Empire of Dragons

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Severus bowed his head and began: ‘Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum . . .’

  When he finished, Metellus prayed as well: ‘God of the Christians, receive my valorous soldier, gladden his vision with your light, because he has died in darkness and the darkness would renew his death for all time to come.’ He turned to his dead soldier: ‘You will be buried, as you deserve.’

  He glanced around to make sure that no one was watching, then gathered up a handful of sand. He sprinkled it over Aemilius’s body as a ritual burial. ‘Sit tibi terra levis, Aemili . . .’ he murmured, and instantly, in his mind’s eye, saw his hand scattering dust over Clelia’s ashen face and he could not hold back his tears.

  The time had come: he signalled to his men, and they tilted the litter towards the gorge, letting the corpse fall inside. They saw him bounce like a disjointed puppet off the hard rock walls and finally crash to the ground with a dull thud.

  They looked at each other and read the same question in the others’ reddened and weary eyes: who would be next to fly into the ravine?

  As they returned to camp, Metellus drew close to Severus. He was thirty-five years old and had served the legion for fifteen, all with an honourable mention.

  ‘Were you really once a Christian?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, why aren’t you any more?’

  ‘Because I think that the Christians will change us to the point of making us incapable of defending ourselves and fighting.’

  ‘And you don’t think that someone can be a good combatant and a good Christian at the same time?’

  ‘In theory you can, but in reality, no. Each one of us, I believe, would like to give up his arms, but who wants to be first? Act like a sheep and the wolf will eat you, that’s what they say in my parts.’

  ‘Mine too,’ agreed Metellus.

  ‘What’s more, desiring revenge is forbidden for a Christian. You have to forgive your enemies. Can you believe that? What do you think is keeping me alive, Commander? I’m nursing my hate, and it’s growing with every hour that passes, and one day I hope to get my hands around one of these jailers, even if just for a few moments . . .’

  ‘That’s fine, soldier. Anything that keeps you alive is fine. Hold on to your life tooth and nail. Our time will come, if we are tough enough, bold enough, patient enough. We Romans have a strength that the whole world envies, the strength that has made it possible for us to beat any people we’ve come up against. It’s our virtus. And it’s only when we forget it that we can be beaten.’

  They continued walking until they came within sight of the camp. The night-shift guards were already in the saddle and were patrolling the area on horseback.

  Severus stopped a moment. ‘Commander.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will we get out of here?’

  ‘A year has passed and most of us are still alive. That’s extraordinary in itself. I think . . . yes, I think we’ll make it.’

  ‘Do you mean that they’ll pay a ransom to free us?’

  Metellus looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m afraid not, soldier. I’m afraid too much time has gone by. If they had wanted to ransom us, we’d be out by now. We have to rely on ourselves.’

  By now the others had clustered around as well.

  ‘Do you mean to say you have a plan, Commander?’

  Metellus was reluctant to lie to his men, who trusted him blindly, but nonetheless he said in a firm voice, ‘Yes, I have a plan.’

  When they reached their shack, they were greeted by a hoarse rasping. The emperor was lying on his straw bedding, racked with fever and struggling to draw his breath.

  ‘Martianus,’ called Metellus.

  Martianus approached and knelt down next to the emperor. He was not a doctor, but he had been a camp orderly for many years. He touched the emperor’s brow and said, ‘He’s burning up.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Metellus in a worried voice.

  ‘It’s the change in temperature: it’s torrid during the day and freezing at night. You come out of the mine dripping sweat and the highland winds cut you in two.’

  ‘What can we do for him?’

  ‘We need woollen blankets, something hot to drink, steam to open his lungs.’

  Valerian opened his eyes. ‘Don’t worry about me. Death would be a liberation. Do nothing to save my life. You would only prolong my agony.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Caesar, there’s nothing we can do,’ replied Metellus, ‘but that won’t stop us from trying, because none of us believes that your time has come.’

