‘Mithras!’ one of the figures yelled in delight. A haggard brute of a man with a blonde moustache and beard. Beside this one, another of the same stature and a squashed nose let loose an ecstatic volley of obscenities, arms outstretched to the sky, as if he had not seen the sun in years. They clawed and scrambled their way to the shingle.
Zubin gulped, then shared a nervous glance with the mother goat.
Pavo thrashed and splashed his way to the river’s edge on all-fours. There, he retched and vomited, then retched and coughed again and again until the last of the water was gone from his belly and lungs. He clutched at the sun-warmed shingle in disbelief, breathing the sweet, clean air in wonderment, then fell on his back and squinted at his surroundings. At first, the sunlight was blinding after so long in the darkness of the mines, but gradually, shading his eyes with his hands, he saw that they were in some river valley, vast mountains to the east and tapering foothills to the west.
‘Pavo!’ Sura croaked from nearby in between spluttering fits. ‘We’re free!’
Laughter echoed nearby – instantly recognisable as that of Zosimus. ‘We bloody did it!’
Pavo sat up and hugged his knees to his chest with one arm, running the other hand through his tangled hair and wiry beard. He saw the handful of blurry figures lying or sitting nearby, each retching and coughing: Zosimus, Quadratus, Felix, Sura, Habitus. No Noster, none of the men from the wheel . . . no Father. For a moment, the events of the past few hours seemed dreamlike, and he wondered if it had all really happened.
‘Father?’ he scrambled back into the shallows, eyes darting to every ripple, every sound.
He waded in until the water lapped at his chest, then he felt Zosimus’ hand on his shoulder, hauling him back. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool – the currents are too strong,’ he said, a finality in his words.
‘No!’ he cried, shrugging the big Thracian off. Just then, the waters before them bubbled. A gnarled hand shot clear of the surface, clutching for the air before the ferocious undertow threatened to snatch it back under. ‘Father!’ Pavo gasped, seeing the frayed leather strap on the wrist. He leapt forward, clasping the hand firmly. Zosimus uttered some half-curse then grabbed and held Pavo’s waist. The two pulled, groaning. At last, they hauled Falco free of the current. Falco gasped for air and then at once slumped. Pavo and Zosimus caught him, then carried him, wading back to the shallows and splashing onto the shingle. Falco fell like a dead weight, lying on his back, his breathing laboured, his skin near-blue.
‘Father?’ Pavo fell to his knees. Falco did not respond. He pressed his palms upon Falco’s chest, but no water came up.
‘Easy,’ Felix croaked, ‘His enemy is not water in the lungs, it is the cold from those icy depths.’
‘Then we need fire, heat, dry robes!’ Pavo looked this way and that in search of something they could use. Instead, he froze as his gaze snagged on something else: a lone man, a Persian with a neatly groomed beard dressed in a loose-fitting linen robe and trousers crouching in the long grass. He was desperately trying to pull a stubborn goat kid back into the grass. Then the goat kid bleated and the eyes of the eight were upon him.
The Persian stood up, coddled the goat kid like a child and dabbed his tongue out to dampen his lips. Felix urged the others to their feet to surround the man.
‘A Persian soldier?’ Quadratus said, his eyes narrowing.
The Persian shook his head. ‘A soldier? The only enemies I fight are of the four-legged variety!’ He frowned as the goat kid took its cue to bite at his beard. He chided the beast, then set it down to join the others in play.
‘My name is Felix. We are Roman,’ Felix said cagily, stepping forward, ‘but we have no wish for trouble.’
‘I am Zubin. I am a farmer. I honour Ahura Mazda and pray he will strengthen my crops and allow my last years to be peaceful.’
‘But your armies will be looking for us,’ Zosimus snapped, his eyes still narrowed in distrust.
As Zosimus’ words echoed through the gorge, Zubin cocked an eyebrow. ‘Shout any louder and they will find you. But you are right, the militia will be looking for you. As they would any men who escaped the mines.’
Quadratus and Felix braced at this.
Zubin held up a hand of supplication quickly. ‘I recognise those whip wounds. My son was cast into the depths of Dalaki. The only morsel of comfort they offered me was to bring me his scar-laced corpse after he died.’ He extended a finger to the tall mountains upriver, pointing to a squat circular ruin on the closest. ‘I laid him to rest upon the Tower of Silence, there, atop the nearest peak. That is why I come here – to graze my goats and to remember him. I have no sympathy with those who consign men to the mines. I love Ahura Mazda, and I do not believe he would ever condone such treatment of men.’ He removed the hemp sack on his shoulder and laid out the contents. Fresh bread and dates. ‘Come, eat with me.’