Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘The Savaran,’ Yabet finished for him, a sober look erasing his grin. ‘Those riders are like nothing you will have faced before. Some call them the iron centaurs. They are nimble, near-invincible . . . and deadly. They harness tusked beasts many times the size of the largest mount.’ He swept his hands out as if to encompass all before him, ‘then stoke these creatures into a fury and drive them into their enemy’s lines, trampling soldiers underfoot like ants. But these riders and great creatures might never trouble you. I’ve heard of hardy legionaries out there who have perished without ever coming near a Persian lance. The sands that separate us from the Persian Empire are deadlier than any blade and more formidable than the tallest of walls.’

  Pavo raised both eyebrows, quite unsure what to say.

  ‘But I will be by your side,’ Yabet said and tapped a finger to his temple, his canny grin returning. ‘I know where the water lies in that dry land. It is as my mother used to say; don’t enter the desert unless you have a camel or an Iberian guide,’ he said, gesturing to himself. Then he nudged Pavo. ‘I am not a camel, by the way.’ With that, Yabet winked, slapped him on the shoulder then left to introduce himself to the others.

  The innkeeper sighed as the last of the legionary party trudged out into the night. The tavern now empty, he swept shards of shattered jugs and splinters from the floor, muttering to himself as he saw one partially finished leg of lamb smeared across the flagstones. Still, the men from the Thracian legion had tripled his normal nightly income, he thought with a wry chuckle. He rested his broom by the door and reached up to bolt it. But he stopped, sensing that the place was not empty after all. He twisted round, a cold shiver wriggling across his neck. There was one figure, cloaked in the shadows of the far corner. All he could see was a hand, weighing something over and over.

  ‘Didn’t you hear my call? The tavern’s closed,’ he grunted, hoping it sounded aggressive enough. But the figure didn’t move. ‘I said - ’ but the words caught in his throat when he saw the thing the figure weighed. A leather purse adorned with a faded, tawny gold lion – stained with blood. At last, the figure in the shadows stirred, glowering at him from the darkness. It was one of the men from the legionary rabble, he was sure.

  When the figure shot to standing, the innkeeper dropped his gaze and pretended to be sweeping the floor listlessly. He felt the figure’s eyes burn on his skin, heard footsteps crossing the tavern floor then the squeaking of the door opening. With that, the figure was gone, off into the night after the legionary rabble.

  The innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief, then frowned, realising he had seen the golden lion motif before. ‘Just what is a man of the empire doing with a Persian purse?’ he chuckled.

  Chapter 5

  Pavo staggered round and round, sweeping his gaze over the dunes. Endless as always. Confusion danced in his thoughts. ‘Father?’ he spun around looking for the solitary figure the nightmare always offered – the tortured, hunched figure with the empty, cauterised eye sockets, arms outstretched, calling for him. But the dunes were empty and he was alone. Pavo seized the moment ‘Show me my father or leave me be,’ he snarled into the ether. Just then, as if in riposte, the sandstorm picked up, hurling stinging grains against his skin. But he refused to shield himself from it, squaring his jaw in defiance. The storm grew ferocious, roaring, almost casting him to the ground. ‘You cannot hurt me anymore!’ he cried out.

  Suddenly, something burst from the dunes underfoot and grasped at his ankles. Terror shot through him as he saw a knotted, bony hand jutting from the sand, clutching him. It pulled him down, into the dunes. He kicked and thrashed, but to no avail. The hands grappled at his knees, and he saw the top of a head emerging from the sand. He grasped for his dagger only to find it was not there. So he clamped his hands around a nearby rock and held it overhead.

  At that moment, the head emerged from the sand as the storm grew deafening.

  ‘Father?’ Pavo recoiled at the gawping, sightless face – more sickly and aged than ever.

  ‘Beware, Pavo!’ Father cried, his straggly, greying locks whipping up in the tumult. ‘Beware!’

  Then, like a predator’s jaws, the sand swallowed Father once again. Pavo cried out at this, only for the sand to suck him down too. It rushed to his waist in one heartbeat, and in the next, the sand was around his neck. A heartbeat later the air was gone from his lungs as the sand enveloped his face. He opened his mouth to scream and the sand poured in, muting his cry and filling his mouth and nostrils.

  ‘No!’ he cried aloud. His eyes shot open and he saw that he was entangled in his sweat-soaked blanket. He panted and clutched the phalera, then looked down from his upper bunk and around the contubernium block. The seven other slumbering forms of Pavo’s contubernium lay bathed in dawn light. A handful of them nearby had stirred at Pavo’s outburst.

  ‘And there we have it – who needs a wake-up call when we have Pavo and his bloody nightmares?’ Zosimus croaked testily from the bunk opposite. The centurion slid his legs from the bed and groaned, wiping his eyes with balled fists.

  Just then, a trumpeting volley of farts sounded from the adjacent contubernium chamber and echoed along the colonnaded porch of the sleeping block.

  Sura roused at this, cocking an eyebrow; ‘And who needs a buccina when you have Quadratus?’

