He thought of Lucius Domitius Aurelian, of Sword-in-Hand, and trusted that his loyal friend had done everything he could to protect little Titus. Perhaps the boy was living with him, and perhaps Lucius was keeping his memory alive in the child, instilling hope in his return.
Not a single night since he had fallen into captivity, and then since he had escaped, had he lain down to rest without invoking his ancestors to keep watch over Titus, over the son to whom he had broken his promise to return that very day he had been forced to depart on a journey that anyone would have imagined without return.
‘Where are you, my son?’ he wondered. ‘Where are you, boy?’ And he asked himself whether Titus, at that same moment, was wondering the same thing: ‘Where are you, father?’ Perhaps their two thoughts were meeting, unknown to them, somewhere across the arc of the sky, setting aflame a falling star. There, like the one he could see just then, tracing a line of fire in the dark, all the way down to the palm leaves.
ULTIMATELY, he was not deceiving himself. If the gods were listening to his paternal yearnings, they would have seen Titus leaning on the balcony of the imperial palace of Milan and scanning the sky, just as his father was.
Tillia the slavegirl was watching him. He had grown since she had entered his service and seemed somehow to have resigned himself to his condition. He attended the lessons of his tutors, learning Greek, mathematics, grammar and calligraphy. He was treated with respect and accompanied every moment of the day until dusk, when Tillia took over his care.
He saw Gallienus very rarely, only during official ceremonies, and always at a distance. He was convinced that the emperor was avoiding him because he didn’t want to answer the question the boy wanted to ask: ‘Where is my father? And where is yours?’
He had never seen Aurelian again either: his father’s friend, the hero whom the soldiers called Sword-in-Hand. They had received news that he had led the legions beyond the Danube, against the Sarmatians, and that he had killed fifty of them by his own hand in the course of a battle in which over twenty thousand of those barbarians had fallen. But he had been awarded no triumph, as would have been his right, because Gallienus was jealous of him. Or so they said. Instead of being called home, Aurelian had been transferred to Moesia, which was being threatened by the Goths.
It was Tillia who told him those things, because as a young slave she had the opportunity to listen without being noticed, much as if she were a statue or a piece of furniture.
‘Why are the barbarians so angry with us?’ Titus had asked his tutor one day, a rhetorician from Treviri with a yellowish beard and hair like straw.
‘They’re not angry with us,’ he had replied. ‘They want to be allowed in, because they want to enjoy the beautiful things we have. If you had to choose between living in a cart through the chill of winter and the heat of summer, hardly ever being able to wash, suffering both hunger and thirst, or living in a nice house with food every day, a bath, heating in the winter and fountains that cool the air in the summer, libraries and gardens, which would you choose?
‘Do you know how many aqueducts Rome has? Eleven. And do you know how many Milan has? Seven. Do you know how many rooms there are in this palace? Three hundred. And how many libraries there are in the empire? About five thousand, with thirteen million books. And how many roads have been built? Two hundred thousand miles of roads, with a post-house every fifteen miles.
‘We’re trying to stop them from getting in: when we can with negotiations, when we can’t with the army. That’s what our generals are doing now in Pannonia and Moesia.’
‘One of our generals is a friend of my father’s,’ Titus said.
‘Oh, really? Who is it?’
‘Aurelian, Sword-in-Hand. You can’t joke around with him, and if anyone hurts me they’ll have him to face up to.’
‘No one wants to hurt you.’
‘Then why are you holding me prisoner in this place?’
‘You’re not a prisoner. You’re a guest. And “this place” is the imperial palace, the most beautiful place in which anyone could desire to live.’
‘Well, I don’t like it and I want to leave.’
‘You’re too little.’
‘Then why don’t you let my father come back?’
But that was a question that no one had an answer to. Not even the emperor.
When Titus spoke about his father, he was gripped by a deep sense of gloom that his young spirit could not bear. He’d slip away then, no matter what he was doing, and find a place to weep in frustration and sadness until he had cried himself out.
