Sura grumbled; ‘Those bastards are far too self-assured for my liking — there’s no man more smug than he without a hangover.’
They strolled over to a water barrel tucked into a shaded corner nearby. The pair cupped the tepid water in their hands and soaked their faces and scalps over and over again. The liquid helped calm the stinging bruises on Pavo’s face just a fraction. He took a linen rag and soaked it, then clamped it to his ribs under his tunic.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt less ready for a march,’ he confessed.
‘Aye, my skin feels like fire,’ Sura grumbled, examining his ruddy arms. ‘Time to see if this works,’ he said, lifting the small clay flask from his belt. ‘I bought it from some old goat at the market yesterday evening. He claimed it was jasmine oil and it would shield me from the sun,’ he said, tipping the lotion onto his palms then rubbing it onto his shoulders and face. He pulled a self-satisfied grin, then almost as quickly it fell again. ‘Mithras, it’s itchy.’
‘Better itchy than burnt,’ Pavo chuckled.
The pair re-joined their comrades in the shade of the contubernia block porch. They sat, cross-legged, munching on salted fish and fresh bread brought in from the market at the foot of Mount Silpius. To a man, they washed their meal down with water — soured wine was far from their fragile minds. They worked on their armour with rags and olive oil, sharing muted banter. Felix strode amongst them offering words of encouragement and the younger legionaries in particular seemed buoyed whenever the primus pilus addressed them by name.
Zosimus wandered over to Pavo and handed him a folded wax tablet. ‘Here’s the orders of the day, Optio. Basic stuff — how much water the men should be taking on when we’re marching and the like.’
‘I’ll take good care of them, sir.’ Pavo took the tablet and tucked it into his belt, then tilted his helmet back and scratched his sweat-streaked forehead. ‘Though they’ll probably have melted before noon.’
Zosimus chuckled at this and wandered off.
They assembled their kit, looping a length of rope around their packs and stuffing a sickle, bow drill and digging basket into the hemp pack. Next, they added their rations. The emphasis was on water — three skins per man. Added to this, they each packed a wrap of hardtack biscuit, plus a small sack of grain and a measure of lard to cook more of this tasteless but nutritious food. Emperor Valens had seen to it that each man also had slices of salted beef, a round of smoked cheese, a parcel of dried figs and a small flask of rich, soured wine.
Most of the men took only the clothes they wore, plus a light cloak and extra linen batting to protect their heads from the sun when they were not wearing helmets. They would march with their chain mail and helms, carrying their spears, shields and spathas as well as their packs, it seemed. Pavo weighed his pack — and it was anything but light. The first step of the journey was to head for the Strata Diocletiana — the great road that swept north-south through the Syrian Desert and marked the edge of the empire. Many miles to carry such a burden.
Just then, a gurgling, baritone groan sounded from the fort gates. All heads swept round.
‘The dromedarii escort!’ Yabet called out, striding from the principia excitedly.
The gates creaked open and near fifty knot-legged, hump-backed camels ambled inside, beholding the three centuries with a lackadaisical gaze. A clutch of sixteen riders were seated between the humps of the leading camels. The riders wore bleached white robes — long sleeved and hanging to their ankles. They had no body armour but wore Roman helms and carried legionary spears. Each of them was swarthy-skinned and they chattered in a trilling tongue, urging the relaxed beasts onwards with whistling and the occasional swiping of canes.
‘Mithras!’ Zosimus pinched his nose as one camel came close. The beast had a mean eye and jutting teeth. ‘Looks like my sister-in-law. . and smells worse than Quadratus!’
Quadratus’ ears perked up and a scowl twisted his face, but before he could reply, Felix cut in; ‘Load the tents and your packs onto their backs. Less burden will mean a lighter, cooler march.’
At this, a cheer erupted from the two XI Claudia centuries, and some one hundred and forty packs thudded into the dust. The century of Flavia Firma men were more reserved in their reaction.
As Pavo helped strap his pack to the nearest camel’s back, he noticed that Carbo had appeared and now stood in the shade of the principia chatting with Yabet.
‘So those two will lead us to this scroll,’ Sura muttered, sounding unconvinced. Then he looked to Pavo. ‘And who knows what else?’
Pavo felt a prickling of nervous energy in his heart at this. Father. Last night he had told Sura all about Carbo’s revelation and the memory lifted his mood. But the jagged images of the sandstorm nightmare came to him and he shook his head. ‘Let us tackle the desert first.’
Just then, footsteps echoed from the street.
‘Get in line!’ Zosimus bawled, instantly sensing who was approaching. Quadratus echoed the order to his century. The men rushed into position.
‘Come on, this is no drill, tighten up,’ Pavo barked, seeing Habitus, Noster and Sextus leaving a gap between their shields. He fell back to the rear of the century and clacked his staff against his shield. At the right of the first rank, Sura backed up the demand with a thump of his spear butt into the ground. The three offenders bunched up in a heartbeat and the XI Claudia ranks were ready — replete bar the eighteen they had lost in the pirate clash. Their scuffed ruby shields and worn, patched armour contrasted sharply with that of the Flavia Firma ranks, but their faces bore the grimaces of men well versed in legionary life. All within the compound fell silent as the gates creaked open. The tall, lean figure of Gallus strode in and beheld the three centuries of the expedition force.
Gallus met the eyes of each and every man. Then he nodded to the XI Claudia aquilifer, who raised the ruby bull standard in the air.
‘Move out!’ the tribunus bellowed.
Chapter 6
The midday sun baked the lands of the Persis Satrapy. A rocky river gorge stretched across the flat brushland as if cut by a giant’s plough long ago, from the jagged peaks of the Zagros Mountains in the east, snaking off towards the Persian Gulf in the west. A road ran along the fertile southern banks of this gorge, passing lush meadows and shimmering crop fields. Where the brushland met the mountains, the great city of Bishapur stood, hugged to the north by the gorge and fuelled from east and west by a steady stream of wagons, men and cattle.
Today was market day, a day that brought people to the city from many miles around. Sentries lined the beetling, sun-bleached and near-perfectly square walls, watching over the influx. The market-goers brought with them hides, wheat, dates, oil, figs and oranges. Once inside, these crowds spilled through the palm-lined streets and around the arched, stucco-clad villas and halls. They were headed for the centre of the city. Here lay the main market square at the foot of the acropolis. The stench of dung clashed with an aroma of cooking meat and the cries of traders mixed with the jabber of shoppers and the twanging of a highly-strung lute. Exotic animals were led in a parade around the square, ostrich eggs decorated with peacock feathers were held aloft like some grand prize and dark-skinned Indian slaves were led in chains to trading platforms. It seemed that not even a blade could splice this mob. Then all of a sudden they parted and the incessant babble died. All heads turned to the figure saddled on a white mare, ambling towards the stone staircase cut into the acropolis mount.