Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  Gallus did well not to hesitate. ‘We were on patrol when our camel escort deserted us,’ he nodded through the thick pack of buzzing flies to the slain dromedarii amongst the desert raiders. ‘Then they gathered this band and tried to slay us. We have been without fresh water for days.’

  ‘You set out with a camel escort?’ she cocked an eyebrow. ‘Those beasts are usually only needed when a man seeks to cross a desert.’ She looked to the east as she said this. ‘Romans crossing the desert have only ever led to one thing. War.’

  Pavo noticed that her knuckles whitened on her bow. The next few moments passed like an eternity and Pavo felt his breath grow faster and faster. Only the buzzing of the flies nearby and the screeching of the vultures could be heard. Finally, she seemed to relax a little, releasing the grip on her bow. She snapped her fingers and the riders nearest brought forward a clutch of water skins, handing them to the panting legionaries.

  ‘Come with us,’ she beckoned. ‘In my settlement you can see to your wounded. And you can tell me more about your . . . patrol.’

  They followed Izodora and the Maratocupreni until sunset, when they came to a rift in the land like a giant axe-wound in the dusty plain, as broad as a street at this end and widening near the centre. Pavo could only imagine what monstrous tremor in the earth had created such a fissure. While most of the legionary column made to march onwards past this crevasse, Izodora stopped, raising a hand to slow her riders. At this, the legionaries stopped too. She pushed two fingers into the corners of her mouth and emitted a shrill whistle. Silence hung in the air for but a moment, then a faint whistling sounded in reply from within the crevasse. Frowns were shared all round as Izodora led her riders to the end of the crevasse, starting on down a painfully narrow dirt slope that led into its depths.

  Izodora halted on seeing Gallus and the legionaries hesitate. ‘You think this is some kind of trap?’ she fired back with a look an incredulous look. ‘You realise that I could have slain you all back there,’ she said with a flick of the head back in the direction of the camel raider skirmish. ‘With your attitude, you make me think that perhaps I should have. Stay out here if you will. I can feed and water the horses twice over instead. At least they would show some gratitude.’

  For once, it seemed the iron tribunus was cowed. The acerbic words of this rider had him searching for a reply in vain. Wordlessly, he waved the legionaries on in Izodora’s wake. They marched in single file over a hundred feet down and onto the soft, dusty floor of this tight, sheer-sided valley, hidden from the plain above. It was less than a mile long. The walls were dotted with dark recesses, some at ground level, others ten, twenty or thirty feet up, with rough staircases hewn into the rock leading to them. Pavo instantly shared Gallus’ fears – imagining a cluster of spear-wielding bandits tucked away in those recesses. When Izodora suddenly clapped her hands, they froze, braced. The noise echoed through the space and seemed to stoke some movement in these alcoves. Figures emerged, a few hundred at least. Pavo’s heart quickened. Until he saw that they were only children, mothers, elderly men and women and a few younger men walking on crutches. They were joined by a playful herd of goats – the kids tumbling and bleating as the mother goats led them to the far end of the valley. There, a thick carpet of grass had sprung up around a part of the rock face that sparkled and seemed to move.

  ‘A spring!’ Sura croaked in delight, recognising the flowing water. Slumbering near this mini-oasis was a small herd of camels.

  In moments, the Maratocupreni had kindled fires and were baking bread and bringing water to the men of the column and to their own warriors. They also brought out bowls of water, salves and bandages to tend to the wounded legionaries. Before darkness had fallen, Maratocupreni and Roman alike sat around the fires, filling their bellies and slaking their thirsts.

  Pavo spiked a piece of flatbread on a wooden skewer and held it over the flames to toast. Having downed his armour and boots, he felt cooler and lighter. But the aches and pains of the march were quick to come to the fore. His feet were aching, swollen and dotted with raw patches where his boots had rubbed through several layers of skin. His shoulders felt crooked from the uneven weight in his pack, and his neck was red-raw from the sun and the chafing of his chain mail. He crunched into the charred bread and supped at his cool water. A good night’s sleep would help his body heal. Surely he was tired enough to stave off the nightmares tonight.

