Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (22 page)

Pavo took it. ‘Water, how?’

Felix scrambled up to the lip of the dune beside him and tipped the skin up. ‘You drink, we’ll talk.’

Pavo nodded and savoured the liquid that washed across his parched tongue then toppled down his throat. It was hot and polluted with sand, but it instantly brought moisture to his eyes and part-quenched his thirst. He gasped in relief, then his breath stilled when he saw a bump in the sand nearby. An arm poked from it, still and lifeless, with a splatter of dried blood nearby where the vultures had been tearing at the dead legionary’s tendrils. Further away, the tortured features of a fallen camel poked from the dune, its eyes lost to the carrion birds and the sockets crawling with insects. All around him were many such bumps and sights.

‘Is there nobody else . . . ’ Pavo uttered.

But then he saw it. In the shade of a nearby dune stood a cluster of haggard, familiar faces. The surviving men of the XI Claudia and the XVI Flavia Firma. There were many missing, it seemed, less than seventy left overall. Less than fifteen of the camel caravan had survived too. But there was something else. A tent with a pair of armoured legionaries standing by it. They were not of the vexillatio. They carried dark-green shields each bearing the image of a golden capricorn and a Christian Chi-Rho.

‘We found them this morning when the storm died. Or rather, they found us,’ Felix shrugged. ‘They’re from the IV Scythica, just three of them – a tribunus and two legionaries. Gallus is trying to make sense of the tribunus’ ramblings.’

Pavo squinted to see Gallus and Carbo talking to some wild-eyed man in mail armour by the tent flap. The man’s thin, wispy hair was coated in sweat and sand and pointing in every direction at once. He gripped his plumed helm underarm, his knuckles white and his face etched with terror.

Felix sighed and shook his head at the sight. ‘In the meantime, they have given over their surplus rations to us – it seems there is a spring a days’ march from here and they had a few skins to spare.’

Pavo nodded, then took another gulp of water. He looked around him, frowning. ‘Last night,’ he spoke quietly, ‘I thought the sands had claimed me.’

‘And we thought we had found the last of the survivors some time ago, Pavo,’ Sura added. ‘We thought you were dead. If it wasn’t for that bastard of a vulture, we’d never have spotted you.’

Zosimus scratched his anvil jaw and defied his chapped, broken and utterly exhausted state to crack a grin. ‘Aye, so thank Mithras and that winged whoreson that you are still breathing. Else I would have had to promote the biggest smart-arse in Adrianople to optio,’ he jabbed a thumb at Sura.

The four grinned at this.

Felix offered Pavo a hand and wrenched him to his feet. ‘Come on, we need to be ready to move onwards. The water we have will not last for long.’

They staggered down the dune and over to the gathering of legionaries. As they approached, Pavo overheard the wild-eyed IV Scythica Tribunus’ words.

‘I . . . I, we,’ he scratched at his scalp and his lips flapped. ‘We decided to reconnoitre . . . ’

‘Reconnaissance? Perhaps things are done differently in these parts, Tribunus Ovidius,’ Gallus spat, ‘but I have never seen a tribunus, leader of a legion, perform such a task.’ The pair of legionaries with Ovidius shared a furtive glance at this, and the tribunus’ top lip began to tic. Gallus saw it. Pavo saw it.

‘You are in no position to question me, Tribunus Gallus,’ Ovidius blurted out. ‘The rest of my legion follow a short distance behind.’

Gallus eyed the tribunus with a glare that might even have chilled the infernal sun. ‘Then we can march south-east to meet with them. And you’re coming with us.’

‘No, you don’t understand, you can’t go that way!’ Ovidius wailed. At this, he snatched his spatha from his belt and held it out, waving it at those nearby as he backed away. ‘You can’t make me go back. They are out there, they will be the death of us – all of us!’ He turned as if to run to the north, only to be stopped by Quadratus’ ham-like fist crashing into his cheek. The big Gaul caught Ovidius as he slumped. ‘Bloody idiot,’ he grumbled.

Gallus sighed in disgust, then turned to the two legionaries who had come with Ovidius, fixing them with a winter-cold glare. ‘You will carry your tribunus until he wakes. I trust you will not follow his example?’

