Land of the Sacred Fire

Chapter 8

It was mid-afternoon on the third day after leaving imperial lands, and all signs of life were gone. Utterly gone. No birdsong, no chattering of cicadas, not a dot of greenery to be seen. In every direction, the shimmering horizon offered only the infinite burnt-gold flats of the Syrian Desert and an unbroken azure sky. Now only the crunch-crunch of boots on arid dust, dry gasps from parched mouths and the occasional angry groaning of the camel train could be heard. The water skins that had been filled to brimming at Palmyra were now empty or sloshing with soupy, brackish dregs. Even the camels seemed near-defeated by the ferocious heat.

Pavo’s ankles had rubbed free of skin on the first day after leaving Palmyra and were now wrapped in linen batting. Yet the dust still seemed to find its way inside his boots and armour, clinging to the sweat underneath and scraping on his flesh. And his head felt like a baking loaf of bread inside his intercisa.

Up ahead, Gallus was in conversation with Carbo and Yabet. Carbo seemed to be insistent on one route, jabbing his finger at a spot on the map, while Yabet protested and tapped another. Pavo saw Gallus’ eyes narrow on each of them. The man trusted few, and these two were strangers. At last, the tribunus made his choice, issuing a terse command. At this, the aquilifer hoisted the legionary banner and the column veered a little to the south.

‘Water or shelter, do you reckon?’ Zosimus asked in a hushed tone.

Pavo winced as the collar of his mailshirt touched his neck once more, singeing his skin. ‘Both, I hope.’

They marched on until late afternoon. Pavo ran his tongue across his lips, each as dry as a dead toad. He patted his water skin, knowing there was but two mouthfuls left in it. If he was to drink it now then. . he looked up to the featureless horizon before them. No, not featureless.

‘Hold on,’ he croaked. ‘We’re outside imperial territory, aye?’

Sura and Zosimus nodded in reply.

‘Then what’s that?’ he pointed ahead.

Sura and Zosimus followed his outstretched finger. In the heat haze ahead, a shimmering, limestone hump spoiled the flat skyline. A murmur of interest broke out across the ranks. As they marched closer, it took shape as a structure, some kind of fortlet. It was small, barely one hundred feet long and broad.

‘It’s imperial!’ Felix said.

Pavo and every other man in the column shielded their eyes from the sun, eager to catch sight of some legionary garrison on the battlements.

Zosimus chuckled, clapping and rubbing his shovel-hands together. ‘Water, shade. . the lot!’

But Pavo did not share his centurion’s enthusiasm. He saw Tribunus Gallus’ eyes dart from the fortlet to the map, an intense frown knitting his brow. The men at the quadriburgia and those in Palmyra had made no mention of outlying encampments.

Just then, the haze fell away and the reality of the structure sharpened before them. The walls were deserted and crumbling, sections of the battlements having toppled into heaps of rubble around the base. The gateway bore a thick, dark crack above its arch, and the desiccated, shattered remnants of the gates hung ajar from bent hinges. Atop the gatehouse, the remnants of some banner remained — a dry pole with a torn, sun-bleached rag hanging limply. A collective sigh poured from the column. The place had been long abandoned.

Carbo was first to speak. He cast a hand towards the fortlet. ‘This would once have served as a waystation of sorts, to supply and shelter troops heading from Syria to the banks of the Euphrates and to provide early warning of Persian attacks. It would have housed maybe a turma of equites and a few auxiliaries, so there could still be supplies inside.’

This elicited little enthusiasm from the column.

‘Aye, fifty year old hard tack? Mmmm,’ Sura whispered to Pavo, rubbing his belly sarcastically.

They marched into the fort in silence. Inside was as derelict as out. A half-collapsed timber stable in one corner was near-buried in a build-up of dust. A flaking saddle, a splintered spear shaft and a dented trough lay long discarded nearby. A small limestone cistern stood near the stable. It bore a crack down one side. Felix strode forward to draw his spatha and bash the hilt upon the cistern. The noise was only part-echo. The primus pilus shot a look round to the column. A look of hope. He slid his spatha blade into the crack in the side, and shook the blade to antagonise the fissure. The stonework barely moved if at all, but the motion was enough to release a portion of the cistern’s contents.

