift valley was a flourishing mining industry, and we soon discovered that the locals produced pottery of great delicacy, floral platters and bowls in huge quantities, all decorated with panache. In short, even without the income from the merchants, there would be plenty here to attract the benevolent interest of Rome.
    â€˜Well!’ Helena let slip. ‘I reckon you can report back to your masters that the rich kingdom of Nabataea certainly deserves inclusion in the Empire.’ She was insultingly equating me with some mad-eyed, province-collecting patriot.
    â€˜Don’t annoy me, lady –’
    â€˜We have so much to offer them!’ she quipped; beneath the political irony was a personal sneer at me.
    Whether the rich Nabataeans would see things our way might be a different cask of nuts. Helena knew that. They had guarded their independence with skill for several centuries, making it their role to keep the routes across the desert safely open and offer a market to traders of all kinds. They were practised in negotiating peace with would-be invaders, from the successors of Alexander to Pompey and Augustus. They had an amiable monarchy. Their present king, Rabel, was a youth whose mother was acting as regent, an arrangement that seemed to be non-controversial. Much of the routine workload of government fell to the Chief Minister. This more sinister character was referred to as The Brother. I guessed what that meant. Still, so long as the people of Petra were flourishing so vibrantly, I dare say they could put up with somebody to hate and fear. Everyone likes to have a figure of authority to mutter about. You can’t blame the weather for all of life’s ills.
    The weather, incidentally, was fabulous. Sunlight streamed off the rocks, melting everything into a dazzling