Free Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire by Gordon Doherty Page A

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.

Chapter 4
     

     
    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