Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (20 page)

He berated the lads at the back a little more harshly than they deserved, partly to quell his annoyance and partly because this would keep his mind and theirs from the heat – something Zosimus had suggested. The toll of the camel raider attack had been heavy. Discounting the injured remaining with the Maratocupreni, Zosimus’ century now numbered just thirty-one, and Quadratus’ century had been depleted to just thirty-nine. Likewise, the Flavia Firma had lost nearly half of their number – barely forty marching with Carbo and Baptista.

‘This mission was never about numbers,’ Felix said in a hushed tone.

Pavo looked to the primus pilus. His gaze was flinty.

‘If the emperor sought to seize this scroll by force, he would have scraped together and sent in many legions. So long as one of us marches on, we can still do this.’

Pavo smiled wearily. ‘Aye, one man, one scroll. The future of the empire.’

‘An easy task . . . for once,’ Felix grinned then turned to berate the legionaries further before rousing them into a chorus of song.

They carried on at a good pace until the sun reached its zenith. Now the heat was intense – like never before on this journey. Until now, Pavo had felt such ferocity only when stood near the soot-stained smithy furnaces in the fort fabricae, watching glowing new spatha blades passing from the flames to be tempered and honed. The singing had fallen away and a rhythmic gasping had replaced it, punctuated by the popping of corks from water skins and frantic guzzling of water.

‘We’re in trouble again,’ Zosimus whispered when Pavo drew level with him.

‘Aye,’ Pavo agreed, then glanced down at the deeper dust they marched through – it was gradually becoming coarser and sandier. His boots seemed to sink a few inches into this with every stride, then pull at his soles as he made to take the next, ‘and the going is harder underfoot.’

As if sensing the change of fortune, Gallus called back over his shoulder ‘By the end of the day we’ll be at the next spring. Mithras wills us on, men. He and the sun are kin. The brother of Mithras will not spite us.’ At this, a hoarse but raucous cheer erupted from the XI Claudia men. Gallus nodded over to Carbo. The man was withdrawn as usual, his lips twitching in some inner dialogue, but he noticed Gallus’ prompting and took his cue, clutching his Chi-Rho and crying to his men. ‘God marches by our sides. Feel his strength in your every stride.’

The men of the Flavia Firma responded with a baritone roar that reverberated all around and belied their scant number; ‘
Nobiscum Deus!
’

Days passed and the surrounding land seemed to defy their efforts as they wandered ever-further from imperial territory. The golden flats seemed infinite, the horizon utterly unchanging between dawn and dusk. Dust stung their eyes and clung to the backs of their throats. Every man’s shins and ankles were now red and bleeding. Towards the end of the morning on the fifth day after leaving the Maratocupreni, and the twentieth day of their trek overall, the legionaries could only think back wistfully to the relatively clement lands around that hidden valley. The four springs Izodora had charted for them had been found and nearly drained. But the last of them had been two days’ march previously. Now their skins were drained and utterly dry.

They halted near noon, clinging to the sliver of shade offered by a rare pile of rocks. Gallus and Carbo saw their men close to collapsing from sheer exhaustion, and gave the order for armour to be shed and loaded onto the camels. The camels groaned at their extra burden, but the men gasped in relief at shedding of those heavy garments. When they set off next, they would march in helms, boots and tunics, and carry just their sword belts and spears.

Pavo sat in the dust, his back resting against the rock – hot despite being in the shade. He chewed tenaciously on one of his last slivers of hardtack. Eventually he spat it out – the morsel barely dampened with saliva. He sighed and let his head slump forward onto his knees. Behind closed eyelids he could see the crystal clear waters of the fountains in Constantinople, the endless tumbling torrents of the River Danubius, and he longed to feel the freshness of a winter’s breeze on the plains of Thracia. But the sun glared down on him without pity, gradually dragging the cloak of shade away from the rock until its rays stung at his legs.

Sura nudged him and jolted him from his thoughts. ‘Here, he’s a bit eager, isn’t he?’ he croaked.

Pavo looked up to see Quadratus stepping out from the shade, squinting to the south-east.

