The centurion nodded, gulping, then motioned towards a barrack block cast in shade, next to a small, domed thermae. ‘You can take up the sleeping quarters of the men currently out in the desert.’
When Gallus turned to face his vexillatio and bark them to their quarters, the figure moved with them, grinning. He bathed in the thermae, ate and wandered amongst the men. When at last darkness fell, he crept from the fort. The city glowed in orange torchlight. Flitting shadows of citizens, traders and thieves danced across the colossal walls of the three legionary fortresses. The figure stole through the alleys running parallel with the colonnaded main street. It was vital he went unseen, for tonight would be his last chance to plan what was to happen. Tomorrow, the mismatched band of legionaries was to set off into the heart of the desert, leaving imperial lands behind. No more legionary patrols, no more safe havens. Thousands of miles of white-hot desert.
He reached the ruined end of the city where every shadow held some shady character. But he sought out just one. The lead dromedarius and his men had insisted on camping here, away from the hustle and bustle of the eastern end of the city. They had kindled a fire at one edge of this abandoned forum. Some sat in silence, carving slices from fruit with their daggers, others were busy brushing and feeding their foul camels. He saw the lead rider, crouched in the palm of a giant marble hand that had fallen from some statue or other.
How apt, he mused. This man and his dromedarii would do their part for Persian coin.
Yes, the figure purred, toying with the cracked leather purse, stroking the tawny gold image of a lion, the desert holds the bones of many a brave traveller. In the days to come, it will claim those of a few hundred more.
Chapter 8
It was mid-afternoon on the third day after leaving imperial lands, and all signs of life were gone. Utterly gone. No birdsong, no chattering of cicadas, not a dot of greenery to be seen. In every direction, the shimmering horizon offered only the infinite burnt-gold flats of the Syrian Desert and an unbroken azure sky. Now only the crunch-crunch of boots on arid dust, dry gasps from parched mouths and the occasional angry groaning of the camel train could be heard. The water skins that had been filled to brimming at Palmyra were now empty or sloshing with soupy, brackish dregs. Even the camels seemed near-defeated by the ferocious heat.
Pavo’s ankles had rubbed free of skin on the first day after leaving Palmyra and were now wrapped in linen batting. Yet the dust still seemed to find its way inside his boots and armour, clinging to the sweat underneath and scraping on his flesh. And his head felt like a baking loaf of bread inside his intercisa.
Up ahead, Gallus was in conversation with Carbo and Yabet. Carbo seemed to be insistent on one route, jabbing his finger at a spot on the map, while Yabet protested and tapped another. Pavo saw Gallus’ eyes narrow on each of them. The man trusted few, and these two were strangers. At last, the tribunus made his choice, issuing a terse command. At this, the aquilifer hoisted the legionary banner and the column veered a little to the south.
‘Water or shelter, do you reckon?’ Zosimus asked in a hushed tone.
Pavo winced as the collar of his mailshirt touched his neck once more, singeing his skin. ‘Both, I hope.’
They marched on until late afternoon. Pavo ran his tongue across his lips, each as dry as a dead toad. He patted his water skin, knowing there was but two mouthfuls left in it. If he was to drink it now then . . . he looked up to the featureless horizon before them. No, not featureless.
‘Hold on,’ he croaked. ‘We’re outside imperial territory, aye?’
Sura and Zosimus nodded in reply.
‘Then what’s that?’ he pointed ahead.
Sura and Zosimus followed his outstretched finger. In the heat haze ahead, a shimmering, limestone hump spoiled the flat skyline. A murmur of interest broke out across the ranks. As they marched closer, it took shape as a structure, some kind of fortlet. It was small, barely one hundred feet long and broad.
‘It’s imperial!’ Felix said.
Pavo and every other man in the column shielded their eyes from the sun, eager to catch sight of some legionary garrison on the battlements.
Zosimus chuckled, clapping and rubbing his shovel-hands together. ‘Water, shade . . . the lot!’
But Pavo did not share his centurion’s enthusiasm. He saw Tribunus Gallus’ eyes dart from the fortlet to the map, an intense frown knitting his brow. The men at the quadriburgia and those in Palmyra had made no mention of outlying encampments.
Just then, the haze fell away and the reality of the structure sharpened before them. The walls were deserted and crumbling, sections of the battlements having toppled into heaps of rubble around the base. The gateway bore a thick, dark crack above its arch, and the desiccated, shattered remnants of the gates hung ajar from bent hinges. Atop the gatehouse, the remnants of some banner remained – a dry pole with a torn, sun-bleached rag hanging limply. A collective sigh poured from the column. The place had been long abandoned.