Legionary(22)

Pavo cocked an eyebrow. Now that was a march. ‘Just as the desert is new to me, the Persian ranks are too. I have heard one word mentioned a lot in hushed tones – here and in the barracks we are billeted . . . the Sav - ’

‘The Savaran,’ Yabet finished for him, a sober look erasing his grin. ‘Those riders are like nothing you will have faced before. Some call them the iron centaurs. They are nimble, near-invincible . . . and deadly. They harness tusked beasts many times the size of the largest mount.’ He swept his hands out as if to encompass all before him, ‘then stoke these creatures into a fury and drive them into their enemy’s lines, trampling soldiers underfoot like ants. But these riders and great creatures might never trouble you. I’ve heard of hardy legionaries out there who have perished without ever coming near a Persian lance. The sands that separate us from the Persian Empire are deadlier than any blade and more formidable than the tallest of walls.’

Pavo raised both eyebrows, quite unsure what to say.

‘But I will be by your side,’ Yabet said and tapped a finger to his temple, his canny grin returning. ‘I know where the water lies in that dry land. It is as my mother used to say; don’t enter the desert unless you have a camel or an Iberian guide,’ he said, gesturing to himself. Then he nudged Pavo. ‘I am not a camel, by the way.’ With that, Yabet winked, slapped him on the shoulder then left to introduce himself to the others.





The innkeeper sighed as the last of the legionary party trudged out into the night. The tavern now empty, he swept shards of shattered jugs and splinters from the floor, muttering to himself as he saw one partially finished leg of lamb smeared across the flagstones. Still, the men from the Thracian legion had tripled his normal nightly income, he thought with a wry chuckle. He rested his broom by the door and reached up to bolt it. But he stopped, sensing that the place was not empty after all. He twisted round, a cold shiver wriggling across his neck. There was one figure, cloaked in the shadows of the far corner. All he could see was a hand, weighing something over and over.

‘Didn’t you hear my call? The tavern’s closed,’ he grunted, hoping it sounded aggressive enough. But the figure didn’t move. ‘I said - ’ but the words caught in his throat when he saw the thing the figure weighed. A leather purse adorned with a faded, tawny gold lion – stained with blood. At last, the figure in the shadows stirred, glowering at him from the darkness. It was one of the men from the legionary rabble, he was sure.

When the figure shot to standing, the innkeeper dropped his gaze and pretended to be sweeping the floor listlessly. He felt the figure’s eyes burn on his skin, heard footsteps crossing the tavern floor then the squeaking of the door opening. With that, the figure was gone, off into the night after the legionary rabble.

The innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief, then frowned, realising he had seen the golden lion motif before. ‘Just what is a man of the empire doing with a Persian purse?’ he chuckled.





Chapter 5





Pavo staggered round and round, sweeping his gaze over the dunes. Endless as always. Confusion danced in his thoughts. ‘Father?’ he spun around looking for the solitary figure the nightmare always offered – the tortured, hunched figure with the empty, cauterised eye sockets, arms outstretched, calling for him. But the dunes were empty and he was alone. Pavo seized the moment ‘Show me my father or leave me be,’ he snarled into the ether. Just then, as if in riposte, the sandstorm picked up, hurling stinging grains against his skin. But he refused to shield himself from it, squaring his jaw in defiance. The storm grew ferocious, roaring, almost casting him to the ground. ‘You cannot hurt me anymore!’ he cried out.

Suddenly, something burst from the dunes underfoot and grasped at his ankles. Terror shot through him as he saw a knotted, bony hand jutting from the sand, clutching him. It pulled him down, into the dunes. He kicked and thrashed, but to no avail. The hands grappled at his knees, and he saw the top of a head emerging from the sand. He grasped for his dagger only to find it was not there. So he clamped his hands around a nearby rock and held it overhead.

At that moment, the head emerged from the sand as the storm grew deafening.

‘Father?’ Pavo recoiled at the gawping, sightless face – more sickly and aged than ever.

‘Beware, Pavo!’ Father cried, his straggly, greying locks whipping up in the tumult. ‘Beware!’

Then, like a predator’s jaws, the sand swallowed Father once again. Pavo cried out at this, only for the sand to suck him down too. It rushed to his waist in one heartbeat, and in the next, the sand was around his neck. A heartbeat later the air was gone from his lungs as the sand enveloped his face. He opened his mouth to scream and the sand poured in, muting his cry and filling his mouth and nostrils.