he replied with difficulty; his mouth was desert-dry.
Ziri held a water-skin to his lips. ‘Sir, trink.’
Vespasian drank and felt the lukewarm liquid course into his body.
Ziri pulled the skin away from him. ‘Sir, stop.’
‘He’s right, I’m afraid,’ Magnus said, holding out his hand to help Vespasian up. ‘It’s the only water we’ve got unless we can dig some more
out.’
Vespasian got unsteadily to his feet and looked around. It was peaceful, there was no wind. The three-quarter moon splashed the rippling sand dunes with silver; to the north the monstrous shape
of the sandstorm could just be discerned, ravaging its way towards the coast. Here and there Vespasian could see a few figures, no more than twenty, singly or in pairs, digging in the sand.
‘Where’s Corvinus?’ he asked, looking back to where he last saw the cavalry prefect and his mount.
‘He’s fine,’ Magnus replied, ‘he’s organising the search parties, although I don’t know how fruitful they’ll prove to be. Most of the horses bolted,
only the lads that kept theirs down have survived. I’m afraid that Aghilas didn’t have the strength to hold onto his.’
‘Shit, we’re lost then.’
‘Not quite,’ Magnus said with a grin, patting Ziri’s frizzy hair like a favoured pet, ‘Ziri knows how to get to Siwa.’
The Marmarides nodded. ‘Master, sir, Ziri, Siwa, yes.’
‘He’s becoming quite talkative,’ Vespasian observed.
‘He is,’ Magnus agreed, ‘and so are we when we should be digging to see what we can salvage.’
The first rays of direct sunlight hit Vespasian’s face and it felt so good to be alive as he scrabbled in the sand searching for his precious water-skin. He had despaired
during that timeless oblivion that he had spent curled up in the lee of his now dead horse.
At first he had been able to push away the sand as it piled up near his face but as the storm had intensified great swathes of it had been deposited all around and over him; keeping above it had
meant that he was slowly rising and would eventually be higher than his protective mount. Giving up the unequal struggle he had managed to pull his cloak over his head and concentrated instead on
keeping a small air pocket in front of his face, which, with the help of his long cavalry spatha acting as a tent-pole, he had maintained until he had lost consciousness in the stifling
conditions.
How he had survived he did not know. He could only surmise that the goddess Fortuna had held her hands over him and that she really was safeguarding him for whatever destiny the gods had decreed
for him, as he had, at the age of fifteen, overheard his mother profess. That day he had heard his parents speak of the omens surrounding his birth and what they prophesied. Since then no one had
been willing to tell him of their content, bound as they were by an oath administered by his mother to all those present on the day of his naming ceremony, nine days after his birth.
At first this had irked him but gradually his curiosity had waned out of necessity and he had put it to the back of his mind. His curiosity had been briefly reawakened, four years previously,
after he and his brother, Sabinus, had been read a deliberately obscure prophecy at the Oracle of Amphiaraos in Greece. This had alluded to a brother telling the truth to the King of the East.
Whether it had meant anything to Sabinus he did not know as his brother had been unforthcoming, claiming to be still bound by their mother’s original oath.
In the two years between completing his time as one of the
triumviri capitales
and being elected quaestor, time mainly spent running the estate at Cosa left to him by his grandmother, he
had thought little about it; until now. Now he was convinced that he had been preserved by some unseen hand; how the others had survived he did not know but he knew that he should have suffocated
last night, buried in the sand on the twenty-fifth anniversary of
Ziri held a water-skin to his lips. ‘Sir, trink.’
Vespasian drank and felt the lukewarm liquid course into his body.
Ziri pulled the skin away from him. ‘Sir, stop.’
‘He’s right, I’m afraid,’ Magnus said, holding out his hand to help Vespasian up. ‘It’s the only water we’ve got unless we can dig some more
out.’
Vespasian got unsteadily to his feet and looked around. It was peaceful, there was no wind. The three-quarter moon splashed the rippling sand dunes with silver; to the north the monstrous shape
of the sandstorm could just be discerned, ravaging its way towards the coast. Here and there Vespasian could see a few figures, no more than twenty, singly or in pairs, digging in the sand.
‘Where’s Corvinus?’ he asked, looking back to where he last saw the cavalry prefect and his mount.
‘He’s fine,’ Magnus replied, ‘he’s organising the search parties, although I don’t know how fruitful they’ll prove to be. Most of the horses bolted,
only the lads that kept theirs down have survived. I’m afraid that Aghilas didn’t have the strength to hold onto his.’
‘Shit, we’re lost then.’
‘Not quite,’ Magnus said with a grin, patting Ziri’s frizzy hair like a favoured pet, ‘Ziri knows how to get to Siwa.’
The Marmarides nodded. ‘Master, sir, Ziri, Siwa, yes.’
‘He’s becoming quite talkative,’ Vespasian observed.
‘He is,’ Magnus agreed, ‘and so are we when we should be digging to see what we can salvage.’
The first rays of direct sunlight hit Vespasian’s face and it felt so good to be alive as he scrabbled in the sand searching for his precious water-skin. He had despaired
during that timeless oblivion that he had spent curled up in the lee of his now dead horse.
At first he had been able to push away the sand as it piled up near his face but as the storm had intensified great swathes of it had been deposited all around and over him; keeping above it had
meant that he was slowly rising and would eventually be higher than his protective mount. Giving up the unequal struggle he had managed to pull his cloak over his head and concentrated instead on
keeping a small air pocket in front of his face, which, with the help of his long cavalry spatha acting as a tent-pole, he had maintained until he had lost consciousness in the stifling
conditions.
How he had survived he did not know. He could only surmise that the goddess Fortuna had held her hands over him and that she really was safeguarding him for whatever destiny the gods had decreed
for him, as he had, at the age of fifteen, overheard his mother profess. That day he had heard his parents speak of the omens surrounding his birth and what they prophesied. Since then no one had
been willing to tell him of their content, bound as they were by an oath administered by his mother to all those present on the day of his naming ceremony, nine days after his birth.
At first this had irked him but gradually his curiosity had waned out of necessity and he had put it to the back of his mind. His curiosity had been briefly reawakened, four years previously,
after he and his brother, Sabinus, had been read a deliberately obscure prophecy at the Oracle of Amphiaraos in Greece. This had alluded to a brother telling the truth to the King of the East.
Whether it had meant anything to Sabinus he did not know as his brother had been unforthcoming, claiming to be still bound by their mother’s original oath.
In the two years between completing his time as one of the
triumviri capitales
and being elected quaestor, time mainly spent running the estate at Cosa left to him by his grandmother, he
had thought little about it; until now. Now he was convinced that he had been preserved by some unseen hand; how the others had survived he did not know but he knew that he should have suffocated
last night, buried in the sand on the twenty-fifth anniversary of
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