  Pavo shook his head clear of the nightmare, then winced as the crushing, rhythmic thud of a hangover took its place. His mouth was moistureless and felt as if it had been stripped of skin and a stabbing pain persisted behind one eye. Sighing, he pulled on the tunic folded under his pillow, then slid his legs round to drop from the bunk. He landed on the flagstones – already warmed from the dawn sun – with a yelp, and clutched a hand to his ribs. More, he felt a stinging on his cheek and touched a hand to the swollen, flowering bruise there. The scrapes and bumps from the brawl in the tavern last night had seemed innocuous when they had come back here, well into the hours of darkness.

  ‘Mithras, I feel like a beaten dog,’ Sura croaked as he stood likewise, rubbing his throat.

  ‘Aye, well that makes three of us,’ Zosimus grimaced as he stood, stark naked, eyeing his bruises then cupping his testicles to examine the swollen, purple one. With a shrug, he hooked his tunic from his bunk side and dropped it over his hulking frame, then rolled his head this way and that – the bones in his neck cricking as he did so. Next, he sucked in a breath that seemed to double the size of his chest then took to striding around the other five bunks, booting at the frames.

  ‘Right, you pussies! Get up and get your marching gear together!’ The still-drowsy legionaries sat up with a start, some with a yelp. They scrambled out of their bedding, bleary-eyed and throwing salutes. ‘Tribunus Gallus is finalising things with the emperor. We move out at mid-morning when he gets back. So don’t piss about – after last night, I don’t want any sloppy armour or kit showing up my century.’

  Habitus, the beanpole legionary who had joined the XI Claudia only months ago, was last to rise. ‘Yes, sir!’ he barked, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Mithras!’ Zosimus backed away, cupping a hand over his mouth. ‘What in Hades have you been eating, soldier? You’re breath smells like you’ve been munching on pig shit!’ The rest of the legionaries stifled their laughter as Habitus reddened. Satisfied with his torturing of the younger lads, Zosimus strutted from the contubernium, chuckling to himself. Few noticed the big Thracian frowning in disgust when he breathed into his hand and caught wind of his own breath. ‘Must have been that bloody ale,’ he muttered as he left.

  Pavo and Sura took to waking the others of the century, then went outside and into the dry morning heat. The dusty drill yard at the heart of the fort was cramped, and hemmed by the colonnaded contubernia blocks. On the far side of the yard was the principia, the heart of the barracks. Like the rest of Antioch in daylight, all of the buildings seemed to reflect and intensify the sun’s glare.

  ‘I suppose the Flavia Firma lads will be in a similar sta
te as us,’ Sura mused.

  Pavo was about to agree when he saw the glinting square of armoured men at the far side of the principia; Baptista and his century, fully prepared to march already, waiting on Centurion Carbo, passing the time by scowling upon the newly woken XI Claudia men. The Flavia Firma were a comitatenses legion. Thus, unlike their limitanei counterparts, they wore fine scale vests, new shields freshly painted in dark-blue with the silver Chi-Rho emblem, fresh leather boots and recently tempered intercisas with flared noseguards, spathas and spears. To add salt to the wounds, they each looked fresh and alert, only the bruises from the brawl spoiling their immaculate turnout.

  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 ince
ssant babble died. All heads turned to the figure saddled on a white mare, ambling towards the stone staircase cut into the acropolis mount.

  This was Tamur, noble son of the House of Aspaphet. At just twenty-six he was the Spahbad of the armies of the Persis Satrapy. When he rode, he could call upon more than fifteen thousand spears to ride and march with him. Today he wore a red silk robe in place of armour, but there was no mistaking his stock as a warrior. The veins on his temples pressed against the skin and his sleek dark locks were scraped back into a tail of curls that dangled to his shoulders. His chest bulged and his shoulders were broad enough to carry a man on each with ease. His fawn skin was smooth, spoiled only by a serrated battle scar on his cheek and a white scar welt across the bridge of his broken nose. His lips were turned down in a fixed gurn and his hazel eyes reflected this mood. Riding with him were a pair of ironclad and wing-helmed pushtigban riders. Just as their kind served Shapur in the great city of Ctesiphon, the few hundred garrisoned here in Bishapur were Tamur’s loyal bodyguards.

  As his subjects bowed all around him, Tamur traced his gaze up the carved steps before him. Up there on one edge of the acropolis stood his palace. The palace of his father, Cyrus, and his father before him. The high-vaulted roofs seemed to climb upon one another, with the centre-most stretching highest, as if to touch the sky itself. The structure was majestic, surrounded by orchards, palms and fountains. He felt that familiar needling in his chest. This land of his forefathers was the heart of all Persia. Yet his noble lineage, the House of Aspaphet, remained subsumed in Shapur’s realm, his family mere vassals.

  He traced a finger over the brooch fastening his robe – it bore the image of a golden lion, his family’s crest. ‘My father once spoke highly of you, Shapur,’ he muttered to himself as they begun the ascent, ‘but then he saw you for what you were. Like him, I will not be your dog.’