Pavo gingerly stepped over to sit beside him, pulling the cork from the skin, taking a modest swig then handing it over. Gallus sipped at it, his gaze distant as if it had taken him back to some time in the past. A silence passed between them.
‘What you said to Carbo, back at the tavern; about seizing upon the slimmest of hopes,’ he hesitated, plugging the cork back in the skin and searching for the words. ‘I can tell you that I would do the same.’ He sighed and looked up to the stars. ‘Indeed, just to have the chance would be some comfort.’
Pavo frowned. Few knew anything of Gallus’ past. Even those he trusted like brothers in the XI Claudia; Felix, Zosimus and Quadratus knew little of the man inside the iron carapace. But there was one who had known something. His thoughts spun back to the gore-sodden plain of Ad Salices, only months ago, when he had held the dying Optio Avitus in his arms. Avitus’ last words had remained lodged in Pavo’s thoughts, and he had never summoned the courage to share them with the man they concerned.
‘Avitus told you, didn’t he?’ Gallus said suddenly.
Startled, Pavo was lost for a reply.
‘Come on, lad. You’re rarely short of words,’ Gallus said.
Pavo’s thoughts spun. Doubt needled on his lips as he summoned the words. ‘Sir, he told me he was a speculatore, an assassin, a man sent into the legion to . . . ’ his breath dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting around, ‘ . . . to kill you.’
Gallus nodded, his lips taut. ‘And by Mithras he turned out to be one of my best men.’
The pair shared a silence, both thinking of their lost comrade. The man had shunned his life as an assassin and fought like a lion in the Claudia ranks. His last words had never made sense to Pavo. ‘Why was he sent after you, sir?’ he asked tentatively.
‘He was an assassin, lad. Just as you were once a slave. Just as I was once . . . ’ his words trailed off and he gazed eastwards again, shaking his head. ‘Everyone has a past, Pavo. We all make choices. Every day. You are young, and your biggest choices lie ahead.’ He pushed the water skin back into Pavo’s hand. ‘While some of us have to live with the past, the black choices we made and cannot undo.’
Pavo saw for the first time a glassiness in Gallus’ eyes. But almost as soon as it was there, it was gone again. Gallus’ face wrinkled and he shook his head, the steely glare returning.
‘Don’t trouble yourself with my maudlin words,’ he said, standing, offering Pavo an arm. ‘Think only of your legion and what lies ahead. Try to get some sleep if you can. Tomorrow, another day of hard marching awaits us.’
Pavo clasped Gallus’ arm and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Aye, sir.’
The pair parted and Pavo made his way back down into the fort, glancing over to his tent. Then he again noticed Centurion Carbo, still on his own at the other corner of the battlements. Pavo wondered if the haggard centurion found sleep difficult too. He considered then if it would be the time to approach him and talk with him more. Perhaps he could tell him of the nightmare of Father. Aye, sleep can wait, Pavo thought, ascending the steps nearest. Barefoot, he made little noise as he ascended. Then he heard a sibilant whisper. Carbo was still muttering to himself. The same thing over and over again. A cold finger of realisation traced its way up his spine. The centurion was speaking Parsi, the language of the Persians, the language of his one-time captors. Pavo backed away, confused, picking his way back to his tent.
Darkness had long since fallen and all bar the sentries and a few others were asleep. Gallus stared out from the battlements, then started when a groan sounded from outside. He peered down to see the small camp the dromedarii riders had made just outside the walls. The riders sat in a ring around a fire, cooking stew and jabbering in their own tongue. The camels yawned and snored, lying around them like a protective wall. There was little room inside the fortlet and in any case, it was their preferred way of doing things. Besides, the damned beasts smelled like Hades itself, he thought, wincing as he caught their scent on the night air. But these animals would be vital, he concluded, for without them to carry shields, armour and tents, the men would be burdened intolerably and they would drain whatever water they had in half the time.
Water, he thought once more. They would have to find a fresh source soon. The only blessing was that his nagging thirst kept the other thoughts at bay. A pang of guilt touched his heart at this, and he placed a hand on his purse, feeling the idol of Mithras in there. He screwed up his eyes to stave off the swirl of memories this summoned, then glanced across the crumbling walls.