Another movement. Over there. Thank the gods, it was just a bird, a lark of some sort. It shot up into the sky. Capelianus still searched every tiny ridge and declivity where a man might lie in ambush.
He had ordered the rest of the horsemen to remain on the other bank because he did not trust them. The Pannonian troopers were no trackers. They might well obscure any tracks that the fugitives had left out of sheer ineptness. The reasons of the speculatores might have been more suspect. Crossing the salt lake, Capelianus had become convinced that Verota was leading him by slow, indirect routes. It had come to a head when the centurion had claimed that they had missed a turning and must retrace their steps. Capelianus had had Aban brought forward. Once his son had lost a finger, Verota did not go astray again.
Capelianus dragged his gaze back to the riverbank, and nudged his mount into motion again. Normally hunting was one of his pleasures. But for this he needed good hounds that tracked by scent. He had four such Agassaeans at his headquarters in Lambaesis. The British scent-hounds were home-bred and valiant. Their dam had vouchsafed the latter quality. Capelianus had separated her from her litter of eight. He had a fire lit around the puppies, and then released the desperate bitch. One at a time, the mother had leapt the flames and carried her young to safety. Obviously she knew their qualities, and had rescued the most worthy first. Capelianus had drowned the last four.
The onset of rainy winter was the season to start hunting; while the morning was new, and the soft meadows that were trodden by the creatures of the night still preserve the tracks. Lush Italy, with its gentle valleys and meandering rivers, was the place to go hunting, not harsh Africa with its clinging mud or choking sand.
The horse plodded on, holding its head to one side, as if also searching for traces. Its eyes were very dark. An ideal mount for hunting stags. Red-eyed for leopards, wall-eyed against bears, blazing and fierce for boars, bright against lions. What type of eyes did a horse need for hunting men?
Capelianus stretched his back. It was stiff from peering at the ground. He wished that he could ask Sabinianus to take over, but he had no faith in Sabinianus. Suddenly a deep loneliness came over him. It had always been like this. Even as a young man, as one of the tribunes in a legion, Capelianus had been set apart somehow. Tolerated, but never accepted as a full member of the group. It had got worse after the humiliation his first wife had inflicted on him, but there had always been something about him – an inwardness perhaps – that left him on his own.
There! A hoof print on the lip of the bank.
Capelianus swung down, and, without looking or speaking, threw his reins to Sabinianus.
There was a scuff that might be another. Bent near double, Capelianus followed where the horse might have gone.
A patch of soft sand, and all was confirmed: the prints of at least two horses, and of two men, one barefoot. They had escaped. One had lost his boots, but they had got out of the maelstrom.
Capelianus looked around. There was a jumble of rocks ahead. But the heat of the chase had driven out his fear. No one could be afraid of a man with bare feet.
The trail vanished in the rocks. Capelianus cast around. Sure enough, in a sheltered spot, he came upon the ashes of a fire. They had not bothered, or not had the time or energy, to hide it. Better still, there was a strip of material torn from a tunic. It had been used as a bandage, and was bloodied. One of them was wounded. Capelianus laughed aloud.
He moved to the western edge of the rocks. There were horse droppings, and – stretching away – the tracks of two horses. It was the easiest thread to follow through the labyrinth of desert Africa.
‘Get the others.’
Capelianus remounted, and watched Sabinianus as he clattered away.
Although he would never be a friend, there was still much profit to be had in associating with Sabinianus. If, by some miracle, whoever the Senate had elected Emperor defeated Maximinus, it was possible that the new man on the throne would not look over kindly on the persecution of the supporters of the Gordiani. The victor might disapprove of the crucifixion of Mauricius, and this relentless pursuit of Phillyrio. In such a case, the blame could easily be shifted onto the patrician shoulders of Sabinianus. It would be simple to believe the worst about the legate and close confidant who had betrayed the Gordiani, and – hideous to hear – had cut the throat of his own dearest friend. Somehow even the deaths of the Gordiani themselves might be attributed to such a treacherous creature.
