Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (19 page)

Her gaze remained flinty. ‘Do you know how much I have risked by bringing you here? The elders,’ she jabbed a finger up at the cliff face alcove where she had come from, ‘they say I have brought demons to our home. They want my warriors to arm and cut your throats tonight while you sleep.’

Her words turned Pavo’s blood to ice. He caught sight of the white-robed archers strolling along the higher alcoves on the cliff wall, quivers full. ‘I . . . we’re just soldiers. We mean you no harm . . . ’

‘Your men will not be harmed,’ she cut him off. ‘I am in charge here, not the elders.’

Pavo gulped, not entirely reassured by this. ‘But why do your elders despise us?’

‘You may not like my answer, legionary,’ she said, her eyes meeting his.

‘Perhaps not, but I’d prefer some answer to none,’ he shrugged.

Izodora pulled in a deep breath and nodded, as if bracing herself. ‘Seven years ago, I was just a girl,’ she looked over to the little girl now being tossed up and down in the air by Habitus, ‘only a few years older than her. We lived in Roman lands and there were many more of us then – ten times more. My people enjoyed villas, wells, orchards of date palms and vast green fields to graze our goats. We were good people, with good hearts,’ she clasped a hand to her breast, ‘well, most of us were. Some grew greedy, yes, and withheld taxes from the empire. Others took to brigandage. One band ambushed a patrol of Roman scouts and killed many of them.’

Pavo held out his hands in bemusement. ‘Show me a people who don’t have such characters in their midst.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me then, how would you deal with such troubles?’

Pavo squirmed at this, sure he would step on the worst possible answer. ‘Trap and gut the bastards who darken the name of their people. Or offer money to the good-hearted folk to turn in those who cause unrest. It wouldn’t be nice, but . . . ’

‘It wouldn’t, but in comparison to what happened,’ she shook her head. ‘Your Emperor, Valens, the man you fight for, decided to eradicate such troubles in his own way. In a single night raid, a cohort of legionaries fell upon my village. They sought out not just the brigands and the tax thieves, but every last one of us. I watched as they cut down my friends as if slaughtering cattle. They dragged my mother from her bed, my baby sister in her arms. They took them outside and led them to a pyre . . . ’ her eyes grew glassy and she looked away with a snarl, her fists balled.

Pavo rested a hand on her shoulder and let a silence pass while she composed herself. At that moment, he remembered why the name of the Maratocupreni had sounded familiar. The rumours of their fate had spread around the empire some years ago. The stories of the mass burnings had sounded so brutal they had come across as apocryphal. Not so, it seemed. ‘Now I truly do not understand why you saved us today?’

‘Because, without your kind, we . . . this,’ she swept a hand over the valley, ‘would not be here. Of the cohort sent to destroy us, one contubernium saw the brutality around them and took no part in it. They found me, cowering in terror. They led me and a cluster of others from the burning village and sent us off into the night, with little more than our mounts and what food and water we could carry.’ She looked him in the eye, wiping defiantly at a tear that escaped down her cheek. ‘Do you understand now?’

‘I think so,’ Pavo offered.

‘But if I have chosen wrongly. If you and your men have come to these lands looking to slaughter in the name of your glorious empire . . . ’

Pavo grabbed both her shoulders this time, firmly. ‘Never,’ he gasped. ‘The men you see here have only ever known desperate wars of defence. You have to believe me.’

She said nothing, her eyes searching him. Her gaze seemed to lure out some of the blacker memories from the recesses of Pavo’s mind. He slumped, nodding. ‘In my time in the legions, there has been much blood spilled, I cannot deny that. I know only too well some of the gruesome deeds I have had to carry out, times when I have had to make the hardest of choices to protect the few I love.’

She cocked her head to one side at this, her expression lightening momentarily. ‘This, I can understand. In these last years I have faced many such moments, and hard choices indeed. Perhaps we have more in common than I first thought.’ Then, as if a storm cloud had passed overhead, her expression grew dark once more. ‘But if you only fight wars of defence, then tell me why, a few weeks ago, I watched a full legion marching this way, headed east as if to challenge Persia,’

Pavo’s eyes darted.
The IV Scythica?