  Martianus dried his forehead and gave him a little water to drink. He put an ear to his chest and listened for a while to the grating hiss of his breathing. ‘Try to sleep, Caesar,’ he said, and then turned to the others. ‘If each of you will give me a little straw from your litters, I can cover him and keep him warmer.’

  The others began to gather straw, but Uxal stopped them with a jerk of his hand. He opened the door a crack and looked out. ‘They’ll be here any moment to lock the shackles,’ he said. ‘If they don’t chain me up, maybe I can find a blanket. It’s risky, but I’ll try.’

  A cold wind had risen and was whistling between the planks. The men shivered and pulled their threadbare rags close.

  The guard arrived and threaded the chain through the rings on the prisoners’ ankles but left Uxal unshackled. They considered the old man a collaborator and gave him some freedom of movement. When the guard had gone, Uxal waited until night had fallen and then slipped out. He came back shortly with a sheepskin.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘this will keep him warm enough.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Metellus. ‘I won’t forget this.’

  The wind picked up even stronger and the men huddled together, tugging at their chains, for a bit of warmth.

  Metellus was next to Valerian and close enough to put a hand to his brow. He could feel him trembling and hear his teeth chattering under the sheepskin, and he suffered greatly knowing that there was nothing he could do to alleviate his emperor’s misery.

  ‘This winter seems to be much colder than last,’ he whispered to Uxal. ‘How will we protect ourselves?’

  ‘Sometimes they hand out covers or sheepskins, but I have no idea what they’ll do with you. I don’t know what instructions they’ve had.’

  ‘Do you mean to say they’ll let us freeze to death in this hole?’

  Uxal sighed. ‘I can’t rule it out.’

  Metellus thought of his distant home, of the long nights when he slept beside Clelia, and he was flooded by memories of the warmth of her body and the fragrance of her hair. He thought of when he used to go to tuck in his son in the bedroom next to theirs, sleeping under the protection of a little golden amulet than hung from the wall. His heart ached. He felt his strength draining away and feared that discouragement would get the better of him and leech away the energy he needed to go on.

  Severus’s voice made him jump. ‘Commander, you said you had a plan. Do you? Will you get us out of this hole?’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Balbus. ‘Can’t you see how ill the emperor is?’

  ‘Let’s worry now about how we can take care of him,’ replied Metellus. ‘Maybe Uxal can bargain for more humane conditions. But when the time comes, yes . . . I’ll get you out of here.’

  ‘You’ve promised,’ said Rufus.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Metellus. ‘Yes, I promise you. But now we have to make sure the emperor gets better. We won’t go without him.’

  They all fell silent, because their commander’s last words somehow negated the first. How could he keep such a promise? How could they escape with a man reduced to such a sorry state?

  Valerian was burning with fever and delirious, calling out words without meaning and then drifting into unconsciousness. His breath was getting shorter and shorter, a laborious whistle that was becoming a death hiss.

  At dawn, Metellus turned to Uxal. ‘This man cannot be made to work today.
He can’t even stand up.’

  ‘I know,’ replied the old man.

  ‘Do you think they’ll let him rest?’

  ‘You’re asking me? I’ve never found myself in a similar situation.’

  ‘Help me. Talk to the guard.’

  ‘I’ll try. But we have nothing to offer him. Only something to ask. Why should he listen to us?’

  ‘I don’t know why, blast it! But you try, all right? Try, damn you!’ shouted Metellus.

  Uxal muttered something to himself, then said, ‘There’s no need to raise your voice. You won’t resolve much that way. I only hope I come up with an idea before that son of a bitch enters and opens the lock.’

  He got up, went over to the emperor and took a long look. Valerian was deadly pale, his eyes black-rimmed and hollow. His body was covered with bruises, his hair filthy and clotted with dust and sweat. Uxal gave a sigh.

