Empire of Dragons (16 page)

‘By continually dampening the vessel that contains it. As it dries, the water cools the amphora and the wine inside. I learned that from the desert nomads, who are accustomed to living in conditions that no city dweller would ever be able to tolerate.’

Metellus thanked him. ‘We’re greatly obliged to you for your kindness and hospitality. I hope to find a way to pay you back . . .’

‘Who are you?’ asked Daruma suddenly, staring closely into his eyes.

Metellus hesitated.

‘You’re not used to lying,’ Daruma pressed on, ‘or to sitting this way. You’re used to giving orders and being obeyed without even opening your mouth. You come from the West, then, almost certainly a military man. A Roman officer, I’d say . . . I’d bet on it, actually. And these, apart from the old fellow, are your men.’

He spoke softly so that only Metellus could hear him. Metellus tried to hide his discomfort, but his right hand started to slip almost imperceptibly under his tunic towards the hilt of his sword.

‘You don’t need that,’ Daruma said without even looking at him. ‘It is the custom never to betray one’s guests where I come from as well. As long as you eat my bread, you’re as safe as if you were in a fortress.’

Metellus put both hands on his knees and drew a long sigh.

‘I might think that you were a group of spies sent into the heart of the Persian empire, but I can see from the hardships you’ve suffered, the scars you’re trying to keep hidden under your rags and the terror in your eyes, that you’re fleeing from a grave threat. If I said that you’re the group who escaped from the Aus Daiwa camp – whom the Persians are searching for in every corner of this region – would I be very far from the truth?’

‘What do you expect me to answer you?’ said Metellus.

‘Nothing. I know I’ve hit the mark.’

‘Why have you offered us your hospitality, then?’

‘Pure curiosity. These long crossings are deadly and I never miss an opportunity to occupy myself with someone else’s affairs if I find them exciting enough. In any case, I didn’t believe a word of what the old man told me, or what you said, although he’s a much better liar than you are.’

‘And now that you know, what will you do?’

‘Do you have children?’ asked Daruma, as if he had not heard him.

Metellus looked at him in surprise at the sudden change of subject, but replied, ‘A son. But I don’t know where he is or what has happened to him.’

‘So you don’t have a wife.’

‘I did. She was murdered.’

‘By the Persians?’

‘The Romans.’

‘The most logical question would be: why remain loyal to these Romans, then? You’re a high-ranking officer, obviously, and you must have information that’s worth quite a lot. But you would naturally have already sold out if you were so inclined, to save yourself from imprisonment and oppression. I think I understand. You’re one of those Romans one sees carved on arches and columns: inflexible, upright, intrepid and a little stupid.’

‘That may be,’ replied Metellus stiffly.

‘Don’t let it get to you. I’m just trying to figure out what you’re like. I have to get to know who I’m travelling with, don’t I?’

‘Do you mean that—’

‘What’s your name?’ Daruma interrupted him again.

His way of abruptly jumping from one subject to another was driving Metellus mad, but he replied without hesitation, ‘Marcus Metellus Aquila.’

‘Pronounced in your language, that must be a name that makes a man tremble just hearing it.’

‘It’s a name that has never been dishonoured.’

‘I’d imagined as much. Now listen. Tell your men they can sleep in that tent down there, near the camels. You’ll be my guest.’

Metellus bowed his head. ‘I’m accustomed to sharing everything with my men.’

‘This time you’ll make an exception to please me. I’d say I’ve earned it.’

‘I don’t think I’d be able to sleep. I must supervise the guard shifts personally.’

‘No guard shifts. This place has already been scoured three times from top to bottom by Persian soldiers. They’ve turned over every stone. I don’t think they’ll be back. What’s more, my guards don’t take kindly to other people doing their job for them. If you don’t like it, you can go back to where you came from.’

‘No,’ replied Metellus. ‘I accept and I thank you, in the name of my men as well. Will you take us with you, then?’

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘You’ll soon know.’

Daruma got up and made his way towards his tent.

