Empire of Dragons (8 page)

‘Let’s worry now about how we can take care of him,’ replied Metellus. ‘Maybe Uxal can bargain for more humane conditions. But when the time comes, yes . . . I’ll get you out of here.’

‘You’ve promised,’ said Rufus.

‘Yes,’ replied Metellus. ‘Yes, I promise you. But now we have to make sure the emperor gets better. We won’t go without him.’

They all fell silent, because their commander’s last words somehow negated the first. How could he keep such a promise? How could they escape with a man reduced to such a sorry state?

Valerian was burning with fever and delirious, calling out words without meaning and then drifting into unconsciousness. His breath was getting shorter and shorter, a laborious whistle that was becoming a death hiss.

At dawn, Metellus turned to Uxal. ‘This man cannot be made to work today. He can’t even stand up.’

‘I know,’ replied the old man.

‘Do you think they’ll let him rest?’

‘You’re asking me? I’ve never found myself in a similar situation.’

‘Help me. Talk to the guard.’

‘I’ll try. But we have nothing to offer him. Only something to ask. Why should he listen to us?’

‘I don’t know why, blast it! But you try, all right? Try, damn you!’ shouted Metellus.

Uxal muttered something to himself, then said, ‘There’s no need to raise your voice. You won’t resolve much that way. I only hope I come up with an idea before that son of a bitch enters and opens the lock.’

He got up, went over to the emperor and took a long look. Valerian was deadly pale, his eyes black-rimmed and hollow. His body was covered with bruises, his hair filthy and clotted with dust and sweat. Uxal gave a sigh.

At that moment the door creaked open and the guard appeared. He bellowed something in his own language and opened the padlock, pulling the chain from the rings. Uxal muttered something back and the other replied with a shrug. Uxal insisted in a calm and rather detached tone, as if he were merely explaining something.

The man replied with a short grunt and then turned towards Valerian and gave him an oblique look. He turned to Uxal again and spat out a few words.

Metellus shot the old man a questioning look and was answered by a slight nod.

They were soon at the mine entrance, while Valerian had been left behind on his straw bed in the shack.

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Metellus.

‘I said that if he forced Valerian to go down into the mine, he would be responsible for his death and that the spirit of a dead emperor becomes very vengeful and wicked, and would make him die the most abominable death a Persian can imagine: being buried alive in the mine.’

‘And he believed you?’

‘Maybe not. But why should he take a risk? It’s not going to cost him anything; I promised him he’d have the same quantity of turquoise tonight anyway.’

‘I’m very grateful to you. I only hope to be able to pay you back one day for what you’ve done for us.’

‘I haven’t done much, but I quite like the thought of dispensing favours to an emperor. Doesn’t happen every day.’

‘No, I’d say not,’ agreed Metellus.

Balbus and Quadratus organized the working day so that in the evening the quantity of turquoise would be as much as the whole lot of them had produced together, and of the best quality to boot. They laboured without a pause so there would be no delay at the moment of weighing and they could get back to their shack as soon as possible. Metellus was especially bothered by the thought of the emperor all alone and feverish in that stinking hovel.

And bothered by the thought of his son, which never left him. He wondered whether Titus was thinking of him as well, or had given him up for dead. Merely imagining such a thing made him suffer unbearably.

The worst hours were the last; their muscles, aching with strain and riddled with cramp, no longer responded and every movement required immense effort.

When the time came to be lifted to the surface, Metellus and his men were there for the weighing; the material was well over the required quantity, and of excellent quality as well. No one stopped them from returning to their hut; on the contrary, from the way the guards were speaking, Uxal understood that they were quite satisfied. He began to realize that his friends might survive.

‘Did you know the yields would be so high?’ he asked Metellus.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t tell me you knocked yourself out just to make your jailers happy.’

‘No. I’m trying to get them to understand that it’s worth their while to keep us alive, because we ensure better profits than the others.’

‘Hmmm . . . simple, but effective. In fact, it’s the only reason for them to keep you alive. But I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep up such a rate.’

‘They might even decide to feed us better.’

‘Forget that,’ replied Uxal.