  At that moment the door creaked open and the guard appeared. He bellowed something in his own language and opened the padlock, pulling the chain from the rings. Uxal muttered something back and the other replied with a shrug. Uxal insisted in a calm and rather detached tone, as if he were merely explaining something.

  The man replied with a short grunt and then turned towards Valerian and gave him an oblique look. He turned to Uxal again and spat out a few words.

  Metellus shot the old man a questioning look and was answered by a slight nod.

  They were soon at the mine entrance, while Valerian had been left behind on his straw bed in the shack.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ asked Metellus.

  ‘I said that if he forced Valerian to go down into the mine, he would be responsible for his death and that the spirit of a dead emperor becomes very vengeful and wicked, and would make him die the most abominable death a Persian can imagine: being buried alive in the mine.’

  ‘And he believed you?’

  ‘Maybe not. But why should he take a risk? It’s not going to cost him anything; I promised him he’d have the same quantity of turquoise tonight anyway.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you. I only hope to be able to pay you back one day for what you’ve done for us.’

  ‘I haven’t done much, but I quite like the thought of dispensing favours to an emperor. Doesn’t happen every day.’

  ‘No, I’d say not,’ agreed Metellus.

  Balbus and Quadratus organized the working day so that in the evening the quantity of turquoise would be as much as the whole lot of them had produced together, and of the best quality to boot. They laboured without a pause so there would be no delay at the moment of weighing and they could get back to their shack as soon as possible. Metellus was especially bothered by the thought of the emperor all alone and feverish in that stinking hovel.

  And bothered by the thought of his son, which never left him. He wondered whether Titus was thinking of him as well, or had given him up for dead. Merely imagining such a thing made him suffer unbearably.

  The worst hours were the last; their muscles, aching with strain and riddled with cramp, no longer responded and every movement required immense effort.

  When the time came to be lifted to the surface, Metellus and his men were there for the weighing; the material was well over the required quantity, and of excellent quality as well. No one stopped them from returning to their hut; on the contrary, from the way the guards were speaking, Uxal understood that they were quite satisfied. He began to realize that his friends might survive.

  ‘Did you know the yields would be so high?’ he asked Metellus.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you knocked yourself out just to make your jailers happy.’

  ‘No. I’m trying to get them to understand that it’s worth their while to keep us alive, because we ensure better profits than the others.’

  ‘Hmmm . . . simple, but effective. In fact, it’s the only reason for them to keep you alive. But I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep up such a rate.’

  ‘They might even decide to feed us better.’

  ‘Forget that,’ replied Uxal.

  But the old man was wrong this time: the rations tasted better that night, and were more abundant. And there was bread along with the soup, for the first time.

  Metellus tried to get Valerian to eat something, with no success. The emperor’s condition had worsened. He was soaked with cold sweat and gasping for breath. His heartbeat was accelerated and his whole body seemed beset by unbearable fatigue.

  Metellus consulted with Martianus. ‘What do you think?’

  Martianus shook his head doubtfully. ‘He might go on a few days, but he may not even last the night.’

  Uxal interrupted them. ‘You know, I’ve had an idea. It struck me out of the blue.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Metellus.

  ‘You know that pit that we throw the cadavers into?’

  ‘We were just there.’

  ‘Well, in theory that gully is the bed of a stream which is dry practically all year. I’m not sure where it comes from; the mountains, I suppose. Now, when it rains hard up there or at the end of winter when the snow up on the peaks melts, the gully is sometimes flooded with water. For just a few days, or even just hours, that dry gorge turns into a dark, raging torrent that rushes between the rock walls and boils over the boulders at the bottom. It carries away everything. When the water stops flowing the bottom is clean: no more bodies rotting in the sun, no more bones and skulls laughing in your face with their jaws gaping.’

  ‘I can’t see where you’re going with this story,’ said Quadratus with a snort.

  ‘Nowhere in particular,’ retorted Uxal. ‘It’s just that something happened to me once while I was down in the mine during one of those floods and I was wondering if . . .’