‘And now I find you and your men marching in their tracks.’

‘I know nothing of this other legion. Other than that they were sent out to combat some Persian raid. The empire is in no state to attempt any kind of invasion of Persia – indeed, that is why we are here.’

Izodora’s eyes narrowed.

Pavo darted his tongue out to lick his lips. He looked past her shoulder to see that the campfires were now doused. Most of the legionaries were disappearing inside their tents and the Maratocupreni to their caves. Gallus had insisted that they were to keep their brief private, but in his heart he knew he had to tell her.

‘Yes, we are headed for Persia – the very heart of the Persis Satrapy. But we seek something that might secure the current borders and prevent war. There is a scroll . . . ’

She cut him off, her brow knitting in confusion. ‘Nothing can prevent war between your empires. I know this.’

He shrugged his shoulders and turned to look up to the moon again. ‘It seems whimsical at best – the scroll may not even exist, or it might have long since been lost. But we’ve got to try to find it. Countless thousands of lives – Roman and Persian – could be spared if we succeed.’ When he turned back, her expression had softened just a little.

‘This is a noble cause,’ she conceded. ‘Fanciful, but noble. One worth fighting for. The threat of war between your empires hangs over this valley like a black cloud and so I pray you find what you are looking for.’ Her eyes narrowed as if reassessing the Roman mission. ‘Yet those camel riders you met today were but scouts. Do you realise what waits on any who intrude on the shahanshah’s lands?’

Pavo nodded grimly. ‘The Savaran? If I had a follis for every time I have heard them mentioned in hushed and frightened tones in these last weeks,’ he swiped a hand before him as if swatting an imaginary moth. ‘Regardless of their might, I will be marching east.’

She ran the tip of a finger along the delicate bridge of her nose, then wagged it at him. ‘You are not telling me everything. I can see it in your eyes, and in your frown that comes and goes when you fidget with that talisman.’

Pavo gawped, realising he was unconsciously gripping the phalera medallion through his tunic. He slumped and let a dry chuckle escape. ‘Aye, there is more. Though nothing that should trouble you. Indeed, it is even more whimsical than the notion of the scroll.’ He swept a hand up to the eastern tip of the valley. ‘I lost my father when I was a lad – probably the same age as you when you lost your mother to . . . ’ he froze.

She nodded for him to continue.

‘Well I thought my father had died, many years ago.’ He lifted the phalera from his tunic and smiled as he traced the inscription on it. They sat by the spring and Pavo told his story. She listened to his every word. When he had told her everything, they each talked about their happier childhood days. By the time tiredness caught up with them, both were smiling.

When he stood to return to his tent, Izodora rose with him.

‘Today, when we chose to save you and your men, I wasn’t sure we made the correct choice. Even tonight, when I spoke with the village elders, I was troubled by the decision. Now, I know I have chosen wisely.’ She turned in the moonlight and picked her way into the darkness.

Pavo strolled back to his tent, his heart warmed by the conversation and her parting words. He lifted the silk rag from his belt and inhaled Felicia’s scent, then clutched the phalera as he looked over his shoulder, to the moon in the east. Some things in life were worth fighting for, he affirmed, and some he would happily die for.

When he ducked inside the tent, Zosimus muttered some sleepy, gibberish about being attacked by evil goats, then Sura’s eyes popped open and his trademark mischievous grin appeared from nowhere.

‘You dirty bugger!’ he whispered.

Pavo considered protesting his innocence, but simply shrugged and fell into his cot with a chuckle.

Chapter 10

The following morning at dawn, the men of the column climbed the steep path from the valley and filtered onto the golden desert flatland outside the Maratocupreni crevasse. Now they readied themselves to set off once more to the south-east. Izodora had persuaded the elders to provide twenty-five camels from their herd to carry the burden of shields and tents. She had also agreed to let the legionaries with the gravest wounds from the camel raider skirmish remain in the valley to be tended to. Now just over one hundred of the original three centuries would march onwards.

