Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  There was a hiatus of shocked faces around the bench, then they erupted once more in laughter.

  Quadratus’ beaming smile faded at this and he shook his head and smoothed at his moustache as if in firm denial, booming out over the hilarity; ‘Nah, nah, that’s a long way from the truth. The beans were on the turn, you see, and I only had two portions . . . ’

  At that moment, a hand slapped on Pavo’s shoulder. He twisted round to see Sura. ‘You’re feeling better?’

  Sura pushed in to sit next to Pavo. ‘I told you – a couple of hours sleep and I’d be in fine fettle.’

  Pavo was unconvinced, seeing the odd, ruddy glow on his friend’s skin. ‘How did you know we were here?’

  Sura cocked an eyebrow. ‘I just followed the twisted scowls of the local populace – they’re a sober bunch, eh?’

  ‘Aye, I wonder that we shouldn’t be moving onto watered wine soon?’

  ‘I’ll let you suggest that to those two,’ Sura nodded to Zosimus and Quadratus at the end of the bench.

  Just then, Felix guided a cook from the tavern kitchen over to the bench. The man carried a long platter with seven steaming joints of lamb on it. He placed it down and at once all eyes turned to the fare, which Felix supplemented with pots of honey and piles of nuts.

  ‘See?’ Pavo said. ‘Felix will keep us right. He knows that’s the sensible way to calm the drinking – some good food’ll sober us up and have most of the lads feeling sleepy in no time.’

  As if to confound him, Felix then piped up to the cook; ‘and send out, ooh, another ten jugs of wine while you’re at it, will you?’

  ‘You were saying?’ Sura chuckled.

  ‘This lot is on Tribunus Gallus,’ Felix grinned to the table.

  As the rest of the legionaries cheered at this, Pavo could not help but grin. He helped himself to a chunk of the tender, sweet lamb and then had his fill of nuts and honey. As he washed it down with a generous swig of wine, he realised a hangover was unavoidable. It was then he heard the scuffling of boots from the street.

  He twisted to see a cluster of some forty garrison legionaries. They were off-duty and without their weapons, but some still wore their mail shirts and bore the weary looks of men who had just finished a punishing shift of sentry duty. As they passed by the Claudia bench, some anecdote from Quadratus evoked another chorus of raucous laughter. At this, the leader of the sentries fired an instinctive and frosty glare at them, his sharp nose wrinkling. His hair was long and tucked behind his ears – a distinctly un-Roman style that seemed popular in this part of the empire.

  A few of the Claudia legionaries noticed his sour look and replied with indignant frowns. Pavo felt the first twinge of trouble.

  ‘Relax,’ Sura nudged him with an elbow and pinged a fingernail against the end of his cup. ‘Once they’ve had a few jugs of this stuff in them they’ll be at ease too.’

  The evening wore on and Pavo reckoned it was nearing midnight. A group of local young women – dark-eyed and dusky-skinned – came in at that point. They were dressed in simple robes and seemed eager to keep themselves to themselves. They took up a bench between the Claudia men and the sentries – who supped at their drinks and chatted in muted tones. Sura was swift to approach the women. When they refused his offer to come over to the Claudia bench, he then had a jug of wine sent to their table. Soon, the women cast aside their shyness and began chatting with the Claudia legionaries. Pavo shook his head with a smile as he saw the women now bore a warm glow in their cheeks just like his comrades. But he noticed the sharp-faced sentry’s glare. He was making no attempt to conceal his disgust at the behaviour of the foreign soldiers.

  Then he overheard Sura’s boasts to a full-figured brunette amongst the women.

  ‘Aye, so the Cretan pirates were moments from putting a hole in the side of our galley. This lot were cowering at the far side of the deck,’ he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively at the rest of the Claudia. ‘But I came up with a plan at the last moment to save us all. I scooped up the ship’s anchor, heaved it all the way up to the boat’s edge. Adrianople’s champion weightlifter, you see. Three years running,’ he jabbed a thumb to his chest. ‘Anyway, I got to the boat’s edge with this huge iron anchor, then I hurled it . . . ’ his words trailed away, his confidence faltering as he realised many of his comrades, Zosimus, Felix and Quadratus included, had quietened down to listen in.

  ‘Aye, carry on,’ Quadratus chirped, twisting a splinter of wood in his teeth to weed out a sinew of lamb.