  The crackling of the embers echoed endlessly between the sheer cliff walls, the flames casting dancing shadows up the rock faces. He felt his eyelids drooping, sighed and glanced across the many faces illuminated in orange seated nearby. Felix, Quadratus and Zosimus bore dark rings under their eyes from dehydration as they sipped endlessly from their skins. They only became animated when Quadratus prised off his boots, sniffed at one, then held it up to Zosimus’ face with a devious grin. Zosimus’ retching lasted almost as long as Felix’s laughter.

  A few fires away, Carbo, Baptista and the Flavia Firma men seemed equally drawn. Given their fatigue, the men of the XI Claudia and the XVI Flavia Firma had spoken little since the battle with the camel raiders, but every man had fought for every other in that clash, and the animosity seemed to have faded. Baptista looked up at that moment, catching Pavo’s eye. The man’s lips grew thin and his nose wrinkled, then he gave an almost imperceptible nod. Grudging respect at last? Pavo wondered, nodding in reply.

  The Maratocupreni warriors soon set down their armour and weapons and came to eat. They sat amongst the Romans in silence or quietly chattered amongst themselves, their charcoal locks hanging long and loose. They seemed a modest and affable people, very much in contrast to their battlefield demeanour. And the five hundred or so of them that had ridden to the rescue of the Roman column seemed to be the sum of their army. Bar the families and the few archers who had been left behind to guard the crevasse, this was all there was of the Maratocupreni. Pavo combed his memories – he was sure he had read of them before, but the detail remained elusive.

  He heard a dull chatter from one of the recesses high up on the crevasse wall. The orange flame of a campfire danced there, and Pavo recognised the tones of Izodora, along with the jagged and clearly angered words of a pair of Maratocupreni elders. He saw Izodora stand, utter some clipped parting message, then turn away from the fire to descend the stairs to the valley floor. That will have been a wintry conversation no doubt, he mused with a hint of a grin as he watched her descend.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ Sura mused by his side, ‘but I bet she’d turn your cock to ice.’

  Pavo was torn from his thoughts by this erudite observation. But indeed she was striking in her appearance, her almond eyes sharper than a blade. And her vixen-like, nimble hips moved gracefully. Like a strip of silk in the breeze. At that moment, he thought of the strip of red silk in his belt. Of Felicia. Guilt needled at his heart.

  ‘You’re thinking about it, you dirty bugger!’ Sura gawped in mock-disgust.

  ‘No, I was just . . . ’ he shook his head clear of the thought.

  ‘Ach, not to worry,’ Sura shrugged and picked a morsel of bread from his teeth with a splinter of wood. ‘Felicia’s probably been at it every night back in Constantinople.’

  Pavo bit back a riposte, then stood. ‘Right, I’m washing and then I’m calling it a night,’ he nodded to the area by the fires where some of the goatskin contubernia tents had been set up. He picked his way through the campfires and over to the green end of the valley and the spring. There, the moon had risen to dominate the narrow window of night sky above. The scent of the grass and the feel of it brushing on his feet momentarily allowed him to imagine he was in another land – far from the arid dust. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the cooling mizzle and fecund plains of Thracia. He cupped his hands under a jagged outcrop of rock and collected water from the trickling spring, then lashed it across his face and the dark stubble on his scalp. It soothed and calmed him, washing the last traces of dust from his skin. He gazed up a
t the moon and wondered if, somewhere out there, the moon gazed down upon Father. ‘Even if only to reclaim your bones, Father, I will find you.’

  Sorrow stung behind his eyes and he turned away to go back to the tents. But he was stopped in his tracks. Izodora stood there, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

  ‘Forgive me, I assumed I could wash here?’ he stammered.

  ‘You did. You can,’ she replied dryly. ‘I’m just waiting on you to finish.’

  Pavo looked over her shoulder to see that Habitus had found some last reserves of energy to play with a pair of Maratocupreni children. The little girl clasped one hand and the boy the other, while the beanpole legionary spun on the spot, lifting them and whirling them around. Their laughter was pleasant to his ear. ‘I don’t know what my tribunus said to you, but every one of these men is grateful for your coming to our rescue today. Had the camel raiders not cut us down, then thirst would have finished us.’

