Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (12 page)

Most of the men took only the clothes they wore, plus a light cloak and extra linen batting to protect their heads from the sun when they were not wearing helmets. They would march with their chain mail and helms, carrying their spears, shields and spathas as well as their packs, it seemed. Pavo weighed his pack – and it was anything but light. The first step of the journey was to head for the Strata Diocletiana – the great road that swept north-south through the Syrian Desert and marked the edge of the empire. Many miles to carry such a burden.

Just then, a gurgling, baritone groan sounded from the fort gates. All heads swept round.

‘The
dromedarii
escort!’ Yabet called out, striding from the principia excitedly.

The gates creaked open and near fifty knot-legged, hump-backed camels ambled inside, beholding the three centuries with a lackadaisical gaze. A clutch of sixteen riders were seated between the humps of the leading camels. The riders wore bleached white robes – long sleeved and hanging to their ankles. They had no body armour but wore Roman helms and carried legionary spears. Each of them was swarthy-skinned and they chattered in a trilling tongue, urging the relaxed beasts onwards with whistling and the occasional swiping of canes.

‘Mithras!’ Zosimus pinched his nose as one camel came close. The beast had a mean eye and jutting teeth. ‘Looks like my sister-in-law . . . and smells worse than Quadratus!’

Quadratus’ ears perked up and a scowl twisted his face, but before he could reply, Felix cut in; ‘Load the tents and your packs onto their backs. Less burden will mean a lighter, cooler march.’

At this, a cheer erupted from the two XI Claudia centuries, and some one hundred and forty packs thudded into the dust. The century of Flavia Firma men were more reserved in their reaction.

As Pavo helped strap his pack to the nearest camel’s back, he noticed that Carbo had appeared and now stood in the shade of the principia chatting with Yabet.

‘So those two will lead us to this scroll,’ Sura muttered, sounding unconvinced. Then he looked to Pavo. ‘And who knows what else?’

Pavo felt a prickling of nervous energy in his heart at this.
Father
. Last night he had told Sura all about Carbo’s revelation and the memory lifted his mood. But the jagged images of the sandstorm nightmare came to him and he shook his head. ‘Let us tackle the desert first.’

Just then, footsteps echoed from the street.

‘Get in line!’ Zosimus bawled, instantly sensing who was approaching. Quadratus echoed the order to his century. The men rushed into position.

‘Come on, this is no drill, tighten up,’ Pavo barked, seeing Habitus, Noster and Sextus leaving a gap between their shields. He fell back to the rear of the century and clacked his staff against his shield. At the right of the first rank, Sura backed up the demand with a thump of his spear butt into the ground. The three offenders bunched up in a heartbeat and the XI Claudia ranks were ready – replete bar the eighteen they had lost in the pirate clash. Their scuffed ruby shields and worn, patched armour contrasted sharply with that of the Flavia Firma ranks, but their faces bore the grimaces of men well versed in legionary life. All within the compound fell silent as the gates creaked open. The tall, lean figure of Gallus strode in and beheld the three centuries of the expedition force.

Gallus met the eyes of each and every man. Then he nodded to the XI Claudia aquilifer, who raised the ruby bull standard in the air.

‘Move out!’ the tribunus bellowed.

Chapter 6

The midday sun baked the lands of the Persis Satrapy. A rocky river gorge stretched across the flat brushland as if cut by a giant’s plough long ago, from the jagged peaks of the Zagros Mountains in the east, snaking off towards the Persian Gulf in the west. A road ran along the fertile southern banks of this gorge, passing lush meadows and shimmering crop fields. Where the brushland met the mountains, the great city of Bishapur stood, hugged to the north by the gorge and fuelled from east and west by a steady stream of wagons, men and cattle.

