‘Yabet is half Greek, half Iberian. He will guide you into southern Persia and the Satrapy of Persis.’
Gallus’ mind spun. He glanced at the campaign map and the most direct route into Persia; Mesopotamia. The area between the Euphrates and the Tigris was shaded a light green to indicate the fertile earth that distinguished the ancient land. ‘Across the two great rivers? Those lands are thick with Persian forts and settlements, are they not? Like the Roman limites, didn’t you say?’
‘Exactly,’ Valens replied, ‘so you are to take a far lonelier route.’ He traced his finger from Antioch, dragging it south-east, across the stretch of map that skirted Mesopotamia and was shaded in unbroken yellow. ‘The Syrian Desert is treacherous, but Yabet will see you all the way across it.’ His finger stopped near the tip of the Persian Gulf. ‘Once at the Gulf, you are to stow your armour and anything that identifies you as legionaries, then buy a berth on some trade ferry — something that will take you across the water. On the far shore is the Satrapy of Persis. Once you have infiltrated that land, your ingenuity will be the key. Comb the towns and cities, buy what information you can from the rogues that litter the Persian alleyways, leave no stone unturned. Greek-speakers are common in those parts. Find this scroll, Tribunus, and save your empire.’
Gallus worked hard to suppress his urge to challenge this epic proposal.
‘Your vexillatio will be complemented by a century from the city garrison. The men of the XVI Flavia Firma are good soldiers, Tribunus. And they’ll be led by a good man. A brave man eager to march into enemy lands.’
Gallus followed Valens’ extended finger and saw that it pointed to Carbo.
His eyes narrowed and his mood grew darker.
Chapter 4
Pavo drained his wine cup then thumped it down on the scarred oak bench. He gazed round the dimly-lit, red-brick tavern with a contented sigh as he felt his troubles washing away. There was a distinct fuzziness behind his eyes and the banter of the thirty or so Claudia legionaries around him melted into a soothing babble. Now when he touched a finger to the phalera on his chest, he felt a keen sense of optimism. Had Father once been in this city? Had he maybe drunk with his comrades in this very tavern — at this very bench?
He chuckled at the powers of the drink as he poured himself another measure from the jug then reached out for the water to dilute it, halting only when he remembered they were drinking it neat and there was no water jug. They had only been here for an hour at most. After dropping their packs and armour at the city barracks by the eastern gate, they had set off in search of refreshment. Led by Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix, they had wandered through the streets, still busy despite the late hour. They passed through the Forum of Valentinian, lined with merchant stalls. Next, they had wondered past an open-fronted basilica, packed with Christian worshippers chanting along to the promptings of a priest. Only when they reached the agora near the south of the city, they had found what they were looking for; a stirring pole and vine leaves resting by an open doorway — the symbol of wine and ale known the empire over.
But inside it was very different from the chaotic — often perilous — drinking pits that he had grown used to on the Danubian frontier. There, the taverns were always packed with jabbering legionaries, locals and a mixture of Goths and travelling traders. There, a legionary was almost guaranteed a black eye or a thundering hangover as a memento of his night out. Here, there were only a few locals dotted around the other benches, most sipping watered wine and chatting quietly, some eating mutton and vegetable stew. The bench commandeered by the XI Claudia was in stark contrast: at the far end, Zosimus and Quadratus seemed keen to make this place a little more like home, exchanging insults in between frequent mouthfuls of ale. It was obviously strong, like the wine, given Zosimus’ ruddy features and Quadratus’ giddy grin.
‘Aye, and on the first day I joined up, Zosimus here was supposed to show me how to use the bow drill to light a campfire.’ Quadratus spliced his words with laughter, his blonde moustache jostling. ‘He was all wrinkled and serious looking, as if he was some kind of survival expert. . then the bloody fool goes and sends a shower of sparks over himself — a moment later and the hem of his tunic’s on fire!’ Quadratus doubled over at this, roaring, and the rest of the bench erupted in laughter too. ‘Nearly burnt his bloody cock off!’
Zosimus’ complexion reddened, his anvil jaw straining as he fired angry glances around the table. ‘Aye, well, it’d be wrong of me to tell these lads here of the time you once farted a whole contubernium out of the barrack blocks at Durostorum, eh?’ He met the eyes of the others around the bench and jabbed a finger at the big Gaulish centurion. ‘Had three portions of bean and root stew and apparently he was at it all night. The other seven lads in there with him couldn’t take it any more, they came stumbling out, retching and choking. One of the poor sods ended up having nightmares for weeks afterwards!’
There was a hiatus of shocked faces around the bench, then they erupted once more in laughter.
Quadratus’ beaming smile faded at this and he shook his head and smoothed at his moustache as if in firm denial, booming out over the hilarity; ‘Nah, nah, that’s a long way from the truth. The beans were on the turn, you see, and I only had two portions. . ’
At that moment, a hand slapped on Pavo’s shoulder. He twisted round to see Sura. ‘You’re feeling better?’
Sura pushed in to sit next to Pavo. ‘I told you — a couple of hours sleep and I’d be in fine fettle.’
Pavo was unconvinced, seeing the odd, ruddy glow on his friend’s skin. ‘How did you know we were here?’
Sura cocked an eyebrow. ‘I just followed the twisted scowls of the local populace — they’re a sober bunch, eh?’
‘Aye, I wonder that we shouldn’t be moving onto watered wine soon?’
‘I’ll let you suggest that to those two,’ Sura nodded to Zosimus and Quadratus at the end of the bench.
Just then, Felix guided a cook from the tavern kitchen over to the bench. The man carried a long platter with seven steaming joints of lamb on it. He placed it down and at once all eyes turned to the fare, which Felix supplemented with pots of honey and piles of nuts.
‘See?’ Pavo said. ‘Felix will keep us right. He knows that’s the sensible way to calm the drinking — some good food’ll sober us up and have most of the lads feeling sleepy in no time.’
As if to confound him, Felix then piped up to the cook; ‘and send out, ooh, another ten jugs of wine while you’re at it, will you?’
‘You were saying?’ Sura chuckled.
‘This lot is on Tribunus Gallus,’ Felix grinned to the table.
As the rest of the legionaries cheered at this, Pavo could not help but grin. He helped himself to a chunk of the tender, sweet lamb and then had his fill of nuts and honey. As he washed it down with a generous swig of wine, he realised a hangover was unavoidable. It was then he heard the scuffling of boots from the street.
He twisted to see a cluster of some forty garrison legionaries. They were off-duty and without their weapons, but some still wore their mail shirts and bore the weary looks of men who had just finished a punishing shift of sentry duty. As they passed by the Claudia bench, some anecdote from Quadratus evoked another chorus of raucous laughter. At this, the leader of the sentries fired an instinctive and frosty glare at them, his sharp nose wrinkling. His hair was long and tucked behind his ears — a distinctly un-Roman style that seemed popular in this part of the empire.