Empire of Dragons (3 page)

But a net soared over his head and snared him like a lion in a trap. The others were surrounded and disarmed.

Shapur barely gave them a glance. He nodded to his men and went off, passing between the files of soldiers, towards the camp he had left before dawn.

Through the mesh of the netting that imprisoned him, Metellus noticed a strange figure: a man, or maybe a boy, given his slight physique, dressed in a style of clothing he had never seen. His face was hidden by a black scarf that left only his eyes uncovered: long, slanting eyes of a deep black colour. They exchanged a fleeting, intense look before the mysterious person melted away into Shapur’s retinue.

The prisoners were dragged to a tumbledown hut and shackled hand and foot, one after another, beginning with Valerian. Metellus looked at his chained emperor and could not hold back his tears. They were then bound to one another and lined up behind Balbus, the centurion; he was tied to the saddle of the last of the horsemen who would be taking them to their destiny. There were ten of them, besides the emperor and Commander Metellus: the two centurions, Aelius Quadratus and Sergius Balbus, a ranking
optio
named Antoninus Salustius and seven legionaries: Lucianus, Severus, Rufus, Septimius, Publius, Aemilius and Martianus.

They walked the whole day under the scorching sun without eating or drinking; they were not allowed to stop until after sunset. They were given bread and dates, and a little water. As night fell they lay down among the rocks to rest, without even a rag to protect them from the bitter cold.

The emperor had not said a word since he had been forced to kneel before his enemy, and he was huddled in a lonely heap now, his back to a rock.

Metellus was overcome by his wife’s death, which he still refused to accept, and tortured by the thought that he might not see his son ever again. He had never in his whole life found himself in a state so near desperation. And yet the sight of his emperor – a man who had dedicated his whole life to the service of his state and his people, who had fought with incredible bravery despite his years and who had been unbearably humiliated by the enemy – made him lay aside his own grief and pity the man’s abasement.

He went to comfort him. ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Caesar. You put your life at risk in the hopes of achieving peace. Fate betrayed us. It could have happened to anyone.’

Valerian slowly turned his head towards him and raised his shackled arms and bleeding wrists. ‘Do you really believe that it was adverse fortune that brought this about?’

Metellus did not answer.

‘Do you think they didn’t see us from the walls of Edessa?’

‘I think they saw us, Caesar.’

‘And did you wonder why no one came to our aid? Why the cavalry wasn’t sent out to defend us?’

‘I can’t explain it,’ replied Metellus. ‘But I’m certain they must have been forced into making such a choice.’

‘I think instead that someone deliberately decided to abandon us to our fate, and that that someone was sure he would never have to account for his decision,’ said Valerian darkly.

‘You mustn’t let your thoughts run away with you, Caesar,’ reasoned Metellus. ‘When we lost contact, we also lost the ability to understand the sequence of events. Anything may have happened. Perhaps it was evident from the top of the guard towers that rescue would have been impossible. Someone may have decided not to risk sending out exhausted, malnourished troops in a hopeless endeavour. But I’m convinced, Caesar, that they have a plan. Mark my words, they’ll show up and free us in a matter of days. I know Lucius Domitius: he’s a man who fears nothing and nobody. If he didn’t come out – for reasons we cannot imagine – it means that the sortie has merely been put off. He could reappear at any time, trust me. He could be behind those rocks down there, see?’

Valerian stared at him with a look full of dismay. His face, hollowed out by strain and hardship, was a mask of stone. ‘There’s no one behind those rocks, Commander. No one. And no one will come looking for us. That’s why I asked you to stay behind.’

Metellus bowed his head, wounded by those words. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Because the command of the fortress was in the hands of Cassius Silva.’

‘I know what you’re saying. I didn’t want to mention him, because I know he is a personal friend of your son Gallienus, but you see, Clelia, my wife, before she died, said his name.’ His eyes misted as he pronounced his wife’s name. The wound was too fresh, his pain too great, to control his emotions.