Today was market day, a day that brought people to the city from many miles around. Sentries lined the beetling, sun-bleached and near-perfectly square walls, watching over the influx. The market-goers brought with them hides, wheat, dates, oil, figs and oranges. Once inside, these crowds spilled through the palm-lined streets and around the arched, stucco-clad villas and halls. They were headed for the centre of the city. Here lay the main market square at the foot of the acropolis. The stench of dung clashed with an aroma of cooking meat and the cries of traders mixed with the jabber of shoppers and the twanging of a highly-strung lute. Exotic animals were led in a parade around the square, ostrich eggs decorated with peacock feathers were held aloft like some grand prize and dark-skinned Indian slaves were led in chains to trading platforms. It seemed that not even a blade could splice this mob. Then all of a sudden they parted and the incessant babble died. All heads turned to the figure saddled on a white mare, ambling towards the stone staircase cut into the acropolis mount.

This was Tamur, noble son of the House of Aspaphet. At just twenty-six he was the Spahbad of the armies of the Persis Satrapy. When he rode, he could call upon more than fifteen thousand spears to ride and march with him. Today he wore a red silk robe in place of armour, but there was no mistaking his stock as a warrior. The veins on his temples pressed against the skin and his sleek dark locks were scraped back into a tail of curls that dangled to his shoulders. His chest bulged and his shoulders were broad enough to carry a man on each with ease. His fawn skin was smooth, spoiled only by a serrated battle scar on his cheek and a white scar welt across the bridge of his broken nose. His lips were turned down in a fixed gurn and his hazel eyes reflected this mood. Riding with him were a pair of ironclad and wing-helmed pushtigban riders. Just as their kind served Shapur in the great city of Ctesiphon, the few hundred garrisoned here in Bishapur were Tamur’s loyal bodyguards.

As his subjects bowed all around him, Tamur traced his gaze up the carved steps before him. Up there on one edge of the acropolis stood his palace. The palace of his father, Cyrus, and his father before him. The high-vaulted roofs seemed to climb upon one another, with the centre-most stretching highest, as if to touch the sky itself. The structure was majestic, surrounded by orchards, palms and fountains. He felt that familiar needling in his chest. This land of his forefathers was the heart of all Persia. Yet his noble lineage, the House of Aspaphet, remained subsumed in Shapur’s realm, his family mere vassals.

He traced a finger over the brooch fastening his robe – it bore the image of a golden lion, his family’s crest. ‘My father once spoke highly of you, Shapur,’ he muttered to himself as they begun the ascent, ‘but then he saw you for what you were. Like him, I will not be your dog.’

As he said this, his gaze swept to the other edge of the acropolis. Here stood the Fire Temple. The polished limestone walls of the temple offered four arched entrances, north, south, east and west. The blue dome cresting the temple glistened in the white-hot afternoon sun. This place would offer him the key to his stolen destiny.

They reached the top of the winding carved steps and trotted onto the plateau. Sixteen
Median
spearmen posted around the temple leapt to attention on seeing their leader. They wore pointed iron helms and clutched lengthy spears, and their chests were clad in leather armour.

Tamur dismounted, his guards doing likewise to flank him, then he strode to the temple’s eastern entrance. Inside, the sweltering heat of the day instantly lifted. The cool interior was shaded and silent. As they strode through the whitewashed, arched corridor, an orange light danced on the polished black slabs underfoot. Then the spitting and crackling of a fire grew louder and louder, and a new heat emerged; fiercer than the sun. They came to the square chamber at the heart of the temple. The Sacred Fire burned fiercely in this room, directly under the blue dome. The flames danced in a deep, circular pit in the floor, illuminating the mosaics on the walls and the arched corner niches; soulless masks, staring faces and sultry women draped only in transparent veils. The air above the pit rippled in a haze, bringing the gilt ceiling relief of the Faravahar to life.

‘Leave us,’ Tamur said to his guards. With a chinking of iron, their footsteps died away.

He looked up and across the flames. ‘The talks are over.’

A silence hung in the air.

‘And what does Shapur have to say?’ a voice called out in reply, echoing around the domed area. On the other side of the fire, a face appeared, rippling and changing in the fierce heat haze: taut skin, hairless, with golden eyes and a hawk-like nose bent over narrow lips.

Tamur stifled a sigh. ‘He speaks of nothing but goodwill for his satrapies, Archimagus.’