  Sura gulped a few times, then nodded. ‘I . . . hurled it and . . . ’

  The brunette seemed altogether bemused by his tale, and somewhat attuned to Quadratus’ thinking. ‘And? Come on, don’t be so shy.’

  ‘I hurled it fifty feet . . . twenty feet?’ Sura dithered, testing how much liberty he could take. ‘It crashed through the pirate craft and saved us all,’ he ended hurriedly, his face glowing red.

  ‘Oh aye, it’s all true,’ Zosimus agreed, then his face bent into a wicked grin under his squashed nose. ‘You should see the size of his muscles. Go on,’ the centurion prompted Sura, ‘off with your tunic – show her!’

  Sura shot a wide-eyed look of terror at Zosimus. But the big Thracian, Quadratus and Felix all smiled back at him.

  ‘Go on then,’ the brunette added, stifling a hiccup then stroking Sura’s bicep.

  ‘No, I . . . er . . . oh bollocks,’ he muttered. Like a man being led to dig his own grave, Sura hiked up his tunic, pulled it over his head and tossed it down. He stood in his loincloth, sulking, his torso milk-white where his tunic had been and in painful contrast to his lobster pink arms and ruddy features.

  Silence filled every inch of the tavern for a heartbeat, until Zosimus threw his head back and laughed like a drain. Every Claudia legionary joined in. Even Pavo couldn’t contain himself, snorting wine through his nose as he saw his friend scowling indignantly.

  Suddenly, a hurled cup bounced across the floor and the screeching of a stool culled the laughter. The sharp-faced leader of the sentries had shot to standing, his chest rising and falling. His eyes were alive with fury and he shook with rage. ‘Enough!’ he barked, striding over to slam a fist on the end of the Claudia bench. The cups leapt and wobbled, some spilling frothing ale and wine. ‘This is my city, my home.’ His tone was mean and clipped. ‘The emperor may have summoned you east to do his bidding, but do not think that makes you more worthy than us.’

  Pavo frowned as the man turned his gaze on the curvy brunette by Sura’s side. ‘I will not have you fraternising with these Thracian curs.’ He grappled at the brunette’s arm. ‘Come!’

  ‘Take your hands off me, Baptista. I’m your sister, not your dog,’ she snapped, standing then wriggling clear of his grasp.

  ‘You would rather stay in the company of these . . . animals?’ Baptista said. His sister stifled a sigh, then brushed past him, beckoning her friends. As the women stormed from the inn, Baptista turned his gaze upon the Claudia men, the rest of the sentries stood behind him, glowering darkly. ‘Animals who worship Mithras . . . a bloodthirsty animal like no other.’

  At this, Pavo felt the atmosphere change irretrievably. The warm camaraderie of moments ago drained like a cistern. Felix shot to his feet, Zosimus and Quadratus flanked him. Thirty more stools screeched as the Claudia stood with them. Like rats scattering from a sudden, bright light, the people dotted around the tavern bolted for the door. Pavo stood firm with his comrades, but his mind spun through a series of unsatisfactory ways to dampen the tension. In the no man’s land between the opposing groups, Sura stood, gulping as he quietly slipped his tunic back on.

  Felix broke the silence, speaking in a baritone murmur through grinding teeth; ‘So the emperor summoned us east. We didn’t ask for this. So curse us if you will, but never speak ill of Mithras.’

  ‘We will protect our holy city from the godless as we see fit,’ Baptista rasped in reply.

  ‘Godless?’ Zosimus said with an incredulous gr
in.

  At this moment, Sura decided to step back over to his own lines. Baptista shot out an arm, clasping at his shoulder. ‘I didn’t say you could move, cur! Stay where you - ’

  His words were cut short by the crunch of Sura’s knuckles smashing onto bone. Baptista staggered back, cupping his hands to his bloodied nose and mouth. Two half-teeth dropped to the flagstoned floor along with a trickle of blood.

  The other sentries gawped, then filled their lungs. ‘At them!’ they roared and then launched forward, leaping over the Claudia bench. In reply, Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix led a counter-charge from the Claudia.

