Legionary(115)
The narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar would not return home from this campaign, he affirmed with a half-grin. The man’s death would be a fine treat. First though, the Roman dogs would serve as a pleasant appetiser. He squinted ahead, seeing the tiny dust plume of the five Roman riders fleeing in vain for the western horizon. When the plume disappeared over the distant grassy sandbanks, Tamur’s eyes narrowed. ‘There is nowhere left to run now, Roman dogs . . . ’
The blood pounded in Pavo’s ears as his mare galloped over the grassy sandbanks and down onto the soft, white-sand shores of the Persian Gulf. Waves crashed rhythmically onto the shore, throwing up a wall of foaming white surf, and hazy turquoise waters stretched out beyond. Overhead, gulls and cormorants shrieked as they swooped and circled. The hot, early morning air was spiced with a salty tang. He slowed by the water’s edge, the others stopping beside him. Wordlessly, they gazed out across the waves. Then they glanced just a mile or so up the shoreline to the north, where the Euphrates estuary flowed into the Gulf. There, through the haze of heat and salt-spray, they saw a mass of ships bobbing on the waves, sails billowing. The Persian fleet, Pavo guessed. The Savaran were coming for them from the east, and this fleet would ensnare them from the north. He glanced to the south: only open, sandy flats for miles – nowhere to hide.
Zosimus said it first; ‘We’re trapped.’
‘No,’ Gallus said flatly as he heeled his mount into the shallows. His lips were cracked and his skin glistened with sweat and salt spray. He trotted back and forth through the waterline, nostrils flared, spatha drawn, his battered intercisa glinting in the sun, the plume and the ragged robe he wore fluttering in the sea breeze – like a battered remnant of Rome in this far-flung land. Finally, his gaze seemed to narrow upon the approaching fleet.
‘Sir, we can’t win this one,’ Quadratus said gravely.
‘The five of us? No, we can’t,’ Gallus cocked an eyebrow, heeling his mount round to face them. ‘But we’re not alone.’
‘Sir?’ Pavo said. Then, when Gallus pointed to the fleet, he understood.
The fleet was close enough now to discern. The ships were not Persian. Twelve triremes. Each of the white sails bore a silver Chi-Rho emblem. The decks were awash with armoured men and a figure on the foremost vessel carried a silver eagle banner.
The triremes crunched onto the shore, and a chorus of splashing and drumming boots followed. In moments, the shallows were thick with dark-blue shields emblazoned with silver Chi-Rhos, gleaming intercisa helms and spear tips. First one cohort, then another two. The XVI Flavia Firma – the rest of Carbo’s legion. Some fifteen hundred men. With them was a pack of some three hundred funditores – Armenian slingers dressed in tunics with small bull-hide shields strapped to their biceps and axes dangling from their belts. Like a wave of steel, they splashed forward from the shallows, then onto the sand, rushing to form up.
Gallus dismounted, slapping his exhausted mount on the flanks to send it cantering from the beach. Then he sought out the red-bearded officer to the right of the first cohort. ‘Tribunus Varius of the XVI Flavia Firma!’ the man saluted as he approached.
‘Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ Gallus barked in reply.
‘It is you,’ Varius’ face widened in disbelief and he clasped Gallus’ shoulders. ‘The last of the emperor’s vexillatio?’
Gallus frowned. ‘Aye,’ he replied guardedly. ‘What do you know of my men and I?’
Varius held his gaze with an earnest look. ‘A messenger came to Antioch, bringing news of your enslavement.’
‘A messenger?’ Gallus’ eyes narrowed.
Varius nodded. ‘A desert warrior. A Maratocupreni chieftain. A woman.’
‘Izodora?’ Pavo gasped from nearby.
‘Aye,’ Varius replied, ‘A beauty with a tongue like a whip! She spoke to Emperor Valens like a scolding mother. But he listened, he hung on her every word. He heard of your capture and his shoulders slumped, but then his eyes sparkled when he realised you had been taken alive to the Satrapy of Persis. After that he sent his advisors from the room and they talked alone. Afterwards, when she had gone, his eyes were red-rimmed and his face sullen. It was then that he came to me. I assumed it was to finalise my orders to take my men to Thracia with the last of the few legions stationed in Syria – even the barely-trained city garrisons are being loaded onto ships and sent west. But no, he told me that I was instead to take my legion east, to patrol these waters, to seek you out. He insisted that while there was hope that you and your men still lived, then there was hope for the empire’s eastern frontier. His advisors argued that it was folly not to send us to Thracia. But the emperor was adamant. Think of those who call this land home, he glared at them, those who cannot simply turn and flee to some country villa in Anatolia or Africa! Their protests soon fell silent,’ Varius grinned dryly, then his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper; ‘Tell me you found Jovian’s scroll, Tribunus.’