Legionary(6)

Tired and nauseous, Pavo found sleep easy to come by. A stiff northerly wind helped them on past the islands of Chios and Samos and into the southern stretches of the Aegaeum. He woke on the fifth day of their journey as they stopped at the well-fortified port of Rhodos to take on fresh water and rations. Just stepping onto solid land instantly refreshed him. They visited one of the many dockside taverns, but only had time to fill their bellies with a thick and hearty lamb stew and a few jugs of the famed local wine. Quadratus was particularly disgusted at having to leave again so soon – just as a curvaceous local woman was growing merry enough to succumb to his charms. Meanwhile, Gallus had spent the whole time ashore quarrelling with the portmaster about something.

They set off again, turning east to sail into the Mare Internum and along the coast of southern Anatolia. Pavo took up a spot at the stern, resting his back against the lip of the vessel, awaiting the return of the vile nausea.

He pulled a strip of scarlet silk from his belt and held it under his nose. Felicia had scented the piece with a rose perfume. He closed his eyes and imagined nuzzling into her neck, just as he had done on that last night. Gallus had given him leave from the barracks. So, in their tenement room by the Saturninus Gate, he and Felicia had eaten a meal of figs and pheasant, washed down with a jug of rich red wine. They had made love until exhaustion put an end to their endeavours. Then he had slept without nightmares. The visions that had haunted his nights for years rarely let him be; images of Father stood alone on a sea of sand dunes, his empty, staring eye sockets, his hands outstretched, then the sandstorm that always rose and consumed them both. Tears welled in Pavo’s eyes.

At that moment, a wave rolled under the ship, shaking Pavo back to the present. He braced for the sickness to return. But it did not. He frowned, patting his belly.

‘Found your sea legs at last?’ Felix asked, strolling across the deck.

‘I pray to Mithras I have,’ Pavo chuckled.

‘Well the next test will be to see how we cope in the heat of Syria.’ Felix eyed the horizon and stroked at his forked beard as he said this. ‘This sortie might be little more than policing Antioch or something. They have trouble with partisan urban cohorts in the eastern cities, I hear. We might rarely have to step out of the shade . . . but I doubt it.’

‘Do you have anything to go on, sir?’

‘About the mission? Not a thing. Not a bloody thing.’ His expression was stern and his gaze had drifted to Gallus, standing near the prow, silent and staring, his plume and cloak fluttering in the breeze. While the rest of the legionaries wore only tunics and boots, Gallus was – as always – encased in armour. ‘I fear the tribunus knows more than he is letting on. He’s protecting us.’ Felix looked to Pavo with the driest of grins. ‘And Gallus rarely shies from scaring the shit out of us. So whatever it is, it will not be pretty.’ Felix took a long pull on his skin of soured wine and issued a brisk sigh. ‘And things are going askew already,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Keep this from the ranks, but we were expecting to meet an escort galley in Rhodos – men sent from Antioch by Emperor Valens to guide us through the pirate-ridden waters ahead and safely to the east.’

‘Aye?’ Pavo frowned, remembering Gallus’ quarrel with the portmaster. ‘You suspect trouble?’

‘No, I expect it,’ he said with a mirthless grin, then strode over to a cluster of legionaries playing dice.

Pavo heard the raucous laughter that erupted as Felix made some quip about one legionary’s personal hygiene. But he could not shift his gaze from Gallus.





The salt spray had long-since coated Gallus and chilled his skin, but he was unblinking. He sensed the world drift by all around him, as if crying out to him to remind him he was alive. The sun-bleached coastline of southern Anatolia, the crashing waves, the skirling breeze, the tang of the sea air, an occasional shadow from scudding clouds and the heat of the pleasant sun. But he was lost in his thoughts. His gaze remained on the small, carved wooden idol in his hand. It was well worn, but the features of a muscular Mithras emerging from cold, lifeless rock were still discernible.

Mithras, he mouthed silently; we made a bargain, did we not? I pledged everything to you and asked only one thing in return. That you allow me to forget.

No sooner had the words crossed his lips than the images returned to him. Olivia. The sweet, scented nape of her neck. The warmth of her as he slid his hands around her waist. The awe in which he beheld the tiny bundle in her arms. Baby Marcus’ ice-blue eyes staring back at him in equal wonderment. Ice-blue, like steel. At once, he closed his eyes. But he could not stave off the echoes of the clashing blades, then the images of the roaring pyre and the blackened bodies of mother and child at the heart of its fury.