‘How many days of marching did you say we had left, sir, before we reach the Persian Gulf?’ the big Gaul quizzed.

All heads twisted to Gallus. Blistered and cracked lips, bloodshot and narrowed eyes, burnt and gaunt faces awaited his response.

Pavo knew the answer would not help morale – not in the slightest. They had spent some twenty days on this march. By Yabet’s estimate – assuming the man had spoken the truth at all – of forty days that meant at least another twenty days left.

‘We have some way to go yet, Centurion,’ Gallus replied cautiously after studying the map.

‘Aye, then what’s that?’ Quadratus stabbed a finger out, smoothing his dust-coated moustache with the other hand.

As one, the men of the column rose, curiosity overcoming fatigue.

Pavo stood with them and squinted at the rippling heat haze out to the south-east. The gold and azure of the horizon seemed to flash with white and . . .
green?

‘It might be an oasis?’ Felix suggested, stabbing out his tongue in a vain effort to dampen his lips.

Gallus frowned and looked to Carbo. The Flavia Firma Centurion shook his head in doubt.

Pavo thought again of Izodora’s warnings.

‘We will find out soon enough,’ Gallus replied. ‘Lift your weapons and form up.’

The column set off, all eyes trained on the strange dancing colour ahead. Their footsteps were silent thanks to the thick dust, and the exhausted panting of moments before was bated and nervous now. The horizon drew closer, and the strange flickering green seemed to come and go more frequently. Eventually, just as the sun reached its zenith, they saw that the flatland was rising, and a gentle ridge in the land lay ahead. The green shimmering seemed to lie just beyond the ridge.

Pavo and Sura shared a glance riddled with anxiety and hope.

Water or Persian steel?

They crested the rise and every man drew in a breath, then gasped.

Pavo gawped, disbelieving of what lay before them.

Like a shade, the flickering green was utterly gone.

Before them lay only snaking, golden sand dunes. Miles and miles of them, as far as the eye could see.

‘Mithras, no!’ Felix croaked by his side, his face drawn and pale.

Quadratus and Zosimus flanked the little primus pilus and muttered weak, disbelieving curses of their own.

Pavo felt the sun’s glare like never before, his skin crawling as sweat spidered down his back. He heard Carbo’s hushed words to Gallus nearby.

‘It was as I feared,’ Carbo said. ‘A mirage, a trick of the light. Men see water, lush green grass and palms, only for it to melt away into the burning sands.’

Gallus’ head dropped at this. The sight of the iron tribunus in despair tainted Pavo’s thoughts with fear and doubt. Then he looked out over the sea of sand seeking some ember of hope. But all he found were images of the nightmare – Father standing there on the dunes, reaching out for him.

A shiver clawed through the murderous heat and grappled his heart.

By the time he entered the western gate of Bishapur, Jabbah’s breath came and went in shallow, rasping gasps and he could taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. The arrow wound to his back had nearly been the end of him, he realised, thinking of the Maratocupreni riders who had felled his band. He reaffirmed his grip around the waist of the leather-armoured Persian scout who had found him. He heard the rider click his tongue, directing the mare, and looked up to see that they were headed towards the acropolis. A blue-domed temple and a tall, fine palace awaited them at the top.

He glanced weakly around the sun-baked lower city streets; high-arched villas, tessellated courtyards and stucco-clad fountains. Persian citizens paused in their daily tasks to gawp at his ruinous state; a group of women dressed in fine, vibrant silks and slippers and carrying baskets of oranges shrunk at the sight of him; men riding wagons frowned, farmers driving herds stared and those slicked in sweat as they repaired a tannery stopped to mutter and point.

They cut across the market square as they headed for the acropolis. Jabbah frowned at the activity there. Sweat-soaked workers hewed timber and erected poles, forming what looked like an arc of seating, nestled into the base of the acropolis. ‘An arena?’ he croaked. He had seen the like before, in Palmyra and the other desert cities that had been touched by Rome.

