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.’