Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (16 page)

Darkness had long since fallen and all bar the sentries and a few others were asleep. Gallus stared out from the battlements, then started when a groan sounded from outside. He peered down to see the small camp the dromedarii riders had made just outside the walls. The riders sat in a ring around a fire, cooking stew and jabbering in their own tongue. The camels yawned and snored, lying around them like a protective wall. There was little room inside the fortlet and in any case, it was their preferred way of doing things. Besides, the damned beasts smelled like Hades itself, he thought, wincing as he caught their scent on the night air. But these animals would be vital, he concluded, for without them to carry shields, armour and tents, the men would be burdened intolerably and they would drain whatever water they had in half the time.

Water
, he thought once more. They would have to find a fresh source soon. The only blessing was that his nagging thirst kept the other thoughts at bay. A pang of guilt touched his heart at this, and he placed a hand on his purse, feeling the idol of Mithras in there. He screwed up his eyes to stave off the swirl of memories this summoned, then glanced across the crumbling walls.

Sixteen steely men of the Flavia Firma were dotted around the other intact sections of battlement and by the ruined gates. Each of them was alert, eyes searching the gloom outside. Good men, Gallus thought. Only Baptista, the pious and belligerent optio, gave him cause for concern. The man seemed bitter at playing a secondary role in this mission, and his attitude had been fractious to the morale of the column. And then there was Centurion Carbo. An odd individual, Gallus surmised, taciturn and guarded. His gaze fell to the opposite corner of the fort. Carbo was there, still. For many years, Gallus had adopted an outright distrust of all he met. Trust had to be earned, and this man shielded too many secrets for his liking. A man who had miraculously returned to the empire having dwelt within the dark mines in the heart of Persia. The only confirmed survivor of the slaughter at Bezabde. The man had already fuelled young Pavo’s hopes with his claims that the lad’s father had survived Bezabde too.

As if sensing eyes upon him, Carbo glanced around the fort furtively, then his gaze snagged on Gallus. The pair stared at one another for but a heartbeat, until Carbo looked away and swiftly descended the steps into the fortlet. There, he crossed paths with Yabet who offered some suggestion, resting a hand on his shoulder. Just then, a muted call brought a rustle of activity and a change of watch. Gallus saw Baptista beckoning his men down from the battlements. At the same time, stretching Claudia legionaries shuffled from their tents, readying to replace them. When Gallus glanced back to the spot where Carbo had stood, it was empty.

He barely had time to frown at this before he heard footsteps approaching, flitting up the steps to the battlements. He turned, expecting to see one of his men coming to take up a sentry post here. Instead, Carbo rose into view.

‘You do not sleep, it seems?’ Carbo asked.

‘Nor you?’ Gallus countered.

Carbo ignored the question and held out a skin. ‘We have pooled our water supplies for those who need it most.’

Gallus eyed the man guardedly.

‘Take it. If you’re performing a double-stint on the walls then you’ll need it.’

Gallus took the skin and sipped at it. The water was cool and refreshing indeed. He nodded and lifted the skin in appreciation.

‘Until morning, Tribunus,’ Carbo said, before turning to descend the stairs.

Gallus watched his every step.

Darkness clung to Gallus’ every sense, as if he was trapped in the reeds at the bottom of a murky lake. Pain rolled through his head like a thundercloud and his body was wracked with stabbing pains. He grunted, unsure if this was some nightmare or otherwise. Then he heard a distant voice calling to him. At once, the darkness fell away, as if he was shooting for the surface.

‘Sir . . . sir!’

‘Felix?’ he grunted, prising his eyes open. He squinted through a bleary film, the sunlight blinding. Shapes stood over him.

‘Sir, they’re gone!’

Gallus fumbled, trying to stand.

‘Help him up!’ he heard Quadratus bark. At once, a sea of hands lifted and steadied him. Now his head pounded like a Gothic war drum. His mouth was dry, shrivelled and rife with a bitter, burning taste. He shook his head, panting for air, then wiped at his eyes. He was on the same spot on the corner of the battlements. It was well past dawn. The men of the Claudia stood all around him on the battlements or on the fort floor below, looking up, their faces etched with fear.

‘What happened?’ he croaked.

‘The camels are gone,’ Felix replied, fighting the tremor of panic in his voice.

‘The camels, the dromedarii riders, the rations, the supplies, nearly everything!’ Sura added.

‘Gone?’ he roared, grappling the crenelated walls and glowering down to the spot outside where the riders and beasts had been camped. Deserted. The land in every direction was empty too. Then he pushed back and squinted to look across the battlements. ‘The sentries saw nothing?’

Pavo was first to respond; ‘Not a thing, sir. We found them up here at dawn, slumped, muttering and incoherent like you.’

‘The dromedarii have betrayed us,’ Yabet said, his eyes wide in realisation. ‘But someone . . . ’

‘But someone in here was in league with them,’ Gallus cut in, his vision and thoughts sharpening at last. His gaze fell upon the water skin lying by his feet. He lifted it; it was missing only the few sips he had taken.

‘Sir?’ Felix frowned.

But Gallus stood and brushed past them, then flitted down the steps and into the fortlet, the pounding in his head stoking his fury. He strode between the embers of cooking fires and came to a halt before Carbo’s tent. The Flavia Firma legionaries nearby watched Gallus’ approach, rising to their feet when the scowling Baptista stood first. The Claudia men rushed to gather around too.

‘Carbo!’ Gallus roared.

Nothing.

He tore his spatha from his scabbard. ‘By Mithras I’ll cut your tent down around you. Come out and face me.’

He heard a groan from inside. The tent flap rippled and then a hand drew it back. Carbo stumbled out into the light. He looked more haggard than ever, his tousled hair plastered across his sweat-streaked face and his eyes glassy.