Dust.

It poured onto the ground and billowed up, over Felix and across the watching ranks. It seemed all this fort had to offer was shade, Pavo realised, the dust clinging to his tongue. A cool place to contemplate their thirst.

Just then, a frantic shuffling sounded from behind them. As one, the column spun round to the southern end of the fortlet, hands going to spatha hilts, spears clenched tightly. The small barrack block there ran the length of the wall. It was nearly roofless and the colonnaded porch area ruined, with empty bird nests along the tops of few still standing columns. The structure had two doorways, one at either end. From inside the barrack building, the shuffling noise sounded again.

Nobody spoke. All hands clamped tighter on their spears.

Gallus nodded to Zosimus and Pavo. Pavo slid a shield from the back of the nearest camel. The pair stepped from their positions and stalked towards the nearest doorway into the building. Meanwhile, Carbo nodded for Baptista and one of his legionaries to move towards the far doorway.

Pavo drew his spatha as he approached, eyes peering over the tip of his shield. Zosimus crouched beside him, part-protected by Pavo’s shield, holding his spear up so the tip hovered at gut level. All he could see inside was a blackness cast by the remaining portion of roof, and his eyes strained to adapt to this after hours of constant, glaring sun. His heart rapped on his ribs as he edged under the doorway. He knew just how swiftly a long, tiring march could be transformed into the chaos of battle. He had been caught in many Gothic ambushes in Thracia — and they always started like this. A scream and a flash of iron was usually all the warning the attackers would afford. But here the Goths were a distant trouble. Here, Persia and her allies were at large. He shared an affirmative glance with Zosimus, then the pair lurched into the building.

Nothing.

His vision sharpened, and he saw the skeletal frames of legionary bunks and the black stain of a hearth. Another shuffle sounded in the next room. He and Zosimus shared a tacit affirmation once more. They stalked towards the next doorway then leapt through, spatha and spear readied to strike. At the same time, two silhouetted figures leapt towards them from the far end. Panic struck both he and Zosimus. He hefted his spatha high and the big Thracian lunged forward with his spear. The pair before them leapt forwards likewise. But they halted at the last, blades inches from flesh, the identities of the pair revealed in the gloom.

Baptista and his man panted, the snarling expressions on their faces blackly reminiscent of that night at the tavern in Antioch. Baptista’s spatha edge hovered next to Pavo’s throat, his glare baleful. Then their shoulders sagged. Each man stowed their weapons and stood tall. The four looked around the room, and quickly located the source of the shuffling.

The pair of vultures scuffing around on the floor suddenly realised they were not alone. In a flurry of wings and feathers, they took flight with haste and their muse was revealed. A skeleton bearing the last traces of a legionary tunic lay slumped against the wall. A leather sword belt and scabbard remained tied around the waist, absurdly oversized given the wearer’s present condition. The skull grinned back at the four.

‘Well if you won’t eat your hard tack. . ’ Zosimus muttered dryly.

The four remained in silence until the grinding of a boot on the dusty floor behind jolted each of them.

Gallus had entered the derelict barrack room. He eyed the skeleton with disdain, then looked around the four. ‘Have the men fall out. Post four sentries to each wall. We make camp here for the night.’

As the sun fell below the horizon, the legionaries erected the last of the goatskin tents around the floor of the broken fortlet. Each contubernium of eight men kindled a fire and soon plumes of sweet wood smoke puffed lazily into the still night air and firelight danced on the inner walls of the small compound. The men sipped carefully at the dregs of water in their skins, then settled by their tents to prepare portions of bread, salted beef and cheese. Pavo and Sura sat cross-legged outside their contubernium tent, tucking into their meals and then sipping on their skins, supplemented with a few swigs of the rich soured wine.

‘I could drink two skins of water right now, without stopping for breath,’ Sura croaked dryly.

Quadratus and Felix wandered over, the little Greek tossing a pair of dice in his hands. ‘Anyone fancy losing some coins?’ he winked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to Yabet, who followed him. ‘This one does, apparently.’