‘Your wife,’ sighed Valerian, ‘sacrificed herself to save us. Uselessly. If the gods heed me and allow our return, I swear that I will raise a monument to her, like the ones to the ancient heroines of our history, to perpetuate her memory and her fame. Unfortunately, in our current state we are slaves without names. And thus we are destined to remain. Silva abandoned us to our fate, and perhaps did even worse . . . I cannot convince myself even now that my own son, Gallienus, schemed with the Persians to arrange this wretched encounter.’

Metellus fell silent. What could he say to a man who just a few hours earlier was lord of half the world, and who was now at the complete mercy of a cruel, duplicitous enemy? A man burdened with chains, tormented by the cold and by his wounds, but above all by the suspicion of the most atrocious betrayal, that of his own son?

It was Valerian who broke the silence, as if he felt guilty for frustrating the attempt of that generous soldier to alleviate his pain and his humiliation. ‘You must miss her terribly.’

‘I would have preferred to die than to live without her,’ replied Metellus. ‘We fell in love when we were little more than children, and we ran away together to avoid the marriages that our families had decided for each of us.’

‘I understand,’ said the emperor, ‘and I know that there is nothing that can soothe such a loss. But we must call on our courage and face our destiny like true soldiers of Rome. We must not give our jailers the satisfaction of seeing us beaten, the pleasure of seeing us humiliated.’

Metellus nodded wearily. ‘There’s one more thing that torments me, that gives me no peace.’

‘What is it?’ asked Valerian.

‘The thought of my son, Titus. What will become of him? Who will protect him? I fear that Lucius Domitius no longer holds any power within the walls of Edessa, otherwise he would have come out for us. My wife is gone. I am powerless to protect the person who is dearest to me in all the world. Just think, I gave him my word that I would be back before nightfall. And I’ve never broken a promise to him, never in his whole life.’

‘That promise was expressing a hope, my friend,’ replied the emperor, ‘and the fulfilment of our hopes never depends fully on us. But think of it as an oath. The oath of a just man reaches the throne of the gods.

‘See that soldier?’ he asked, pointing at a young, curly-haired legionary. ‘He has just made the sign of the cross. He’s making a vow as well. He’s praying to his Christian god to save us all and bring us back home. They say he’s a powerful god, more powerful than our own. I fear that Jupiter is too tired and too disappointed to do much, after watching the foolishness of men from up on his throne for so many centuries.’

Metellus looked at the soldier: his name was Aemilius and he was from his legion. A good boy, born in Messina, skilled with a sword, a fast runner, an excellent swimmer and no sluggard. Best to have men of courage with him in times of misfortune. He walked over to him. ‘How’s it going, soldier?’

‘Well, Commander, given the circumstances.’

That’s what I like to hear. We must always consider that it could have gone worse. We’re alive, we’re all together, we’re with our emperor. We’re the centre of the world, remember that, as long as Caesar is alive and with us.’

Septimius pushed up on his elbows. ‘Our men will come to free us, won’t they, Commander?’

‘I do hope so, but we can’t be certain. We are in enemy territory and our best units are back in Edessa, under siege. Where are you from?’ he asked, noting the youth’s blond hair and blue eyes.

‘From Condate, in Gaul.’

‘They should send men like you to the northern front. You suffer the heat, and burn with this sun.’

‘Well, I’ve got used to it, sir, but . . . yes, I’d like to go back to my own parts when this mess is over with.’

‘My hopes lie in Lucius Domitius Aurelian. If he’s given the chance, he’ll stop at nothing to liberate us and the emperor.’

‘Sword-in-Hand?’ said Martianus, a legionary from the Seventh Ferrata. ‘There’s a man for you. I’ve never seen a soldier like him. He won’t forget us, you can be sure of it. He never forgets his men. I’ve seen him risk his own skin more than once to bring in a wounded man, or even a dead one.’

Neither Balbus nor Quadratus, the two centurions, said a word. They were past their youth, and had seen it all; they’d learned that it was no use cherishing false hopes in life. They lay apart from the others, their heads leaning on a stone as if asleep, but Metellus knew well that they were wide awake and that nothing that was said would escape them.

‘Stay close,’ Metellus urged his men, ‘one next to another, so you keep warm. It’s going to get damn cold tonight and those bastards certainly won’t be giving us any covers.’

‘I’d rather hold some pretty girl – one of those little whores from Antioch with their firm tits – than snuggle up to a centurion! But I guess you can’t have everything in life,’ quipped Martianus.

