Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (15 page)

‘I could drink two skins of water right now, without stopping for breath,’ Sura croaked dryly.

Quadratus and Felix wandered over, the little Greek tossing a pair of dice in his hands. ‘Anyone fancy losing some coins?’ he winked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to Yabet, who followed him. ‘This one does, apparently.’

Pavo shuffled round for the pair to sit, then Zosimus and a few others came over too. They bantered in muted tones as they played, taking their minds off their nagging thirsts. Each man took a turn to tell a story. Some were humourous, some ribald, and others simple tales of family life back home. Then it came to Pavo.

‘Come on then – you’ve always got something to say. Tell us what you know about Persia,’ Zosimus flicked a finger in his direction.

Pavo felt all eyes fall upon him. He thought back to his days in Constantinople, before legionary life, and his snatched reading sessions in the library. A chill danced up his spine as he remembered one particular text. It depicted a man, misshapen and splayed out on some frame. ‘About a hundred years ago, Emperor Valerian fought the Persians. His army was overcome and he was left with no option but to surrender to Shahanshah Shapur – a forefather of Shapur II. Whole legions surrendered with him. The king of kings had them marched into Persian territory. Many were harnessed like oxen on the Persian farms, others were sent into the mines and some were put to work in building Bishapur, a new city for the shahanshah.’

‘What of Valerian though?’ Felix asked, sucking on his water skin.

Pavo looked round to see the faces of his comrades, each hanging on his next words. ‘The shahanshah kept him hostage in the palace at Bishapur, forcing him to watch the enslaved legionaries build the new city around it.’

‘Not so bad,’ Zosimus curled his bottom lip. ‘Bit of wine, plenty of women?’

Pavo cocked an eyebrow. ‘Aye, you would think so. But living in a palace doesn’t mean living like a king. Some say Shapur sought to humiliate him, forcing him to kneel and act as a footstool. Then one day, bad news reached the shahanshah from one of his borders. A Kushan tribe had revolted, slain a wing of his army and sacked the cities there. Nobody knows for sure what happened, but some say that Shapur flew into a rage, taking up a shamshir and hacking down slaves. Finally, he turned upon Valerian . . . ‘

‘He cut the emperor down?’ Quadratus guessed, his nose wrinkling.

Pavo shook his head. ‘No, it was far worse. Shapur ordered him skinned alive.’ Gasps of disgust rang out around the fire. ‘Some believe his skin still hangs in that palace in Bishapur, like a trophy.’ Silence hung over the group, nobody quite sure what to say.

‘Well thanks for that,’ Zosimus uttered at last, eyes wide. ‘Next time we want a gentle story before turning in, I’ll be sure to ask someone else.’

Pavo shrugged, ready to defend his tale. But before he could speak, a baritone drone split the air. A chill danced up Pavo’s spine as all heads darted this way and that. Then they saw the source; on the other side of the fort, Centurion Carbo led Baptista and his men in prayer. He stood with his head bowed and his hands clasped. The rest of the men faced him, kneeling, hands clasped and heads bowed. Pavo noticed that the men of the Flavia Firma had yet to touch the food they had prepared.

Yabet was first to comment; ‘Still haunting, no matter how many times you hear it, eh?’

Pavo nodded. The Christian legionaries had prayed like this most nights, and more so on Sundays. He was intrigued by the looks of devotion on the faces of Baptista and those with him, eyes closed, expressions sombre. But when he looked to Carbo, he saw the centurion’s eyes were open, staring, lost in some memory. In a flash, Carbo’s eyes met with Pavo’s, as if realising he was being watched, then he quickly averted his gaze and returned to prayer. Pavo frowned. After weeks of being in Carbo’s company, the man was still a guarded and nervous figure.

Felix also watched the ritual. ‘Mithras is with us, and let’s hope their God is too,’ he commented pensively, flicking a finger up to the east. ‘We’ll need gods and more on our side, out there.’

Nobody spoke for a moment, all eyes looking up above the eastern fort wall as the prayer reverberated around them.

‘Mithras’ll do for me,’ Quadratus broke the silence and then emitted a gurgling belch that seemed to last an eternity. The men’s frowns melted into smiles and chuckling.

‘That’s how it usually starts, before the farting,’ Zosimus muttered, flicking his head towards the big Gaul, ‘I just hope Mithras is with the poor bastards in his tent.’

‘Hmm?’ Quadratus frowned, sucking a string of meat from his teeth.

‘Nothing,’ Zosimus replied with a chuckle.

Yabet turned to Quadratus and said innocently; ‘Perhaps you should sleep with the tent flap open tonight, no?’

Quadratus looked puzzled momentarily, then realised he was being made fun of again. He tossed down his water skin and gestured for Felix to throw him the dice. ‘Right, I’m in – I’m going to empty this cheeky little bugger’s purse.’

‘Ah, the familiar, brave words of the many whom I have gone on to relieve of their gold,’ Yabet grinned. The gathering legionaries cackled at this, which only seemed to infuriate Quadratus further.

They played dice around the fire until night brought with it a pitch-black sky splashed with an infinite speckling of stars. While the gathering of the XI Claudia men was warm and jovial, most of the men of the XVI Flavia Firma had doused their fires and retired to their tents already, bar the handful on watch atop the crumbled battlements. Pavo looked up from the gathering and noticed Gallus, standing alone at the south-eastern corner of the fortlet walls, looking to the horizon. And at the north-eastern corner, Carbo stood alone, his gaze lost in the ground before him.

‘What do you make of him?’ Sura mused, following his gaze.

Pavo looked Sura in the eye. ‘He served with my father, told me of his past but . . . I don’t know, I can’t read him.’

Sura sighed and nodded. ‘Well I think we’ve learned in these last years to be wary of strangers.’

