Empire of Dragons (7 page)

‘I get it,’ mumbled Quadratus.

‘Good. Now lie down, because the jailer will soon be here to shackle us.’

They heard the sound of a bolt being drawn and Uxal gestured to everyone to stay down. The jailer entered and passed a chain through the rings that each man wore at his ankle, except for Uxal. He then padlocked the chain and left after closing the door at his back.

‘Why don’t they put you in fetters?’ asked Antoninus.

‘Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t,’ replied Uxal. ‘They know that I’d never try to get away. They can tell when someone is resigned to his fate. And where would I go anyway? They’d get hold of me after half a mile tops, and I don’t want to end up with a stake through my guts.’

A
FTER A WHILE
, all the men were sleeping or seemed to be, but Metellus lay there for a long time with his eyes open, thinking of Clelia and of little Titus, whom he missed more with every passing day. He had never found himself in such a hopeless situation and he thought for the first time of how fate can overturn a man’s life. He thought of the morning that he had gone out at the emperor’s side to face Shapur; he remembered his feeling of foreboding, but he could never have imagined how radically his life would change. That his existence would end at the bottom of a mineshaft, in a dark pit where no one could reach him.

Yet, despite the deep feeling of despair that had taken hold of him, he tried to think philosophically about his fate: just as destiny had so utterly changed his existence once, it might as easily – for reasons which were unimaginable at the present – reverse the course of events again. The important thing was to stay alive and to protect the emperor’s life.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and there, between the cracks of the wooden planks, he saw a star. It shone with an intense, sparkling light and he tried to work out which constellation it belonged to. He was determined to keep his mind occupied, to not let himself be beaten down by despair. He tried to go through every possible escape route in his mind, despite Uxal’s warnings. The enemy had taken away their freedom but not their intelligence, or their will or their resourcefulness. Not only were these still intact, but circumstances would hone them to the full. They were powerful weapons that the men would have to keep hidden from their jailers in order to use them to their maximum advantage when the opportunity arose.

For years and years, Metellus had been trained to do battle, to withstand fatigue, pain and privation, but the test which faced him now was more arduous than the most bitter combat, than the most exhausting march, than the most agonizing wound. He earnestly called on his ancestors to succour him in this abyss, then he gave in to weariness and fell into an anguished nightmare: neither awake nor asleep, neither alive nor dead.

M
ONTHS PASSED, MADE UP OF
unchanging days, of brutal toil, of deprivation and humiliation. As did the seasons. Autumn, winter, the sun which descended ever lower on the horizon only to began its ascent once again. The shacks were freezing at first, then hot, then scorching, or all three things together depending on whether it was night or day. The sun slowly began to decline again, and the dust of the storms penetrated every crack and covered everything with the same grey colour: men and objects.

The first to die was Aemilius, the Christian, one night in late autumn. It was not the exertion that broke him as much as the confinement, the dark, the beatings. The continuous beatings inflicted upon him by one of the jailers, who had singled him out for no particular reason. In the end, he could not bear the mortification. He stopped eating and let himself waste away, day after day.

His Judaean god had not been capable of freeing him or saving his life. For Metellus and the others, it was normal to think that the gods might not occupy themselves with the plight of men. But not for Aemilius. He thought that his god loved him personally, that he had chosen to suffer two hundred years before under prefect Pontius Pilate to expiate the sins of all humanity. He believed that beyond death there was another life, in which his god would console him for his sufferings. If only that were so, thought Metellus, as inside their hut he closed his friend’s eyes.

‘Sleep, soldier,’ he told him. ‘You’ll suffer no more. And wherever you go, take with you the part of our hearts that belongs to you.’

Then he turned to Uxal. ‘I have to ask you a favour.’

‘There’s not much I can do, but ask away.’

‘Would you ask the head jailer if we can bury him? Christians want to be buried, as far as I know.’

‘Forget it. The Persians believe that the dead contaminate the earth. Which is sacred. They expose their dead on the tops of high towers, like the ones you can see down there on the hill. They call them “towers of silence”. The bodies are eaten up by vultures, and the bones slowly decompose in the sun, the cold, the rain and the snow. Maybe they don’t have it all wrong. It seems better to me than putting people underground. Anyway, you’ve got no choice. Throw him into the pit along with the others. It won’t make much difference.’

