Gordon Doherty - Land of the Sacred Fire

Gallus nodded. ‘Then the Persian copies?’

Valens shook his head solemnly. ‘Over the years, they too have vanished. The copy held in Ctesiphon was destroyed when rioters ransacked the library. The copy in Susa, too, was lost in a great fire that ravaged the city. The third copy was sent to the Satrapy of Persis. But the camel rider disappeared on his journey there.’

‘Disappeared?’ Gallus’ nose wrinkled in suspicion.

Valens held out his palms, at a loss for an answer. ‘Slain, lost, consumed by the sands. I don’t know. But he vanished and the scroll with him.’

‘If all of the scrolls are lost, then this is a false hope, surely?’ Gallus leant back with a frustrated sigh.

‘Indeed, but something has come to light in recent months, Tribunus.’ Valens countered. ‘The last scroll — the one sent to the Satrapy of Persis — may still exist.’

‘So where is it?’ Gallus asked.

‘That, we do not know, Tribunus,’ Valens sighed and clapped his hands, ‘but this man may be able to help in that respect.’ The slaves led a man of some forty years into the campaign room. He was tall, with knotted limbs and sun-burnished skin. His grey-streaked, fair hair dangled to his chin, straw-like and bleached by the sun, while his thick beard was pure white. His haggard features and crooked shoulders told of a hard life while the fine tunic he wore spoke of a recent change in fortunes. A Christian Chi-Rho hung on a strap around his neck. Valens continued; ‘It is a miracle that Centurion Carbo even stands before us. He was captured by Shapur’s armies at the sack of Bezabde. He spent many years in the Dalaki salt mines.’

‘Dalaki?’ Gallus frowned.

Valens nodded. ‘Right in the heart of the Satrapy of Persis.’

Gallus beheld Carbo. Carbo met his gaze, then swiftly averted his eyes.

Nervous, or something to hide? Gallus thought. He batted the idea away and listened as Valens spoke.

‘Speak, Centurion,’ Valens prompted him.

Carbo shuffled and stood proud. ‘In my time in the mines I met many rogues, criminals and prisoners of war. There was one Persian — a man sentenced to spend his life underground at the salt face. I slept nearby him in the days before he asphyxiated from the lung disease of the mines. He spoke much with his last breaths. He cursed himself incessantly, whispering of his folly in ever laying hands on some scroll. A scroll that bore the mark of Jovian and Shapur.’

Gallus sat forward, interest piqued.

‘This rogue, he had a final lucid moment. He claimed that he and his band of brigands were the ones who had seized the scroll, ambushing the desert messenger. One by one, his band were captured, tortured and slain. All except him. He hid high in the Zagros Mountains for months, living off carrion left behind by vultures, sleeping in caves. All the while clutching the scroll, his only possession. He had stolen it in hope of selling it for riches, but instead, it brought him only poverty and misery. Finally, maddened by heat, hunger and isolation, he came down from the mountains and stole into Bishapur in search of food. Coinless, he snatched a loaf of bread from a baker’s stall then hid in a shaded alley to devour every last crumb. As he made his way through the streets to leave the city, he said sentries seemed to follow him like shadows, their eyes darting and furtive whenever he met their gaze. Then, when he came to the city gate, a sentry barred his way, and another two rushed him from behind. He panicked, sure they recognised him as the scroll thief. He said he had never run as far or as fast in his life from those who pursued him. All through the city he fled, through palaces, temples, squares and gardens. But they caught him in the end, and in the end they suspected nothing of the scroll. It was the stolen loaf of bread that saw him sentenced to the mines.’

Carbo finished and silence hung in the chamber.

Gallus cocked an eyebrow, looking to Valens and Carbo in turn, expecting more. ‘And the scroll? Where is it?’

Valens sighed; ‘In the mountains, perhaps, in one of the caves this wretch hid. In Bishapur, even. Or maybe deep in the mines.’

Carbo shrugged. ‘The man did not go as far as to tell me.’

Gallus slumped back with a sigh, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘This is tenuous indeed. How much faith can we place in the words of some filthy and maddened beggar at the foot of a mine?’ he asked. And you; how much faith can we put in a man who has spent many years in deepest Persia? he thought.

Carbo held out his hands. ‘All I can tell you is that he said this with his dying breaths. Why would a man lie with his last words?’

Now Carbo seemed to hold Gallus’ gaze earnestly. Gallus’ eyes narrowed, unable to judge this character.

‘It is a thread, Tribunus.’ Valens said, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. ‘The finest of threads. But we must grasp at it. We must seek out the scroll.’

Realisation dawned on Gallus. He sat upright and met Emperor Valens’ unblinking gaze. ‘You summoned us here to send us into Persia?’

‘I would not have brought you here if I had any doubts as to your suitability,’ Valens replied firmly. He clapped his hands again.

This time a short, stocky man in his late twenties was shown into the room. He could have been described politely as swarthy, but the truth was he was filthy and unshaven. He wore a frayed tunic and a dark-brown, Phrygian cap, with jet-black, oily locks dangling from the rim. Overall he had the look of an unwashed Mithras, Gallus thought, his nose wrinkling.

‘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.

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?