I might never return, like Father, a voice added from the dark recesses of his mind.
At last, Felicia’s façade crumbled. ‘Don’t you know that my every thought rests on that?’ she said, her voice cracking. A sob escaped as she buried her head in Pavo’s chest. ‘I’ve heard what the Persian frontier is like. I . . . ’ her voice cracked.
Pavo held a palm to her face and stroked away a tear with his thumb.
Felicia met his gaze. ‘Do you even know why you have been summoned there?’
Pavo could offer nothing. All anyone of the XI Claudia vexillatio knew was that they had to make their way east, to the city of Antioch. There, Emperor Valens would disclose to them the details of this sortie that had so far remained shrouded in mystery. ‘Felicia, I don’t know, even Gallus doesn’t know, but . . . ’ he said, barely realising that he was toying with the outline of the phalera as he spoke.
‘But you have to go, regardless?’ she finished. ‘Even if there was no mission, you would have to go east, wouldn’t you?’ She traced a finger over the medallion too now.
Legio II Parthica the inscription read. Father’s legion. Since the day the old crone had pressed the piece into Pavo’s hand, it had given him strength. Strength to survive after news came to him of Father’s slaying in the sacking of the eastern city of Bezabde. Strength to carry on through the years of slavery that followed. Strength to seize his chance of freedom and serve in the legions. Then, just weeks ago, that had all changed with word brought from the Persian frontier. It seemed that some of the Parthica had survived the fall of Bezabde, being taken captive and sent to toil in the treacherous Persian salt mines.
Even without horse, coin or water, I would travel east alone to find out what happened to you. If Mithras wills it, I will find you or your bones out there, Father, the voice in his mind answered with alarming clarity. He looked down as a tear of his own splashed onto Felicia’s fingers, then nodded in silence.
They each looked up, seeing each other through their sorrowful blur, then Pavo pressed his lips to Felicia’s, tasting her salty tears. Their embrace was lasting and they clung to one another, her warmth like a salve to his tired body. It took a gruff grunt from the corner of the room to end their moment, somewhat abruptly.
‘When you two come up for air, can I get some wine over here?’ Quadratus moaned. ‘I need something to numb the bloody pain.’
At this, Felicia’s face split with a wide and toothy grin and she wiped the tears from her eyes. The sight warmed Pavo’s heart. Felicia squeezed his hand then slipped away to tend to Quadratus. Pavo gazed after her, until Gallus’ barking from the walls snapped him from his trance. He looked to the doorway and out into the training yard. The iron tribunus was now descending the stairs to berate his men further. Pavo stepped outside, readying to help Zosimus in gathering the century. He heard the lapping of waves from over the sea walls and saw the masts of the two triremes that would carry them towards the rising sun. A shiver danced across his skin and he answered the dark whispers in his mind.
To the east, then.
Chapter 2
The following morning at dawn the XI Claudia set out on their voyage to Antioch. With a crew of well-fed remiges manning the oars, the two triremes cut through the calm, turquoise waters of the Propontus, startling thick, silvery shoals of fish and weaving between myriad verdant islands. The one hundred and sixty legionaries of the XI Claudia wandered the decks of this miniature fleet – Gallus, Felix, Centurion Zosimus and his century on the lead vessel and Centurion Quadratus and his men on the other. Unburdened of armour and packs, they were in good spirits. On the flagship, they helped with the rigging, jibed with the overly officious beneficiarius’ insistence on supply crates being stacked at perfect right angles, and played dice on the deck in the pleasant early summer sunshine.
At this stage, Pavo could only laugh at the memory of his previous sea voyage – for some reason he had spent that journey doubled over the lip of the vessel, hurling up bile, but this time his stomach was calm like the still waters. But, when the fleet passed through the Hellespont and entered the waters of the Mare Aegaeum, he remembered exactly why that was. A wind picked up and the waves grew choppy. In moments, Pavo felt as if his gut was on fire and his head spun as if he had drunk too much ale. He staggered across deck to the prow, then doubled over to reacquaint himself with the olives, bread and watered wine he had consumed at the outset of the voyage. His vomiting session roused a chorus of cheering from his comrades, supportively orchestrated by Zosimus and Sura. They were swiftly silenced, however, when a sudden, sharp gust cast some orangey, bilious spray back over their faces.