The shahanshah rode forward from the vast column he led, the archers in his ranks lifting nocked bows — thousands of them. He was surrounded by pushtigban riders wearing armour that was itself a treasure, gilded and bejewelled. The narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar from Tamur’s ranks rode forward, dismounting to prostrate himself before Shapur. He spoke in even tones, pointing to the figure of Tamur lying in a pool of blood on the grassy verge. Shapur gazed at the corpse for what seemed like an eternity, the sea breeze lifting his pure-white locks and richly-oiled beard.
Finally, the shahanshah turned away and trotted onwards, towards the bloodied legionaries. When they came to a halt, the serene sounds of nature carried on around them as if oblivious to the tumult of moments ago: the crashing of waves, the screeching of gulls and contented munching of the feasting carrion birds.
This close, Pavo saw that Shapur was old. His skin was mottled and deeply lined and he wore a dog-tired expression. But most of all, his eyes betrayed his years. They were weary, almost sickened of life.
‘I tire of the sight of blood,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the rolling crimson waves around the legionaries’ feet. ‘Our empires have spilled oceans of it in my time. And now it seems that I will spend my final years spilling the blood of those within my own lands. Those who seek to seize my throne.’ His gaze grew distant once more, until the narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar approached him, muttering in his ear, pointing to the Romans.
Shapur looked up and beheld them. Then he raised his hand. Pavo’s blood iced. One flick of the finger and it would all be over. Death, torture or a return to the mines. He sensed his comrades brace likewise by his side.
But Shapur pointed to the Roman triremes.
‘Leave, Romans.’
With that, he heeled his mount round, and waved his riders with him.
Epilogue
Pavo sat cross-legged on the deck of the trireme as the small Roman fleet made its way up the Euphrates. The sail cast him in blessed shade and gulls echoed overhead. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed. It was late August, just two days since Shapur had let them leave in peace. They were many miles from that bloodied beach. But it all still felt so raw, so close.
He opened his eyes and looked across the deck. Zosimus sat there in the shade of the trireme side, scraping a sharpened dagger over his oil-soaked scalp. The last of his matted locks fell to the deck of the vessel and left him with his distinctive dark crop once more. ‘Mithras, the breeze on my scalp feels good,’ the big Thracian chuckled, then moved the blade to his brush-like beard, angling another well-polished dagger to see his reflection.
All of a sudden, Pavo felt his own overgrown locks and beard itchier than ever, the heat of the afternoon sun prickling on his skin. Yesterday, they had stopped off at a fishing village to bathe and wash off the worst of the battle-gore, but his hair was still matted with blood in places. He patted at his belt and cursed the absence of a dagger of his own.
Zosimus hesitated and looked up, as if hearing his thoughts. ‘You’ll get your turn,’ he frowned, then winked.
Pavo snorted. ‘It’ll be blunt by then.’
Just then, big Quadratus emerged from below deck, washed and with his jaw clean-shaven and his blonde moustache carefully groomed. He carried two cups and a half-loaf of bread underarm.
‘Ah, have we opened a fresh barrel of water?’ Pavo asked.
Quadratus snorted; ‘This isn’t water, lad!’
Pavo saw the frothy head on the drinks.
‘Haven’t had a drop in months — it’s going to taste sweet as honey!’ the big Gaul grinned, strolling over to sit by Zosimus, handing his fellow centurion a cup. Zosimus — still half-bearded — set down his shaving dagger at this and tore into the bread then gulped at the ale. In moments, Quadratus began recounting a tale from happier times; the day he had walked in on Felix, asleep in the barracks, mid-dream, groping and pelvic-thrusting at his pillow. Zosimus’ gruff laughter came with a spray of breadcrumbs. Then the pair fell silent, before raising their cups to their fallen friend, clashing them together then drinking more.
‘There’s more — a barrel-load, in fact,’ Quadratus called over to Pavo, nodding to the steps leading below deck. ‘Have one for Felix.’
Pavo nodded with a doleful smile. He stood and strolled along the deck towards the steps leading below deck. He stopped there, seeing Gallus standing alone at the prow, fingers working over the idol of Mithras as ever, his plumed intercisa held underarm. He thought to speak with the tribunus, but saw the white knuckles on the hand clutching the idol.
Every man needs time alone, he surmised.
He turned away then slipped below decks, pouring two generous cups of the ale. When he emerged back into the sunlight, he spotted Sura. His friend’s gaze hung on the pastel-blue skies and the gold and green banks of the river. Palms and brush clung to the water’s edge. Lowing camels, donkeys, carts and families traipsed along the pathways there, and the Persian villages were frequent, some open, others with basic fortifications and Median spearmen upon the battlements. But the lone Persian at the prow of the lead vessel called out as the fleet passed, announcing Shapur’s will to see the Roman ships go unharmed.
‘He could have had us killed there, or even now, at any point on this river,’ Sura muttered.
Pavo sat by his side, handing him a cup. ‘Shapur? Aye, he could have.’
Sura looked to him, his usual cheeky grin absent. ‘But we live on. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? We won’t die as old men, Pavo. One day we will perish like so many of our comrades have in these last years.’
Pavo held his gaze, seeing the first hint of tears in his friend’s eyes. This man was as close to a brother as he had ever known. For all the world he longed to embrace Sura, but a gruff chorus of laughter from Zosimus and Quadratus nearby ruled that out.
He looked to the hazy eastern horizon, slipping away as they voyaged upriver. He traced the leather bracelet Father had given him and recalled his dream from last night; Father in his prime, standing tall and bull-shouldered upon the green plains of Thracia, grinning broadly, happiness dancing in his eyes. A tear came to his eye now, too. He batted away the maudlin thoughts and grinned as his father had done.
‘Drink, Sura,’ he said, nudging his friend, ‘for tomorrow awaits us.’
Sura’s pensive air lifted, and he grinned from ear to ear, laughing aloud. He lifted his cup and clacked it to Pavo’s, then the pair gulped on the cool, sweet ale.
At the prow, Gallus’ thoughts swung this way and that. Behind closed eyes, he saw the grey, solemn faces of the hundreds who had died on this mission marching past him, gazing at him, their lifeless eyes asking him the same tacit question. Why do you live on?
His fingers worked the idol of Mithras, trembling, the knuckles white as he saw Felix march in their ranks. He clenched his eyes closed even tighter, seeking to be rid of the vision. Then he saw the one thing that was worse. Olivia and Marcus, pale, gaunt, reaching out to him. He reached out in reply, a faint warmth touching his heart. Their lips moved, over and over.
Why did you let us die?
The words were like a blade to his heart. The vision evaporated and he saw just the tumbling waters of the Euphrates ahead. His mind was blank, utterly blank for just a few heartbeats. Then he thought of Carbo’s portentous words.
Eventually, we all must face our past.
When night fell on the tenth day of the voyage upriver, they disembarked at an unguarded, rundown timber jetty on the western riverbank, some eighty miles due west of Antioch. Two filthy limitanei without helms or mail waited there to welcome them back into the empire. These two advised that a turma of equites would rendezvous with them thirty miles inland to escort them back to Antioch. The pair also offered the returning legionaries some pungent, grey and greasy-looking stew from a pot bubbling over a fire, but the offer was not taken up. Instead, the party set off across the dusty plain at once, their legs fresh after many days on the triremes.