‘WHAT ARE YOU thinking of?’
Daruma’s voice suddenly boomed out behind Metellus, making him jump. He couldn’t have said how long he’d been absorbed in his thoughts. He looked at the fire and saw that only ashes remained. A long time had passed.
‘My son,’ he replied.
‘Do you think he is in danger?’
‘Anything could have happened. I know nothing. Not hearing anything at all is almost worse than having bad news.’
‘Isn’t there anyone who can take care of him?’
‘I have a friend, the commander of one of the large combat units of our army. I know that he would do anything to protect my son, but he may be too far away to be able to help him. He may even have died. That’s what happens to soldiers.’
‘Not generals.’
‘He’s the kind who stays in front, not behind. Always the first to face the risks he subjects his men to. I’ve always done the same. We’re those upright kind of Romans, a little stupid, as you pointed out.’
‘Everyone has defects and qualities. No one is perfect,’ Daruma declared.
‘I imagine that the Persians are offering a reward for our capture. Aren’t you tempted to turn us in?’
‘I buy and sell goods, not men.’
‘But our presence in your caravan, even for a brief time, represents a serious risk for you. Why should you do it?’
‘At the end of dinner, you asked me a question and I answered, “It depends.” ’
‘On what?’
‘On what you’re willing to risk, you and your men.’
‘Everything, in exchange for freedom.’
‘Then we can talk about it. If you’re not tired, that is.’
‘I’m not tired. I’m listening.’
‘I’m not here for purposes of trade.’
‘Neither am I. Go on.’
‘I had an appointment with a person who has not shown up. The agreement was that if in fifteen days he had not come here to the oasis, the appointed place would be shifted further south, to the port on the Khaboras, a two-day journey from here.’
‘And so you’re ready to go.’
‘Tomorrow. Or the next day, at most. The fact that this person hasn’t arrived makes me a bit apprehensive and leads me to believe that having a group of armed, experienced soldiers with me might not be a bad idea.’
‘Us?’
‘Well, you’re a little knocked up, but you look like people who have been through hell and survived.’
‘Nearly two years at Aus Daiwa.’
‘That seems impossible . . . In any case, if you’re willing to act as an escort for this caravan, I’ll feed you and pay you in silver shekels every ten days until we reach our destination. After which you’ll be free to go. With the money you’ll have earned you can return to your homeland.’
Metellus shook his head.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘You said you had guards. Why would you need us?’
‘I lied. I didn’t want you to know that my guards are only willing servants. I didn’t want you to get any funny ideas. On the other hand, you lied to me as well. When needs must, it’s allowed. Well, shall we make this agreement or not?’
‘It’s fine with me. It’s that I can hardly believe it.’
‘Maybe I wasn’t clear. You’ll be risking your lives.’
‘What does it matter? That’s all I�
�ve been doing up to now.’
‘What about your men?’
‘They’ll agree with whatever I decide.’
‘It’s a deal, then,’ said Daruma.
Metellus replied, ‘I’d say it’s best that I begin right now, given the situation.’
‘My men are on watch. I think that’s enough for tonight. The moon is so bright you can almost see as well as day. But if it will make you feel safer, go ahead and put one of your men on guard. Your bed is ready in my tent, whenever you like. Good night, Commander Aquila.’
‘Goodnight, Daruma,’ replied Metellus. ‘And . . . thank you.’
Daruma smiled and disappeared inside his tent.
Metellus drew his sword from under his tunic and slung it over his shoulder. He went towards the tent where his men were sleeping and found Balbus awake.
‘I imagined as much! Go ahead and finish the first guard shift, Centurion. We’re back in service. Daruma has hired us to escort the caravan.’
‘You’re not joking with me, are you, Commander?’
‘Not at all. In exchange for our services, he’ll give us food and pay until we reach our destination. A good deal, I’d say.’
‘Magnificent! Go ahead and rest. I’ll take care of organizing the shifts.’
