Legionary(17)
‘It is a thread, Tribunus.’ Valens said, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. ‘The finest of threads. But we must grasp at it. We must seek out the scroll.’
Realisation dawned on Gallus. He sat upright and met Emperor Valens’ unblinking gaze. ‘You summoned us here to send us into Persia?’
‘I would not have brought you here if I had any doubts as to your suitability,’ Valens replied firmly. He clapped his hands again.
This time a short, stocky man in his late twenties was shown into the room. He could have been described politely as swarthy, but the truth was he was filthy and unshaven. He wore a frayed tunic and a dark-brown, Phrygian cap, with jet-black, oily locks dangling from the rim. Overall he had the look of an unwashed Mithras, Gallus thought, his nose wrinkling.
‘Yabet is half Greek, half Iberian. He will guide you into southern Persia and the Satrapy of Persis.’
Gallus’ mind spun. He glanced at the campaign map and the most direct route into Persia; Mesopotamia. The area between the Euphrates and the Tigris was shaded a light green to indicate the fertile earth that distinguished the ancient land. ‘Across the two great rivers? Those lands are thick with Persian forts and settlements, are they not? Like the Roman limites, didn’t you say?’
‘Exactly,’ Valens replied, ‘so you are to take a far lonelier route.’ He traced his finger from Antioch, dragging it south-east, across the stretch of map that skirted Mesopotamia and was shaded in unbroken yellow. ‘The Syrian Desert is treacherous, but Yabet will see you all the way across it.’ His finger stopped near the tip of the Persian Gulf. ‘Once at the Gulf, you are to stow your armour and anything that identifies you as legionaries, then buy a berth on some trade ferry – something that will take you across the water. On the far shore is the Satrapy of Persis. Once you have infiltrated that land, your ingenuity will be the key. Comb the towns and cities, buy what information you can from the rogues that litter the Persian alleyways, leave no stone unturned. Greek-speakers are common in those parts. Find this scroll, Tribunus, and save your empire.’
Gallus worked hard to suppress his urge to challenge this epic proposal.
‘Your vexillatio will be complemented by a century from the city garrison. The men of the XVI Flavia Firma are good soldiers, Tribunus. And they’ll be led by a good man. A brave man eager to march into enemy lands.’
Gallus followed Valens’ extended finger and saw that it pointed to Carbo.
His eyes narrowed and his mood grew darker.
Chapter 4
Pavo drained his wine cup then thumped it down on the scarred oak bench. He gazed round the dimly-lit, red-brick tavern with a contented sigh as he felt his troubles washing away. There was a distinct fuzziness behind his eyes and the banter of the thirty or so Claudia legionaries around him melted into a soothing babble. Now when he touched a finger to the phalera on his chest, he felt a keen sense of optimism. Had Father once been in this city? Had he maybe drunk with his comrades in this very tavern – at this very bench?
He chuckled at the powers of the drink as he poured himself another measure from the jug then reached out for the water to dilute it, halting only when he remembered they were drinking it neat and there was no water jug. They had only been here for an hour at most. After dropping their packs and armour at the city barracks by the eastern gate, they had set off in search of refreshment. Led by Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix, they had wandered through the streets, still busy despite the late hour. They passed through the Forum of Valentinian, lined with merchant stalls. Next, they had wondered past an open-fronted basilica, packed with Christian worshippers chanting along to the promptings of a priest. Only when they reached the agora near the south of the city, they had found what they were looking for; a stirring pole and vine leaves resting by an open doorway – the symbol of wine and ale known the empire over.
But inside it was very different from the chaotic – often perilous – drinking pits that he had grown used to on the Danubian frontier. There, the taverns were always packed with jabbering legionaries, locals and a mixture of Goths and travelling traders. There, a legionary was almost guaranteed a black eye or a thundering hangover as a memento of his night out. Here, there were only a few locals dotted around the other benches, most sipping watered wine and chatting quietly, some eating mutton and vegetable stew. The bench commandeered by the XI Claudia was in stark contrast: at the far end, Zosimus and Quadratus seemed keen to make this place a little more like home, exchanging insults in between frequent mouthfuls of ale. It was obviously strong, like the wine, given Zosimus’ ruddy features and Quadratus’ giddy grin.