‘Carbo!’ Gallus roared.
Nothing.
He tore his spatha from his scabbard. ‘By Mithras I’ll cut your tent down around you. Come out and face me.’
He heard a groan from inside. The tent flap rippled and then a hand drew it back. Carbo stumbled out into the light. He looked more haggard than ever, his tousled hair plastered across his sweat-streaked face and his eyes glassy.
‘You poisoned me!’ Gallus roared, pointing the tip of his blade at Carbo’s chest.
Carbo frowned, his eyes darting, his hands clutched to his head. ‘Aye, you were poisoned. But so was I, you fool!’ At that moment, Carbo doubled over and retched, orange bile bursting from his lips. He fell to his knees, gagging. ‘The water,’ he spluttered, ‘it must have been the water.’
Gallus let a growl spill from his clenched teeth. ‘Aye, it must have been, mustn’t it? So you took a sip of your own poison to give yourself an alibi. Not good enough!’ He pressed the tip of his blade into Carbo’s chest, forcing him to stand tall once more. At this, Baptista swiped his spatha from his scabbard and made to lunge forward, but a raised hand from Carbo stopped him.
‘Search his tent!’ Gallus nodded to Habitus and Noster.
‘You think this was my doing, Tribunus?’ Carbo growled as the young legionaries rooted around the tent behind him. ‘Your lack of trust is striking!’
Gallus pinned him with a gimlet stare. ‘Just how did you find your way from the Persian salt mines when so many others perished?’ he growled, searching Carbo’s eyes for that telltale glimmer of guilt. Carbo’s pupils dilated then he looked away swiftly.
‘Perhaps one day we will discuss it, Tribunus. I suggest we focus on the present, piece together . . . ’
‘We found this, sir,’ Noster gasped, pushing out of the tent. He held up a small, clay vial.
Gallus’ eyes narrowed as Carbo’s grew in alarm. ‘No,’ Carbo stuttered as Gallus snatched the vial from Noster, pulled the cloth stopper from it and sniffed. A thick, viscous stench offended his nostrils. ‘I’ve no idea what . . . ’
‘This bastard has killed us,’ Yabet cut Carbo off, striding forward to spit a gobbet of phlegm into the dust. ‘Without the camels, not all of us will make it to the next spring.’
At this, the legionaries broke out into a panicked babble.
‘We must pursue the dromedarii,’ one voice called out. ‘Without the camels we will burn in this land!’
‘We’ll never catch them, we should return to Palmyra,’ another countered.
‘Silence!’ Gallus cried, then held out the vial to Carbo. ‘If you are innocent, then drink whatever this is and prove it.’
‘It is not mine. I don’t know how it got into my tent,’ Carbo spat.
‘Drink it,’ Gallus insisted, raising his sword again to rest the tip on Carbo’s neck.
Carbo looked at the vial, his hand trembling as he raised it to his lips.
Gallus watched through narrowed eyes. Then, at the last, something caught his eye. It changed everything. The man standing nearest to Carbo had something poking from the open neck of his tunic. A leather strap from which hung a purse. Bloodstained and adorned with a golden lion motif.
‘Stop!’ Gallus barked, knocking the vial from Carbo’s grasp with a flick of the sword.
‘Tribunus?’ Carbo frowned.
But Gallus’ eyes were on the man by his side. ‘Yabet?’
Yabet frowned as the tip of Gallus’ sword swung away from Carbo and came to a rest against his chest. ‘Tribunus, what is this?’
Gallus hooked his spatha blade around the leather strap on Yabet’s chest and lifted the purse out. ‘No, what is this?’
Yabet smiled weakly as all eyes turned upon him. ‘My purse. What of it?’
Gallus shook with rage. ‘The last time I saw this, it was clutched in the hands of the Cretan pirate captain. The last time I saw that whoreson, he was as good as a shark’s breakfast. So tell me, guide; how did you come by it?’
Yabet said nothing.
‘You will talk, guide. You will tell me everything.’
At this, Yabet chuckled in disbelief. His laughter faded as he saw the wall of stony legionary faces surrounding him. His shoulders slumped and he held out his hands in supplication. ‘I will tell you everything . . . ’ Then, in a flash, he snatched something from his belt. Another vial. He cracked it open and swallowed the contents. ‘ . . . when we next speak in Hades. This dose will still my tongue forever.’ At once, the poison took hold. He clutched his throat and gagged, his face reddening, foam gathering at the corners of his lips. His back arched, blood erupted from his nostrils, then he fell to one knee and crashed face-first into the dust, shuddering. All legionary eyes gawped at the twitching corpse.