Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (29 page)

The enclosed courtyard inside was cast half in shade, the other half baking in sunlight. A pair of feeble-looking, dark-skinned men stood, back-to-back, naked and wielding only spears. Circling them were three warriors armoured in bronze scale vests and ornate, gem-studded helms decorated with broad, gilt wings. Pushtigban wearing antique armour, Gallus realised. They seemed to have foregone the masks worn by their kind only to allow them to cast baleful looks at their victims. Two of them swished curved sabres deftly, and the leader carried a hammer, spiked at one end.

Gallus scanned the gymnasium floor, spotting a severed ear and spatterings of dried blood. And there was something new; a stone block clad in dried matter. Gallus looked from the spike hammer to the battered, bloodstained stone. The gouges in the stone were distinctly shaped just like the spike.

‘Ah, it seems we are early,’ the Median spearman behind Gallus hissed. ‘Ah well, you can relax and witness the fate of these two criminals.’

One of the two criminals threw down his spear, fell to his knees and held out his hands for mercy. Gallus followed the man’s gaze and saw the two figures watching the bout from chairs in the shade. His blood cooled. Tamur seemed uncertain how to respond to the call for mercy. A word in his ear from Ramak saw him wave away the criminal’s pleas.

The nearest of the pushtigban strolled over to the criminal. The begging man held out his hands as if reaching out to the warrior for help. The pushtigban reached out slowly, then his hand shot out like a snake and grappled both of the beggar’s wrists like a shackle. Then the pushtigban swept his shamshir round to cut through the beggar’s forearms. The wretch fell back, mouth agape in silent agony as he thrashed. Lifeblood pumped from his stumps as he scrambled on all fours in an attempt to right himself. Gallus saw Ramak sit forward, his golden eyes sparkling at the spectacle. Eventually the maimed criminal slowed and groaned like some tormented animal, his strength leaving him. The pushtigban stalked over, lined up his serrated blade over the back of the man’s neck, then swiped his head from his shoulders.

The other criminal watched all of this in a frozen panic. His legs trembled violently and he gripped his spear to his chest in white knuckles. The pushtigban warriors moved over to surround the man.

‘Fight,’ one said, ‘or you will suffer more than your friend. Much more.’

The man nodded jerkily, shivering as he forced himself to level his spear. At this, the pushtigban’s faces split into broad grins. Like wolves, two of them leapt upon the man, swiping their spears down. The man used his spear like a staff, parrying the strikes. But in moments, the shaft was in splinters, and he was on his knees, pleading as his friend had done moments ago. ‘I fought, I did as you asked!’

In spite of his words, the lead pushtigban with the spiked hammer grabbed a tuft of the criminal’s hair, then dragged him towards the bloodstained stone block. The pushtigban pushed the man’s head onto the block, side-on, then aligned the hammer to the man’s temple, lifted it back then roared as he swung it down with gusto. A sharp crack rang out, along with the wet splatter of the wretch’s brains bursting from the opposite temple and showering the filthy stone. At once, the body fell limp. Ramak rose to his feet in delight. Tamur looked through the bout, his brow knitted and his lips pursed as if his mind was elsewhere.

Gallus stared through the spectacle. Nearby slaves rushed to clear the gymnasium floor and another pair hurried out to offer Gallus and Carbo a tray of food each. A heap of nuts and dates, a pot of honey, bread and a leg of chicken, with a cup of honey-sweetened water to wash it down. Gallus eyed the delicious fare as though it was maggot-infested.

‘Eat,’ the spearman behind them grunted. ‘You will get nothing else until tomorrow.’

‘Eat? Like a prize pig? To ensure your festival blood games are a fine spectacle?’ Gallus spat over his shoulder.

‘Eat!’ the man yelled this time, prodding his spear tip into Gallus’ spine.

Gallus lifted the chicken and tore a chunk off. He nodded for Carbo to follow suit. He threw down the sweetened water, then looked to the four figures jogging onto the gymnasium floor. Swordsmen. They wore white trousers and mail shirts and they were fawn-skinned with dark black hair and thick moustaches. They tossed two wooden swords to Gallus and Carbo. The spearmen behind them nudged them forward, forcing them to pick the weapons up. As they stalked onto the sandy courtyard, the leader of the three pushtigban from the previous bout shouted over. He weighed his spike hammer in his grip and grinned at Gallus.

‘I look forward to the Festival, for I have yet to crush a Roman skull.’

Gallus held the man’s gaze until he and his two comrades wandered off into the shade. A cry from Carbo and a whoosh of air by his ear snapped him from the trance. He spun and threw up his wooden sword to parry the chopping blow of the nearest swordsman. Splinters flew from the blow. At once, all thoughts dissolved and he leapt forward in riposte.

Tamur disguised a scowl as the bout carried on before him. The thought came to him again: the thing the aged warrior in his ranks had told him as they brought the captured Romans back through the desert.
I fought alongside your father. Cyrus was iron-willed and noble. But something changed in him in his last years. He became embittered. He was not himself. Some said it was as if he had been possessed by a demon.

Just then, Ramak shot to his feet, applauding a stealthy lunge from one swordsman.