‘Of course it makes a difference,’ replied Metellus. ‘Of course it does. None of my soldiers has ever died without receiving funeral honours from the assembled ranks.’

‘You stiff-necked Roman,’ grumbled Uxal, ‘can’t you see what you’re reduced to? Can you imagine what you look like? I’d like to have a mirror so you could see yourself. You look a wreck, a . . .’

‘I don’t need a mirror,’ replied Metellus. ‘I see myself in the eyes of my men, in their demeanour, in their unhealing wounds. I mirror myself in the unspeakable humiliation of my emperor.’

He then made up a rudimentary litter with two acacia sticks and some runners and nodded to his men, who placed Aemilius’s body upon it.

When he saw they were about to leave the shack like this, Uxal stopped them. ‘Just a moment, blast you. Do you want to all get killed? Let me tell the guard that you want to accompany your friend’s body to the ravine.’

Metellus halted his men.

Uxal came back shortly later. ‘You can go, but not before it gets dark. Don’t walk in a straight line, mill around as if you weren’t up to anything special. Don’t show any signs of military discipline and carry his body low, not up on your shoulders. And leave your chief here. It’s best he doesn’t go with you.’

‘All right,’ replied Metellus, exchanging a look with Valerian.

They waited until the sun had dipped below the horizon and then went out with their comrade’s body. They crossed the camp under the distracted eyes of the guards, who had moved off to the side to eat their dinner, but as soon as they were out of sight, Metellus ordered his men to hoist Aemilius’s body to their shoulders and to follow the rough bier lined up two-by-two and walking in step. At the edge of the gorge, they lowered him to the ground.

‘Does anyone know a Christian prayer?’ asked Metellus.

‘I do,’ replied Severus.

‘Are you Christian too?’

‘No. But I was.’

‘Then say the prayer. We’ll listen.’

Severus bowed his head and began: ‘
Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum
. . .’

When he finished, Metellus prayed as well: ‘God of the Christians, receive my valorous soldier, gladden his vision with your light, because he has died in darkness and the darkness would renew his death for all time to come.’ He turned to his dead soldier: ‘You will be buried, as you deserve.’

He glanced around to make sure that no one was watching, then gathered up a handful of sand. He sprinkled it over Aemilius’s body as a ritual burial. ‘
Sit tibi terra levis, Aemili
. . .’ he murmured, and instantly, in his mind’s eye, saw his hand scattering dust over Clelia’s ashen face and he could not hold back his tears.

The time had come: he signalled to his men, and they tilted the litter towards the gorge, letting the corpse fall inside. They saw him bounce like a disjointed puppet off the hard rock walls and finally crash to the ground with a dull thud.

They looked at each other and read the same question in the others’ reddened and weary eyes: who would be next to fly into the ravine?

As they returned to camp, Metellus drew close to Severus. He was thirty-five years old and had served the legion for fifteen, all with an honourable mention.

‘Were you really once a Christian?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Well, why aren’t you any more?’

‘Because I think that the Christians will change us to the point of making us incapable of defending ourselves and fighting.’

‘And you don’t think that someone can be a good combatant and a good Christian at the same time?’

‘In theory you can, but in reality, no. Each one of us, I believe, would like to give up his arms, but who wants to be first? Act like a sheep and the wolf will eat you, that’s what they say in my parts.’

‘Mine too,’ agreed Metellus.

‘What’s more, desiring revenge is forbidden for a Christian. You have to forgive your enemies. Can you believe that? What do you think is keeping me alive, Commander? I’m nursing my hate, and it’s growing with every hour that passes, and one day I hope to get my hands around one of these jailers, even if just for a few moments . . .’

‘That’s fine, soldier. Anything that keeps you alive is fine. Hold on to your life tooth and nail. Our time will come, if we are tough enough, bold enough, patient enough. We Romans have a strength that the whole world envies, the strength that has made it possible for us to beat any people we’ve come up against. It’s our
virtus
. And it’s only when we forget it that we can be beaten.’