At this, the figure emerged fully, walking around the fire. Archimagus Ramak held the key to his destiny. Despite the many thousands of warriors he could call upon as spahbad, it was Ramak who harnessed the Sacred Fire and held the power of the Divine Ahura Mazda in his hands. As such, every Zoroastrian in these lands would heed Ramak’s word if the archimagus wished it so. His father had taught him as much.

‘Shapur’s cheap words are turning you from our plans? Your resolve is weakening, Spahbad?’ Ramak hissed.

‘No, Archimagus, never,’ Tamur punched a fist to his broad breast and squared his rock-like jaw, his nostrils flaring in defiance.

‘Remember, Shapur sent your father to his death all those years ago – ordering his Savaran wing to lead the charge on the Roman lines by the Tigris.’

Tamur’s mind flashed with memories of his adolescence. The dark days after news of his father’s death had crushed him. All that his father had promised to teach him – how to ride, how to lead men, how to seize the battlefield – was gone with that news. Pretenders to his father’s seat at the head of the Persis Satrapy had gathered like carrion birds. Then, as now, it was Ramak who had seen them off, then shielded him, nurtured him.

‘Your father wanted then what we both want now. The House of Aspaphet has been asleep too long. Shapur’s reign is but a yoke for your noble lineage.’ Ramak purred. ‘You control a vast portion of the Savaran riders. But this alone is not enough to challenge Shapur. You need to expand your holdings. The Satrapy of Persis and the lands to the south are not populous or rich enough to support your designs. This was your father’s problem and now it is yours.’

Tamur’s thoughts buzzed like a swarm of hornets. He remembered a time when he was little more than a babe, when Father was not all-consumed by the desire to challenge Shapur. The years before Ramak rose to the post of archimagus. He felt the beginnings of a frown.

‘So Roman Syria must be acquired,’ Ramak continued, scattering his nascent thoughts. ‘And while Shapur hesitates over the taking of those ripe lands, we must not. We must capitalise upon his dithering,’ Ramak held up a hand and curled his fingers into a shaking fist.

‘Yes,’ Tamur nodded, focusing on Ramak’s words. ‘And I have told you time and again, Archimagus; my armies are ready to march west, to crush the Roman cities and forts, to seize the trade routes, to enrich and swell my ranks and then to march upon Shapur’s palace in Ctesiphon.’ Tamur’s heart beat faster as he spoke and he broke out in a fresh sweat. This always happened in moments of tense conversation; while others seemed able to remain cool and composed, his body was always swift to ready for battle.

Ramak nodded as if in acquiescence, scooping a wiry arm up and around Tamur’s shoulders. ‘While Shapur hesitates, you, brave spahbad, are too eager. Any advance upon Roman lands must be seen as legitimate. Thus, we must resolve the matter of the lost - ’

‘The lost scroll of Jovian and Shapur?’ Tamur could not catch his temper. ‘You still insist we first find this cursed scroll that may not even exist?’

Ramak tightened his grip on Tamur’s shoulder. It was cold and belied the aged archimagus’ feeble form. He held up his other hand before Tamur’s face, a single, bony finger extended. ‘I was there with your father the day those scrolls were written; Shapur’s weakness was showing even then. He conceded something to the Roman Emperor Jovian that day. Should the last remaining copy of that scroll contain the clause I fear it does – then we must ensure it never falls into Roman hands. For if it does, we could never breach the Roman borders. If we did, Shapur and Rome would come against us, the proud princes of Armenia and Iberia would offer us no shelter. Even the desert raiders and the gruff Isaurians would turn their blades upon us. The House of Aspaphet would be ground into the dust. Your father and his fathers would be shamed like never before.’ Ramak leant in closer to hiss in Tamur’s ear. ‘Your young sons would be tossed from the walls of Bishapur and their brains dashed out against the rocks.’

Tamur slumped at this and pinched the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger. At last, he nodded, clutching one hand over the golden lion brooch on his breast. ‘Aye, your reasoning is sound as always, Archimagus.’ Yet his thoughts churned and he frowned. ‘But if the scroll is truly lost somewhere in our land, then why should we fear that the Romans will find it?’