Legionary(92)

The eight Romans encircling the man looked to one another.

‘What if we’re not hungry?’ Quadratus said, a hint of suspicion still glowing in his eyes. A grumble from his guts immediately followed.

‘Then you should tell your belly that,’ Zubin fired back, a broad grin splitting his features. ‘Now please, eat,’ he said, tearing off a piece of bread for himself then offering the rest to Pavo.

Pavo took the bread but passed it straight on to Sura. ‘Your offer of food is generous,’ he said to Zubin, then he gestured to Falco, ‘but we need fire and blankets. My Father, he is - ’

‘Indeed,’ Zubin frowned, stepping closer to examine the prone Falco. ‘He has been in the river too long.’ He looked Pavo in the eye, then glanced to each of the others, drawing a long breath in through his nostrils. He shot a wistful glance up to the Tower of Silence, then turned back to them and nodded. ‘Come with me.’





They carried Falco and followed Zubin from the gorge. They trekked through the deserted foothills until they came to a small farmhouse on the brow of a hillock dappled with red poppies. Inside, the single room was cool and sparsely furnished, with just a small bed in one corner, a wooden trunk by the door, a table and chairs in the centre of the floor and a hearth at the far side. Zubin wordlessly helped lay Falco on the bed, then brought thick blankets from the trunk and wrapped them around the shivering Roman. While Pavo and the others sat on the floor near the bed, Zubin then set about kindling a fire in the hearth then heating a pan of water over it. He decanted the hot water into cups and added a generous dose of honey to each before giving one to each of them, and two to Pavo. Pavo understood and nodded his thanks. He took just a swift gulp of his own cup – the thick, sweet drink at once warming him and soothing his battered body – then held the other to Father’s lips, Sura gently raising Falco’s head to the cup. Most of the drink spilled across Falco’s chin, but his lips trembled and opened slightly. He drank a little then sighed weakly.

‘He will need to rest, eat and drink in turn. When the cold has penetrated into your heart, it is like a demon, refusing to be driven out,’ Zubin said gravely.

‘But he will recover, won’t he?’ Pavo said, turning to the Persian. He caught sight of Zubin’s grave look. It was enough to answer the question. Then Falco’s body shuddered in a fit of weak coughing. Pavo saw the flecks of blood on his lips. Black blood. No, Pavo mouthed. The fever and the lung disease now battled to take Father from him. His head swam and he stifled the urge to cry out in anger. He felt Sura clasp a hand to his shoulder in reassurance.

‘You can rest here for a short while,’ Zubin said gently. ‘But I fear the men from the mines and the garrison of nearby Bishapur will be out looking for you soon.’ He flicked the hemp rug on the floor back with his foot to reveal a trapdoor. ‘I expect you are tired of dwelling underground, but my cellar would be a safer place for you to recover.’

Pavo clasped Falco’s cold hands tightly, then looked around his comrades. Felix, Zosimus and Quadratus seemed unsure of Zubin’s offer, but what other option was there? They were weak, exhausted and wounded. Felix nodded, and they stood to help lift the trapdoor.

As Pavo readied to help carry Falco down the ladders, he fixed Zubin with an earnest gaze. ‘Thank you.’

Zubin nodded modestly.

The cellar was a modest space, lit only by timber slats near the ceiling – level with the ground outside. Grain sacks were piled up around the walls, and these made makeshift beds. They afforded the most comfortable of these to Falco, wrapping him well in the blankets then dressing themselves in the tattered robes Zubin brought them.

The next days were a meld of thick, dreamless sleep and eating and drinking their fill time and again. Zubin brought them fresh loaves, sticky sweet dates, a zesty orange fruit and urns of hearty stew. This fare soothed and warmed their battered bodies. Zubin had also brought them a small barrel of water, a roll of linen bandage and a few pots of salve. They used this to wash and treat their wounds. Pavo ate and slept by Falco’s side.

On the third day, Pavo was woken from a deep sleep when Zubin came down to the cellar to whisper to them; ‘Word has spread about the disaster at the mines. Three chambers were flooded. Many slaves escaped in the chaos. Riding parties are scouring the brush and the flatlands around the mine. With any luck they will not come into these hills.’

Indeed, by the fourth day, no scouts had come by the farmhouse. More, Pavo noticed that a sparkle of strength was returning to his comrades’ eyes. Sores and raw flesh had begun to heal, and their ribs seemed to jut less severely. They had even begun to talk of their next move. But Pavo heard their words as little more than a background jabber, for he focused only on Falco, crouching by him. Father had grown feverish and now muttered almost incessantly. Zubin’s honeyed hot water seemed powerless to expel the icy cold from Father’s chest. The hope was dying in Pavo’s heart. He held the phalera in his palm, the disc buckled where it had defied Gorzam’s spear. His memories drifted to that day in the slave market when the crone had given the medallion to him, lifting him from despair. He pressed the piece into Father’s palm, wrapping his fingers over it. ‘Don’t give up, Father,’ he whispered.