They both nodded hurriedly.

He clicked his fingers and turned to address the men of the XI Claudia. But he paused, seeing Pavo standing there, still alive despite the sandstorm. Pavo threw up an arm in salute. A faint narrowing of the eyes was all Gallus offered in return. That and the barest upwards flicker at the corners of his lips.

‘A spring lies to the south-east. A spring and a legion that is in dire trouble. Take on what water you can and be ready to move out before noon!’

Pavo’s breath came and went in rasps as he approached the top of the latest dune. His mind taunted him with images of the thousand more dunes that would stretch out beyond it. But hoarse cries of delight rang out from the men of the vexillatio who got there just before him. Hope surged in his heart. He renewed his efforts and hauled himself atop the sandy ridge.

The dunes were no more. A flat, sandy plain stretched out ahead. Dead in the centre, only a few hundred feet away, was an ethereal green mass.
Another mirage?
He rubbed his eyes and blinked. Once, twice, again. No, this was real. Date palms, long grass, thick green foliage and a shimmering, clear pool, the weakest of breezes feathering its surface. The oasis was the size of a small arena at best. Some underground spring had pierced through the desert floor to fill the pool and turn the arid dust around it into a shady, fertile haven.

The vexillatio poured forward, Pavo with them. They found strength where previously they had none. They threw down their spears then hurtled through the palms to splash into the pool. Pavo fell to his knees, panting, the coolness of the water soothing his body, sharpening his thoughts at once. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Baptista kneeling likewise, scooping water over his long, tousled locks then clasping his hands in prayer. Zosimus, Quadratus and the others of the XI Claudia, meanwhile, offered a swift salute to Mithras, before ducking under the surface, bursting free and then drinking handful after handful of the springwater. Pavo cupped and drank likewise. The first few mouthfuls were unfamiliar to his dry, cracked throat and mouth. Then he felt the coolness in his belly and at once, his eyes watered and he felt hope in his heart once more. As he drank, he cast his eye up and over the green fronds of the palms. Bunches of ripe, yellow-orange dates bulged under the leaves. Here they could fill their bellies and rest. Here, everything was possible once more.

‘Silence!’ Gallus interrupted his thoughts. All those around him stopped splashing and chattering.

Pavo looked up. The tribunus strode round the edge of the pool, having yet to slake his own thirst. He crept round to the far side, then crouched, peering through the palm trunks. Pavo followed his gaze, and saw it too. Beyond the oasis, on the plain, a flickering column of iron moved – like some giant serpent. Pavo blinked, rising from the pool to stand tall, an odd shiver dancing across him as the hot desert breeze touched his wet skin. His spear arm clenched, and he cursed himself for having thrown down his weapon in haste. He moved his hand to his spatha hilt, watching as the iron column grew closer.

But, at the last, he saw the eagle standard this army carried. A green capricorn banner hung below the eagle – just like that etched on the shields of Ovidius’ two men. This was the IV Scythica. Over one thousand limitanei legionaries. Over one thousand spears, spathas, shields and bobbing intercisa helms. The sight was a welcome one. They were marching towards the oasis at haste – so hastily in fact that some men stumbled and others marched well out of line.

Gallus twisted round, beckoning Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix. ‘Ready the men.’ Then he pinned Tribunus Ovidius with his glare. The man was just coming round, rubbing at his throbbing cheek. ‘Bring him too.’

The men of the vexillatio slipped from the pool quietly, picking up their discarded weapons. Zosimus, Quadratus and Carbo organised their tattered centuries, then Felix beckoned them forward to the edge of the oasis. Readied, Gallus led them from the oasis and into the glare of the burning sun once more. At once, the approaching IV Scythica slowed, a distant babble of confusion spilling from their ranks as they squinted at Pavo and the vexillatio. Pavo shielded his eyes from the sun; their faces were haggard, sunburnt and blistered too. But there was something else, something dancing in their eyes.
Panic
.

‘Signal them!’ Gallus growled. At once, the XI Claudia aquilifer hefted the grubby ruby bull banner in the air and waved it from side to side. At once, the man leading the IV Scythica saw this and immediately, he and his legion hurried on towards the oasis.

