Land of the Sacred Fire

Chapter 9

After leaving the accursed fort, the column marched south-east and into the endless golden flats for another day and a half without incident — the only enemies being the fierce heat, the arid desert air and the near empty water skins. Deprived of the camels, they once more carried their shields and the scraps of rations not stolen by the dromedarii. The going underfoot both helped and hindered the pace of the march. When it was unbroken, the pace quickened, but when they came across pitted, cracked land, men stumbled and slowed. There had to be an oasis or a spring of some sort soon — the map was marked with such locations, but finding them precisely would be next to impossible without an experienced guide. With Yabet dead and the camel riders gone, they were in dire trouble.

Despite this, they had been glad when the ruin of that accursed fortlet had fallen away into the haze behind them; if some follow-up raid had been planned to finish off the mission, then they would find nothing but two graves at that place: Yabet’s and that of the long-dead legionary skeleton. Carbo, Baptista and the Flavia Firma men had carried out the burials with full Christian rites.

‘Slow!’ Gallus barked from the head of the column. As one, they dropped the pace to a walk. All necks stretched to look ahead.

Pavo saw nothing. But he felt something underfoot. A tremor.

‘Riders?’ Sura said, stepping forward from the front rank.

The heat haze rippled, then shapes emerged from the south-east. Thrashing, knotted legs, pained groaning and trilling cries. Camel riders, hundreds of them. Easily twice as many as the legionary column, a tall dust cloud billowing up behind them. They wore loose white robes, whipping in their slipstream. They wore linen scarfs on their heads. A few carried hide and cane shields and some held spears. All of them carried bows.

Gallus paced ahead, one hand raised, the other on his sword hilt, eyes scouring the approaching pack.

‘Desert raiders,’ Carbo hissed, recognising them first.

Pavo’s eyes darted. These riders were the bane of the no man’s land between the two great empires, siding with Rome and Persia in turn and as it suited them. Then he spotted the handful in their midst, wearing Roman helms and carrying legionary spears. The dromedarii. ‘Treacherous bastards!’ he spat. The sentiment was echoed all along the Roman ranks. Just then, a chorus of ululating battle cries split the air and the desert raiders split into a wide crescent, as if to envelop the legionary line. At that moment, the soldier’s curse struck Pavo like a lance, swelling his bladder and bringing thunder to his heart.

‘Double line!’ Gallus bellowed. A buccina sang to underline the order and the legionary standards waved frantically. Carbo rushed off to head up his own century. Pavo jogged over to push into place alongside Zosimus on one side and Sura on the other. Over one hundred shields clattered into place, presenting a wall, half ruby and half blue. Only spear tips, helms and determined eyes were visible over the rims. The single rank behind pressed into place. This shallow but wide formation would make it harder for the raiders to threaten the flanks. ‘Front ranks, ready plumbatae!’ Gallus cried, stepping into the line to take his place just right of dead centre.

Pavo stood alongside Sura and Zosimus. The wave of desert raiders made as if to charge the Roman line. ‘They won’t come at our spear wall,’ He insisted as he trained his gaze down the length of his spear. ‘They’re archers. They’re going to wear us down’

But big Zosimus wasn’t listening. ‘Just another few feet,’ he growled, his knuckles white on the shaft of his plumbata. Then at just over a hundred paces away — just outside of plumbatae range — the raiders split in two and washed past either flank. As they did so, they loosed a storm of arrows.

‘Shields!’ Gallus cried from the centre.

Pavo’s shield arm tensed instinctively, hefting it overhead. The hail hammered into the Roman shield wall and his whole body juddered, splinters of wood spraying overhead. Wet punches of iron piercing flesh and the torn cries of the stricken rang out. Glancing left and right, he saw the determined grimaces of his comrades and the shafts of afternoon sunlight where the unlucky few had fallen, those nearby showered in blood. Some two hundred and twenty men exhaled in relief.

‘Turn!’ Gallus cried. As one, the Roman line about-faced, presenting shields and spears to the riders reforming into one band again in the north. The raiders’ looked relaxed and confident. Some of them wore broad, shark-like grins as they nocked their bows in a leisurely fashion — as if hunting game. Pavo glanced over his shoulder to see the legionaries of the rear rank crouching and fumbling with their packs. Moments later, he heard the stretching of wood, horn and bowstring behind him.

‘Archers, ready!’ Gallus cried. Like a rising wave, each of the legionaries in the rear rank stood tall, lifted their bows high, arrows nocked and bowstrings stretched.

