Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (39 page)

A murmur of excitement rippled round the crowd.

‘You may have heard whisperings that the armies of Persis are mustering. This is indeed the case. More . . . they are now gathered and marching towards Bishapur, where our glorious spahbad will take his place at their head!’

Gallus tensed, realising what was coming next.

‘Tomorrow, they will march west. To crush and scatter the lie. To drive Rome’s legions into the sea!’

The crowd reacted, many cheering but a few gasping and some unsure.

‘Soon, ancient Syria will fall to our armies. The House of Aspaphet will reign supreme once more. Our great god wills it!’ At this, Ramak held out his hands, palms upturned, then raised them as if lifting some invisible burden. At the same time, the two torches either side of the kathisma flared, columns of blue-green flame shooting skywards as if conjured by the archimagus.

Now the crowd erupted, every one of them on their feet and chanting in fervour.

‘Cheap tricks to buy the hearts of thousands,’ Gallus scowled, seeing the robed magi who had thrown copper filings on the flames ducking down out of sight.

‘First,’ Ramak continued, ‘we send in our Median spearmen. Hardy hill fighters – a match for any Roman legionary.’

Gallus noticed shapes moving in the arched tunnel that led from under the bank of seating. Three lithe and tall figures emerged, their faces and moustaches slick with sweat. They wore pointed, plumed iron helms, mail shirts and strapped boots, and carried square wicker shields and lengthy spears. Gallus cast his eyes over the three, welcoming the anticipation of battle; the red-hot thumping of blood through his veins, the clarity of thought, the brief respite from the past.

Ramak raised both arms and cast his gaze round the crowd. Thousands of breaths halted in silent anticipation. ‘Begin!’ he roared, chopping his arms down like blades.

At once, drums in the highest rows of seats burst into life in a slow, steady and ominous beat. The crowd roared in delight as the three spearmen stepped around the pair in time to the drumbeat. Gallus and Carbo faced in opposing directions, the shoulders of their sword arms pressed together and their shields on the outside, twisting round with the movement of the spearmen. There was no more training, no more mercy or wooden swords, Gallus realised. They had been brought here to die and die they would. The drumbeat grew faster and faster, the spearmen now dancing round the pair until Gallus’ mind swirled. Suddenly, the drumbeat stopped dead.

At once, the three spearmen sprung forward and the crowd roared. Gallus swiped his shield up to parry one spear thrust, then cried out as a second scored across his back. Instinctively, he spun, swung his spatha up and straight into the ribs of the spearman who had injured him. The blade pierced the chain mail and went almost hilt deep such was his anger. The spearman staggered backwards, blood pumping from his nostrils and lips as he toppled, taking the spatha with him. Weaponless, Gallus swung round to the next man and punched forward with his shield boss. This crashed into the man’s mouth and sent a shower of teeth across the arena floor. He grappled the stunned man’s spear shaft, snatching it from him before driving it into the spearman’s belly. Ripping the lance free, he swung round to tackle the third warrior. But he halted at the sight before him. Carbo, lips curled back and teeth clenched, blood dripping from his face, gripping the hair of the third spearman, his spatha driven through the man’s throat.

The crowd fell silent.

Gallus strode over to the corpse that still bore his sword, rested a foot on the chest then tore it free. He held the blade up in the sunlight and examined the edge.

‘Still sharp?’ Carbo asked, cleaning his own blade.

‘Aye, plenty of fight left in it,’ Gallus replied.

Together, the pair glared at the sea of faces that stared back at them. Concerned murmurs broke out – the fight had lasted barely moments. Gallus looked up at Ramak. The archimagus’ eyes narrowed and he whispered to Tamur. Then he leant from the balcony again.

‘The Median spearmen have served us well,’ he cried. ‘They have weakened the Romans. Now, let them feel the wrath of Ahura Mazda’s creations . . . ’

Gallus shot a glance to Carbo. Both men looked towards the open end of the arena. There, the crowds parted in a hurry with panicked yells. The timber barrier was lifted back, and a pack of slaves hauled a vast cage onto the arena floor. They saw something inhuman inside, padding, growling. Two of them. Dark-orange emblazoned with black stripes and eyes that seemed to cut through them even at this distance.

‘Tigers,’ Carbo gasped at last. The slaves gingerly batted the cage open with lengthy poles then retreated at haste. Each colossal creature was led in chains by two handlers, and a pair of spearmen guided the beasts with their lances. At every step they roared, hissed and spat, bearing their fangs.

Then another cage was brought into the arena, a chilling laughter spilling from within. The gate rumbled open and a pack of four jackals ran from the darkness. They panted and howled over and over, driven towards the centre of the arena by spearmen.

‘They’re terrified!’ Gallus realised.

‘Never is an animal more dangerous than when it knows fear,’ Carbo replied.

‘I didn’t step out here to slay creatures,’ Gallus growled in frustration.

‘And they didn’t come here to slay you,’ Carbo fired back, ‘but that is how it is. Steel yourself, Tribunus.’

Gallus stifled another growl, then pressed up, back-to-back with Carbo. He locked eyes with the nearest tiger, the jackals circling nearby. The cat’s pupils shrank, then it sprang for him.