VIII
The Desert South of the Aurasius Mountains,
Two Days after the Ides of April, AD238
Faraxen sat and watched Phillyrio depart. The officer was riding one horse and leading the other. From a distance you could not tell that the rider was wounded, or that one of the horses was beginning to go lame. After a time the group and its shadow merged into one black shape, shifting and flickering under the dazzling African sun.
Had he done the right thing? The question would not leave Faraxen. It had not been his decision. He had been given an order. But the man who issued it had admitted that he no longer had any authority. Phillyrio had been his commander for many years. He was a warrior, an older man who should be admired. Faraxen had not wanted to let Phillyrio leave, not alone, not after all they had been through together.
Back at the wadi, when Phillyrio had said they must take their chances in the flood, Faraxen had assumed they were both going to die. Drowning at least would be quicker than whatever Capelianus would inflict.
When they hit the water somehow Faraxen had continued to cling to the mane of his horse. Although buffeted and turned by the force of the stream, and quite unable to make any headway, the horse had swum strongly. Its powerful legs had kept both their heads clear most of the time, enough to breathe. Phillyrio had not been so lucky. Parted from his mount, he had gone under. When he came up a hoof had caught him full in the face. A brief spray of blood, knocked unconscious, again he had sunk. Kicking off his boots, Faraxen had let go of the temporary sanctuary of his own horse, and dived after Phillyrio. As soon as he went beneath the surface he had known it was hopeless. Nothing could be seen in the churning flood. Faraxen had found nothing apart from jagged rocks of the riverbed, found them when they tore his back as he was tumbled along the bottom. Fighting back to the surface – the sky wheeling madly around him – Faraxen had sucked in air and prepared for another doomed attempt to save Phillyrio, when he saw him break the surface nearby. Three or four wild strokes, and he had caught him by the hair. And then, as if sent by the gods – Lord Bonchor, be praised – one of the horses had bulked out of the foaming chaos, close enough to grab.
The flood had whirled them downstream. Faraxen gripped the horse’s girth with one hand, held the supine figure under the armpits with the other. Eventually a chance eddy at a bend had brought them into a stretch of comparative calm where there was a draw in the bank. The horse had seen its chance, and breaking free, plunged and scrabbled up the broken earth. Another horse thundered after. For a moment Faraxen had thought he and Phillyrio were going to be sucked back into the race of the stream. Straining every muscle, employing every shred of willpower, Faraxen had dragged the two of them to solid ground.
They had landed a long way downstream, far out of sight of their pursuers, and – most providential of all – on the opposite shore. There was a rocky outcrop some yards from the river. When he had gathered his strength, Faraxen hauled the heavy weight of his commander to that place of concealment. The heels of Phillyrio’s boots gauged groves in the sand.
There were many things Faraxen had to do, but he had found he no longer had the energy to stand.
At last Faraxen had managed to lever himself to his feet. The sun had not moved far. As if in some fever dream, the two remaining horses had been standing, calmly cropping a patch of scrub. Many criticized African horses as stunted and ugly. They were fools. Looks were nothing to stamina and temperament. The horses had come when called. Faraxen had led them behind the rocks out of
sight of the river, and tethered them to be sure they would not wander.
With his dagger Faraxen had gone to cut a piece of brush. The stem was tough and fibrous, everything was an effort, like pushing a boulder up a hill. Faraxen had hobbled to the stream and back sweeping like some demented domestic servant. His efforts to obliterate their tracks could be seen through close at hand, but should disguise their presence from an observer on the other side of the river.
Next he had untacked the horses. One had a saddle, the other just a blanket. There was no fodder, but in a saddlebag he had found two metal canteens. He had watered the horses, rubbed them down a little as they drank, hobbled them, then let them crop on what meagre grazing there was to be found.
By now Faraxen had been shaking. Exhaustion or pain or hunger; he was unsure. There was some food in the saddlebag. The water had got at the hardtack, but the leathery dried meat was unaffected. He put a piece in his mouth, and sucked as he tottered on about his tasks.