Pavo’s expression darkened. He noticed that Carbo seemed to be muttering to himself incessantly. ‘Aye, hard times and hard lessons.’

The faintest trace of a cool breeze danced over their skins.

Pavo found sleep hard to come by. Every fleeting moment of drowsiness was torn away by the first flashes of that nightmare of Father, buried below the sands. When Sura erupted in a grating chorus of snoring, Pavo gave up, slid from his cot and made for the tent flap.

Outside, the desert air was pleasantly cool – some of the sentries on the walls had even drawn their cloaks around their shoulders as they looked out across the darkness. A few men trudged to and from the latrines – a hole dug in the corner of the fortlet. But there were two figures atop the walls who looked as if they had not moved since sunset. Gallus and Carbo, at adjacent corners.

Pavo looked to each of them in turn, then climbed the stone steps towards his tribunus. ‘All quiet out there, eh, sir?’ He offered tentatively as he approached.

‘Indeed, I don’t like it,’ Gallus replied dryly without breaking his eastwards gaze.

‘I can take over your shift, sir, if you like? I have little chance of sleeping anyway.’

‘I’m not on shift,’ Gallus muttered. ‘And sleep and I tend to be at odds at the best of times.’

Pavo smiled at this, though only because he knew the tribunus could not see him. He made to lift his nearly empty water skin to offer Gallus some, then hesitated and replaced it; the man ate and drank as rarely as he slept. Apart from military matters, Gallus spoke with few, and few knew how to speak with him. The silence grew brittle and suddenly Pavo felt conscious of invading Gallus’ solitude. ‘Good night, sir,’ he said, then turned to leave.

‘I know what keeps you awake, lad. I heard you talking with Carbo in Antioch – at the tavern,’ Gallus said, halting Pavo in his step. ‘I understand that finding out what happened to your father must dominate your every thought. But this scroll we seek, it means everything to the empire. Do you realise just what might happen if we fail to find it?’

Pavo turned, gulping. He felt the outline of the phalera on his chest. ‘Sir, you can rely on me. I wouldn’t jeopardise the lives of the men for anything.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Gallus twisted round, one eyebrow cocked. ‘Wouldn’t you do anything – just to be rid of the nightmares that plague you?’

Pavo felt pinned by the tribunus’ glower.

Then, mercifully, Gallus sighed and his shoulders relaxed. He sat on the tip of the walls, facing Pavo, then held out a hand. ‘And yes, I’ll have a pull on that water, if you have enough to spare. We need more, and soon, but damn, I’m thirsty.’

Pavo gingerly stepped over to sit beside him, pulling the cork from the skin, taking a modest swig then handing it over. Gallus sipped at it, his gaze distant as if it had taken him back to some time in the past. A silence passed between them.

‘What you said to Carbo, back at the tavern; about seizing upon the slimmest of hopes,’ he hesitated, plugging the cork back in the skin and searching for the words. ‘I can tell you that I would do the same.’ He sighed and looked up to the stars. ‘Indeed, just to have the chance would be some comfort.’

Pavo frowned. Few knew anything of Gallus’ past. Even those he trusted like brothers in the XI Claudia; Felix, Zosimus and Quadratus knew little of the man inside the iron carapace. But there was one who had known something. His thoughts spun back to the gore-sodden plain of Ad Salices, only months ago, when he had held the dying Optio Avitus in his arms. Avitus’ last words had remained lodged in Pavo’s thoughts, and he had never summoned the courage to share them with the man they concerned.

‘Avitus told you, didn’t he?’ Gallus said suddenly.

Startled, Pavo was lost for a reply.

‘Come on, lad. You’re rarely short of words,’ Gallus said.

Pavo’s thoughts spun. Doubt needled on his lips as he summoned the words. ‘Sir, he told me he was a
speculatore
, an assassin, a man sent into the legion to . . . ’ his breath dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting around, ‘ . . . to kill you.’

Gallus nodded, his lips taut. ‘And by Mithras he turned out to be one of my best men.’

The pair shared a silence, both thinking of their lost comrade. The man had shunned his life as an assassin and fought like a lion in the Claudia ranks. His last words had never made sense to Pavo. ‘Why was he sent after you, sir?’ he asked tentatively.

‘He was an assassin, lad. Just as you were once a slave. Just as I was once . . . ’ his words trailed off and he gazed eastwards again, shaking his head. ‘Everyone has a past, Pavo. We all make choices. Every day. You are young, and your biggest choices lie ahead.’ He pushed the water skin back into Pavo’s hand. ‘While some of us have to live with the past, the black choices we made and cannot undo.’

Pavo saw for the first time a glassiness in Gallus’ eyes. But almost as soon as it was there, it was gone again. Gallus’ face wrinkled and he shook his head, the steely glare returning.

‘Don’t trouble yourself with my maudlin words,’ he said, standing, offering Pavo an arm. ‘Think only of your legion and what lies ahead. Try to get some sleep if you can. Tomorrow, another day of hard marching awaits us.’

Pavo clasped Gallus’ arm and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Aye, sir.’

The pair parted and Pavo made his way back down into the fort, glancing over to his tent. Then he again noticed Centurion Carbo, still on his own at the other corner of the battlements. Pavo wondered if the haggard centurion found sleep difficult too. He considered then if it would be the time to approach him and talk with him more. Perhaps he could tell him of the nightmare of Father.
Aye,
sleep can wait,
Pavo thought, ascending the steps nearest. Barefoot, he made little noise as he ascended. Then he heard a sibilant whisper. Carbo was still muttering to himself. The same thing over and over again. A cold finger of realisation traced its way up his spine. The centurion was speaking Parsi, the language of the Persians, the language of his one-time captors. Pavo backed away, confused, picking his way back to his tent.