  ‘Gods!’ broke in Metellus. ‘Shut up, will you? Can’t you see how ill he is?’

  Valerian’s breath came in a weak rattle, his emaciated chest rising and falling, stretching the skin over his ribs and breastbone. His eyes were glassy and he seemed unconscious.

  Metellus got as close to him as the chains allowed and he realized the emperor was trying to say something. ‘I’m here, Caesar,’ he said, taking his hand.

  ‘You must return, Marcus Metellus . . . you must return . . .’

  ‘Not without you.’

  ‘No, it’s over, you know that. My son has abandoned me . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that . . . We don’t know that, Caesar . . . You mustn’t lose heart. You must try to get well. We’ll help you.’

  ‘I have no breath, son . . .’

  Metellus started at that epithet, which the emperor had never used with him in all these years. He knew that the words they were about to exchange would be words of truth. No more piteous lies.

  ‘Listen to me . . .’ continued Valerian. ‘Gallienus does not have the strength to govern alone. He will let himself be swayed by the Christians. The army will rebel against him . . . You must return and save the empire from disintegration. Promise me . . . promise this to a dying man.’

  ‘I promise you. I will leave nothing untried to obey your orders.’

  ‘Throw my body in the pit and think of nothing but this promise. The rain will wash me and the wind will bury me . . .’ Tears streamed down his hollow cheeks. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said, with great effort. ‘I should have known. But a father’s heart is blind, understand?’

  ‘Do not torment yourself, Caesar. Your suffering will soon be over. Your ancestors are ready to receive you. Free your soul of anxiety, lift your spirit. You are about to become a god and to your shade we shall offer sacrifice in our homeland, under the skies of Italy. I swear to you.’

  For a moment only the hiss of the wind between the cracks in the planks could be heard, and then even the wind seemed to die down. In that unreal silence the voice of Marcus Metellus Aquila rang out: ‘The emperor is dead.’

  6

  BEFORE DAWN UXAL LEFT the shack and went to talk in secret with th
e head of the guards. ‘Their emperor is dead.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘During the night.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘What of? Of exhaustion, what else? They’re going to take him over to the pit now, if you have no objections.’

  ‘All right. But remind them of the rules.’

  ‘They know the rules perfectly well. They’re not stupid. Send someone to unlock them now. They want to be back before work starts. They have two to make up for now.’

  ‘Well, that won’t be a problem for them, will it?’

  ‘Do you know how they manage? Organization. They’ve created a kind of structure where each one of them does the type of work he’s most suited for, because of the way he’s built or his natural inclination. This way, they put all their time to good use and don’t miss a thing. If the whole mine were organized that way, you’d double production.’

  ‘Interesting. Maybe I should have a little talk with that Roman.’

  ‘If you want, I’ll bring him here tonight.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I want to see him.’

  ‘Naturally, my excellent commander.’

  ‘And now get out of my sight, scum.’

  Uxal returned to the shack accompanied by the guard who held the key to the lock, who released the prisoners.

  Metellus and the others took the same litter they’d used for Aemilius and laid Valerian’s body upon it. Stars still filled the sky and only the mountain crests towards the east were edged with a slight tinge of pink. The men walked in silence along the dusty trail that went to the gully, led by Uxal, who lit the path with a lantern. The wind had picked up again, raw and biting, dragging dry amaranth bushes in search of more hospitable places to put down their roots.

  After a while, the trail began to descend towards the pit and the camp disappeared from sight behind them. At that point, Metellus ordered his men to hoist the litter to their shoulders and to proceed in step as if they were still wearing the red uniform of the legion, as if the eagle were guiding them.

  When they came to the edge of the crevasse, Metellus ordered them to place the body on the ground. He signalled to Balbus, Quadratus and Publius to help him to uproot some dry tamarisk trunks and stack them. The other men joined in as well, as Uxal tried in vain to stop them.