But the old man was wrong this time: the rations tasted better that night, and were more abundant. And there was bread along with the soup, for the first time.

Metellus tried to get Valerian to eat something, with no success. The emperor’s condition had worsened. He was soaked with cold sweat and gasping for breath. His heartbeat was accelerated and his whole body seemed beset by unbearable fatigue.

Metellus consulted with Martianus. ‘What do you think?’

Martianus shook his head doubtfully. ‘He might go on a few days, but he may not even last the night.’

Uxal interrupted them. ‘You know, I’ve had an idea. It struck me out of the blue.’

‘What is it?’ asked Metellus.

‘You know that pit that we throw the cadavers into?’

‘We were just there.’

‘Well, in theory that gully is the bed of a stream which is dry practically all year. I’m not sure where it comes from; the mountains, I suppose. Now, when it rains hard up there or at the end of winter when the snow up on the peaks melts, the gully is sometimes flooded with water. For just a few days, or even just hours, that dry gorge turns into a dark, raging torrent that rushes between the rock walls and boils over the boulders at the bottom. It carries away everything. When the water stops flowing the bottom is clean: no more bodies rotting in the sun, no more bones and skulls laughing in your face with their jaws gaping.’

‘I can’t see where you’re going with this story,’ said Quadratus with a snort.

‘Nowhere in particular,’ retorted Uxal. ‘It’s just that something happened to me once while I was down in the mine during one of those floods and I was wondering if . . .’

‘Gods!’ broke in Metellus. ‘Shut up, will you? Can’t you see how ill he is?’

Valerian’s breath came in a weak rattle, his emaciated chest rising and falling, stretching the skin over his ribs and breastbone. His eyes were glassy and he seemed unconscious.

Metellus got as close to him as the chains allowed and he realized the emperor was trying to say something. ‘I’m here, Caesar,’ he said, taking his hand.

‘You must return, Marcus Metellus . . . you must return . . .’

‘Not without you.’

‘No, it’s over, you know that. My son has abandoned me . . .’

‘Don’t say that . . . We don’t know that, Caesar . . . You mustn’t lose heart. You must try to get well. We’ll help you.’

‘I have no breath, son . . .’

Metellus started at that epithet, which the emperor had never used with him in all these years. He knew that the words they were about to exchange would be words of truth. No more piteous lies.

‘Listen to me . . .’ continued Valerian. ‘Gallienus does not have the strength to govern alone. He will let himself be swayed by the Christians. The army will rebel against him . . . You must return and save the empire from disintegration. Promise me . . . promise this to a dying man.’

‘I promise you. I will leave nothing untried to obey your orders.’

‘Throw my body in the pit and think of nothing but this promise. The rain will wash me and the wind will bury me . . .’ Tears streamed down his hollow cheeks. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said, with great effort. ‘I should have known. But a father’s heart is blind, understand?’

‘Do not torment yourself, Caesar. Your suffering will soon be over. Your ancestors are ready to receive you. Free your soul of anxiety, lift your spirit. You are about to become a god and to your shade we shall offer sacrifice in our homeland, under the skies of Italy. I swear to you.’

For a moment only the hiss of the wind between the cracks in the planks could be heard, and then even the wind seemed to die down. In that unreal silence the voice of Marcus Metellus Aquila rang out: ‘The emperor is dead.’

B
EFORE DAWN
U
XAL LEFT
the shack and went to talk in secret with the head of the guards. ‘Their emperor is dead.’

‘When?’

‘During the night.’

‘What of?’

‘What of? Of exhaustion, what else? They’re going to take him over to the pit now, if you have no objections.’

‘All right. But remind them of the rules.’

‘They know the rules perfectly well. They’re not stupid. Send someone to unlock them now. They want to be back before work starts. They have two to make up for now.’

‘Well, that won’t be a problem for them, will it?’

‘Do you know how they manage? Organization. They’ve created a kind of structure where each one of them does the type of work he’s most suited for, because of the way he’s built or his natural inclination. This way, they put all their time to good use and don’t miss a thing. If the whole mine were organized that way, you’d double production.’