Pavo heard the terse and panicked jabberings of the approaching men. ‘Sir, something’s not right.’

‘Aye, they’re marching in full armour,’ Gallus replied with a frown.

‘And when they saw us they panicked – they thought we were someone else.’

‘I told you,’ a voice croaked behind them. ‘We’re dead men!’

They turned to see Tribunus Ovidius, now fully awake. His eyes bulged now more than ever before and he pointed to the south-east, beyond the Scythica men. The horizon was empty. The ferocious heat haze offered nothing. ‘They’re coming. Every man on these sands will die!’ At this, Quadratus stomped over to grasp him by the collar, raising a clenched fist.

‘Strike me again and I’ll see to it that you are flogged and executed,’ the man spat, his pupils dilated and a white froth gathering at the corners of his mouth.

‘Strike a deserter and I’ll give you a year of my wage purse!’ another voice countered.

All heads turned to the approaching IV Scythica column. The figure leading them strode forward – a furious-looking officer. His skin was dark as coal, his brow bent like an angered bull’s. Pavo noticed that the ragged, bleached white tunic he wore under his mail vest bore a broad, faded purple stripe on the shoulder. The mark of a primus pilus, just like Felix wore. So this was Ovidius’ second in command.

‘This cur deserves no respect. He deserted us three nights past,’ the primus pilus stabbed his finger at the chest of Ovidius and lowered his voice, ‘and he left his men to die.’

Tribunus Ovidius wriggled in Quadratus’ grip and made to protest, only to be silenced by a growl and a re-clenched fist.

‘I guessed as much,’ Gallus said.

The dark-skinned primus pilus tore his sour glare away from Ovidius to eye Gallus and the ragged vexillatio. His eyes settled upon the frayed and filthy standards. ‘The Flavia Firma?’ he said upon recognising the dark-blue Chi Rho banner. Then he looked to the tattered remains of the XI Claudia’s ruby bull banner. ‘And what legion is this?’ he frowned. ‘What are you doing so far from Roman lands? We thought we were alone out here.’

Pavo saw Gallus and Carbo exchange a furtive glance.

Gallus was first to reply; ‘Perhaps we should find shade and water, then we can - ’

‘There is no time!’ the primus pilus cut him off, his eyes widening as he shot glances over his shoulder to the south-east.

Gallus’ lips moved to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. He frowned, eyeing the horizon.

Pavo saw it too. A flickering. Then the ground underfoot trembled. The approach of distant cavalry. Coming for them and coming fast. He glanced to Sura, to Zosimus, to Quadratus and Felix. They had all felt it. Yet the horizon offered nothing but dashes of flickering colours that appeared and then faded again. Pavo’s stomach clenched;
More desert raiders?

Suddenly a dull crash filled the air, as if a titan had swung a hammer into the earth. It seemed to shake their very bones. Then came another crash and another.

‘War drums,’ the coal-skinned primus pilus cried. Then a horn wailed out too. Suddenly, a solid spot of silver pierced the horizon. The spot grew and grew, spilling round the skyline as if coaxed by the throbbing drums. The man spun back to Gallus, his face streaked with panic. ‘They have been tracking us for days. Now they have us.’

‘They?’ Gallus snapped.

The primus pilus’ face grew sombre. ‘The Savaran, Tribunus. A wing of Persia’s iron riders. Thousands of them.’

Tribunus Ovidius began wailing in the background. ‘I tried to tell you – we must flee!’

Gallus stepped forward, his eyes darting over the nascent silver band on the horizon. ‘Can we outrun them, perhaps flee and hide in the dunes?’ he asked the primus pilus.

‘There is no time. They would still ride us down with ease.’

At this, a babble erupted from the gathered legionaries of the vexillatio. A steely glare from Gallus silenced them.

The primus pilus continued; ‘We must stand and fight. Have your men join our left flank, and be ready,’ the man leant in closer to whisper in Gallus’ ear. ‘With God’s fortune we will be slain swiftly and spared the misery of Persian shackles.’ With that, the man spun away to bark his legion into a line, facing the horizon.