‘You poisoned me!’ Gallus roared, pointing the tip of his blade at Carbo’s chest.

Carbo frowned, his eyes darting, his hands clutched to his head. ‘Aye, you were poisoned. But so was I, you fool!’ At that moment, Carbo doubled over and retched, orange bile bursting from his lips. He fell to his knees, gagging. ‘The water,’ he spluttered, ‘it must have been the water.’

Gallus let a growl spill from his clenched teeth. ‘Aye, it must have been, mustn’t it? So you took a sip of your own poison to give yourself an alibi. Not good enough!’ He pressed the tip of his blade into Carbo’s chest, forcing him to stand tall once more. At this, Baptista swiped his spatha from his scabbard and made to lunge forward, but a raised hand from Carbo stopped him.

‘Search his tent!’ Gallus nodded to Habitus and Noster.

‘You think this was my doing, Tribunus?’ Carbo growled as the young legionaries rooted around the tent behind him. ‘Your lack of trust is striking!’

Gallus pinned him with a gimlet stare. ‘Just how did you find your way from the Persian salt mines when so many others perished?’ he growled, searching Carbo’s eyes for that telltale glimmer of guilt. Carbo’s pupils dilated then he looked away swiftly.

‘Perhaps one day we will discuss it, Tribunus. I suggest we focus on the present, piece together . . . ’

‘We found this, sir,’ Noster gasped, pushing out of the tent. He held up a small, clay vial.

Gallus’ eyes narrowed as Carbo’s grew in alarm. ‘No,’ Carbo stuttered as Gallus snatched the vial from Noster, pulled the cloth stopper from it and sniffed. A thick, viscous stench offended his nostrils. ‘I’ve no idea what . . . ’

‘This bastard has killed us,’ Yabet cut Carbo off, striding forward to spit a gobbet of phlegm into the dust. ‘Without the camels, not all of us will make it to the next spring.’

At this, the legionaries broke out into a panicked babble.

‘We must pursue the dromedarii,’ one voice called out. ‘Without the camels we will burn in this land!’

‘We’ll never catch them, we should return to Palmyra,’ another countered.

‘Silence!’ Gallus cried, then held out the vial to Carbo. ‘If you are innocent, then drink whatever this is and prove it.’

‘It is not mine. I don’t know how it got into my tent,’ Carbo spat.

‘Drink it,’ Gallus insisted, raising his sword again to rest the tip on Carbo’s neck.

Carbo looked at the vial, his hand trembling as he raised it to his lips.

Gallus watched through narrowed eyes. Then, at the last, something caught his eye. It changed everything. The man standing nearest to Carbo had something poking from the open neck of his tunic. A leather strap from which hung a purse. Bloodstained and adorned with a golden lion motif.

‘Stop!’ Gallus barked, knocking the vial from Carbo’s grasp with a flick of the sword.

‘Tribunus?’ Carbo frowned.

But Gallus’ eyes were on the man by his side. ‘Yabet?’

Yabet frowned as the tip of Gallus’ sword swung away from Carbo and came to a rest against his chest. ‘Tribunus, what is this?’

Gallus hooked his spatha blade around the leather strap on Yabet’s chest and lifted the purse out. ‘No, what is
this?
’

Yabet smiled weakly as all eyes turned upon him. ‘My purse. What of it?’

Gallus shook with rage. ‘The last time I saw this, it was clutched in the hands of the Cretan pirate captain. The last time I saw that whoreson, he was as good as a shark’s breakfast. So tell me, guide; how did you come by it?’

Yabet said nothing.

‘You will talk, guide. You will tell me everything.’

At this, Yabet chuckled in disbelief. His laughter faded as he saw the wall of stony legionary faces surrounding him. His shoulders slumped and he held out his hands in supplication. ‘I will tell you everything . . . ’ Then, in a flash, he snatched something from his belt. Another vial. He cracked it open and swallowed the contents. ‘ . . . when we next speak in Hades. This dose will still my tongue forever.’ At once, the poison took hold. He clutched his throat and gagged, his face reddening, foam gathering at the corners of his lips. His back arched, blood erupted from his nostrils, then he fell to one knee and crashed face-first into the dust, shuddering. All legionary eyes gawped at the twitching corpse.

Gallus looked up, sheathing his spatha. He fixed his gaze on Carbo.

‘If you had given me a chance to explain, Tribunus,’ Carbo muttered through taut lips, ‘I would have told you; Yabet organised the pooling of the water last night.’

‘Aye, so it appears,’ Gallus offered flatly. ‘And now we rely on you alone to guide us.’

Carbo offered nothing other than a steely glare, then he turned away to ready his century.

Gallus looked to the ruined barrack roof. There, the local vultures fluttered, eagerly eyeing Yabet’s fresh corpse.

 ‘The little bastard,’ Zosimus said, beholding the guide’s body, scraping at his cropped scalp and shaking his head.

‘What’s our next move, sir?’ Pavo asked.

Gallus eyed him. ‘We push on. We must. Water is our priority now.’

‘The camel rider and Yabet, sir – do you think they were just out to rob us?’ Pavo asked, frowning at the purse in Gallus’ hands. ‘What if . . . ’ he peered out through the broken fort gates.

‘Let’s assume it was merely brigandage for now,’ Gallus replied, weighing the purse. ‘Now see to it that the centuries are formed up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

When Pavo had gone, and he went unwatched, Gallus dug a coin from the purse and examined it. It bore the image of a blazing fire pit, with two figures standing either side of it. An odd chill passed over his heart as he gazed at the featureless faces of the two. This was a pure-silver Persian
dirham
, he realised. To share this knowledge with the men might destroy morale. He tucked the purse away and filled his lungs.

‘Gather your equipment. We move on, and we make haste.’