Metellus made another round of the camp before retiring. The oasis was immersed in silence, the fires had been put out and even the animals were sleeping – the asses, mules, big Bactrian camels, slender dromedaries, all fettered, covered with saddlecloths adorned with red and blue tassels. The murmur of the water running through the canals made a counter-melody to the voice of the Khaboras and her majestic current. The moon roused a sparkle of silver from the canals and every now and then the shadow of a bird of prey would pass among the trunks of the century-old palms, their great wings as silent as nocturnal thoughts.
Metellus returned towards Daruma’s tent with the thought of stretching out on a bed of straw for a few hours of true rest, but as he was about to enter he heard snarling coming from the dog tied at the post.
He took a look around. Everything seemed calm. He knew that dogs were able to hear sounds that the human ear could not pick out, or so they said, and he gazed into the distance, beyond the expanse of palm trees to the chalky hills that crowned the oasis to the north. He thought he saw something, like a wisp of barely perceptible fog. But it couldn’t be fog . . .
‘Dust! Horses!’
The sudden awareness that a squad of horsemen was galloping towards the oasis froze the blood in his veins. Their dream was over, but at least they’d die like men, with their swords in their hands. He ran towards the tents and found Balbus on the alert.
‘There’s something wrong, Commander. Birds are taking flight, the animals are restless . . .’
‘Wake everyone, quickly, to arms! There’s a cavalry squad approaching.’
Awakened roughly by the centurion, the men sprang to their feet and gathered around their commander.
‘They’ve come to capture us,’ Metellus told them. ‘But I will not be taken alive; I will not return to that sewer. If you feel as I do, fetch your weapons and follow me.’
They were all beside him in an instant. The sound of galloping was just starting to be heard, off in the distance.
‘No one moves without an order from me. Stay hidden behind these palm trees, near the houses. It is the most sheltered spot. If they surround us, we’ll pull back into that alley between the two houses at our backs, and we’ll fight them off as long as we can. I have no other plan to propose. It’s a choice between quick death and long agony. We must be thankful that we have the chance to choose. All I want to tell you is that I’m proud of you. You are the best soldiers and the dearest friends I could desire. If destiny wants us to be dining together in Hades tomorrow, so be it! Let’s go!’
Each man took up his position behind a palm tree so he could see his commander and his comrades as well. Lucianus and Septimius tensed their bowstrings, Rufus brandished his javelin, Publius and Antoninus gripped their swords, and Severus and Martianus their daggers. The two centurions, Balbus and Quadratus, wielded both sword and dagger and glared at the darkness before them, anticipating the direction and the moment of assault.
All the men were dripping sweat as they waited for the fight to begin, the brief, furious fray that would lead to their deaths.
In that instant of spasmodic tension, Uxal’s voice sounded. ‘Wait. Something’s happening. Look over there!’ He pointed at a path that crossed the eastern part of the oasis, where they soon distinguished a solitary horseman wrapped in a black cloak galloping by like a fury.
‘What in Hades . . .’ muttered Metellus.
Before he could even finish the phrase, the cavalry squad stormed in from the north and crossed the oasis at nearly the same speed as the horseman who had just streaked by. In a few moments they had all disappeared from sight, heading south in a dense cloud of dust.
‘They weren’t looking for us,’ said Uxal.
‘I guess not,’ replied Metellus with a great sigh of relief.
‘It was that horseman they were after,’ observed Quadratus.
‘Did any of you get a good look at him?’ asked Metellus.
Publius stepped forward. ‘He passed so quickly, in the shade of the palm trees, but I could swear it was the same man that was following us, up until the other day.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Commander,’ broke in Rufus. ‘He’s obsessed with that horseman without even knowing who he is. He dreams about him at night. He sees him everywhere, even when he’s nowhere to be found.’
Metellus turned to Publius. ‘What makes you think it was him?’
‘That black cape, his slender build, the way he rides. I’m usually not wrong, Commander.’
