As the sun fell below the horizon, the legionaries erected the last of the goatskin tents around the floor of the broken fortlet. Each contubernium of eight men kindled a fire and soon plumes of sweet wood smoke puffed lazily into the still night air and firelight danced on the inner walls of the small compound. The men sipped carefully at the dregs of water in their skins, then settled by their tents to prepare portions of bread, salted beef and cheese. Pavo and Sura sat cross-legged outside their contubernium tent, tucking into their meals and then sipping on their skins, supplemented with a few swigs of the rich soured wine.
‘I could drink two skins of water right now, without stopping for breath,’ Sura croaked dryly.
Quadratus and Felix wandered over, the little Greek tossing a pair of dice in his hands. ‘Anyone fancy losing some coins?’ he winked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to Yabet, who followed him. ‘This one does, apparently.’
Pavo shuffled round for the pair to sit, then Zosimus and a few others came over too. They bantered in muted tones as they played, taking their minds off their nagging thirsts. Each man took a turn to tell a story. Some were humourous, some ribald, and others simple tales of family life back home. Then it came to Pavo.
‘Come on then – you’ve always got something to say. Tell us what you know about Persia,’ Zosimus flicked a finger in his direction.
Pavo felt all eyes fall upon him. He thought back to his days in Constantinople, before legionary life, and his snatched reading sessions in the library. A chill danced up his spine as he remembered one particular text. It depicted a man, misshapen and splayed out on some frame. ‘About a hundred years ago, Emperor Valerian fought the Persians. His army was overcome and he was left with no option but to surrender to Shahanshah Shapur – a forefather of Shapur II. Whole legions surrendered with him. The king of kings had them marched into Persian territory. Many were harnessed like oxen on the Persian farms, others were sent into the mines and some were put to work in building Bishapur, a new city for the shahanshah.’
‘What of Valerian though?’ Felix asked, sucking on his water skin.
Pavo looked round to see the faces of his comrades, each hanging on his next words. ‘The shahanshah kept him hostage in the palace at Bishapur, forcing him to watch the enslaved legionaries build the new city around it.’
‘Not so bad,’ Zosimus curled his bottom lip. ‘Bit of wine, plenty of women?’
Pavo cocked an eyebrow. ‘Aye, you would think so. But living in a palace doesn’t mean living like a king. Some say Shapur sought to humiliate him, forcing him to kneel and act as a footstool. Then one day, bad news reached the shahanshah from one of his borders. A Kushan tribe had revolted, slain a wing of his army and sacked the cities there. Nobody knows for sure what happened, but some say that Shapur flew into a rage, taking up a shamshir and hacking down slaves. Finally, he turned upon Valerian . . . ‘
‘He cut the emperor down?’ Quadratus guessed, his nose wrinkling.
Pavo shook his head. ‘No, it was far worse. Shapur ordered him skinned alive.’ Gasps of disgust rang out around the fire. ‘Some believe his skin still hangs in that palace in Bishapur, like a trophy.’ Silence hung over the group, nobody quite sure what to say.
‘Well thanks for that,’ Zosimus uttered at last, eyes wide. ‘Next time we want a gentle story before turning in, I’ll be sure to ask someone else.’
Pavo shrugged, ready to defend his tale. But before he could speak, a baritone drone split the air. A chill danced up Pavo’s spine as all heads darted this way and that. Then they saw the source; on the other side of the fort, Centurion Carbo led Baptista and his men in prayer. He stood with his head bowed and his hands clasped. The rest of the men faced him, kneeling, hands clasped and heads bowed. Pavo noticed that the men of the Flavia Firma had yet to touch the food they had prepared.
Yabet was first to comment; ‘Still haunting, no matter how many times you hear it, eh?’
Pavo nodded. The Christian legionaries had prayed like this most nights, and more so on Sundays. He was intrigued by the looks of devotion on the faces of Baptista and those with him, eyes closed, expressions sombre. But when he looked to Carbo, he saw the centurion’s eyes were open, staring, lost in some memory. In a flash, Carbo’s eyes met with Pavo’s, as if realising he was being watched, then he quickly averted his gaze and returned to prayer. Pavo frowned. After weeks of being in Carbo’s company, the man was still a guarded and nervous figure.
Felix also watched the ritual. ‘Mithras is with us, and let’s hope their God is too,’ he commented pensively, flicking a finger up to the east. ‘We’ll need gods and more on our side, out there.’