Many thousands trekked from the foothills and onto the westerly road to Bishapur. They wore wide-brimmed hats and carried linen shades stretched out over cane frames, shielding them from the fierce afternoon heat. But seven men walking amongst them had only the ragged hoods of the ill-fitting and frayed robes they wore to shield them from the worst of it.

Pavo pulled his hood tighter, sensing the scornful glares of the travellers around them. These crowds were both a danger and a perfect way to evade the many scouting parties. They had stolen through the hills from Zubin’s farmhouse, narrowly avoiding detection from the Persian scouts, then blended into this throng. Felix, Zosimus, Quadratus, Sura and Habitus walked with him, heads bowed in an effort to remain inconspicuous. And then there was Father, right by his side. Pavo winced as Falco shuddered in another fit of coughing. He was weakening visibly from this trek. Pavo had tried to convince him to remain at the farmhouse, but Father was having none of it.
If you are determined to find the scroll, then you need me – for I know exactly where it is. I’m coming,
was all Falco had said.

And Zubin had been equally as adamant that he was coming with them – despite all he had already done for them. Pavo looked up, along the road they walked; the Persian farmer and his goats walked a few hundred feet ahead of the seven.
I pray we don’t need to call upon you, but Mithras bless you for coming with us,
he mouthed.

‘What the . . .’ Sura muttered by Pavo’s side, shaking him from his thoughts.

Pavo followed his friend’s gaze down into the gorge below. There, a vast carved relief dominated the rock face. It showed the Persian God, Ahura Mazda, handing a diadem to a Persian Shahanshah. Around the next bend in the gorge, there was a grander relief still. It was as tall as six men, and depicted another Persian Shahanshah on horseback, the beast trampling on a figure that was unmistakably Roman. An emperor. Pavo fought to suppress a shudder of doubt.

As they approached the city, the throng thickened. The masses were swelling around the eastern gates. Bodies jostled all around them and the stench of sweat and animal dung was rife. Thick dust clung to their skin and the back of their throats. Pavo squinted to see what was holding up entry into the city. He passed into the shade of the beetling walls and saw the plumed, pointed helms and spear tips of the guards lining the battlements. But there were also a few on the ground, outside the gate. He, Felix, Quadratus and Zosimus looked to one another, straining to hear their jabberings.

Falco cupped an ear to their chatter. ‘They’re checking every person that enters the city. Pavo, one look at our faces – not to mention our scars – will give us away.’

Pavo’s eyes darted. He saw the nearest of the sentries peering into the crowd. The man’s eyes narrowed under his dusty felt cap as he scoured the sea of faces. Then his gaze seemed to snag on the group, his broad nose flaring, his bottom lip curling and his fingers flexing on his spear shaft.

‘I think they’ve seen us, Father,’ he whispered to Falco.

Falco pulled his hood down to cover his eye sockets. ‘Whatever you do, don’t look at them,’ he hissed.

Pavo heard these words as he locked eyes with the sentry. The guard opened his mouth to yell out to his comrades.

There was only one thing left for it now, Pavo realised. His heart thundered as he waved frantically across the crowd.

Peroz’s day had already been foul. His wife had cooked him a meal last night that had churned in his gut for hours and denied him even a heartbeat of sleep. Now, while the citizens were to enjoy the feasting and games of the Festival of Iron, he was to spend the day standing here in the stifling heat amidst this sea of toothless farmers and paupers. And it was approaching the hottest part of the day.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of what his wife might conjure for his evening meal tonight, then remembered with a groan that she had cooked enough of the foul, gut-churning stew to last for a few days. He grappled his cane shield and spear as if throttling his troubles, then yelped when a splinter of wood on the spear shaft pierced the skin on his palm. ‘Why do you mock me, Ahura Mazda?’ he muttered skywards. ‘What next – a boil on my arse?’

Wave after wave of dust stuck to the sweat on his skin. The only way out of this shift would be to feign injury or . . . his gaze snagged on something in the crowd. A clutch of men. Their skin was fair, their features notably different. They bore scars and wiry, knotted beards. And one of them, one of them was missing his eyes.
The escaped slaves?

He saw one of them signal to someone, something – waving frantically. All doubt was gone. He could be a hero. Even more importantly, he would be relieved from his shift. He sucked in a breath until his lungs creaked, full and ready to call out in alarm. But then a furious bleating halted the cry in his throat.

He swung to see some disturbance in the crowd. Zubin the farmer was crying out in distress. It seemed some mother goat of his had lost her temper in the heat. She bleated angrily, butting through the crowd and sending one man and a basket of melons up into the air, then she cut across the throng. Peroz glanced from the animal to the odd-looking men in the crowd, then back to the animal. The goat was charging straight for him, and it wore a look even more foul than his own. He glanced back to the crowd. The curious clutch of men were gone. He frowned, twisting to look to the gate – just in case they had slipped past him. Then the full force of the angry goat smacked into his hip. In an instant, sky and earth changed places and then he thudded onto the ground. He stood up, brushing himself down, choking on dust, hearing the belly laughter of the watching throng. He snarled and shook his spear at those around him and the laughter died sharply.

Can this day get any worse?
he thought with a low growl.