Pavo watched Izodora as she walked amongst the men, flanked by two Maratocupreni riders in their leather cuirasses and helms, handing two water skins and parcels of bread to each legionary. It seemed his words to her last night had convinced her of the nobility of their quest. But there was something else, a finality and sadness in the way she beheld the legionaries. He recalled her words of warning about the Savaran. A shiver gathered at the base of his spine and tried to march up his back, but he shrugged the growing dread away.

A hundred thousand iron riders will not stop me going east.

‘Eyes front, dirty bugger,’ Sura interrupted his thoughts.

‘Aye, are you doing this, or not?’ Zosimus growled, stabbing a finger into Pavo’s chest.

Pavo turned back to his current task. He picked up the clay bowl and swiped his thumbs through the kohl it held. He pressed his thumbs to Zosimus’ scowling features, then rubbed them along under the big Thracian’s eyes, leaving a dark smear of the substance on each cheek. Zosimus glared at Pavo as if he had just spilled his wine cup. Quadratus did not help matters by stifling fits of laughter.

‘This better not be some sort of joke,’ Zosimus growled, shooting nervous glances to those nearby. ‘I’m not some bloody catamite, you know.’

‘If it was a joke, would I be wearing it?’ Pavo added, pointing to his own cheeks. ‘Would they be wearing it?’ he nodded to Izodora and her men. It was Izodora who had advised them to use it. ‘It’ll dull the reflection of the sun – your skin will not burn and your eyes will not tire so swiftly,’ Pavo assured him. Then a legionary from Quadratus’ century strolled up to apply the dark paste to the big Gaul’s cheeks. His fits of laughter ended abruptly and this seemed to calm Zosimus. All around them, other men of the column applied kohl in a similar fashion, fastened their boots and helms into place and slid on their mail vests.

Before the sun had fully risen, the two legionary standards – brushed clean of the worst of the dust and blood – were raised and they were ready to set off. Izodora and her riders escorted them for a few miles, then pointed them in the direction of the next water source. Pavo saw Gallus approach her before she departed. The tribunus lifted the frayed, tawny gold lion purse from his belt and placed it in her palm, offering with it just a few muted words. She seemed to behold Gallus in silence for a few moments, before she and her riders turned back for the crevasse, gradually melting into the growing heat haze.

The march was brisk at first, the men eager to cover as many miles as possible before the midday heat challenged them. But the morning sun was fierce enough. The rawness of Pavo’s ankles came back swiftly, despite the cooling balms the Maratocupreni had applied to his skin that morning. Already, his tunic was soaked through with sweat, his mail stung to the touch and his helmet seemed to be cooking his brain once more. It was a small mercy that they had the camels to carry their shields and some of the ration packs. The biggest discomfort for Pavo, however, was Sura’s incessant questioning.

‘You didn’t? What do you mean you didn’t?’ Sura asked, his face overly smeared in kohl and the skin on his arms plastered in the pale jasmine paste.

‘I mean just that. Nothing happened,’ Pavo insisted again.

‘You were out there for hours with her. What
did
you do then?’

At this, all the legionaries nearby seemed to cock an ear to the conversation, and Centurion Zosimus looked over his shoulder with an eager eye.

‘We . . . ’ Pavo started, then sighed in resignation. ‘We talked, that’s all.’

‘Talked?’ Sura gawped in mock horror.

‘I’d give her a bloody good talking too, I can tell you,’ Zosimus chuckled, his broad shoulders jostling.

Pavo made to defend Izodora’s honour, but hesitated on seeing the mischievous grins Sura and Zosimus wore – eager for Pavo to dig a deeper hole for himself. ‘I’ll be marching at the rear,’ he grumbled, falling back.

He heard Sura’s words trailing off as he fell back. ‘Aye, I bet she’d like that too . . .  ‘