Chapter XVI

 

 

 

Endless money forms the sinews of war. – Cicero, Philippics

 

Stravin

 

Malorix and Gelanor follow Vasiges through the confined decrepitude of covered streets and alleys to reach a crumbling stockade hemmed in on three sides by chest-high rows of stakes. To the east the enclosure opens on to a field in which clusters of horses stand hobbled, attended by their handlers. In the centre of the stockade is a shed or animal pen guarded by a pair of dusty auxiliaries. A haphazard construction of mud brick, the roof is a cascade of timbers that look to have been hurled there as an afterthought by an angry titan.

The guards snap to attention in an earnest, if tardy, portrayal of soldiers. Fear is a remarkable tonic, and Malorix is quite certain that the garrison commander is a man to be feared. Immaculately turned out in his breastplate and armour, Vasiges stands in the centre of the stockyard, looking every inch a parade-ground martinet. With the flick of his right hand he motions Malorix and Gelanor toward the structure, and a sentry drags open the weathered door.

Poking his head into the dusty interior Malorix can barely make out shapes of men obscured by clouds of floating dust and particles of straw. The sentry gestures for Malorix to step inside, but he stops short as he encounters the overwhelming stench of urine and feces. He calls out, "My lord, may we look at them outside?"

The commander barks an order, and to Malorix’ astonishment a brute squad materializes from the surrounding streets as though propelled from the nether regions. There follows a maelstrom of activity as the sentries, supported by the newcomers, drive a small group of half-blind men into the stark sunlight. When the flurry of stumbles, blows, and curses is mercifully ended, Malorix counts nineteen creatures gawping like beggars caught out after curfew by a torch-wielding mob. All are filthy, lame, and obviously starving. Malorix feels his hopes failing. Could this be all that remains of the famous Spanish Legion?

Silo is not here. With an indifferent nod from Vasiges, Malorix steps forward to examine the first man in line. He stands close trying not to gag at the smell. The man is haggard, burned nearly black by daily exposure to wind and sun. Malorix makes the requisite gestures of examining shoulders, back, and legs. He leans in to check the man’s teeth and says quietly, "Do you speak Greek?" No response. Malorix tries again, still more quietly in Latin. This time the eyes register surprise. Gelanor comes and stands at his elbow. He tries in Armenian. The man remains mute.

They move down the line, occasionally posing hushed questions in Greek and then Latin. No takers. They came at last upon a taller prisoner with greying hair who retains remnants of what one might imagine to be legionary bearing. Although desiccated and filthy, upon examination his torso is yet well muscled and his shoulders broad. Malorix makes a show of feeling his muscles as he utters the word, "Roman?"

The man eyes him warily for a few moments and then says in Latin, "Never heard of them."

"I would speak with a legionary of the Spanish IX^th, or the first cohort of the Italian Legion." The grey eyes betray curiosity.

Malorix turns to the Parthian commander. "These men are walking ghosts," he says, rather too sharply. Too late he realizes his error. A searing pain courses across the back of his thighs, followed by a crushing blow to his head, and he finds himself face down in the dust. Rolling over, through unfocused eyes he can just about see a sentry standing over him, waving the haft of a heavy spear.

"You exist at my pleasure, Sarmatian," Vasiges says from somewhere nearby. "One snap of my fingers and I’ll have you cut up and fed to the dogs." As his world comes back into view, Malorix sees the commander looking woefully at his surroundings. "Only no self-respecting dog would come near this excuse for a place."

Vasiges whispers to a heavy-set cataphract standing nearby. Vision restored, Malorix recognizes him as the officer who had earlier taken them to see Vasiges. The cataphract tears the staff from the soldier’s grip and stands over Malorix with a hint of a smile. As he raises the shaft over his head, he turns suddenly and with a vicious swing strikes the soldier who just felled Malorix. The man comes down hard, his face landing a foot from Malorix’ own. Impossible to tell if he is unconscious or dead.

"He was punished for not beating you severely enough." Vasiges says with indifference. "I can do business with you, or I can have you killed. I don’t really care which."

Prone in the dust, Malorix’ eyes fall on the face lying a few inches from his own. The man who only moments before had struck him down. Blood drips from the soldier’s ear and runs down his throat to the ground, consumed drop by drop by the ravenous dust. The eyes are open, staring.

"Great lord," he hears Gelanor pleading. "We mean no disrespect, by no means, by no means!"

With a supreme effort Malorix struggles to his hands and knees, only to be pushed flat by the burly cataphract. The weight of the staff upon his neck forces his face downward until it rests just inches from the boot of the Parthian commander.

"Now," Vasiges says. "You were telling me how much you were going to pay me for this lot."

"May I rise, lord?" he asks through mouthful of dirt.

"If you must."

Malorix rises warily, unsteadily. He rubs his throbbing temple and addresses himself to Vasiges with as much humility as he can muster. His vow to kill the Parthian at the first opportunity he keeps to himself. "Forgive me, my lord," he croaks. "I would like to look carefully at the condition of these men. I pray you allow us give them a meal, noble one." He inhales with difficulty, and Gelanor takes up the theme. "Let us clean them up and assess. We will give you a good and fair price. Better than fair."

"In gold?"

"In gold, my lord."

"We are in accord then." Vasiges relays his orders. “Assist the merchants with the washing and the feeding of the slaves. “Feed them, and yourselves," Vasiges adds. "The slavers will pay!" Without a further word he strides away.

Malorix observes his departure, still rubbing his temple. Gelanor helps him stumble into the shade of a nearby outbuilding. "That went well," the Armenian says humourlessly. "You just got a lesson in Parthian protocol, Sarmatian. Maybe you should leave the talking to me. He’ll kill you next time."