The desert raiders’ easy demeanour vanished at the sight of this. A canny grin touched Pavo’s lips. Roman infantry carrying bows was still a novelty in these parts, it seemed.

‘Loose!’ Gallus boomed.

Over one hundred bowstrings twanged in unison. The confident line of raiders at once dissolved into panic. Apart from the few who wore shields or armour, many were punched from their mounts as the arrows thudded down upon them, tearing through skin and smashing bone. Well over seventy of them fell. The rest sank into disarray, some slowing, others immediately wheeling round ready to take flight.

Now! Pavo mouthed the word, and saw Sura, Zosimus and the men nearby do the same, all eyes trained on Gallus.

Before the lead desert raiders could rally their men, Gallus broke ahead of the Roman line, grappling the Claudia standard from the aquilifer, then swiped the banner down in a chopping motion. ‘Forward!’ he cried. As one, the shield wall burst into life like some iron insect, the shields jostling, the legionary war cry and the wailing buccina spilling across the desert plain.

But the raiders did not crumble in the face of the legionary charge. Instead, they rallied, the lead riders barking encouragement to them. They were shaken, but angered too. Many had thrown down their bows and drawn their swords — long curved blades. They whipped their camels forward and unleashed their trilling battle cry once more, haring to meet the Roman advance. As Pavo raced forward, he saw one rider howl and kick his beast into a charge. Their eyes met, and he realised it was one of the traitor dromedarii. At the last, he leapt up to meet the man’s vicious sword-swipe.

With a tumultuous roar and a crash of shields, blades and bone, the two sides came together. Pavo’s spear clashed with the dromedarius’ blade and the blow jarred him to his core, sending him spinning into the melee. For a moment, he could see nothing but thick dust. Then it cleared like a curtain being whipped back and he saw the dromedarius again, only feet away. The man leant out and tried to cut down over Pavo’s shield. Pavo butted out with his shield, deflecting the strike and the boss bloodying the camel’s nose. Then he swept his spear up and into the rider’s armpit, bringing forth a shower of dark blood. The man crunched to the ground. Pavo swung round to see another blade swooping down towards him. He parried weakly, dropping his spear, but then tore out his spatha and sliced it up and across the rider’s throat. The camel hared from the melee, dragging the flailing, dead rider in its wake.

Pavo stooped to take up his spear once more, twisting this way and that to make sense of the surrounding chaos. In every direction the cries of torn men were incessant, the swirling, crimson-streaked dust offering only glimpses of flashing steel. Dull shapes barged and battered at his shield, an iron blade glanced off his helmet and another nicked the skin on his nose. As the dust thinned, he saw the bloody tumult all around. Legionaries disappeared under sweeping, charging camels. Heads spun clear of bodies as the curved blades swept to and fro. Camel riders were skewered on legionary spear tips and toppled from their saddles. He saw one rider barged from his camel, toppling to the dust only for another beast to trample across his skull, which burst like a watermelon, instantly stilling his thrashing body.

Pavo backed away, choking on the dust, straining to seek out his comrades. Only feet away, the banners of the XI Claudia and the XVI Flavia Firma waved to and fro defiantly, dust-coated and blood-spattered. Many legionaries had fallen. He saw one Flavia Firma comrade surrounded by two desert raiders. His spatha was bent and his mail vest torn. Pavo barged through the fray to his comrade’s aid, but was halted in his tracks as a blade swept up, slicing the legionary from gut to jaw. The force of the blow spun the legionary around and sent a wet splatter of blood and gut wall across Pavo’s face. Then the riders turned their attentions to Pavo. Their blades sang, swiping down at him. One he met with a parry, and the second blade crashed off his helm, sending him staggering backwards, half-blinded, before toppling into the slick carpet of gore. A legionary spear hurled from somewhere in the dust cloud took one of the riders in the throat, then a plumbata punched the other one in the gut. Pavo glanced up to see the pair of Flavia Firma legionaries who had saved him cry out as another camel rider thundered past behind them, tearing across the backs of their necks with his blade and bringing forth thick sprays of lifeblood. Moments later, this rider was punched from his horse on the end of a legionary lance. This battle teetered on the edge of a blade. If they could stand together, it could be won, he thought, seeing Habitus and Sura fighting nearby.

But all hope drained from him when he saw something, through the battle and to the south-east. The horizon was rippling once more. The blood in his veins turned to ice. More riders. At least five hundred.

‘We’re dead!’ Habitus cried.

‘Enough of that talk!’ a blood-soaked Sura snarled, cutting down one camel rider then barging through to bunch up beside the beanpole legionary.

