Legionary(68)

Having circled the wagon, he reached for the skin of wine tucked under the driver’s berth, then took a long pull upon it followed swiftly by another. It was unwatered and as potent as he had hoped, warming him and drowning his fears. He had taken to drinking it like this in these last weeks, knowing his thoughts would otherwise drive him to madness.

‘Will they come for me tonight?’ he whispered, gazing up at the waning moon. ‘What they asked me to do – no man could do and live with himself afterwards. Would you not have chosen as I did?’

The moon stared back, cold and silent.

The Speculatores would be far more unforgiving. He slumped by the wagon and took another draw on the wine, gazing long and hard into the guttering campfire. He made to take another mouthful of wine, then realised the skin was empty. Just then, Olivia’s weak, sleepy moan stirred him.

He looked at her and little Marcus. As a farming family, they had little in the way of riches, but they had each other and needed little else. This affirmation seemed to render the darkness less of a threat. He felt these maudlin thoughts sting behind his eyes and realised the wine was playing with his emotions. And a long journey to Aquileia lay ahead tomorrow. He cast his eyes once more around the deserted countryside and shook his head with a stifled chuckle.

‘Sleep, man, there is no one coming for you tonight.’

He crept over to lie behind Olivia, wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled into her sleep-warmed neck. A contented smile spread across her delicate features at this, and the sight was enough to lull him closer and closer to sleep. Blessedly, he fell into a dreamless slumber.

But a curious sensation crept through the blackness of sleep. He was being watched. He sat up with a start. All was silent. The trees were still.

Olivia stirred by his side.

‘What’s happening?’ she whimpered, scooping Marcus to her breast.

‘Your choices were foolish, Gallus!’ a voice spat.

Gallus’ heart hammered until it seemed it would burst from his chest. The wine fog clung to his mind as he glanced around. The land was empty . . . until he saw shapes emerging from the trees – two speculatores wrapped in dark-red robes and veils that masked all but their bloodthirsty glares. A clutch of six gnarled, tousle-haired barbarians flanked them. Quadi, he realised – ferocious bastards. They carried swords and clubs.

Gallus shielded Olivia and Marcus as the barbarians approached like preying wolves. His hands shot out to the ground beside him, searching for his weapons. Then he remembered leaving them by the wagon. ‘You fool!’ he cursed himself.

He turned and leapt towards the wagon, only to see another barbarian step from behind it, swinging his club around. The weapon smashed into his skull and he crumpled to the ground, his head filled with a swirl of bright lights and blackness. Warm blood trickled from his ears and nose, and he realised he could not move. Olivia’s scream tore the night asunder, and Marcus wailed in panic.

‘He’s done for,’ one speculatore hissed.

‘Aye,’ the other one purred, ‘now let’s see if the farmer’s wife wants to play . . . ’

The screaming of his wife and child that followed raked at his soul until it fell numb. Long after they stopped, the echoes remained in Gallus’ mind. He heard the two speculatores handing coins to the Quadi. Then they dispersed, spitting gobbets of phlegm upon him.

Eventually, daylight came and his vision with it. But still he could not move. He heard the crunch of another wagon approaching. Soon, someone unfamiliar crouched over him. A weary-faced old traveller. The traveller held water to his lips, and two boys with the man helped Gallus sit upright. His head cleared then, and his eyes focused on two shapes laid out on the grass by the blackened remains of the campfire, utterly still. One tall and the other tiny.

‘No . . . ’ Gallus cried, shaking free of the traveller’s grip. He fell forward, onto his knees, reaching out with a trembling hand. ‘No!’

Gallus sat bolt upright, hands outstretched. But the shades of his dead family faded, and he realised he had awoken from one nightmare into another. This stifling-hot pit in the heart of Bishapur had been his lot for over five weeks now. The pit had a stony floor and walls, and his bones ached from sleeping on such a surface. A raised iron grating capped the cramped space, through which the midday Persian sun glared, rendering the pit furnace-like. Shadows flitted by the grating every so often, and a jagged babble of voices spilled in from every direction.

Then, from behind him, something shuffled.

Gallus started, almost forgetting he was not alone.

He twisted round. Carbo lay, curled up at the other side of the pit in a fit of troubled sleep. His head twitched and his lips trembled, then he muttered something in Parsi, again and again.