Pavo shuffled round for the pair to sit, then Zosimus and a few others came over too. They bantered in muted tones as they played, taking their minds off their nagging thirsts. Each man took a turn to tell a story. Some were humourous, some ribald, and others simple tales of family life back home. Then it came to Pavo.

‘Come on then — you’ve always got something to say. Tell us what you know about Persia,’ Zosimus flicked a finger in his direction.

Pavo felt all eyes fall upon him. He thought back to his days in Constantinople, before legionary life, and his snatched reading sessions in the library. A chill danced up his spine as he remembered one particular text. It depicted a man, misshapen and splayed out on some frame. ‘About a hundred years ago, Emperor Valerian fought the Persians. His army was overcome and he was left with no option but to surrender to Shahanshah Shapur — a forefather of Shapur II. Whole legions surrendered with him. The king of kings had them marched into Persian territory. Many were harnessed like oxen on the Persian farms, others were sent into the mines and some were put to work in building Bishapur, a new city for the shahanshah.’

‘What of Valerian though?’ Felix asked, sucking on his water skin.

Pavo looked round to see the faces of his comrades, each hanging on his next words. ‘The shahanshah kept him hostage in the palace at Bishapur, forcing him to watch the enslaved legionaries build the new city around it.’

‘Not so bad,’ Zosimus curled his bottom lip. ‘Bit of wine, plenty of women?’

Pavo cocked an eyebrow. ‘Aye, you would think so. But living in a palace doesn’t mean living like a king. Some say Shapur sought to humiliate him, forcing him to kneel and act as a footstool. Then one day, bad news reached the shahanshah from one of his borders. A Kushan tribe had revolted, slain a wing of his army and sacked the cities there. Nobody knows for sure what happened, but some say that Shapur flew into a rage, taking up a shamshir and hacking down slaves. Finally, he turned upon Valerian. . ‘

‘He cut the emperor down?’ Quadratus guessed, his nose wrinkling.

Pavo shook his head. ‘No, it was far worse. Shapur ordered him skinned alive.’ Gasps of disgust rang out around the fire. ‘Some believe his skin still hangs in that palace in Bishapur, like a trophy.’ Silence hung over the group, nobody quite sure what to say.

‘Well thanks for that,’ Zosimus uttered at last, eyes wide. ‘Next time we want a gentle story before turning in, I’ll be sure to ask someone else.’

Pavo shrugged, ready to defend his tale. But before he could speak, a baritone drone split the air. A chill danced up Pavo’s spine as all heads darted this way and that. Then they saw the source; on the other side of the fort, Centurion Carbo led Baptista and his men in prayer. He stood with his head bowed and his hands clasped. The rest of the men faced him, kneeling, hands clasped and heads bowed. Pavo noticed that the men of the Flavia Firma had yet to touch the food they had prepared.

Yabet was first to comment; ‘Still haunting, no matter how many times you hear it, eh?’

Pavo nodded. The Christian legionaries had prayed like this most nights, and more so on Sundays. He was intrigued by the looks of devotion on the faces of Baptista and those with him, eyes closed, expressions sombre. But when he looked to Carbo, he saw the centurion’s eyes were open, staring, lost in some memory. In a flash, Carbo’s eyes met with Pavo’s, as if realising he was being watched, then he quickly averted his gaze and returned to prayer. Pavo frowned. After weeks of being in Carbo’s company, the man was still a guarded and nervous figure.

Felix also watched the ritual. ‘Mithras is with us, and let’s hope their God is too,’ he commented pensively, flicking a finger up to the east. ‘We’ll need gods and more on our side, out there.’

Nobody spoke for a moment, all eyes looking up above the eastern fort wall as the prayer reverberated around them.

‘Mithras’ll do for me,’ Quadratus broke the silence and then emitted a gurgling belch that seemed to last an eternity. The men’s frowns melted into smiles and chuckling.

‘That’s how it usually starts, before the farting,’ Zosimus muttered, flicking his head towards the big Gaul, ‘I just hope Mithras is with the poor bastards in his tent.’

‘Hmm?’ Quadratus frowned, sucking a string of meat from his teeth.

‘Nothing,’ Zosimus replied with a chuckle.

Yabet turned to Quadratus and said innocently; ‘Perhaps you should sleep with the tent flap open tonight, no?’