Pavo pushed up to stand by Habitus’ other side. ‘Think only of your sword and of the guts of the riders before you,’ he snarled as the three hacked and parried desperately. Yet he could not help but glance at these new riders as they drew closer. They were different, he realised. Horsemen, not camel riders. They wore light robes like the raiders, but they were armoured in dark-brown, hardened leather cuirasses, and many wore iron helms, some plumed. Many of them stretched in their saddles, lifting bent bows into the air. Then they loosed.

Pavo gawped up at the incoming hail. It hovered, then turned to rain down for them. He clutched the phalera on his chest instinctively, waiting on the blow that would end the quest for the scroll, end his quest to find what had become of Father.

He shuddered at the series of wet thuds and gurgling cries that rang out all around him. But he, Sura and Habitus were unharmed. He blinked and the trio shared an incredulous frown. All around them, the desert raiders had fallen limp, arrows quivering in their backs and necks, blood washing from their mouths, swords slipping from their lifeless grasps, their bodies sliding from saddles to thump into the dust like butchered meat. Not a single legionary had been harmed by the volley. The few raiders — just seven of them — who had avoided the strike broke out in a babble of panic, twisting in their saddles, only just noticing the approaching horsemen. ‘Maratocupreni!’ they cried. Then, as if the word had tainted the air with some dark curse, they broke from the melee and thundered off to the south-east.

At this, one of the leather-armoured horsemen broke from the approaching five hundred and hared after the fleeing raiders. This rider sported a helm with a long, swishing plume. With the grace of a centaur, the rider nocked and loosed arrow after arrow. The seven fleeing desert raiders were punched from their mounts one by one. Only one slipped away and disappeared back into the heat haze from where he had come.

Pavo released his tight grip on the phalera and allowed himself to breathe again. He glanced back over the dark-red mess that stained the plain. Camels and men lay tangled, jutting white bone and spilled guts adding to the glistening crimson film that coated everything. The stench of blood and open bowels was rife in the baking sun and a cloud of flies buzzed eagerly over this feast while a venue of vultures screeched overhead. Amongst the carnage, the surviving legionaries stood, panting in disbelief, some retching into the gore. Carbo stood with them, his spatha bloodied and his chest heaving. Gallus stood nearby, his face plastered in blood and taut with fury. More than half of the column had been slain, he realised. He saw the gawping, lifeless faces of many from his century and from Quadratus’ — many he had considered good friends. A hardness gripped his heart at this — a hardness he saw reflected in Sura’s stony gaze at the scene. They called this the soldier’s skin. It was welcome at times like this.

‘Who are they, sir?’ Habitus muttered, eyeing the approaching five hundred.

Pavo frowned. ‘I don’t know, but keep your shield up.’

‘There is no need,’ a voice spoke. Carbo stood a few feet away, cleaning his spatha with a rag. The man’s well-weathered features were clad in the filth of battle.

‘Sir?’ Pavo hesitated, glancing to the riders, hearing their chatter and the whinnying of their mounts as they came closer.

‘The Maratocupreni have made their choice,’ Carbo said. ‘If they wanted to side with the camel raiders, you would be dead by now. We all would.’ He sheathed his blade then flicked out a finger and jabbed it to the ground. ‘Lower your shields and sheathe your weapons.’

Pavo saw the blood-spattered Gallus approaching, gathering the legionaries together. He had taken the lead from Carbo and was ordering them to lower their weapons likewise.

‘You’d better be right about this,’ Gallus said, casting a frosty look at Carbo, then eyeing the mysterious riders.

Pavo watched as the rider with the long, swishing plume rode to the fore, the rest following in a loose pack. They slowed to a trot then came to a halt a few strides from Gallus and Carbo. Their skin was swarthy, they sported narrow, fine features, and almost all of them were clean-shaven. They wore smears of kohl on each cheek, just under the eyes. They eyed the filthy Roman banners with narrowed eyes. The lead rider’s face was cast in shade from the helm.

‘Tribunus Gallus of Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ Gallus saluted. ‘Your intervention was timely.’ His tone was terse, almost suspicious.

‘Ah! Typically warm Roman gratitude,’ the lead rider laughed mirthlessly.

This one was slender and small, Pavo realised, noticing the narrow shoulders upon which the composite bow hung. And there was something else. The voice was husky but light.

Then the lead rider removed the helm, revealing the dusky and delicate face of a young woman. Her almond-shaped eyes dominated her face, her neat nose and pursed lips. The whipping, swishing plume was in fact sleek, dark locks scooped up in a tight topknot, the tail draped down her back.