  Pavo managed to get one foot on the bench before the palms of a wild-eyed, bearded sentry butted him backwards. The pair fell, tumbling through a sea of legs. Serrated curses and pained grunts echoed all around them. The man unleashed a series of quick, hard jabs into Pavo’s ribs, and the fiery pain sobered him instantly. He thrashed with his knee, kicking the man from him, then followed up with a left hook. His knuckles cracked as they met the man’s jaw and he roared in agony, but his foe stumbled back and slumped in the shadows.

  ‘Pavo!’ Sura cried.

  He swung to see a stool hurtling through the air towards him and ducked just under it. The stool splintered against the wall. Blinking through the swarm of flailing fists and tumbling bodies, Pavo saw Sura, pinned to the table, Baptista throttling him. He leapt up onto the bench, hopped over the form of Quadratus wrestling with one sentry, ducked under the swing of another sentry, then spun as a stray hook caught him square on the cheek. Dazed, he flailed then toppled down onto Baptista’s back. The roaring sentry leader released Sura, then spun round, trying to shake Pavo off. Dizzy and nauseous, Pavo could only cling onto the man’s shoulders. Meanwhile, Sura danced around the spinning pair, looking to jab a foot at Baptista.

  ‘Keep him still, Pavo. Keep him still while I boot his ba . . . ’

  ‘Enough!’ a voice cut through the air like a jagged blade. A voice like no other.

  The din of the quarrel faded as quickly as it had begun. Pavo slid from Baptista’s shoulders. All eyes looked to doorway. Four figures stood there.

  Gallus glowered upon them, his top lip wrinkled in disdain. He was flanked by a short, filthy looking man on one side and a tall, haggard sort in a legionary tunic on the other. Gallus strode forward into the lamplight. Panting men wiped blood from their mouths and noses and cupped hands to their bruises as they scrutinised the newcomers.

  Gallus strode amongst them, seeking and then swallowing each of the seething words that seemed to come to his taut lips. Pavo gulped.

  At that moment, the haggard man stepped forward. ‘Ah, Gallus, I can see that your men have already introduced themselves to my century.’

  Pavo shared a frown with Sura, then looked to Baptista.

  Baptista and his sentries beheld the men of the Claudia in return.

  ‘Optio Baptista of the XVI Flavia Firma is my finest man,’ the haggard one confirmed. ‘He and the rest of my century will make a fine escort for our mission.’

  Every man in the room adopted a look of utter disgust.

  XI Claudia and XVI Flavia Firma legionaries clustered around the benches of the wrecked tavern, muttering as they tended to their wounds and offered muted and somewhat forced apologies. The noise faded into the background as Pavo stared across the bench. This weather-beaten, crooked-shouldered centurion sitting opposite had introduced himself as Carbo. The merriness was gone, memories of the brawl were fading and he felt the bruises only as a dull and distant throb. Even Gallus’ caustic reproach to the brawling legionaries and then his briefing on their mission seemed secondary. Yes, they were to march through the burning heart of the Syrian Desert hunting some lost scroll. But that mattered little. Because Carbo’s last words echoed in his ears like thunder.

  ‘Lad, are you alright?’ Carbo frowned, stroking at his white beard. ‘Take a blow to the head, did you?’

  ‘You said . . . Legio II Parthica?’ Pavo stammered.

  Carbo sat a little taller at the mention. ‘Aye, my legion,’ he pulled up the short sleeve of his tunic to reveal a faded legionary stigma. Under it was the outline of a centaur – the emblem of the legion. But the pride on his face faded. ‘Until they were butchered at Bezabde.’

  Pavo’s heart lurched at this. ‘But not all of the Parthica were slain. I heard that someone in the east came back, someone . . . ’ Pavo’s skin tingled in realisation. ‘You?’

  Carbo shrugged. ‘Aye, it would have been me. Nobody seemed to know that there were survivors until I staggered into this city and spoke of it.’

  Pavo’s thoughts raced in a hundred different directions. ‘The mines, were you in the salt mines?’

  Carbo seemed guarded at this and avoided Pavo’s gaze. ‘I was.’

  ‘What of the others?’

  ‘Of the Parthica?’ Carbo frowned. ‘Lad, what is it you’re after?’

  ‘Falco,’ Pavo said, hearing his own words as if from a dream. ‘Mettius Vitellius Falco.’