U
XAL ACCOMPANIED THE MEN
to their quarters and Metellus remained alone next to the campfire for a little while. It was a lovely night, he was the guest of a well-to-do merchant and he had dined on oven-fresh bread, roast meat and cold wine. His men had eaten well and were graciously lodged. There was good reason to hope that Daruma would take them with him and that they might reach the Ocean and, perhaps, return to their homeland. It almost seemed that the long imprisonment, the death of the emperor and of a comrade, the cruel suffering they’d borne, were all just a nightmare, a bad dream destined to vanish with the rising of the sun. But there was one thought that made him harshly aware that everything was real: his undiminished longing for his lost spouse and for the son whose fate he knew nothing about.

He thought of Lucius Domitius Aurelian, of Sword-in-Hand, and trusted that his loyal friend had done everything he could to protect little Titus. Perhaps the boy was living with him, and perhaps Lucius was keeping his memory alive in the child, instilling hope in his return.

Not a single night since he had fallen into captivity, and then since he had escaped, had he lain down to rest without invoking his ancestors to keep watch over Titus, over the son to whom he had broken his promise to return that very day he had been forced to depart on a journey that anyone would have imagined without return.

‘Where are you, my son?’ he wondered. ‘Where are you, boy?’ And he asked himself whether Titus, at that same moment, was wondering the same thing: ‘Where are you, father?’ Perhaps their two thoughts were meeting, unknown to them, somewhere across the arc of the sky, setting aflame a falling star. There, like the one he could see just then, tracing a line of fire in the dark, all the way down to the palm leaves.

U
LTIMATELY
, he was not deceiving himself. If the gods were listening to his paternal yearnings, they would have seen Titus leaning on the balcony of the imperial palace of Milan and scanning the sky, just as his father was.

Tillia the slavegirl was watching him. He had grown since she had entered his service and seemed somehow to have resigned himself to his condition. He attended the lessons of his tutors, learning Greek, mathematics, grammar and calligraphy. He was treated with respect and accompanied every moment of the day until dusk, when Tillia took over his care.

He saw Gallienus very rarely, only during official ceremonies, and always at a distance. He was convinced that the emperor was avoiding him because he didn’t want to answer the question the boy wanted to ask: ‘Where is my father? And where is yours?’

He had never seen Aurelian again either: his father’s friend, the hero whom the soldiers called Sword-in-Hand. They had received news that he had led the legions beyond the Danube, against the Sarmatians, and that he had killed fifty of them by his own hand in the course of a battle in which over twenty thousand of those barbarians had fallen. But he had been awarded no triumph, as would have been his right, because Gallienus was jealous of him. Or so they said. Instead of being called home, Aurelian had been transferred to Moesia, which was being threatened by the Goths.

It was Tillia who told him those things, because as a young slave she had the opportunity to listen without being noticed, much as if she were a statue or a piece of furniture.

‘Why are the barbarians so angry with us?’ Titus had asked his tutor one day, a rhetorician from Treviri with a yellowish beard and hair like straw.

‘They’re not angry with us,’ he had replied. ‘They want to be allowed in, because they want to enjoy the beautiful things we have. If you had to choose between living in a cart through the chill of winter and the heat of summer, hardly ever being able to wash, suffering both hunger and thirst, or living in a nice house with food every day, a bath, heating in the winter and fountains that cool the air in the summer, libraries and gardens, which would you choose?

‘Do you know how many aqueducts Rome has? Eleven. And do you know how many Milan has? Seven. Do you know how many rooms there are in this palace? Three hundred. And how many libraries there are in the empire? About five thousand, with thirteen million books. And how many roads have been built? Two hundred thousand miles of roads, with a post-house every fifteen miles.

‘We’re trying to stop them from getting in: when we can with negotiations, when we can’t with the army. That’s what our generals are doing now in Pannonia and Moesia.’

‘One of our generals is a friend of my father’s,’ Titus said.

‘Oh, really? Who is it?’

‘Aurelian, Sword-in-Hand. You can’t joke around with him, and if anyone hurts me they’ll have him to face up to.’

‘No one wants to hurt you.’

‘Then why are you holding me prisoner in this place?’

‘You’re not a prisoner. You’re a guest. And “this place” is the imperial palace, the most beautiful place in which anyone could desire to live.’

