Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (14 page)

The steely Tribunus Gallus led his men inside the city’s eastern gates, then to the sparsely populated barrack blocks of the nearest of the three forts – the home of the IV Scythica. Barely a few centuries garrisoned this colossal, thick-walled compound, and it was no doubt the same in the other two forts.

The figure watched Gallus question the centurion who led a single century in drill-practice.

‘Where is the rest of your legion, Centurion? I grew used to witnessing such paucity of manpower in the quadriburgia leading here, but I did not expect such a sight within these walls too.’

The centurion shuffled nervously. ‘They’re out east, sir, in the desert.’

‘Ah, yes, the emperor did say the Scythica were running down some Persian raid, but they must have been out there for weeks now?’

‘Yes, sir. They left three weeks ago yesterday.’

Gallus’ expression darkened. ‘When did you last hear from them?’

The centurion’s lips trembled. His hesitation said it all.

‘You haven’t heard from them in all that time?’

As the centurion searched for a reply, the figure watched on, grinning, knowing full-well what would have happened to the IV Scythica by now.

The centurion held his hands out in supplication, then pointed to the north. ‘Within imperial lands, communication is swift and predictable. The Strata Diocletiana allows a horseman to ride from the banks of the Euphrates to here in less than three days.’ He shook his head and glanced up to the colossal eastern city wall that formed one end of the fortress. ‘But out there, there is nothing. Just burning dust, desert raiders . . . and Persian blades.’

Gallus’ lips twitched, struggling to contain some stinging rebuke. ‘I will leave you to inspire your men with such stirring reverie, Centurion. Now, I assume there is ample room in the barracks for us?’

The centurion nodded, gulping, then motioned towards a barrack block cast in shade, next to a small, domed thermae. ‘You can take up the sleeping quarters of the men currently out in the desert.’

When Gallus turned to face his vexillatio and bark them to their quarters, the figure moved with them, grinning. He bathed in the thermae, ate and wandered amongst the men. When at last darkness fell, he crept from the fort. The city glowed in orange torchlight. Flitting shadows of citizens, traders and thieves danced across the colossal walls of the three legionary fortresses. The figure stole through the alleys running parallel with the colonnaded main street. It was vital he went unseen, for tonight would be his last chance to plan what was to happen. Tomorrow, the mismatched band of legionaries was to set off into the heart of the desert, leaving imperial lands behind. No more legionary patrols, no more safe havens. Thousands of miles of white-hot desert.

He reached the ruined end of the city where every shadow held some shady character. But he sought out just one. The lead dromedarius and his men had insisted on camping here, away from the hustle and bustle of the eastern end of the city. They had kindled a fire at one edge of this abandoned forum. Some sat in silence, carving slices from fruit with their daggers, others were busy brushing and feeding their foul camels. He saw the lead rider, crouched in the palm of a giant marble hand that had fallen from some statue or other.

How apt,
he mused. This man and his dromedarii would do their part for Persian coin.

Yes,
the figure purred, toying with the cracked leather purse, stroking the tawny gold image of a lion,
the desert holds the bones of many a brave traveller. In the days to come, it will claim those of a few hundred more.

Chapter 8

It was mid-afternoon on the third day after leaving imperial lands, and all signs of life were gone. Utterly gone. No birdsong, no chattering of cicadas, not a dot of greenery to be seen. In every direction, the shimmering horizon offered only the infinite burnt-gold flats of the Syrian Desert and an unbroken azure sky. Now only the
crunch-crunch
of boots on arid dust, dry gasps from parched mouths and the occasional angry groaning of the camel train could be heard. The water skins that had been filled to brimming at Palmyra were now empty or sloshing with soupy, brackish dregs. Even the camels seemed near-defeated by the ferocious heat.

Pavo’s ankles had rubbed free of skin on the first day after leaving Palmyra and were now wrapped in linen batting. Yet the dust still seemed to find its way inside his boots and armour, clinging to the sweat underneath and scraping on his flesh. And his head felt like a baking loaf of bread inside his intercisa.

Up ahead, Gallus was in conversation with Carbo and Yabet. Carbo seemed to be insistent on one route, jabbing his finger at a spot on the map, while Yabet protested and tapped another. Pavo saw Gallus’ eyes narrow on each of them. The man trusted few, and these two were strangers. At last, the tribunus made his choice, issuing a terse command. At this, the aquilifer hoisted the legionary banner and the column veered a little to the south.

‘Water or shelter, do you reckon?’ Zosimus asked in a hushed tone.

Pavo winced as the collar of his mailshirt touched his neck once more, singeing his skin. ‘Both, I hope.’

They marched on until late afternoon. Pavo ran his tongue across his lips, each as dry as a dead toad. He patted his water skin, knowing there was but two mouthfuls left in it. If he was to drink it now then . . . he looked up to the featureless horizon before them. No, not featureless.

‘Hold on,’ he croaked. ‘We’re outside imperial territory, aye?’

Sura and Zosimus nodded in reply.

‘Then what’s that?’ he pointed ahead.

Sura and Zosimus followed his outstretched finger. In the heat haze ahead, a shimmering, limestone hump spoiled the flat skyline. A murmur of interest broke out across the ranks. As they marched closer, it took shape as a structure, some kind of fortlet. It was small, barely one hundred feet long and broad.

‘It’s imperial!’ Felix said.

Pavo and every other man in the column shielded their eyes from the sun, eager to catch sight of some legionary garrison on the battlements.

