Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (40 page)

The arena sweltered under the afternoon sun like a cauldron. The thunder of drums filled the air and the crowd watched on, breaths held in their lungs, awaiting the glorious moment they had been promised – the felling of the Romans. Suddenly, from the heart of the arena, a pained animal howl rang out and the thundering drums fell silent. The crowd slumped back with a collective groan of disappointment.

Gallus staggered back from the spear lodged in the tiger’s chest, his gaze fixed on the eyes of the dying creature. He had longed for the beast to follow the example of the other – the first cat having leapt up the side of the arena and onto the first row of seats, mauling three pushtigban and tearing the throat from one rotten-toothed spectator who had revelled in every moment of the action that had gone before. But both cats were now slain, as were the jackals, their torn bellies buzzing with flies and the stench of their open guts overpowering. He dipped his head, a nausea stabbing at his stomach. They had been fighting for over an hour, his limbs were tiring and his mouth was parched.

‘Stand up, Tribunus!’ Carbo panted by his side, sweat dripping from his jaw and spidering across his chest. Like him, the centurion bore a network of cuts and scratches on his chest and legs. The blood loss was not mortal, yet.

He stood and glared defiantly up at Ramak and Tamur. They seemed rattled by the hardiness of him and Carbo, that was for sure. But Ramak’s sickly features danced with shadow, uplit by the crackling flames of the Sacred Fire. He was far from finished.

What next, you whoreson?

The answer to the question came instantly, Ramak clapping his hands. Once again, the shadows in the tunnel jostled.

Gallus’s eyes narrowed on the tunnel mouth. ‘With me, Centurion,’ he hissed to Carbo.

‘I’m with you,’ Carbo replied, then his words grew faint, ‘I will not desert you as I deserted them.’

Gallus scowled at the man. ‘Centurion?’

But before Carbo could reply, Ramak stepped forward, gesturing to the tunnel. ‘Ahura Mazda watches as we come to the climax of this sacred day. Now the life will be struck from the Romans by the finest of our warriors. The champions of the pushtigban!’

All doubt washed away from the crowd at the words. The roar that erupted seemed to shake the arena floor and the drummers struck up a frantic rhythm. The three bronze-armoured warriors they had faced in training stalked from the gate underneath the kathisma. The two at the sides swished and spun their spears and long, curved sabres. The central figure bore his weighty spike hammer with a grin that foretold the spilling of blood, then dipped his head, the exaggerated, sweeping wings on his helm poised as if readying to take flight.

‘This is it,’ Gallus said, ‘they will not let us live beyond this bout.’

Carbo stiffened. ‘Then let this bout be our finest yet, Tribunus.’

Gallus glanced to the centurion. Carbo’s knuckles were white on his sword hilt, but his eyes were distant, his lips moving soundlessly.

Forgive me . . .

Again Gallus frowned, but all confusion was swept away as the pushtigban rushed for them like swooping hawks. He rolled clear of a crashing blow from the hammer-wielder, then swiped out at one of the spearmen. The spearman sidestepped his blow and then jabbed his lance forward at Gallus’ throat, halting only inches away. A roar of laughter spilled from the banks of seating at this feigned death blow.

He righted himself, then started as uneven footsteps approached him from behind. It was Carbo, laced with cuts and breathing heavily. ‘They’re toying with us – saving us for that thing,’ the centurion nodded to the execution stone in the middle of the arena.

‘Then they can toy with my spatha hilt as it juts from their throats,’ Gallus snarled. ‘Pick your man and strike him down!’

‘Aye, sir,’ Carbo hissed.

With a roar, the pair leapt forward, Gallus leaping for the hammer-man and Carbo for the nearest spearman. With a clash of steel, Gallus’ blade sheared against the tip of the hammer. Likewise, the spearman dashed Carbo’s blade from his grip. A fervent cry of approval rang out around the crowd.

‘The portent is strong, my people,’ Ramak cried over the hubbub. ‘The Roman blade shatters on Persian steel. Rome weakens while our forces grow ever stronger. The lie is dying and the truth will prevail!’ With that, he gave the pushtigban three an almost imperceptible nod. The hammer-wielder grinned, then waved his men round behind the weaponless Romans.

Gallus kept his gaze trained on the hammer-man, even when a spear butt crashed into his back, barging him towards the execution stone. Carbo was barged forwards with him. Then both were brought to their knees by blows to the back of the legs.

Ramak leant from the kathisma balcony and spread his arms out wide. ‘What happens now, happens with the blessing of Ahura Mazda. Let us praise him, then crush these warriors of the lie.’ With that, he tilted his head skywards and he and a line of magi on the seats below chanted the first words of a Zoroastrian Gatha. In moments, the entire crowd had joined in. The haunting melody filled the arena.

The hammer-wielder declined to join the prayer. Instead, he stalked over to Gallus, crouched by his side and whispered in his ear, pointing to the execution stone. ‘Are you ready to die, Roman?’

Chapter 18

Pavo tightened the hood of his robe as they navigated through the thick crowds inside Bishapur. The people moved like a tide towards the heart of the festival, the scents of sweat and sweet wax curdling in the afternoon heat. The air rang with a chorus of lowing cattle, clucking chickens, barking dogs, yelling traders and screaming children, all mixed with the wall of noise from the arena and the incessant clashing of iron blades from its heart. He could see just the top of the arc of seating, resting on the banks of the acropolis. Even higher, atop the mount, the palace and the blue-domed temple loomed over the spectacle.

