A wheezing from his bay mare snapped him from his thoughts. She was sweating and frothing at the mouth. He stroked her mane as they rode, pouring some water over her neck. ‘Easy, girl,’ he whispered, lying flatter in the saddle.
The others and their mounts were in a similar shape. At last, with darkness almost conquering the last of the navy blue sky in the west, Gallus called out; ‘Enough. If we ride on then our mounts will be crippled.’
They crossed the river at a shallow section then tethered their horses on the banks of the far side where dry grass provided plenty of fodder. Pavo gathered kindling and soon they had a fire crackling in a small, rocky nook by the riverside. The babbling torrents of the river, the singing cicada song and the distant howling of some desert dog was all there was to be heard. Wordlessly, they sat in the shingle around the flames, sharing out the contents of the food sack. There were three flatbreads, a clay pot of yoghurt, a cut of salted goat mutton, a parcel of dates and a small container of honey.
Pavo chewed ravenously on the meat, and it seemed to reinvigorate his limbs. The dates, yoghurt and quickly toasted bread filled his belly and made him drowsy. They washed this down with fresh river water, and let the fire die to mere embers. Each of them looked to one another with weary gazes. Gallus had the look of a hunting wolf, his usually tidy, greying peak of hair tousled and matted, his jaw lined with thick, dark stubble, his limbs taut and bulging from his months of training in the Persian gymnasium. Zosimus and Quadratus, the two titans of the XI Claudia, were equally haggard. Quadratus’ blonde beard and moustache were flowing and tangled like his hair – giving him the look more apt for his Gaulish ancestors than a hardy Roman. Zosimus’ usually perma-stubbled anvil jaw and scalp were likewise sprawling with thick, dark-brown hair like some kind of unkempt street-sweeping brush, and he seemed to have aged in these last months – his broken nose more severe and his foul glare just a fraction fouler. Sura too looked ragged – his unkempt blonde mop and beard framing his sunken cheekbone. But the eyes were the key, Pavo thought, looking round each of them once more. Each pair of eyes told the story of these last few months. The march, the treachery, the ambushes, the sandstorms, the mines, the arena, the palace. One question hung on everyone’s lips. Pavo was the first to air it.
‘What now?’ he said, stoking the embers with a twig.
‘When we reach the Gulf, perhaps we might buy a berth on a merchant cog,’ Gallus suggested, avoiding the issues of their lack of coin and the certainty that there would be a massive price on their heads.
‘Aye, well we certainly aren’t walking back,’ Quadratus said with a wry smirk.
At this, Zosimus, Sura and Pavo erupted in a chorus of dry laughter, Gallus going as far as cocking a languid eyebrow.
When the laughter faded, Sura held up his water skin. ‘If . . . when we make it back, then we’ll drain the taverns of ale for Felix.’ For once, he said this with no mischief and not a trace of his trademark grin. Pavo raised his water skin along with the others.
After a short silence, Gallus turned to Pavo. ‘You still have the scroll?’
Pavo nodded, pulling it from his belt and handing it to him.
Gallus unfurled it and read, his eyes sparkling at first, then dulling as he came to the clause that rendered it useless. ‘So Jovian chose to protect the empire only while he held the throne.’
‘Saved his own skin and to Hades with the future of the empire?’ Quadratus scowled.
Zosimus shrugged. ‘Aye, but then he saved the lives of his army on that day too. Had he not put his seal to that scroll, they might all have been slain . . . or worse,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the Dalaki salt mines.
‘Who knows what Jovian was thinking,’ Gallus surmised. ‘Reading the minds of the living is difficult and dangerous enough. Reading the minds of the dead . . . ’ his words tapered off into a mirthless chuckle as he tucked the scroll inside his robe.
‘Has it all been for nothing?’ Zosimus shrugged, staring into the fire.
Pavo felt as if the big Thracian had reached into his heart and pulled the words from there.
‘We’ve lost a lot in getting this far,’ Gallus nodded. ‘We have little to show for it. But we tried,’ he clenched a fist and glanced at the darkness and the veil of stars that cloaked the sky. ‘By Mithras, we tried. That must mean something.’
Pavo saw a glassiness welling in Gallus’ eyes as he searched the ether for an answer, the idol of Mithras clutched in the tribunus’ right hand.
As if aware he was being watched, Gallus tossed a sinew of goat meat into the embers of the fire, then stood, his eyes at once turning icy cold and his lips growing taut. ‘All that remains is for us to ensure that word gets back to the empire. Emperor Valens must be informed of Tamur’s intent. We sleep here and then we rise before dawn. We’ve ridden a good ten miles today so the Gulf coast is roughly another twenty miles away. I reckon we could reach the shores by mid-morning.’