‘Aye,’ the scout replied. ‘For the Jashan of Shahrevar. The archimagus wants to hold blood games on that day. The Festival of Iron is the talk of this entire city and all of the Persis Satrapy. Ahura Mazda wills that something special is to happen that day.’

Jabbah frowned, gawping at the sheer scale of this arena. Meanwhile, the scout identified himself to the pair of wing-helmed pushtigban warriors standing guard at the foot of the mount. The pair parted and the scout ascended the stone steps carved into the acropolis-side, reaching the plateau and then cantering to the domed temple. There, they dismounted and the scout tethered the mare. The scout then led Jabbah inside the arched entrance of the temple. The shade soothed his blistered and cracked skin and eased the fire in his lungs. Finally, they came to the domed central chamber and the crackling pit of the Sacred Fire in the floor. It was even hotter in here than outside.

The hunched, bald, hawk-faced man who awaited them there rubbed his hands together as if warming them from some bitter cold, his golden eyes seeming to scrutinise Jabbah. The scout rider pressed his hands on Jabbah’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees.

‘He brings word from the west, Archimagus Ramak,’ the scout said. ‘We found him prone on his horse, near-death in the heart of the desert. He claims that his men’s assault on the Roman column failed, and he has ridden for days on end – to get word to you.’

Jabbah nodded. ‘It is true. The Iberian you planted in the Romans’ midst was not with them, but still we fought bravely. We were almost victorious, until the Maratocupreni saved the Romans at the last.’

‘So you rode on the cusp of death, to inform me that the Roman column marches on?’ Ramak asked, crouching and cupping Jabbah’s jaw.

Jabbah felt the man’s gaze rake at his soul. He nodded weakly. ‘I come from a noble line. Like my father and his father before him, when I take coin in return for doing some deed, I will not rest until I see that the deed is done.’

‘Very noble indeed,’ Ramak nodded through taut lips. ‘A noble fool to the last. For only a fool would come before me in failure.’

Jabbah frowned as Ramak’s grip grew fiercer upon his jaw. The archimagus’ lips curled back in a grimace and he squeezed until his hand trembled, his nails splitting Jabbah’s flesh and drawing blood. But Jabbah did not flinch. His eyes darted over the archimagus’ face. It seemed nobility was not a trait shared by this holy man. ‘If I am to die for my failure then so be it.’

Ramak released his grip and stood tall. With a throaty but mirthless laugh, he turned to the fire pit and fumbled with something resting in there. ‘No, you are to live.’

Jabbah frowned, shuffling to catch sight of the archimagus’ hands.

‘You will live,’ Ramak reaffirmed, ‘ . . . in the deepest chambers of my salt mine.’

Jabbah’s heart froze and then thundered in terror. The dark tales of the mines had spread far and wide amongst his people. They talked of it as the underworld, the antithesis of the wide and endless plains of the living. Where men suffered brutal and short lives in darkness and squalor. ‘No . . . NO!’ he gasped, scrambling back from Ramak towards the temple entrance. He saw the light of day outside and reached out for it as he clambered on all fours. But then two wing-helmed silhouettes stepped over the entrance, blocking his path. The Persian scout grappled at his shoulders and hauled him back to kneel again. ‘Kill me!’ Jabbah grasped at the scout’s thigh, his eyes manic and darting. ‘Don’t put me in those mines! No man should face such a fate!’

‘Hold him,’ Ramak said, still tending to something in the fire.

Jabbah’s neck cracked as the scout grappled him by the hair and wrenched his head back. His eyes bulged as he saw Ramak turn round from the fire. The man grinned as he lifted a dual-pronged, white-hot poker, fresh from the flames.

‘And in the dark, airless mines,’ Ramak enthused, ‘you will have little need for your sight.’

The last thing Jabbah saw was the tips of the poker, with Ramak’s animal grin in the sweltering background. The white-hot irons grew closer and closer until they filled his field of vision. Then, with a pair of thick pops and an unearthly pain that filled his head like fire, the prongs lanced into his eyeballs and sunk inside the sockets. Wet, hot fluid spilled from his eye sockets and down his cheeks and he heard his own animal moaning. Eternal blackness was upon him.