‘In this place you soon forget the decorum of the real world. Indeed, it pays to forget all of the real world. Down here, you have no name, no future, no hope . . . ’ he stopped as the dry air caught in his throat, then erupted into a fit of coughing, cupping his hands over his lips. It sounded serrated, as if every organ in his body rattled from the effort. The man’s legs buckled and he shot out a hand to stop himself from collapsing. Instinctively, Pavo shot up, grasping Khaled’s hand, guiding him back to sitting. He saw blood on Khaled’s lips. ‘What’s wrong with you?
Khaled wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. ‘The same thing that afflicts every man who sets foot in these mines. The lung disease spares no one,’ he nodded through the bars to the workers out there. ‘Once it takes hold . . . it is only a matter of time.’ He held up his hand. ‘When the blood is red, like this, you might have many months or even years of suffering left in you. When it is black . . . then you should make peace with your god. Few last but a handful of years in this realm.’
Pavo’s eyes darted this way and that. Father had been brought here more than fifteen years ago. No, he mouthed, clutching for the phalera, then his breath froze when he found it was not there. He recalled the last moments before the blackness; the spearman tearing the medallion from his neck.
‘You have lost something?’ Khaled said. ‘That is no surprise to me. If they could denude you of your dignity on the way in, they would. Those who bring new slaves in usually strip them of valuables and sell them to the guards.’
The phalera, the strip of silk from Felicia. Gone. Pavo’s head throbbed again. He slumped back down onto the stony shelf, raking his fingers across his scalp. He was surprised to find his hair had grown in and he could grasp it between his fingers. Likewise, he found a short beard had sprouted on his jaw. Confusion danced across his thoughts. He looked up to Khaled. ‘You said the Savaran spent weeks bringing me here?’
‘No, not the Savaran. They said they would have slit your throat from ear to ear where they captured you. But your comrades pleaded to carry you with them, through the desert.’
Pavo’s ears perked up. ‘My comrades – they are in here?’ He glanced out through the bars, his eyes scouring every sorry, hobbling figure out there.
‘There were very few Romans with you, and they were in a dire state. Many struggled just to stay on their feet.’
But Pavo barely heard him. He remembered Tamur’s order to slay every second legionary. How many had then survived the trek across the desert to this place? He filled his lungs, belying the pain in his ribs and head. ‘Sura?’ he bellowed, grappling the bars once more. His cry echoed around the cavern. Many heads turned, the slaves wore fearful looks, the guards wore scowls.
‘No!’ Khaled wrapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him back from the bars. ‘Your comrades, or those that have survived their wounds, are in the lower chambers, they will not hear you. Do not draw attention to yourself – the guards in here, they detest us as much as they despise their jobs. If you give them an excuse to . . . ’ he stopped, gawping up at the bars.
A rattling of iron bars sounded from off to the left of their cell, growing louder and closer.
‘Who . . . what is that?’ Pavo whispered.
‘It is Gorzam – a dark-hearted cur. Lie down,’ Khaled gasped, gesturing to the stone shelf. ‘Pretend you are still unconscious!’
‘Why?’
Khaled bundled him onto the shelf, then scuttled over to the other shelf to lie down.
The rattling slowed and then stopped, and Pavo sensed a shadow creeping across him.
‘Ah, Khaled,’ an acerbic voice hissed, then muttered something in Parsi. The guard’s eyes then locked onto Pavo and he switched to the Greek tongue. ‘You two choose to make trouble?’
Pavo cracked open an eye where he lay. Khaled lay motionless, eyes closed as if asleep. But the tall, bear-shouldered guard standing outside the bars knew otherwise. He wore a baked leather cuirass over a linen tunic and a hardened leather helm. He carried a whip in one hand and a spear in the other. The guard unlocked the cell gate and stepped inside, then reached up to unbuckle the thick cloth that obscured his face. His pitted features creased in a scowl and his dark eyes raked over Khaled’s prone form like a butcher eyeing a cut of meat.
‘Lost your voice, dog?’ the guard spat, lifting a leg and stamping on Khaled’s gut. With a cry, Khaled rolled from his stone shelf, hacking and coughing, blood dripping from his lips. ‘Gorzam, please,’ he pleaded.
Gorzam’s face split into a gleeful black-toothed smile and he swung the whip back, the barbed tails glinting in the torchlight.