His pulse quickened as they pushed into the mass of bodies near the open end of the arena. One eyepatched trader latched onto Pavo, tugging at his sleeve. He twisted to shrug the man away, then stumbled into a body in front of him. A garrison sentry who had cut across Pavo’s path. The sentry halted and glowered at him, his narrow nose wrinkling over his thick dark moustache and beard. Pavo gawped back at the man, sure he would call out in alarm. But the sentry simply growled and butted at Pavo’s shoulder with the heel of a hand, then barged past him and off into the throng. Pavo fought hard to hide his shock and relief.

‘Keep moving,’ Falco hissed, grappling his arm. ‘We make for the acropolis and we do not look back.’

The seven carried on through the sea of sweating faces. The raucous cheering of the crowd seemed to shake the earth beneath them now, drumbeats shuddering through their bones. Pavo snatched furtive glances up over the heads of the crowd. Now he could see the full extent of the amphitheatre set against the acropolis slope. Atop the centre of the bank of seating, he saw a wooden enclosure – akin to a Roman kathisma – draped in silks and emblazoned with Zoroastrian imagery. Two figures were pressed against this balcony, leering at the combat below. Pavo’s heart stilled as he recognised the first – broad like a bull, bronze-armoured and draped in a gold-threaded cloak, sleek dark locks scraped back into a tail of curls;
Tamur!
There was another figure by his side. A hunched creature in a blue robe, bald and wan. The light of the flickering torch inside the box cast his features in a demonic underglow, igniting his golden eyes. Pavo’s step slowed unconsciously and he remembered all that Khaled had told him.

‘Pavo, what is it?’ Falco asked, slowing with him.

‘I think that’s him . . . Ramak.’

Falco’s haggard features paled at this. ‘Bald like a vulture, but even less handsome?’

‘That’s the one,’ Pavo said.

‘Keep your heads down,’ Felix hissed back over his shoulder, noticing the pair as well. He nodded to the near end of the stepped amphitheatre seating. Up above the top steps, there was a short ascent of palm and shrub-studded scree, then the palace towered near the edge of the acropolis plateau. The rabble on the timber steps took umbrage at Felix and Habitus’ attempts to push through them. Then Zosimus and Quadratus came to the fore and their resistance soon quelled. Pavo guided Falco in their wake as they picked their way up to the rear of the amphitheatre.

Pavo shot furtive glances this way and that. The pushtigban dotted around the top rank of seats looked sharp-eyed and vigilant, frequently glancing away from the fighting in the arena to look over the crowds and the surrounding area. ‘The sentries are watching everything,’ he hissed, shooting a glance at the nearest guard then squinting through the noon sun to look up at the silhouette of the palace. ‘We’ll never get a clear run at climbing up there! We need a distraction.’

Just then, the sound of combat fell away. Then Ramak led the crowd in chanting a gatha. Pavo turned round, frowning, seeing all nearby praying with the archimagus. Then his eyes snagged on the pair of bloodied, sweat-soaked warriors kneeling before some filthy stone on the arena floor. The blood seemed to still in his veins as he noticed the glinting, ice-blue eyes of one of them.

‘Mithras . . . is that - ’ Felix gasped by his side.

‘Gallus!’ Quadratus, Zosimus, Habitus, Sura and Pavo finished for him.

Felix shook his head in disbelief. ‘And is that . . . Carbo?’

At this, Falco grappled Pavo’s arm, a dark frown upon his features. ‘Did he say Carbo?’

‘Aye,’ Pavo frowned, ‘your comrade from the Parthica.’

At this, a thunderstorm-dark look befouled Falco’s face. ‘Carbo . . . ’ he snarled like an angered dog, then his voice fell into a low growl; ‘So you came back?’

‘This is it?’ Gallus rasped, exhausted, the prayer echoing around him. ‘They chant to their god and then they dash out our brains?’

Carbo was unresponsive. He seemed to be gazing at a point in the crowd, near the top row of seating. His lips were twitching, mouthing something.
Falco?

‘Centurion?’ Gallus frowned, squinting up to there, unable to discern anything in the sea of chanting faces.

‘I am ready to die, Tribunus. My shame is almost over. I know this for certain now, for the shades of my past have come to watch.’

Gallus bowed his head in pity. The man had lost his mind at the last.

‘There was no Persian master who bought me from the mines,’ Carbo said, his words weak and choked. ‘I escaped.’

Gallus looked up, his senses sharpening.

Carbo’s face was tear-streaked. ‘We had planned it for months, my Parthica comrades and I. The guards tasked me with working on the surface for just a day, to clear some debris from a sandstorm. It was the moment we had been waiting for. It was my job to slip away and hide in the rocks nearby until night, then draw the guards from the edges of the mine shaft entrance with some distraction. But that day reminded me what sunlight on the skin felt like. I saw blooms, darting birds. I heard the rush of fresh wind in my ears, felt it filling my lungs. I managed to slip from the guards’ sight. I managed to hide in the rocks nearby until nightfall. But then I saw how fragile our plan was. There were some twenty guards and they had mounts. Had I made some noise to draw them away, I would surely have been captured and so would my comrades were they to break from the mine. So I seized my freedom. I ran. I ran for weeks. Across the brushland, through the dusty flats, always westwards, heading for home. I ran as fast as I could, praying the blood pounding in my ears would drown out the imagined cries of my comrades. Eventually I stumbled into the desert. I slept in the dunes, and that is when the nightmares began – nightmares that have plagued me ever since. But I had my freedom, or so I thought. It lasted only until a Greek slave merchant found me staggering through the sands, half-maddened by the sun. He shackled me and, many years later, I returned to the empire in chains. Providence saw that I was freed to serve in the legions again,’ his chest rose and fell rapidly now, his head bowed and shaking. ‘Free once more, yet forever fettered by my shame.’