Bent over, shuffling crabwise through the scrub, he had cut more brush. The tough plants blistered and tore his hands. Sisyphus and the rock was in his mind. Eventually Faraxen had about enough. The tinderbox on his belt was watertight. They had to have a fire to dry their clothes, get some hot food. Once it was alight he had filled a canteen with fresh water, put in some dried meat, crumbled some hardtack, and set it to boil.
The boulder was near the top of the hill. Almost done. Just them to see to now. Faraxen had taken off his ripped tunic. It had been stuck to his back with dried blood. The cuts opened as he pulled it over his head. Minor cuts and abrasions, almost all over. The gashes on his back a bit deeper, but nothing to worry about.
Phillyrio had come round as Faraxen washed himself. His wounds were worse. Like Faraxen, his whole body was a map of grazes and bruises, but the cut to his forehead was wide and deep, and his right forearm was broken. Faraxen had washed his companions wounds, then given him his belt to put between his teeth, as he stitched the head wound. Phillyrio had passed out again as Faraxen set the arm in improvised splints.
The boulder finally lodged at the summit, his labours over, Faraxen had felt too tired to eat. He had forced himself to drink some of the broth. Stretched out, he had thought there was no point in putting out any loose rocks or other warnings. There was no fight left in him.
The next day they had rested. Phillyrio was conscious, seemingly somewhat recovered. The water was still high. But there had been no rain in the north over the chain of the Aurasius, and Faraxen knew the river would drop and vanish soon.
They had set off west before the second day dawned. Phillyrio had been worse, feverish. Twice he had almost fallen from the saddle. After that Faraxen had risen close, ready to support him. They had made no great mileage when Faraxen’s horse began to peck, reluctant to put any weight on its right fore. That was when they had stopped, and had the conversation.
‘I will leave you here,’ Phillyrio had said. ‘I will double back to the north-east, try and slip through the frontier between Badias and Ad Medias, make for Theveste. I have friends who will hide me there.’
‘I will not leave you,’ Faraxen had said.
‘It is an order. I will take both horses, otherwise not all of Capelianus’ men will follow me. You know that there is an oasis no more than three miles to the south of here.’
‘Your orders have no force anymore.’
‘No. You saved my life at the river. Now I will try and save yours. Take my moneybelt. You will need it to buy a horse.’
‘It was the belt that was dragging you under.’
‘Take it.’
‘I do not need it where I am going.’
‘Very well. Time is not our friend. It was an honour to serve with you, Faraxen.’
‘And with you, Lucius Aemilius Severinus.’
There had been a question Faraxen had to ask.
‘Why do they call you Phillyrio, little notebook?’
But Phillyrio had just smiled, and turned his horse’s head.
Faraxen was not certain if the black speck on the northern horizon was Phillyrio and the horses or in his imagination. But there was no mistaking the dust to the east. A tall, straight column, cavalry moving fast.
Hunkered down on a slope of scree, Faraxen had a good view of the point where the tracks turned north-east. He himself was near invisible. But would Capelianus and his riders take the bait?
If they did, Faraxen knew what he would do. It was April, and the tribesmen of the desert would soon be setting out to the north, as they did every year, to cross the frontier, and help in the harvests of early summer. Barefoot, clad in just a shabby, ripped tunic, Faraxen would not look out of place among them. An itinerant labourer, perhaps as a beggar, keeping beneath the attention of the authorities, he would move north, back to his people, and then to his free cousins in the mountains.
He had taken off his swordbelt, and buried it – weapon, scabbard, fittings and straps – there was nothing left of Rome about him. There never would be again. Unless the riders did not pass him by.
IX
The Province of Africa Proconsularis,
Five Days after the Ides of April, AD238
The gods give, and the gods take away.