Quadratus looked puzzled momentarily, then realised he was being made fun of again. He tossed down his water skin and gestured for Felix to throw him the dice. ‘Right, I’m in — I’m going to empty this cheeky little bugger’s purse.’

‘Ah, the familiar, brave words of the many whom I have gone on to relieve of their gold,’ Yabet grinned. The gathering legionaries cackled at this, which only seemed to infuriate Quadratus further.

They played dice around the fire until night brought with it a pitch-black sky splashed with an infinite speckling of stars. While the gathering of the XI Claudia men was warm and jovial, most of the men of the XVI Flavia Firma had doused their fires and retired to their tents already, bar the handful on watch atop the crumbled battlements. Pavo looked up from the gathering and noticed Gallus, standing alone at the south-eastern corner of the fortlet walls, looking to the horizon. And at the north-eastern corner, Carbo stood alone, his gaze lost in the ground before him.

‘What do you make of him?’ Sura mused, following his gaze.

Pavo looked Sura in the eye. ‘He served with my father, told me of his past but. . I don’t know, I can’t read him.’

Sura sighed and nodded. ‘Well I think we’ve learned in these last years to be wary of strangers.’

Pavo’s expression darkened. He noticed that Carbo seemed to be muttering to himself incessantly. ‘Aye, hard times and hard lessons.’

The faintest trace of a cool breeze danced over their skins.

Pavo found sleep hard to come by. Every fleeting moment of drowsiness was torn away by the first flashes of that nightmare of Father, buried below the sands. When Sura erupted in a grating chorus of snoring, Pavo gave up, slid from his cot and made for the tent flap.

Outside, the desert air was pleasantly cool — some of the sentries on the walls had even drawn their cloaks around their shoulders as they looked out across the darkness. A few men trudged to and from the latrines — a hole dug in the corner of the fortlet. But there were two figures atop the walls who looked as if they had not moved since sunset. Gallus and Carbo, at adjacent corners.

Pavo looked to each of them in turn, then climbed the stone steps towards his tribunus. ‘All quiet out there, eh, sir?’ He offered tentatively as he approached.

‘Indeed, I don’t like it,’ Gallus replied dryly without breaking his eastwards gaze.

‘I can take over your shift, sir, if you like? I have little chance of sleeping anyway.’

‘I’m not on shift,’ Gallus muttered. ‘And sleep and I tend to be at odds at the best of times.’

Pavo smiled at this, though only because he knew the tribunus could not see him. He made to lift his nearly empty water skin to offer Gallus some, then hesitated and replaced it; the man ate and drank as rarely as he slept. Apart from military matters, Gallus spoke with few, and few knew how to speak with him. The silence grew brittle and suddenly Pavo felt conscious of invading Gallus’ solitude. ‘Good night, sir,’ he said, then turned to leave.

‘I know what keeps you awake, lad. I heard you talking with Carbo in Antioch — at the tavern,’ Gallus said, halting Pavo in his step. ‘I understand that finding out what happened to your father must dominate your every thought. But this scroll we seek, it means everything to the empire. Do you realise just what might happen if we fail to find it?’

Pavo turned, gulping. He felt the outline of the phalera on his chest. ‘Sir, you can rely on me. I wouldn’t jeopardise the lives of the men for anything.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Gallus twisted round, one eyebrow cocked. ‘Wouldn’t you do anything — just to be rid of the nightmares that plague you?’

Pavo felt pinned by the tribunus’ glower.

Then, mercifully, Gallus sighed and his shoulders relaxed. He sat on the tip of the walls, facing Pavo, then held out a hand. ‘And yes, I’ll have a pull on that water, if you have enough to spare. We need more, and soon, but damn, I’m thirsty.’

Pavo gingerly stepped over to sit beside him, pulling the cork from the skin, taking a modest swig then handing it over. Gallus sipped at it, his gaze distant as if it had taken him back to some time in the past. A silence passed between them.

‘What you said to Carbo, back at the tavern; about seizing upon the slimmest of hopes,’ he hesitated, plugging the cork back in the skin and searching for the words. ‘I can tell you that I would do the same.’ He sighed and looked up to the stars. ‘Indeed, just to have the chance would be some comfort.’