  Carbo gazed back at him emptily and Pavo felt all hope dying. But at last the centurion’s cracked and haggard features bent into a vague smile. ‘A stubborn and brave whoreson. Aye, of course I remember Falco – he was a good friend. The kind of friend who would stand by your side, through anything,’ he fell silent, as if reliving some memory. ‘How do you . . . ’

  Pavo cut him off, pulling his phalera medallion from his collar. ‘I am his son.’

  Carbo’s eyes widened and he sat back. ‘Falco’s boy?’

  ‘I think of him every day. I thought him dead since Bezabde. Did he . . . ?’

  Carbo held Pavo’s gaze. His features were grave, his eyes troubled.

  The blood pounded in Pavo’s ears like a war drum.

  ‘On that last day when Bezabde fell, he was on the walls, roaring like a lion. Legionaries lay dead and dying around him, many took to fleeing through the streets, hoping to escape through the far gates. Not Falco. He fought on . . . and he survived.’

  Pavo’s limbs quivered at these words. ‘He’s alive?’

  Carbo failed to hold Pavo’s gaze. ‘I pray to all the gods, no, for he was chained and sent to the mines with me. Dalaki – in the heart of the Persis Satrapy. And more than ten years have passed since I left those accursed caves. Few men live more than a handful of years in that airless and dark realm and nobody escapes. Nobody.’

  ‘But you did? So maybe . . . ’ Pavo fired back.

  ‘I did not escape,’ Carbo cut him off swiftly, his eyes dropping to the left and searching over a crack in the flagstones. ‘I was freed from the mines when a Persian noble bought me – to serve as a household slave . . . ’

  Pavo’s thoughts swirled and Carbo’s words faded into the background noise. His gaze darted across the scarred surface of the bench as he considered the possibilities. He thought of the nightmare, of Father, haggard and gaunt, lost in the sands of the desert. A shiver marched up his spine like a legion of shades. ‘But he was alive?’

  Carbo looked at him. An odd look, as if judging him. ‘Trouble yourself with this mission alone, lad. To comb the lands of the Persis Satrapy for this lost scroll – that is a forlorn hope indeed. Do not burden yourself with another such.’

  Pavo tilted his head to one side. ‘Aye, it’s the slimmest of hopes, but I will seize it. My shoulders have broadened much in these past few years. I am not afraid. I will never give up. Even if only to find Father’s bones.’

  Carbo searched his eyes, then offered him a pensive smile. ‘You are truly Falco’s son, Pavo.’

  Just then, Felix came over. ‘Carbo,’ he beckoned, ‘Gallus wants to talk over the route with you once more before we head back to the barracks,’ he scratched at his forked beard with a sigh, ‘for some long overdue sleep.’

  Carbo offered Pavo a curt nod, then left to talk with Tribunus Gallus.

  Pavo stared into a cup of water for what felt like an eternity. It took a howl from Noster the legionary to stir him from
his thoughts. He glanced around the tavern. At the nearest bench, Quadratus dabbed at his bloodied cheek with a water-dampened linen rag. Sura rubbed at his bruised throat and gulped at a cup of cool water. Zosimus tended to Noster’s sprained wrist, fixing a splint to the young legionary’s arm and telling him in no uncertain terms how soft he was for being unable to withstand a bit of pain. Baptista’s men grumbled and groaned likewise on the other side of the tavern, casting regular baleful glances at the men of the XI Claudia who were to be their marching comrades.

  ‘Optio?’ A voice spoke.

  Pavo twisted round to see Yabet offering him a fresh cup of water. He accepted, then made space for the short, grubby guide to sit beside him. He brought with him a faint waft of ‘ripe’ mushrooms.

  ‘You have marched in the desert before?’ Yabet asked.

  ‘I’ve marched in the snow, on the dirt, in the mud, through the tall grass of home. But no, the desert will be new to me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Yabet cackled, ‘then you do not yet know how to march.’

  Pavo found the little man’s grin infectious. ‘How many days will we be out there, before we reach the Satrapy of Persis?’

  Yabet scratched his unshaven jaw and pulled his brown Phrygian cap back from his forehead. ‘It depends entirely on what we come across.’ He looked off through the open door and into the tiny patch of the star-speckled night sky visible outside. ‘Forty days or more, I would say.’

  Pavo cocked an eyebrow. Now that was a march. ‘Just as the desert is new to me, the Persian ranks are too. I have heard one word mentioned a lot in hushed tones – here and in the barracks we are billeted . . . the Sav - ’