‘Izodora of the Maratocupreni,’ she introduced herself.

The smears of kohl on her cheeks gave her a fearsome glare. Fearsome yet comely, Pavo mused. Then her gaze snapped onto him. Instantly, he looked away, embarrassed.

‘You chose to loose upon the desert raiders and not us. Why?’ Gallus continued.

‘They were desert raiders, yes, but they were not here for mere brigandage. I have clashed with them before — they spill blood for Persian coin. I chose to loose upon them because they were the aggressors,’ then her gaze hardened, ‘or at least that is how it seemed. You and your men seem to have strayed far from the Roman borders and into the desert. Perhaps I should have chosen differently?’ She sat tall on her saddle and cast Gallus a glare that almost matched that of the tribunus. ‘So, where are you headed, Tribunus Gallus?’

Gallus did well not to hesitate. ‘We were on patrol when our camel escort deserted us,’ he nodded through the thick pack of buzzing flies to the slain dromedarii amongst the desert raiders. ‘Then they gathered this band and tried to slay us. We have been without fresh water for days.’

‘You set out with a camel escort?’ she cocked an eyebrow. ‘Those beasts are usually only needed when a man seeks to cross a desert.’ She looked to the east as she said this. ‘Romans crossing the desert have only ever led to one thing. War.’

Pavo noticed that her knuckles whitened on her bow. The next few moments passed like an eternity and Pavo felt his breath grow faster and faster. Only the buzzing of the flies nearby and the screeching of the vultures could be heard. Finally, she seemed to relax a little, releasing the grip on her bow. She snapped her fingers and the riders nearest brought forward a clutch of water skins, handing them to the panting legionaries.

‘Come with us,’ she beckoned. ‘In my settlement you can see to your wounded. And you can tell me more about your. . patrol.’

They followed Izodora and the Maratocupreni until sunset, when they came to a rift in the land like a giant axe-wound in the dusty plain, as broad as a street at this end and widening near the centre. Pavo could only imagine what monstrous tremor in the earth had created such a fissure. While most of the legionary column made to march onwards past this crevasse, Izodora stopped, raising a hand to slow her riders. At this, the legionaries stopped too. She pushed two fingers into the corners of her mouth and emitted a shrill whistle. Silence hung in the air for but a moment, then a faint whistling sounded in reply from within the crevasse. Frowns were shared all round as Izodora led her riders to the end of the crevasse, starting on down a painfully narrow dirt slope that led into its depths.

Izodora halted on seeing Gallus and the legionaries hesitate. ‘You think this is some kind of trap?’ she fired back with a look an incredulous look. ‘You realise that I could have slain you all back there,’ she said with a flick of the head back in the direction of the camel raider skirmish. ‘With your attitude, you make me think that perhaps I should have. Stay out here if you will. I can feed and water the horses twice over instead. At least they would show some gratitude.’

For once, it seemed the iron tribunus was cowed. The acerbic words of this rider had him searching for a reply in vain. Wordlessly, he waved the legionaries on in Izodora’s wake. They marched in single file over a hundred feet down and onto the soft, dusty floor of this tight, sheer-sided valley, hidden from the plain above. It was less than a mile long. The walls were dotted with dark recesses, some at ground level, others ten, twenty or thirty feet up, with rough staircases hewn into the rock leading to them. Pavo instantly shared Gallus’ fears — imagining a cluster of spear-wielding bandits tucked away in those recesses. When Izodora suddenly clapped her hands, they froze, braced. The noise echoed through the space and seemed to stoke some movement in these alcoves. Figures emerged, a few hundred at least. Pavo’s heart quickened. Until he saw that they were only children, mothers, elderly men and women and a few younger men walking on crutches. They were joined by a playful herd of goats — the kids tumbling and bleating as the mother goats led them to the far end of the valley. There, a thick carpet of grass had sprung up around a part of the rock face that sparkled and seemed to move.

‘A spring!’ Sura croaked in delight, recognising the flowing water. Slumbering near this mini-oasis was a small herd of camels.

In moments, the Maratocupreni had kindled fires and were baking bread and bringing water to the men of the column and to their own warriors. They also brought out bowls of water, salves and bandages to tend to the wounded legionaries. Before darkness had fallen, Maratocupreni and Roman alike sat around the fires, filling their bellies and slaking their thirsts.