Pavo frowned. Few knew anything of Gallus’ past. Even those he trusted like brothers in the XI Claudia; Felix, Zosimus and Quadratus knew little of the man inside the iron carapace. But there was one who had known something. His thoughts spun back to the gore-sodden plain of Ad Salices, only months ago, when he had held the dying Optio Avitus in his arms. Avitus’ last words had remained lodged in Pavo’s thoughts, and he had never summoned the courage to share them with the man they concerned.

‘Avitus told you, didn’t he?’ Gallus said suddenly.

Startled, Pavo was lost for a reply.

‘Come on, lad. You’re rarely short of words,’ Gallus said.

Pavo’s thoughts spun. Doubt needled on his lips as he summoned the words. ‘Sir, he told me he was a speculatore, an assassin, a man sent into the legion to. . ’ his breath dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting around, ‘. . to kill you.’

Gallus nodded, his lips taut. ‘And by Mithras he turned out to be one of my best men.’

The pair shared a silence, both thinking of their lost comrade. The man had shunned his life as an assassin and fought like a lion in the Claudia ranks. His last words had never made sense to Pavo. ‘Why was he sent after you, sir?’ he asked tentatively.

‘He was an assassin, lad. Just as you were once a slave. Just as I was once. . ’ his words trailed off and he gazed eastwards again, shaking his head. ‘Everyone has a past, Pavo. We all make choices. Every day. You are young, and your biggest choices lie ahead.’ He pushed the water skin back into Pavo’s hand. ‘While some of us have to live with the past, the black choices we made and cannot undo.’

Pavo saw for the first time a glassiness in Gallus’ eyes. But almost as soon as it was there, it was gone again. Gallus’ face wrinkled and he shook his head, the steely glare returning.

‘Don’t trouble yourself with my maudlin words,’ he said, standing, offering Pavo an arm. ‘Think only of your legion and what lies ahead. Try to get some sleep if you can. Tomorrow, another day of hard marching awaits us.’

Pavo clasped Gallus’ arm and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Aye, sir.’

The pair parted and Pavo made his way back down into the fort, glancing over to his tent. Then he again noticed Centurion Carbo, still on his own at the other corner of the battlements. Pavo wondered if the haggard centurion found sleep difficult too. He considered then if it would be the time to approach him and talk with him more. Perhaps he could tell him of the nightmare of Father. Aye,sleep can wait, Pavo thought, ascending the steps nearest. Barefoot, he made little noise as he ascended. Then he heard a sibilant whisper. Carbo was still muttering to himself. The same thing over and over again. A cold finger of realisation traced its way up his spine. The centurion was speaking Parsi, the language of the Persians, the language of his one-time captors. Pavo backed away, confused, picking his way back to his tent.

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.’

A thunderstorm raged over Bishapur, bringing with it precious rain. Ramak stood silent and unnoticed in the doorway of the grand hall of the Palace. He toyed with the silver dirham, a blaze of lightning tearing across the sky, bringing the coin’s temple motif to life and lighting his eyes like a fire. He looked from the coin and into the hall. Three tall arches opened up the north wall of the high-vaulted chamber, offering a panoramic vista of the night sky and myriad guttering torches from the lower city, spread out below and cowering under the tempest.

The floor of the grand hall was crowded with finery and the spoils of war. Fine sculptures, ancient shields and ornate pottery. Then there was a line of suits of armour from spahbads past. Many of them had lived and died as his puppet, he enthused. At that moment, his eyes settled on the lone, ox-like figure standing at the end of this line, by his father’s armour. Spahbad Tamur gazed through the arches and into the night. He was muttering to himself, or perhaps to his dead father. Doubts, fears. I have conditioned him well, Ramak thought. Fear will keep this oaf by my side. Then, when my ambitions are realised, I can dispense with him as I did his father. . then perhaps I can bring his son to heel?

So little stood in the way of his ambitions now. There was just the splinter in the flesh that was Emperor Valens’ desperate bid to find the lost scroll. He looked back down to the coin and grinned. That ember of Roman resistance would be snuffed out soon enough.