Zosimus chuckled, clapping and rubbing his shovel-hands together. ‘Water, shade . . . the lot!’

But Pavo did not share his centurion’s enthusiasm. He saw Tribunus Gallus’ eyes dart from the fortlet to the map, an intense frown knitting his brow. The men at the quadriburgia and those in Palmyra had made no mention of outlying encampments.

Just then, the haze fell away and the reality of the structure sharpened before them. The walls were deserted and crumbling, sections of the battlements having toppled into heaps of rubble around the base. The gateway bore a thick, dark crack above its arch, and the desiccated, shattered remnants of the gates hung ajar from bent hinges. Atop the gatehouse, the remnants of some banner remained – a dry pole with a torn, sun-bleached rag hanging limply. A collective sigh poured from the column. The place had been long abandoned.

Carbo was first to speak. He cast a hand towards the fortlet. ‘This would once have served as a waystation of sorts, to supply and shelter troops heading from Syria to the banks of the Euphrates and to provide early warning of Persian attacks. It would have housed maybe a turma of equites and a few auxiliaries, so there could still be supplies inside.’

This elicited little enthusiasm from the column.

‘Aye, fifty year old hard tack? Mmmm,’ Sura whispered to Pavo, rubbing his belly sarcastically.

They marched into the fort in silence. Inside was as derelict as out. A half-collapsed timber stable in one corner was near-buried in a build-up of dust. A flaking saddle, a splintered spear shaft and a dented trough lay long discarded nearby. A small limestone cistern stood near the stable. It bore a crack down one side. Felix strode forward to draw his spatha and bash the hilt upon the cistern. The noise was only part-echo. The primus pilus shot a look round to the column. A look of hope. He slid his spatha blade into the crack in the side, and shook the blade to antagonise the fissure. The stonework barely moved if at all, but the motion was enough to release a portion of the cistern’s contents.

Dust.

It poured onto the ground and billowed up, over Felix and across the watching ranks. It seemed all this fort had to offer was shade, Pavo realised, the dust clinging to his tongue. A cool place to contemplate their thirst.

Just then, a frantic shuffling sounded from behind them. As one, the column spun round to the southern end of the fortlet, hands going to spatha hilts, spears clenched tightly. The small barrack block there ran the length of the wall. It was nearly roofless and the colonnaded porch area ruined, with empty bird nests along the tops of few still standing columns. The structure had two doorways, one at either end. From inside the barrack building, the shuffling noise sounded again.

Nobody spoke. All hands clamped tighter on their spears.

Gallus nodded to Zosimus and Pavo. Pavo slid a shield from the back of the nearest camel. The pair stepped from their positions and stalked towards the nearest doorway into the building. Meanwhile, Carbo nodded for Baptista and one of his legionaries to move towards the far doorway.

Pavo drew his spatha as he approached, eyes peering over the tip of his shield. Zosimus crouched beside him, part-protected by Pavo’s shield, holding his spear up so the tip hovered at gut level. All he could see inside was a blackness cast by the remaining portion of roof, and his eyes strained to adapt to this after hours of constant, glaring sun. His heart rapped on his ribs as he edged under the doorway. He knew just how swiftly a long, tiring march could be transformed into the chaos of battle. He had been caught in many Gothic ambushes in Thracia – and they always started like this. A scream and a flash of iron was usually all the warning the attackers would afford. But here the Goths were a distant trouble. Here, Persia and her allies were at large. He shared an affirmative glance with Zosimus, then the pair lurched into the building.

Nothing.

His vision sharpened, and he saw the skeletal frames of legionary bunks and the black stain of a hearth. Another shuffle sounded in the next room. He and Zosimus shared a tacit affirmation once more. They stalked towards the next doorway then leapt through, spatha and spear readied to strike. At the same time, two silhouetted figures leapt towards them from the far end. Panic struck both he and Zosimus. He hefted his spatha high and the big Thracian lunged forward with his spear. The pair before them leapt forwards likewise. But they halted at the last, blades inches from flesh, the identities of the pair revealed in the gloom.

Baptista and his man panted, the snarling expressions on their faces blackly reminiscent of that night at the tavern in Antioch. Baptista’s spatha edge hovered next to Pavo’s throat, his glare baleful. Then their shoulders sagged. Each man stowed their weapons and stood tall. The four looked around the room, and quickly located the source of the shuffling.

The pair of vultures scuffing around on the floor suddenly realised they were not alone. In a flurry of wings and feathers, they took flight with haste and their muse was revealed. A skeleton bearing the last traces of a legionary tunic lay slumped against the wall. A leather sword belt and scabbard remained tied around the waist, absurdly oversized given the wearer’s present condition. The skull grinned back at the four.

‘Well if you won’t eat your hard tack . . . ’ Zosimus muttered dryly.

The four remained in silence until the grinding of a boot on the dusty floor behind jolted each of them.

Gallus had entered the derelict barrack room. He eyed the skeleton with disdain, then looked around the four. ‘Have the men fall out. Post four sentries to each wall. We make camp here for the night.’

As the sun fell below the horizon, the legionaries erected the last of the goatskin tents around the floor of the broken fortlet. Each contubernium of eight men kindled a fire and soon plumes of sweet wood smoke puffed lazily into the still night air and firelight danced on the inner walls of the small compound. The men sipped carefully at the dregs of water in their skins, then settled by their tents to prepare portions of bread, salted beef and cheese. Pavo and Sura sat cross-legged outside their contubernium tent, tucking into their meals and then sipping on their skins, supplemented with a few swigs of the rich soured wine.