Tamur looked to the archimagus, then thought of the news he had heard that morning. Two new gunds of cataphractii had been commissioned. Two thousand riders that would be recruited using silver from the House of Aspaphet. Yet he as ruler of these lands had given no such order. A question stung on his chest and demanded to be asked. ‘Tell me again how it was agreed to raise the new cavalry division?’

Ramak turned away from the fight and sat again, his top lip twitching almost imperceptibly. ‘You would search for a smudge in the bluest of skies, Spahbad. I gave the word so you did not have to. I am paving the road to your destiny.’

Tamur’s anger cooled a fraction at this. The archimagus was always swift to answer his questions and allay his fears like this.

‘Remember, Spahbad. We are on the cusp of greatness,’ Ramak continued. ‘Do not let doubts muddy your thoughts. Your father’s greatest strength was his determination.’

Tamur felt a surge of emotion at this, his eyes stinging. All his thoughts fell away.

‘I see much of him in you,’ Ramak smiled.

Chapter 14

Izodora shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted ahead. The sea of dunes ended there. The flats and the oasis waited just over the last sandy ridge. She clicked her tongue and the twelve riders with her picked up the pace. Their patrol had been swift and uneventful, and her thoughts were now on bathing in the cool, shady pool amidst the palms. One rider galloped ahead, then slowed suddenly atop the sandy ridge. She frowned when he held up a hand, noticing the smattering of dark carrion birds in the air beyond.

She squeezed her mare’s flanks and the beast cantered up beside the other rider. What lay before her turned her stomach. The golden, dusty flats were plastered in patches of russet blood, dried to a crisp and reeking. Punctuating this gruesome carpet were mutilated bodies, flecked with battered armour. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. Twisted chunks of meat and severed limbs, white bone poking through chewed flesh. Swarms of gnats and mosquitoes buzzed over this carnage.

She rode down onto the flat, her lips taut. The hollow eye sockets of one Roman corpse gawped at her – the rest of the body near stripped clear of flesh. The intercisa helm had been punctured at the temple. ‘Clibanarius lance,’ she spoke solemnly as her fellow riders clustered nearby. Many other corpses lay with Persian arrows lodged in their iron vests and the bones underneath. She clicked her fingers. ‘Check the oasis; be sure it is unpolluted before we drink. If it is clean, we take our fill and move on at haste.’

The riders nearby nodded their assent and trotted towards the cluster of palms.

Izodora led her mare around the massacre at a gentle walk. She beheld the Roman corpses and heard a hissing, primal voice inside snarl in delight at the sight. This disgusted her even more. ‘These were fathers, brothers, sons,’ she chided herself. Then her gaze fell upon one intercisa helm lying upside down. Beside it lay a discarded spear. Trapped under this was a strip of red silk.

Pavo.

‘You didn’t deserve to die, Roman. Some of your kind are dark-hearted, but there are others like you,’ she thought of those legionaries who had saved her people on the night of the burnings.

Just then, a rider trotted back from the oasis. ‘The water is uncontaminated. But there is more. We found tracks. The Savaran did this as you suspected,’ he pointed to the massacre. ‘And they took prisoners, back in the direction of the Persis Satrapy.’

She looked south-east. So some of the Romans would have reached their destination after all, but in chains. She had heard of the blackheart archimagus who had harnessed the spahbad of that southern satrapy, and pitied the Romans who would be brought before him. If the young legionary, Pavo, was one of those in chains, then the noble quest for the scroll would be the last thing on his mind.
Or perhaps not
, she thought with a mirthless smile, remembering the legionary’s pluck.

She dismounted then crouched to slake her thirst at the oasis, gazing into her reflection as the ripples faded. Her face seemed more rounded than it had been in some time. She and her people had eaten well in these last weeks. She touched a hand to the frayed purse Pavo’s wolf-like tribunus had given her. Plenty of coin remained to buy more meat and cattle from the desert trade caravans. Her thoughts swirled, troubling her, but she shook her head and stood.

She and her riders readied to set off again, back to the Maratocupreni valley. But before she gave the order to move out, an odd breeze danced across the dust from the south-east. She turned and looked to the shimmering horizon there. One day soon, war would come from that haze. Then she flicked her head to the north-west, thinking of distant Antioch, of Emperor Valens, the man who had once ordered the destruction of her people. At that moment, memories of her chat with Pavo came to mind.

There have been times when I have had to make the hardest of choices to protect the few I love.

Her next thoughts astounded her.

Pavo woke on the stone shelf and instantly felt the aching in his muscles. The shift at the salt face had been brutal as always and he felt as if he had been asleep for only a few heartbeats. He convulsed in a coughing fit, covering his mouth with one hand, then shuddered at the sight of the fine red spray on his palm. This had horrified him when it had first happened six days ago, but he soon realised Khaled was right: there was no escaping the lung disease of the mines.

At least they had the spring, he thought. For the last few days they had been able to slake their thirst completely with its fresh and cool waters. Gorzam seemed unaware of the spring, but just in case, Pavo had taken to trembling and seeming grateful for the daily brackish water ration in an effort to avoid any suspicion.