  Her gaze remained flinty. ‘Do you know how much I have risked by bringing you here? The elders,’ she jabbed a finger up at the cliff face alcove where she had come from, ‘they say I have brought demons to our home. They want my warriors to arm and cut your throats tonight while you sleep.’

  Her words turned Pavo’s blood to ice. He caught sight of the white-robed archers strolling along the higher alcoves on the cliff wall, quivers full. ‘I . . . we’re just soldiers. We mean you no harm . . . ’

  ‘Your men will not be harmed,’ she cut him off. ‘I am in charge here, not the elders.’

  Pavo gulped, not entirely reassured by this. ‘But why do your elders despise us?’

  ‘You may not like my answer, legionary,’ she said, her eyes meeting his.

  ‘Perhaps not, but I’d prefer some answer to none,’ he shrugged.

  Izodora pulled in a deep breath and nodded, as if bracing herself. ‘Seven years ago, I was just a girl,’ she looked over to the little girl now being tossed up and down in the air by Habitus, ‘only a few years older than her. We lived in Roman lands and there were many more of us then – ten times more. My people enjoyed villas, wells, orchards of date palms and vast green fields to graze our goats. We were good people, with good hearts,’ she clasped a hand to her breast, ‘well, most of us were. Some grew greedy, yes, and withheld taxes from the empire. Others took to brigandage. One band ambushed a patrol of Roman scouts and killed many of them.’

  Pavo held out his hands in bemusement. ‘Show me a people who don’t have such characters in their midst.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me then, how would you deal with such troubles?’

  Pavo squirmed at this, sure he would step on the worst possible answer. ‘Trap and gut the bastards who darken the name of their people. Or offer money to the good-hearted folk to turn in those who cause unrest. It wouldn’t be nice, but . . . ’

  ‘It wouldn’t, but in comparison to what happened,’ she shook her head. ‘Your Emperor, Valens, the man you fight for, decided to eradicate such troubles in his own way. In a single night raid, a cohort of legionaries fell upon my village. They sought out not just the brigands and the tax thieves, but every last one of us. I watched as they cut down my friends as if slaughtering cattle. They dragged my mother from her bed, my baby sister in her arms. They took them outside and led them to a pyre . . . ’ her eyes grew glassy and she looked away with a snarl, her fists balled.

  Pavo rested a hand on her shoulder and let a silence pass while she composed herself. At that moment, he remembered why the name of the Maratocupreni had sounded familiar. The rumours of their fate had spread around the empire some years ago. The stories of the mass burnings had sounded so brutal they had come across as apocryphal. Not so, it seemed. ‘Now I truly do not understand why you saved us today?’

  ‘Because, without your kind, we . . . this,’ she swept a hand over the valley, ‘would not be here. Of the cohort sent to destroy us, one contubernium saw the brutality around them and took no part in it. They found me, cowering in terror. They led me and a cluster of others from the burning village and sent us off into the night, with little more than our mounts and what food and water we could carry.’ She looked him in the eye, wiping defiantly at a tear that escaped down her cheek. ‘Do you understand now?’

  ‘I think so,’ Pavo offered.

  ‘But if I have chosen wrongly. If you and your men have come to these lands looking to slaughter in the name of your glorious empire . . . ’

  Pavo grabbed both her shoulders this time, firmly. ‘Never,’ he gasped. ‘The men you see here have only ever known desperate wars of defence. You have to believe me.’

  She said nothing, her eyes searching him. Her gaze seemed to lure out some of the blacker memories from the recesses of Pavo’s mind. He slumped, nodding. ‘In my time in the legions, there has been much blood spilled, I cannot deny that. I know only too well some of the gruesome deeds I have had to carry out, times when I have had to make the hardest of choices to protect the few I love.’

  She cocked her head to one side at this, her expression lightening momentarily. ‘This, I can understand. In these last years I have faced many such moments, and hard choices indeed. Perhaps we have more in common than I first thought.’ Then, as if a storm cloud had passed overhead, her expression grew dark once more. ‘But if you only fight wars of defence, then tell me why, a few weeks ago, I watched a full legion marching this way, headed east as if to challenge Persia,’

  Pavo’s eyes darted. The IV Scythica?

