‘Optio Silvanus of the III Cyrenaica, third cohort, second century!’ he croaked.
Gallus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Where is the rest of your cohort, Optio?’
The old man’s face fell. ‘What you see here is my cohort, sir. An imperial messenger promised a relief force - a fresh century,’ he shook his head. ‘But that was last summer.’
‘Where is your commanding officer?’
The old man’s shoulders sagged now, and it seemed that every one of his days was etched on his face. ‘I am in charge, sir. The last centurion was slain in the autumn. Desert raiders drew him and twenty of our men out. He was a brave man, but . . . ’
‘But he went too far into the sands?’ Yabet finished for Silvanus with a wince.
Silvanus nodded. ‘They ran out of water. The desert raiders didn’t even slay them in the end; they just let them cook in their armour and die of thirst.’
Gallus’ nose wrinkled at this, then he shook the sorry tale from his thoughts. ‘Then you should be commended, Optio, for holding this fort in the time since. You have my sympathies, for the limes of the east fare little better than those of Thracia, it seems,’ Gallus remarked wryly. ‘Yet in Thracia, from where we have come, we have watched our fabricae being stripped of every last surplus of weapons and armour. Ships brimming with such supplies have set off from our ports, sent east – here – to bolster these limes against the expected Persian invasion.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ the Silvanus nodded. ‘But it is the few comitatenses legions holed up in the fortress cities of Damascus, Antioch and Palmyra who receive those goods, not us,’ he flashed a dry but nervous smile. ‘Yet it is my men and I who will face the wrath of the Persians before any of them.’
Gallus could not contain a dry snort at this.
The optio nodded to one of his men by the ovens. ‘Now, if you will permit me, sir. I can have fresh bread and cool water ready for you and your men before noon. You can eat with us then rest until the worst of the midday heat has passed.’
A chorus of parched croaking and rumbling bellies sounded behind Gallus.
The column marched on down the Strata Diocletiana. Each of the forts they came to afforded them water and shelter for the night. At noon on the eleventh day, they reached the desert city of Palmyra.
The figure marching with them cast his eyes over this, what was once a marvel of the empire. The western end of the city was a charred, tumbled ruin, with skeletal buildings, toppled columns and flagstones prised from the weed-strewn streets. The opposite end of the city clung to the greatness of the past, a vibrant, bustling market square thriving around the base of the three massive legionary forts that had been thrown up against the city’s eastern walls. This was the last bastion of the empire the vexillatio would enjoy before they set out into the wastes of the Syrian Desert. The figure’s thoughts turned over and over. This was the moment to put his plan into action.
The steely Tribunus Gallus led his men inside the city’s eastern gates, then to the sparsely populated barrack blocks of the nearest of the three forts – the home of the IV Scythica. Barely a few centuries garrisoned this colossal, thick-walled compound, and it was no doubt the same in the other two forts.
The figure watched Gallus question the centurion who led a single century in drill-practice.
‘Where is the rest of your legion, Centurion? I grew used to witnessing such paucity of manpower in the quadriburgia leading here, but I did not expect such a sight within these walls too.’
The centurion shuffled nervously. ‘They’re out east, sir, in the desert.’
‘Ah, yes, the emperor did say the Scythica were running down some Persian raid, but they must have been out there for weeks now?’
‘Yes, sir. They left three weeks ago yesterday.’
Gallus’ expression darkened. ‘When did you last hear from them?’
The centurion’s lips trembled. His hesitation said it all.
‘You haven’t heard from them in all that time?’
As the centurion searched for a reply, the figure watched on, grinning, knowing full-well what would have happened to the IV Scythica by now.
The centurion held his hands out in supplication, then pointed to the north. ‘Within imperial lands, communication is swift and predictable. The Strata Diocletiana allows a horseman to ride from the banks of the Euphrates to here in less than three days.’ He shook his head and glanced up to the colossal eastern city wall that formed one end of the fortress. ‘But out there, there is nothing. Just burning dust, desert raiders . . . and Persian blades.’
Gallus’ lips twitched, struggling to contain some stinging rebuke. ‘I will leave you to inspire your men with such stirring reverie, Centurion. Now, I assume there is ample room in the barracks for us?’