Pavo spiked a piece of flatbread on a wooden skewer and held it over the flames to toast. Having downed his armour and boots, he felt cooler and lighter. But the aches and pains of the march were quick to come to the fore. His feet were aching, swollen and dotted with raw patches where his boots had rubbed through several layers of skin. His shoulders felt crooked from the uneven weight in his pack, and his neck was red-raw from the sun and the chafing of his chain mail. He crunched into the charred bread and supped at his cool water. A good night’s sleep would help his body heal. Surely he was tired enough to stave off the nightmares tonight.

The crackling of the embers echoed endlessly between the sheer cliff walls, the flames casting dancing shadows up the rock faces. He felt his eyelids drooping, sighed and glanced across the many faces illuminated in orange seated nearby. Felix, Quadratus and Zosimus bore dark rings under their eyes from dehydration as they sipped endlessly from their skins. They only became animated when Quadratus prised off his boots, sniffed at one, then held it up to Zosimus’ face with a devious grin. Zosimus’ retching lasted almost as long as Felix’s laughter.

A few fires away, Carbo, Baptista and the Flavia Firma men seemed equally drawn. Given their fatigue, the men of the XI Claudia and the XVI Flavia Firma had spoken little since the battle with the camel raiders, but every man had fought for every other in that clash, and the animosity seemed to have faded. Baptista looked up at that moment, catching Pavo’s eye. The man’s lips grew thin and his nose wrinkled, then he gave an almost imperceptible nod. Grudging respect at last? Pavo wondered, nodding in reply.

The Maratocupreni warriors soon set down their armour and weapons and came to eat. They sat amongst the Romans in silence or quietly chattered amongst themselves, their charcoal locks hanging long and loose. They seemed a modest and affable people, very much in contrast to their battlefield demeanour. And the five hundred or so of them that had ridden to the rescue of the Roman column seemed to be the sum of their army. Bar the families and the few archers who had been left behind to guard the crevasse, this was all there was of the Maratocupreni. Pavo combed his memories — he was sure he had read of them before, but the detail remained elusive.

He heard a dull chatter from one of the recesses high up on the crevasse wall. The orange flame of a campfire danced there, and Pavo recognised the tones of Izodora, along with the jagged and clearly angered words of a pair of Maratocupreni elders. He saw Izodora stand, utter some clipped parting message, then turn away from the fire to descend the stairs to the valley floor. That will have been a wintry conversation no doubt, he mused with a hint of a grin as he watched her descend.

‘She’s pretty,’ Sura mused by his side, ‘but I bet she’d turn your cock to ice.’

Pavo was torn from his thoughts by this erudite observation. But indeed she was striking in her appearance, her almond eyes sharper than a blade. And her vixen-like, nimble hips moved gracefully. Like a strip of silk in the breeze. At that moment, he thought of the strip of red silk in his belt. Of Felicia. Guilt needled at his heart.

‘You’re thinking about it, you dirty bugger!’ Sura gawped in mock-disgust.

‘No, I was just. . ’ he shook his head clear of the thought.

‘Ach, not to worry,’ Sura shrugged and picked a morsel of bread from his teeth with a splinter of wood. ‘Felicia’s probably been at it every night back in Constantinople.’

Pavo bit back a riposte, then stood. ‘Right, I’m washing and then I’m calling it a night,’ he nodded to the area by the fires where some of the goatskin contubernia tents had been set up. He picked his way through the campfires and over to the green end of the valley and the spring. There, the moon had risen to dominate the narrow window of night sky above. The scent of the grass and the feel of it brushing on his feet momentarily allowed him to imagine he was in another land — far from the arid dust. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the cooling mizzle and fecund plains of Thracia. He cupped his hands under a jagged outcrop of rock and collected water from the trickling spring, then lashed it across his face and the dark stubble on his scalp. It soothed and calmed him, washing the last traces of dust from his skin. He gazed up at the moon and wondered if, somewhere out there, the moon gazed down upon Father. ‘Even if only to reclaim your bones, Father, I will find you.’

Sorrow stung behind his eyes and he turned away to go back to the tents. But he was stopped in his tracks. Izodora stood there, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

‘Forgive me, I assumed I could wash here?’ he stammered.

‘You did. You can,’ she replied dryly. ‘I’m just waiting on you to finish.’

Pavo looked over her shoulder to see that Habitus had found some last reserves of energy to play with a pair of Maratocupreni children. The little girl clasped one hand and the boy the other, while the beanpole legionary spun on the spot, lifting them and whirling them around. Their laughter was pleasant to his ear. ‘I don’t know what my tribunus said to you, but every one of these men is grateful for your coming to our rescue today. Had the camel raiders not cut us down, then thirst would have finished us.’

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.