Land of the Sacred Fire

Epilogue

Pavo sat cross-legged on the deck of the trireme as the small Roman fleet made its way up the Euphrates. The sail cast him in blessed shade and gulls echoed overhead. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed. It was late August, just two days since Shapur had let them leave in peace. They were many miles from that bloodied beach. But it all still felt so raw, so close.

He opened his eyes and looked across the deck. Zosimus sat there in the shade of the trireme side, scraping a sharpened dagger over his oil-soaked scalp. The last of his matted locks fell to the deck of the vessel and left him with his distinctive dark crop once more. ‘Mithras, the breeze on my scalp feels good,’ the big Thracian chuckled, then moved the blade to his brush-like beard, angling another well-polished dagger to see his reflection.

All of a sudden, Pavo felt his own overgrown locks and beard itchier than ever, the heat of the afternoon sun prickling on his skin. Yesterday, they had stopped off at a fishing village to bathe and wash off the worst of the battle-gore, but his hair was still matted with blood in places. He patted at his belt and cursed the absence of a dagger of his own.

Zosimus hesitated and looked up, as if hearing his thoughts. ‘You’ll get your turn,’ he frowned, then winked.

Pavo snorted. ‘It’ll be blunt by then.’

Just then, big Quadratus emerged from below deck, washed and with his jaw clean-shaven and his blonde moustache carefully groomed. He carried two cups and a half-loaf of bread underarm.

‘Ah, have we opened a fresh barrel of water?’ Pavo asked.

Quadratus snorted; ‘This isn’t water, lad!’

Pavo saw the frothy head on the drinks.

‘Haven’t had a drop in months — it’s going to taste sweet as honey!’ the big Gaul grinned, strolling over to sit by Zosimus, handing his fellow centurion a cup. Zosimus — still half-bearded — set down his shaving dagger at this and tore into the bread then gulped at the ale. In moments, Quadratus began recounting a tale from happier times; the day he had walked in on Felix, asleep in the barracks, mid-dream, groping and pelvic-thrusting at his pillow. Zosimus’ gruff laughter came with a spray of breadcrumbs. Then the pair fell silent, before raising their cups to their fallen friend, clashing them together then drinking more.

‘There’s more — a barrel-load, in fact,’ Quadratus called over to Pavo, nodding to the steps leading below deck. ‘Have one for Felix.’

Pavo nodded with a doleful smile. He stood and strolled along the deck towards the steps leading below deck. He stopped there, seeing Gallus standing alone at the prow, fingers working over the idol of Mithras as ever, his plumed intercisa held underarm. He thought to speak with the tribunus, but saw the white knuckles on the hand clutching the idol.

Every man needs time alone, he surmised.

He turned away then slipped below decks, pouring two generous cups of the ale. When he emerged back into the sunlight, he spotted Sura. His friend’s gaze hung on the pastel-blue skies and the gold and green banks of the river. Palms and brush clung to the water’s edge. Lowing camels, donkeys, carts and families traipsed along the pathways there, and the Persian villages were frequent, some open, others with basic fortifications and Median spearmen upon the battlements. But the lone Persian at the prow of the lead vessel called out as the fleet passed, announcing Shapur’s will to see the Roman ships go unharmed.

‘He could have had us killed there, or even now, at any point on this river,’ Sura muttered.

Pavo sat by his side, handing him a cup. ‘Shapur? Aye, he could have.’

Sura looked to him, his usual cheeky grin absent. ‘But we live on. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? We won’t die as old men, Pavo. One day we will perish like so many of our comrades have in these last years.’

Pavo held his gaze, seeing the first hint of tears in his friend’s eyes. This man was as close to a brother as he had ever known. For all the world he longed to embrace Sura, but a gruff chorus of laughter from Zosimus and Quadratus nearby ruled that out.

He looked to the hazy eastern horizon, slipping away as they voyaged upriver. He traced the leather bracelet Father had given him and recalled his dream from last night; Father in his prime, standing tall and bull-shouldered upon the green plains of Thracia, grinning broadly, happiness dancing in his eyes. A tear came to his eye now, too. He batted away the maudlin thoughts and grinned as his father had done.

‘Drink, Sura,’ he said, nudging his friend, ‘for tomorrow awaits us.’

Sura’s pensive air lifted, and he grinned from ear to ear, laughing aloud. He lifted his cup and clacked it to Pavo’s, then the pair gulped on the cool, sweet ale.

At the prow, Gallus’ thoughts swung this way and that. Behind closed eyes, he saw the grey, solemn faces of the hundreds who had died on this mission marching past him, gazing at him, their lifeless eyes asking him the same tacit question. Why do you live on?

His fingers worked the idol of Mithras, trembling, the knuckles white as he saw Felix march in their ranks. He clenched his eyes closed even tighter, seeking to be rid of the vision. Then he saw the one thing that was worse. Olivia and Marcus, pale, gaunt, reaching out to him. He reached out in reply, a faint warmth touching his heart. Their lips moved, over and over.

Why did you let us die?

The words were like a blade to his heart. The vision evaporated and he saw just the tumbling waters of the Euphrates ahead. His mind was blank, utterly blank for just a few heartbeats. Then he thought of Carbo’s portentous words.

Eventually, we all must face our past.

When night fell on the tenth day of the voyage upriver, they disembarked at an unguarded, rundown timber jetty on the western riverbank, some eighty miles due west of Antioch. Two filthy limitanei without helms or mail waited there to welcome them back into the empire. These two advised that a turma of equites would rendezvous with them thirty miles inland to escort them back to Antioch. The pair also offered the returning legionaries some pungent, grey and greasy-looking stew from a pot bubbling over a fire, but the offer was not taken up. Instead, the party set off across the dusty plain at once, their legs fresh after many days on the triremes.