Uxal interrupted them. ‘Whether it was him or someone else, it doesn’t matter to us. What does matter is that they’ve gone, and that they weren’t after us. For a moment there I thought it was all over.’
‘So did I,’ admitted Metellus.
‘What’s happening here?’ A voice rang out behind them.
Metellus turned and found Daruma in his nightclothes.
‘A squad of Persian horsemen just crossed the oasis. They seemed to be pursuing another man on horseback who raced through here just before they did.’
Daruma scowled. ‘A lone horseman, you say? Did you see him?’
‘I did,’ said Publius, and he described him as he had to Metellus.
Daruma wrinkled his forehead. ‘In what direction was he heading?’
‘That way,’ Publius said, pointing to a patch of vegetation that extended south along the river.
Daruma sighed and motioned for Metellus to follow him into the tent. ‘Sit down,’ he said as soon as they entered.
‘I prefer standing. I’m more comfortable.’
‘I’m worried . . .’ began the Indian.
‘Do you think it’s the person you were supposed to meet up with?’
‘It may have been him.’
An excited buzz came from outside, dogs barking, people calling out in any number of languages. The people of the caravans had been rudely awakened by that sudden raid, but no explanation could be found, further increasing the confusion.
Daruma retired briefly into a brooding silence, then said, ‘Useless to fret now. There’s nothing I can do. But we must depart immediately. Tomorrow. Have your men ready at dawn, dressed and armed. I’ve had new clothes brought to their tents. We’ll be marching day and night, without cease. We must get to the port on the Khaboras as soon as possible. Rest now, for we have a long journey ahead of us.’
Metellus left to give instructions to Balbus and then came back and lay down on the bedding that had been prepared for him. Before he closed his eyes, bone-tired, he realized that he was going from one adventure to another he knew nothing about.
They left at daybreak, as the cocks’ crows were just starting to sound through the still-dark oasis. They set out without brea
kfast; food and drink would be distributed on the road.
They marched on all day under a scorching sun. Daruma was perched on a huge camel, topped by a canopy that sheltered him from the sun; he often wet his brow with a moistened handkerchief. Despite his anxiety, he was not one to give up his comforts.
The Khaboras flowed at a short distance to their right, between shores verdant with palm trees, stands of sycamores and fig trees and profuse oleander bushes.
Metellus had drawn up his men to the right and left of the convoy while Uxal followed, riding one of the tamed asses. As they advanced, they began to see all kinds of craft afloat on the river: some were simply wicker vessels over which tanned ox hides had been stretched and coated with bitumen for watertightness, but others had true wooden hulls with wide trapeziumshaped sails and a double helm at the stern, and were sailing upstream. Sometimes the boats were so close to the shore that they could see the faces of the sailors, intent on their rigging. The calcareous bottom of the river bed was usually quite deep; only occasionally were there shallow banks that sloped down in the direction of the current.
When the banks were lower, they would find villages, the houses made of sun-dried mud bricks. Women with earthenware pots on their heads returned from the river, hips swaying gracefully under their load. Naked brown-skinned children played in the water, shouting and splashing. Those little communities seemed much like any other village on their own Internal Sea, or in Mesopotamia or Egypt. And yet the great imperial powers – here, just as on the shores of their own sea – took the young men from those peaceful communities and filled them with hate and aggression towards the enemy to be fought, whoever that might be, sending them off to war. Each of these powers felt they were in the right, each thought that their own world was the best possible and should be expanded and imposed wherever possible.
Metellus had had such thoughts before, and remembered them well. But he also remembered that the more he travelled and visited other countries, the more he became convinced that his own world was the only one worth living in. He had never, in any other place, encountered a concept and an idea of man that could be compared to what the civilizations of Athens and Rome had produced. His long, cruel imprisonment at the mercy of an enemy who had no respect for people’s rights, no respect for someone who had shown courage, valour and loyalty, had only confirmed this conviction.
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