"A mistake, I admit."

"You make too damn many mistakes," Gelanor scolds. "Mistakes cost lives, here, or in Armenia. Maecius is dead from your mistakes."

"Is that so?" Malorix feels a powerful urge to strike Gelanor even as he knows the man speaks the truth. Instead, he turns to watch the Parthian preparations. Two squat soldiers have rolled a barrel into the open area in front of the stable, and the prisoners are gathered around it drinking and washing as best they can. Two other sentries struggle to carry away the body of their fallen comrade.

"Gelanor," Malorix says softly. "I know you hate my guts, and I really don’t care. Let us just do this thing. Later, if we survive, you can try to kill me."

"I look forward to that day." They hold one another’s gaze long enough to affirm their pact, and their mutual loathing, then turn their attention back to the prisoners in the courtyard. The words have at last been spoken. The reckoning will have to wait.

"To business then," Malorix says briskly. "How large do you make this garrison?"

"There were at least one hundred when we arrived. But I think a large force decamped soon after. I think now there are not more than a few dozen."

"Only a handful of cataphracts, probably a few of his personal retainers, and some horse archers. If the rest of the squadron is away why isn’t our host with them?"

"Vasiges?"

"He clearly resents being left in this shithole."

"I take your point." Gelanor hesitates. "He doesn’t strike me as a man satisfied to spend much of his life in a place like Stravin."

"Yes. And what are we to make of these prisoners? How many will he sell?"

"The caravan traders said there were five or six hundred slaves at the quarry on the mountain."

"Why would he sell them, unless he has more than he needs up at the quarry?"

"Maybe Vasiges wants to see what we’ll pay for rabble before he shows us the better ones."

"Possibly," Malorix agrees, "or maybe these are all he can spare."

"From a quarry? What’s so important about a quarry?"

"You know …" he muses, "I haven’t seen a single building made of stone in this whole sorry excuse for a town. No wagons laden with stone. This place is built of mud. With hundreds of slaves working a quarry, the place should be littered with stone. If it is a quarry …"

"If not a quarry, what then?"

"The prisoners know."

"They’re not talkative."

"Let’s try the big one."

The prisoners are dividing a meal of stale flat bread and tubers or washing themselves at the water barrel. Malorix addresses them. "You eat and drink because Beucan and Abgar the merchants take an interest in you. If your gods favour you, we may purchase you and you will travel with us. If not …" he pauses for this to sink in.

No reaction but then he had expected none. "Form a line," he commands. No movement, but a few glances in the direction of the tall one with the greying hair. He stands motionless for a time, then shows the barest tilt of the head. The prisoners shuffle into line.

Malorix walks over and stands directly in front of him. "They look to you."

"Good bread," the soldier says insolently, as he takes a bite and looks Malorix in the eyes.

"You are welcome," Malorix replies in kind. "Your Latin is excellent."

"We don’t meet many Latin speakers hereabouts." He spits out a stone. “Funny that.”

"I knew another Latin speaker once."

"Really?"

"His name was Afranius Silo."

"Never heard of him."

"That surprises me. He was a legend in the Roman army. Commanded the first cohort of the Italian Legion. One of the best in the Empire."

"The best, after the third cohort of the IX^th Legion."

"Says who?"

"Who wants to know?"

"A friend of Afranius Silo."

The man gestures to the other prisoners with the remnant of his bread. "These men could use a friend."

Malorix nods in the direction of the guards, "We don’t have a lot of time." The prisoner’s eyes follow his gaze. "Name and rank?" Malorix demands sharply.

"Aulus Quirinus, centurion, third cohort. Who asks?"

"For now, you will know me as Beucan the Sarmatian."

"Who sent you?"

"Rome."

"Silo said they would send someone."

The sound of Silo’s name is exhilarating. "What else did he say?"

"Not to tell what I know until we are ransomed, or Rome will find it easy to leave us to rot in some Parthian hellhole."

"Where is Silo?"

"As you see." The centurion gestures to the stockade. "Parthian hellhole."

"Rome is at war."

"Too right it is, Beucan the Sarmatian." Quirinus looks hard at him. "What do you think that means to these men?"

He is right of course. Rome cares not a jot for these captured sons.

"How many of you are there?"

"As you see."

"And up at the quarry?"

"What quarry?"

"On the mountain."

"That’s no damn quarry." Quirinus laughs. "A quarry, now that would be a picnic."

"What is it?"

"The passage to Hades, that’s what it is." A few prisoners nearby join in his bitter laugh.

Malorix changes tack. "How many Romans up there?"

"Another sixty or so are left, last I knew. The numbers go down quickly. Some died and some were sold."

"Where is Silo?"

"Not here."

"He has a message for me. Have you got it?"

"Yes and no."

"Where?"

"On the mountain called the Horn."

"Will Vasiges sell the others?"

"How should I know?"

"Are they heavily guarded?"

"Heavily enough."

"Quality?"

"The old King wouldn’t have his best boys out guarding such as us now would he?"

"Beucan," Gelanor hisses, "the guards are getting curious."

"How many guards on the Horn?"

"Fifty, more or less."

"We will buy your freedom, if you help us free Silo and the others. That’s the deal."

Quirinus’ grey eyes fix on him, grim and cold. "What you see here are dead men. As for myself, when my time comes, I would just as soon die with a sword in my hand. We will be with you, when the time comes."

"You can speak for the rest?"

"I can."

Malorix turns away and then stops. "If not a quarry, what is it?"

Quirinus spits again. "What do you think? It’s a gold mine."