‘Well, I don’t like it and I want to leave.’

‘You’re too little.’

‘Then why don’t you let my father come back?’

But that was a question that no one had an answer to. Not even the emperor.

When Titus spoke about his father, he was gripped by a deep sense of gloom that his young spirit could not bear. He’d slip away then, no matter what he was doing, and find a place to weep in frustration and sadness until he had cried himself out.

‘W
HAT ARE YOU
thinking of?’

Daruma’s voice suddenly boomed out behind Metellus, making him jump. He couldn’t have said how long he’d been absorbed in his thoughts. He looked at the fire and saw that only ashes remained. A long time had passed.

‘My son,’ he replied.

‘Do you think he is in danger?’

‘Anything could have happened. I know nothing. Not hearing anything at all is almost worse than having bad news.’

‘Isn’t there anyone who can take care of him?’

‘I have a friend, the commander of one of the large combat units of our army. I know that he would do anything to protect my son, but he may be too far away to be able to help him. He may even have died. That’s what happens to soldiers.’

‘Not generals.’

‘He’s the kind who stays in front, not behind. Always the first to face the risks he subjects his men to. I’ve always done the same. We’re those upright kind of Romans, a little stupid, as you pointed out.’

‘Everyone has defects and qualities. No one is perfect,’ Daruma declared.

‘I imagine that the Persians are offering a reward for our capture. Aren’t you tempted to turn us in?’

‘I buy and sell goods, not men.’

‘But our presence in your caravan, even for a brief time, represents a serious risk for you. Why should you do it?’

‘At the end of dinner, you asked me a question and I answered, “It depends.” ’

‘On what?’

‘On what you’re willing to risk, you and your men.’

‘Everything, in exchange for freedom.’

‘Then we can talk about it. If you’re not tired, that is.’

‘I’m not tired. I’m listening.’

‘I’m not here for purposes of trade.’

‘Neither am I. Go on.’

‘I had an appointment with a person who has not shown up. The agreement was that if in fifteen days he had not come here to the oasis, the appointed place would be shifted further south, to the port on the Khaboras, a two-day journey from here.’

‘And so you’re ready to go.’

‘Tomorrow. Or the next day, at most. The fact that this person hasn’t arrived makes me a bit apprehensive and leads me to believe that having a group of armed, experienced soldiers with me might not be a bad idea.’

‘Us?’

‘Well, you’re a little knocked up, but you look like people who have been through hell and survived.’

‘Nearly two years at Aus Daiwa.’

‘That seems impossible . . . In any case, if you’re willing to act as an escort for this caravan, I’ll feed you and pay you in silver shekels every ten days until we reach our destination. After which you’ll be free to go. With the money you’ll have earned you can return to your homeland.’

Metellus shook his head.

‘You don’t like it?’

‘You said you had guards. Why would you need us?’

‘I lied. I didn’t want you to know that my guards are only willing servants. I didn’t want you to get any funny ideas. On the other hand, you lied to me as well. When needs must, it’s allowed. Well, shall we make this agreement or not?’

‘It’s fine with me. It’s that I can hardly believe it.’

‘Maybe I wasn’t clear. You’ll be risking your lives.’

‘What does it matter? That’s all I’ve been doing up to now.’

‘What about your men?’

‘They’ll agree with whatever I decide.’

‘It’s a deal, then,’ said Daruma.

Metellus replied, ‘I’d say it’s best that I begin right now, given the situation.’

‘My men are on watch. I think that’s enough for tonight. The moon is so bright you can almost see as well as day. But if it will make you feel safer, go ahead and put one of your men on guard. Your bed is ready in my tent, whenever you like. Good night, Commander Aquila.’

‘Goodnight, Daruma,’ replied Metellus. ‘And . . . thank you.’

Daruma smiled and disappeared inside his tent.

Metellus drew his sword from under his tunic and slung it over his shoulder. He went towards the tent where his men were sleeping and found Balbus awake.

‘I imagined as much! Go ahead and finish the first guard shift, Centurion. We’re back in service. Daruma has hired us to escort the caravan.’

‘You’re not joking with me, are you, Commander?’