  ‘And now I find you and your men marching in their tracks.’

  ‘I know nothing of this other legion. Other than that they were sent out to combat some Persian raid. The empire is in no state to attempt any kind of invasion of Persia – indeed, that is why we are here.’

  Izodora’s eyes narrowed.

  Pavo darted his tongue out to lick his lips. He looked past her shoulder to see that the campfires were now doused. Most of the legionaries were disappearing inside their tents and the Maratocupreni to their caves. Gallus had insisted that they were to keep their brief private, but in his heart he knew he had to tell her.

  ‘Yes, we are headed for Persia – the very heart of the Persis Satrapy. But we seek something that might secure the current borders and prevent war. There is a scroll . . . ’

  She cut him off, her brow knitting in confusion. ‘Nothing can prevent war between your empires. I know this.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and turned to look up to the moon again. ‘It seems whimsical at best – the scroll may not even exist, or it might have long since been lost. But we’ve got to try to find it. Countless thousands of lives – Roman and Persian – could be spared if we succeed.’ When he turned back, her expression had softened just a little.

  ‘This is a noble cause,’ she conceded. ‘Fanciful, but noble. One worth fighting for. The threat of war between your empires hangs over this valley like a black cloud and so I pray you find what you are looking for.’ Her eyes narrowed as if reassessing the Roman mission. ‘Yet those camel riders you met today were but scouts. Do you realise what waits on any who intrude on the shahanshah’s lands?’

  Pavo nodded grimly. ‘The Savaran? If I had a follis for every time I have heard them mentioned in hushed and frightened tones in these last weeks,’ he swiped a hand before him as if swatting an imaginary moth. ‘Regardless of their might, I will be marching east.’

  She ran the tip of a finger along the delicate bridge of her nose, then wagged it at him. ‘You are not telling me everything. I can see it in your eyes, and in your frown that comes and goes when you fidget with that talisman.’

  Pavo gawped, realising he was unconsciously gripping the phalera medallion through his tunic. He slumped and let a dry chuckle escape. ‘Aye, there is more. Though nothing that should trouble you. Indeed, it is even more whimsical than the notion of the scroll.’ He swept a hand up to the eastern tip of the valley. ‘I lost my father when I was a lad – probably the same age as you when you lost your mother to . . . �
�� he froze.

  She nodded for him to continue.

  ‘Well I thought my father had died, many years ago.’ He lifted the phalera from his tunic and smiled as he traced the inscription on it. They sat by the spring and Pavo told his story. She listened to his every word. When he had told her everything, they each talked about their happier childhood days. By the time tiredness caught up with them, both were smiling.

  When he stood to return to his tent, Izodora rose with him.

  ‘Today, when we chose to save you and your men, I wasn’t sure we made the correct choice. Even tonight, when I spoke with the village elders, I was troubled by the decision. Now, I know I have chosen wisely.’ She turned in the moonlight and picked her way into the darkness.

  Pavo strolled back to his tent, his heart warmed by the conversation and her parting words. He lifted the silk rag from his belt and inhaled Felicia’s scent, then clutched the phalera as he looked over his shoulder, to the moon in the east. Some things in life were worth fighting for, he affirmed, and some he would happily die for.

  When he ducked inside the tent, Zosimus muttered some sleepy, gibberish about being attacked by evil goats, then Sura’s eyes popped open and his trademark mischievous grin appeared from nowhere.

  ‘You dirty bugger!’ he whispered.

  Pavo considered protesting his innocence, but simply shrugged and fell into his cot with a chuckle.

  Chapter 10

  The following morning at dawn, the men of the column climbed the steep path from the valley and filtered onto the golden desert flatland outside the Maratocupreni crevasse. Now they readied themselves to set off once more to the south-east. Izodora had persuaded the elders to provide twenty-five camels from their herd to carry the burden of shields and tents. She had also agreed to let the legionaries with the gravest wounds from the camel raider skirmish remain in the valley to be tended to. Now just over one hundred of the original three centuries would march onwards.