Legionary(59)

Is this Hades? he wondered. ‘Where am I?’ he muttered to himself.

‘The home of Ahriman, the realm of the lie,’ the figure replied. ‘Just a few of the monikers this place goes by. Though every man sent down here has his own name for it.’

Pavo frowned, then saw that the cavern seemed to writhe. Men, he realised, rubbing his eyes again until his vision sharpened completely. Men clustered around the crystal face like larvae, caked in a crust of the white dust and sweat. They were dressed only in filthy loincloths and some had rags of cloth tied over their noses and mouths. Their backs were hunched and bleeding from whip wounds and their ankles were raw from their shackles. Some worked at the crystal face with pickaxes and chisels, swinging their tools into the crystal, shattering it and bringing showers of powder and chunks tumbling to the ground around them. Others trudged to and fro, heads bowed, crystal-laden baskets strapped to their backs. These men formed a train, like ants, filing towards the middle of the cavern.

There at the centre of the cavern floor was a dark, circular hole. Directly above, the ceiling bore a matching hole. Through this broad shaft something moved vertically, like some giant, slithering serpent. A pulley, he realised, tirelessly hauling basket-loads of this crystal up to some chamber above and lowering empty baskets back down into the darkness of another chamber below. Watching over these wretches were dark figures in baked leather armour and caps, whips and spears clasped in their hands, faces wrapped in cloth revealing only glowering eyes.

Realisation dawned on him as he crumbled some of the white powder between thumb and forefinger. Finally, he looked up to the far side of the cell and the shadowy figure.

‘I am in the salt mines of Dalaki, am I not?’ he said. The words sounded distant and even then he refused to believe them. His eyes darted around the cavern outside. Father? But every hunched and rasping soul he saw seemed racked with illness, few over thirty years old. A chill finger of reality traced his skin.

‘Dalaki? That is another name for this place, yes,’ the figure replied. ‘While the Persian nobles and citizens of nearby Bishapur bathe in sunlight and dine on fresh bread and dates, we know only foul air, torchlight and scraps.’

Pavo’s thoughts churned. He had seen the dot on Gallus’ map representing the Dalaki mines. Thirty miles or more east of the Persian Gulf, deep in the belly of the Persis Satrapy, many weeks’ march from the oasis and his last memories. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Three days,’ the figure said. ‘When they dumped you in here they said you had been feverish and muttering for some weeks before that as well.’ At last, he stood up from the stony shelf and approached Pavo. The flickering torchlight revealed an emaciated figure of average height, dressed in a filthy rag of a loincloth. He had surely seen his fortieth year, Pavo guessed. His skin was sallow but caked in the white powder, as was his thick moustache – twisted to points at either end under a broad nose. His short, thick black hair and dark, age-lined eyes instantly announced him as a Persian. He had the broad shoulders of a man who was once a warrior, but his ribs jutted and his belly was puckered, and the thick red lines of whip wounds coiled over his shoulders from his back. ‘I am Khaled,’ he announced. He held a filthy clay cup in his hand, offering it to Pavo. ‘Here, drink this. It is briny and hot, but it is all they give us.’

Pavo backed away until he felt his back press against the cell wall.

‘You fear a wretch like me?’ Khaled said with raised eyebrows, gesturing towards his jutting ribs. ‘Come on, drink – you did not reject me when I watered you in these last days,’ he said with a grin.

Pavo frowned, remembering the nightmare, the soothing voice and the drinking vessel at his lips. ‘Thank you for dressing my ribs,’ he said, then took the cup gingerly. He sipped at the foul water, but found his rampant thirst outweighed his disgust. He gripped it with both hands and in moments, he had drained the cup. Suddenly he realised how hungry he was. He touched a hand to his belly, taut and puckered like Khaled’s. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. Had it been the unchewable, dry hard tack on the dunes, weeks ago?

As if reading his thoughts, Khaled turned and dug something from a pile of the white powder on the floor. A stringy mass of something. He tore it in two and handed Pavo a piece. It was a chunk of white meat, no bigger than his thumb. Pavo held it to his lips tentatively.

‘The salt disguises the taste,’ Khaled said.

Pavo chewed on it and found the texture of the meat and the sensation of eating innervating. Then he saw the long, pink tail jutting from the pile of salt, and the red eyes and fangs of the dead rat. He closed his eyes and finished the morsel.