‘Interesting. Maybe I should have a little talk with that Roman.’

‘If you want, I’ll bring him here tonight.’

‘I’ll tell you when I want to see him.’

‘Naturally, my excellent commander.’

‘And now get out of my sight, scum.’

Uxal returned to the shack accompanied by the guard who held the key to the lock, who released the prisoners.

Metellus and the others took the same litter they’d used for Aemilius and laid Valerian’s body upon it. Stars still filled the sky and only the mountain crests towards the east were edged with a slight tinge of pink. The men walked in silence along the dusty trail that went to the gully, led by Uxal, who lit the path with a lantern. The wind had picked up again, raw and biting, dragging dry amaranth bushes in search of more hospitable places to put down their roots.

After a while, the trail began to descend towards the pit and the camp disappeared from sight behind them. At that point, Metellus ordered his men to hoist the litter to their shoulders and to proceed in step as if they were still wearing the red uniform of the legion, as if the eagle were guiding them.

When they came to the edge of the crevasse, Metellus ordered them to place the body on the ground. He signalled to Balbus, Quadratus and Publius to help him to uproot some dry tamarisk trunks and stack them. The other men joined in as well, as Uxal tried in vain to stop them.

‘What do you think you’re doing? Have you all gone mad?’

‘Don’t worry, old man. No one will notice a thing. The wind is getting stronger and it’s blowing from the north. It will carry away the smoke and the smell.’

‘But why? What’s the point in risking your lives?’

‘The emperor of the Romans must have the funeral honours he deserves, or he cannot be taken in by the gods. His ashes must be delivered to the urn.’

‘Ashes are ashes!’ screamed Uxal. ‘You are crazy . . . crazy! You cannot believe this idiocy!’

‘You’ll see,’ replied Metellus.

The woodpile was ready and other branches had been inserted among the trunks to feed the flames. They had prepared a kind of makeshift crematorium and a little clay jar.

‘Give me the lantern,’ ordered Metellus.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’

‘Give it to me or I’ll throw you into that pit.’

‘Would you really be capable of doing that?’ asked Uxal, stunned.

‘Without a moment’s thought. The lantern . . .’ he repeated peremptorily, holding out his hand.

Uxal handed it over, shaking his head incredulously.

Metellus opened the lantern and poured the mineral oil it contained on to the branches, then held the wick flame close. The stack of wood caught fire immediately, stoked by the impetuous highland wind.

‘Men!’ shouted Metellus. ‘In formation!’

The two centurions divided the men into two columns, right and left of the pyre.

Metellus declaimed, emphasizing each word, ‘Honour to Licinius Valerianus Augustus, emperor of the Romans!’

The men raised their hands as if gripping the legion’s javelins and shouted out, ‘Honour!’

Uxal shook his head, disconcerted. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Just when things were promising to get better, when his able diplomacy was about to earn some small privileges for the group, this useless and absurd ceremony was going to ruin everything. ‘I’m getting out of here,’ he said loudly. ‘I’ll take no part in this craziness. You have no idea of what will happen to you if they find out.’

‘Go,’ replied Metellus. ‘We’ll be here for a while.’

Uxal turned on his heel and, when he arrived at camp, tried to slip back into the shack, but one of the guards spotted him.

‘Where are the others?’ he demanded.

‘The others? They’re coming. They’re still busy with all their prayers and conjurations. You know, there are all those religions in Rome and each one of them has to say something different. They’ll be here soon.’

The sun was peeping over the mountain crests and the wind changed direction, bringing a burning smell towards the camp.

‘But that’s . . .’ said the guard in alarm.

‘The sentries’ campfire. It’s so cold this morning,’ said Uxal, trying to distract the guard. But the man shoved him aside, sending him rolling to the ground, then ran off towards the gully. Uxal popped up and took off after him at a run, shouting, ‘Where are you going? There’s nothing going on down there. Stop!’

When the guard arrived the fire had abated and the embers were arranged in a rough circle. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted.

‘He asked what you’re doing,’ translated Uxal, who had just drawn up, panting.