Tribunus Varius and the sixty-eight surviving men of the Flavia Firma marched out ahead in a column. The five men of the XI Claudia followed, forming the sparsest of rearguards. Pavo, scalp and jaw freshly shorn, marched alongside Zosimus. Sura and Quadratus marched behind, and Gallus walked alone just ahead.

‘How far is the rendezvous, sir?’ Quadratus asked.

‘We’ll reach them by morning,’ Gallus called over his shoulder.

As the night wore on, Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura sparked some heated debate about who had cheated whom at dice the previous day.

Gallus barely broke his relentless stride as he cast an eye over his shoulder at this play-quarrel.

‘It seems they tire of peace already, sir,’ Pavo offered with a half-grin.

Gallus did not reply. Pavo frowned. The tribunus had cut a laconic figure in these last days, and seemed even more restless than usual. He strode forward to walk level, steadying his nerves. ‘Sir, we are back in the empire now,’ he nodded back over his shoulder. ‘The Persians, the Savaran — they are no threat to us here.’

At this, Gallus slowed a little, and his intense glower softened just a fraction. ‘The Savaran are the least of my concerns now.’

Pavo. ‘Sir?’

Gallus pursed his lips as if in consideration, then looked to him, the moonlight glinting in his eyes. ‘You found your father, Pavo, against all the odds. But in doing so, you lost him. Had we not set out to the east, he might have lived on.’

‘That is true. But it was worth everything,’ Pavo blurted out. The answer came straight from the heart. ‘Every step through the burning sands. Every lash of the whip in those mines. Every blade that scored my flesh. Father died saving me. He died a free man, knowing his son had walked the world to save him.’ A tear darted down his cheek before he could stop it. ‘I faced the past. The nightmares are gone.’

Gallus’ gaze grew intense. ‘You faced the past and you found your father. Carbo faced his past and found some form of atonement in saving us. And that is what spurs me on, lad. The past. That is why I know where my next destination must be.’

‘Sir?’ Pavo frowned.

Gallus beheld him earnestly for a moment. Words seemed to play on his lips.

Then a shout pierced the night air.

‘The riders!’

Gallus and Pavo looked up. A cloud of dust approached from the west, ethereal in the moonlight. This was more than just a turma of equites. Another three turmae rode with them, wearing white tunics, bearing gilded spears.

‘Candidati?’ Gallus gasped, stepping forward.

‘Aye, and equites sagitarii outriders too,’ Pavo frowned, seeing the scale-clad Roman cavalry archers riding wide of the main party to screen them from any ambush.

The candidati slowed before the returning legionaries. The riders parted to reveal Emperor Valens, saddled on a black stallion. He was dressed in white, his shoulders wrapped in a purple cloak and he wore a battle helm crested with a magnificent purple plume. His expression was grave.

‘Tribunus Gallus,’ Valens barked.

‘Emperor!’ Gallus saluted.

‘The outrider you despatched reached me some days ago. Is it true? The scroll cannot save us?’ Valens asked.

Gallus drew the scroll from his robe and handed it to Valens. ‘Regrettably so, Emperor.’

Valens’ brow knitted as he scanned the scroll, then his eyes glazed over as he reached the last lines. ‘Then the east is at the mercy of Shapur.’

‘No, Emperor. I bear no treaty to confirm this, but I suspect Shapur will not encroach upon imperial lands in the coming years,’ Gallus offered. ‘He has enough troubles in his own realm.’

Valens frowned. ‘You know this, how?’

Gallus opened his mouth to speak, then glanced to Quadratus, Zosimus and Sura behind him, then finally to Pavo. ‘It is a long story, Emperor.’

Valens’ mount shuffled in impatience and the emperor nodded, noting the condition of these men he had sent out east, months ago. ‘You will tell me about it as we ride back to Antioch and then when we set sail for Constantinople at haste.’ He clapped his hands and the candidati led forward a pack of five riderless mounts.

Pavo noticed the tension in Valens’ words.

‘There is trouble in Thracia, Emperor?’ Gallus asked.

‘Aye, Tribunus,’ he said, his gaze darkening. ‘The Gothic War rages like never before. The barbarian tribes are pouring over the River Danubius unchecked. . and the Huns come in their thousands. Our defences are creaking. Thracia and Dalmatia are on the brink. If those provinces collapse, then Constantinople itself is under threat.’

A chill danced across Pavo’s skin. He glanced to Sura, Quadratus and Zosimus — each of them with families dotted around Thracia. He thought of Felicia, alone in Constantinople. As one, they looked to their tribunus.

Gallus’ steely-blue eyes glinted in the moonlight. ‘XI Claudia, mount!’ he said, then cast a stern gaze to the moon. ‘Mithras, spirit us west at haste!’

They journeyed throughout the night without rest. Pavo rode in silence, sadness lacing his blood as he felt Father slipping away into his memories. It was near dawn when he glanced down to the leather bracelet one more time. At that moment, he realised it was tied inside out. With a dry chuckle, he looped his mount’s reins around one arm, undid and inverted the bracelet and made to tie it on again. His fingers froze though, and his mount slowed, falling behind the pack.

‘Pavo?’ Sura hissed over his shoulder, slowing too.

Pavo barely heard his friend. His heart crashed as if readying for battle as he read the faded words etched into the leather again and again. Father’s words.

Numerius Vitellius Pavo, Hostus Vitellius Dexion. Every beat of my heart is for you, my sons.