Carbo was first to speak. He cast a hand towards the fortlet. ‘This would once have served as a waystation of sorts, to supply and shelter troops heading from Syria to the banks of the Euphrates and to provide early warning of Persian attacks. It would have housed maybe a turma of equites and a few auxiliaries, so there could still be supplies inside.’
This elicited little enthusiasm from the column.
‘Aye, fifty year old hard tack? Mmmm,’ Sura whispered to Pavo, rubbing his belly sarcastically.
They marched into the fort in silence. Inside was as derelict as out. A half-collapsed timber stable in one corner was near-buried in a build-up of dust. A flaking saddle, a splintered spear shaft and a dented trough lay long discarded nearby. A small limestone cistern stood near the stable. It bore a crack down one side. Felix strode forward to draw his spatha and bash the hilt upon the cistern. The noise was only part-echo. The primus pilus shot a look round to the column. A look of hope. He slid his spatha blade into the crack in the side, and shook the blade to antagonise the fissure. The stonework barely moved if at all, but the motion was enough to release a portion of the cistern’s contents.
Dust.
It poured onto the ground and billowed up, over Felix and across the watching ranks. It seemed all this fort had to offer was shade, Pavo realised, the dust clinging to his tongue. A cool place to contemplate their thirst.
Just then, a frantic shuffling sounded from behind them. As one, the column spun round to the southern end of the fortlet, hands going to spatha hilts, spears clenched tightly. The small barrack block there ran the length of the wall. It was nearly roofless and the colonnaded porch area ruined, with empty bird nests along the tops of few still standing columns. The structure had two doorways, one at either end. From inside the barrack building, the shuffling noise sounded again.
Nobody spoke. All hands clamped tighter on their spears.
Gallus nodded to Zosimus and Pavo. Pavo slid a shield from the back of the nearest camel. The pair stepped from their positions and stalked towards the nearest doorway into the building. Meanwhile, Carbo nodded for Baptista and one of his legionaries to move towards the far doorway.
Pavo drew his spatha as he approached, eyes peering over the tip of his shield. Zosimus crouched beside him, part-protected by Pavo’s shield, holding his spear up so the tip hovered at gut level. All he could see inside was a blackness cast by the remaining portion of roof, and his eyes strained to adapt to this after hours of constant, glaring sun. His heart rapped on his ribs as he edged under the doorway. He knew just how swiftly a long, tiring march could be transformed into the chaos of battle. He had been caught in many Gothic ambushes in Thracia – and they always started like this. A scream and a flash of iron was usually all the warning the attackers would afford. But here the Goths were a distant trouble. Here, Persia and her allies were at large. He shared an affirmative glance with Zosimus, then the pair lurched into the building.
Nothing.
His vision sharpened, and he saw the skeletal frames of legionary bunks and the black stain of a hearth. Another shuffle sounded in the next room. He and Zosimus shared a tacit affirmation once more. They stalked towards the next doorway then leapt through, spatha and spear readied to strike. At the same time, two silhouetted figures leapt towards them from the far end. Panic struck both he and Zosimus. He hefted his spatha high and the big Thracian lunged forward with his spear. The pair before them leapt forwards likewise. But they halted at the last, blades inches from flesh, the identities of the pair revealed in the gloom.
Baptista and his man panted, the snarling expressions on their faces blackly reminiscent of that night at the tavern in Antioch. Baptista’s spatha edge hovered next to Pavo’s throat, his glare baleful. Then their shoulders sagged. Each man stowed their weapons and stood tall. The four looked around the room, and quickly located the source of the shuffling.
The pair of vultures scuffing around on the floor suddenly realised they were not alone. In a flurry of wings and feathers, they took flight with haste and their muse was revealed. A skeleton bearing the last traces of a legionary tunic lay slumped against the wall. A leather sword belt and scabbard remained tied around the waist, absurdly oversized given the wearer’s present condition. The skull grinned back at the four.
‘Well if you won’t eat your hard tack . . . ’ Zosimus muttered dryly.
The four remained in silence until the grinding of a boot on the dusty floor behind jolted each of them.
Gallus had entered the derelict barrack room. He eyed the skeleton with disdain, then looked around the four. ‘Have the men fall out. Post four sentries to each wall. We make camp here for the night.’