They continued walking until they came within sight of the camp. The night-shift guards were already in the saddle and were patrolling the area on horseback.

Severus stopped a moment. ‘Commander.’

‘Yes?’

‘Will we get out of here?’

‘A year has passed and most of us are still alive. That’s extraordinary in itself. I think . . . yes, I think we’ll make it.’

‘Do you mean that they’ll pay a ransom to free us?’

Metellus looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m afraid not, soldier. I’m afraid too much time has gone by. If they had wanted to ransom us, we’d be out by now. We have to rely on ourselves.’

By now the others had clustered around as well.

‘Do you mean to say you have a plan, Commander?’

Metellus was reluctant to lie to his men, who trusted him blindly, but nonetheless he said in a firm voice, ‘Yes, I have a plan.’

When they reached their shack, they were greeted by a hoarse rasping. The emperor was lying on his straw bedding, racked with fever and struggling to draw his breath.

‘Martianus,’ called Metellus.

Martianus approached and knelt down next to the emperor. He was not a doctor, but he had been a camp orderly for many years. He touched the emperor’s brow and said, ‘He’s burning up.’

‘I can see that,’ said Metellus in a worried voice.

‘It’s the change in temperature: it’s torrid during the day and freezing at night. You come out of the mine dripping sweat and the highland winds cut you in two.’

‘What can we do for him?’

‘We need woollen blankets, something hot to drink, steam to open his lungs.’

Valerian opened his eyes. ‘Don’t worry about me. Death would be a liberation. Do nothing to save my life. You would only prolong my agony.’

‘Unfortunately, Caesar, there’s nothing we can do,’ replied Metellus, ‘but that won’t stop us from trying, because none of us believes that your time has come.’

Martianus dried his forehead and gave him a little water to drink. He put an ear to his chest and listened for a while to the grating hiss of his breathing. ‘Try to sleep, Caesar,’ he said, and then turned to the others. ‘If each of you will give me a little straw from your litters, I can cover him and keep him warmer.’

The others began to gather straw, but Uxal stopped them with a jerk of his hand. He opened the door a crack and looked out. ‘They’ll be here any moment to lock the shackles,’ he said. ‘If they don’t chain me up, maybe I can find a blanket. It’s risky, but I’ll try.’

A cold wind had risen and was whistling between the planks. The men shivered and pulled their threadbare rags close.

The guard arrived and threaded the chain through the rings on the prisoners’ ankles but left Uxal unshackled. They considered the old man a collaborator and gave him some freedom of movement. When the guard had gone, Uxal waited until night had fallen and then slipped out. He came back shortly with a sheepskin.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘this will keep him warm enough.’

‘Thank you,’ said Metellus. ‘I won’t forget this.’

The wind picked up even stronger and the men huddled together, tugging at their chains, for a bit of warmth.

Metellus was next to Valerian and close enough to put a hand to his brow. He could feel him trembling and hear his teeth chattering under the sheepskin, and he suffered greatly knowing that there was nothing he could do to alleviate his emperor’s misery.

‘This winter seems to be much colder than last,’ he whispered to Uxal. ‘How will we protect ourselves?’

‘Sometimes they hand out covers or sheepskins, but I have no idea what they’ll do with you. I don’t know what instructions they’ve had.’

‘Do you mean to say they’ll let us freeze to death in this hole?’

Uxal sighed. ‘I can’t rule it out.’

Metellus thought of his distant home, of the long nights when he slept beside Clelia, and he was flooded by memories of the warmth of her body and the fragrance of her hair. He thought of when he used to go to tuck in his son in the bedroom next to theirs, sleeping under the protection of a little golden amulet than hung from the wall. His heart ached. He felt his strength draining away and feared that discouragement would get the better of him and leech away the energy he needed to go on.

Severus’s voice made him jump. ‘Commander, you said you had a plan. Do you? Will you get us out of this hole?’

‘Leave him alone,’ said Balbus. ‘Can’t you see how ill the emperor is?’