‘I’ve heard of worse fates!’ Metellus smiled. ‘Anyway, it’s better to joke about things than to lose heart. Because from now on we can only count on ourselves. We must survive, men, survive at any cost. This, for the time being, is our only goal. None of us will be abandoned to his destiny; each one of us can count on the help of all the others. Together we can make it, believe me.

‘I want you to know something: we’re part of the imperial guard now and now, as never before, we must hold fast to our commitment and to our oath of loyalty to Caesar. No one will be allowed to go anywhere unless the emperor can come with us. Is that clear? Any attempt to do so will be punished as desertion and I myself will pronounce judgement and execute the sentence.’ He snapped tight the chains that bound his hands.

Then he curled up next to a dry tamarisk trunk, covered his legs and arms with a little sand, and tried to rest. But every time he or any of the men moved, the rattling of their chains made him doubly restless and agitated, because the noise robbed him of his sleep and reminded him that he was a prisoner and a slave. Although he tried to call up all his strength of character, Clelia’s expression as she was dying, the face of the son he’d never see again, filled his heart with infinite bitterness.

He prayed to his ancestors to send a sign of their benevolence, he prayed to Jupiter Optimus Maximus to succour the emperor, his representative upon the earth and his highest priest, but he was answered only by the long howl of the jackals that roamed the steppe in search of carrion.

In the end, fatigue won out over his anguish and pain and he fell into a deep sleep.

H
E WAS KICKED AWAKE
by one of the guards. A servant distributed a handful of dates and their march resumed.

They were heading east, following the southern slopes of the Taurus chain, clearly going towards the interior of the Persian empire, through the harshest and most inhospitable of regions. Water was distributed first to the horses and camels and then to the prisoners, if there was any left. They marched without resting, and anyone who lagged behind was immediately whipped by the guards. It was obvious that no one was concerned about their survival and that their lives had no value. They did not even seem to be worth their price as slaves.

On the second day of their journey, they were joined by another group of prisoners who probably came from the south: they had dark skin and tight curls and wore simple raw-linen tunics. At the centre of the caravan were the camels with the supplies and water bags; the prisoners marched at their sides and were flanked on the outside by guards on horseback. Behind them was a squad of about a hundred warriors, among whom Metellus thought he could make out the mysterious person with the slanted eyes whom he had seen on the day of the battle. He seemed to be free to move along the column as he liked, but Metellus noticed that the Persian soldiers never lost sight of him.

On the third day, the guards took the chains off their feet and this was a great relief, making it much easier to walk and easing the pain of the sores that had formed on their ankles, attracting swarms of gnats and horseflies.

‘This is a good sign,’ said Metellus to his comrades. ‘It means we’re worth something to them. They must have plans to put us to work somewhere, and so they’re interested in keeping us alive.’

‘Look!’ cried Septimius at the same time. ‘Our gear!’ He pointed at the only mule-drawn cart advancing with the column.

‘Good blades and good breastplates,’ commented Aemilius. ‘Why should they throw them away?’

‘They’re trophies for them. There’s the emperor’s armour as well,’ observed Quadratus.

‘If only we could get our hands on them,’ said Lucianus, who was half Roman and half Greek, from Nicomedia. ‘We could still give these bastards a lesson.’

‘Save your breath,’ Balbus shushed him, ‘for when we get to our destination. Nothing good will be waiting for us there – if we even get there alive, that is.’

The emperor maintained an air of great dignity, despite the privations of the long march. His back was straight, his gaze firm, his brow high. His pure-white hair contrasted with his sun-darkened skin and his proud bearing won him a certain respect from even the guards, who almost certainly knew his identity. He had withdrawn into silence, into a kind of austere inner solitude.

He showed no signs of hunger or thirst, even after hours of fasting, and would wait until food or drink was offered to him; his men never failed him in this respect, trying to honour him in every way possible and to alleviate the hardships of that inhuman journey.

If the guards struck him with a whip or with the shafts of their spears, he bore the pain stoically, without showing signs of weakness or crying out. It seemed that his only goal was to maintain his honour and dignity, more so even than his life.