Phillyrio never thought that he would get so far. With no weight on its back, the lame horse on the lead rein had held up for more than a day. That first night, somehow Phillyrio had got through the frontier undetected. It helped that he had patrolled it several hundred times. He had turned the limping beast loose in an olive grove outside the small village of Midili. He knew the peasants in that place. They would not inquire into its ownership, but thank the gods for their bounty, and quietly sell the fortunate acquisition. Unless, of course, the horse was permanently broken down, in which case they would eat it. Either way they would never admit to having seen the creature.
From there he had tracked north on little frequented routes, keeping away from all settlements. It was not too hard, if you knew the country.
He was within a day’s ride of the town of Theveste when the divine favour was removed. A glint of steel, back to the south. He had stopped in the shade of an orchard, and watched until he was certain. Armed riders, soldiers, lots of them following his trail. Not much over a mile behind. Evidently Capelianus was not a man who gave up easily.
Phillyrio had set himself to ride through the night, dozing in the saddle. They say that the horns of an army saddle would prevent you falling. Which probably was true in the ordinary course of things. Not, however, if you were slipping as you woke, and the arm with which you tried to grab one of the horns was broken and in splints. Phillyrio landed hard, and the horse had bolted off into the night. So much for biddable African horseflesh.
As the sky lightened, beneath scudding lilac clouds, Phillyrio had scrambled up a terraced hillside. It was set with grain between the ancient silvery olives. Hard going for an injured and exhausted man. Near the top, he had found a spot that commanded a view of where he had fallen. The riders came with the sunrise. Beyond his concentration to number. Long shadows flitting across the track, they had ridden straight past. For a moment, Phillyrio had let himself believe he was safe in the hands of some god.
Phillyrio knew he should move. He was too tired. If he moved, his arm hurt. In the dappled sunlight, he rested his back against the trunk of a tree, and closed his eyes.
He hoped the hunters had not found Faraxen. For some reason he was convinced they had not. With a head start of a day or two, Faraxen could vanish into the native population, disappear into those places Rome did not penetrate, into the blanket of the dark.
Phillyrio had a vision of Faraxen – barefoot, in a dusty, unbelted tunic, staff in hand – striding out of the desert; a threadbare prophet calling to the barbarians to bring fire and sword down on Rome. The crackle of burning libraries. The shouts of freedom. Bathhouses and theatres going up in flames.
Phillyrio thought he should not have saved him. But he owed Faraxen his lif
e.
Another shout. Not in his apocalyptic reverie. From somewhere through the trees.
Phillyrio opened his eyes. The soldiers had dismounted, were ringing the hill. He felt oddly calm. Of course the loose horse had not run far. It was as tired as its erstwhile rider.
With one hand, he unbuckled his moneybelt. He did not want it to fall into the hands of Capelianus. Into his thoughts came Decebalus, the old King of Dacia. Defeated by the Romans, he had diverted a river to hide his treasure. Had the ploy worked? Phillyrio could not remember. What did coins matter? Many of those in the belt bore the portraits of the two Gordiani. Perhaps that might give Capelianus pause for thought.
Awkwardly, with his left hand, Phillyrio drew his sword.
The soldiers were filtering up through the trees, like some flock of migrant birds. A gleam of plumage, and they were gone.
Phillyrio rolled to his knees. The base of the tree would serve. He reversed the blade, wedged the hilt into the angle.
Certain drugs, hemlock, or a warm bath and opened wrists would have been easier.
He shuffled into position, so the tip of the steel was underneath his ribcage.
The Romans of old had not found this hard. Or at least they had not found it beyond them.
X
Epilogue
Latin inscription found near Theveste: ILS 8499 = IL VIIII. 2170
Text
d. m. s. | L. Aemilius Seve | rinus qui et Phil | lyrio, v.a. LXVI | p. m., et pro amore | Romano quieuit | ab hoc Capeliano captus | memor amicitiae pietatis | Victorius qui et Verota
Translation
To the shades of the departed.
Lucius Aemilius Severinus, also known as Phillyrio, who lived sixty-six years, more or less, and died for his love of the Romans, captured by that creature Capelianus.
Shadow & Dust Page 4
