Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (50 page)

Saddled on his white stallion on the grassy dunes, Tamur’s head pounded with the goings-on, a handful of neatly oiled locks falling free of his ponytail to whip across his face. He shot his gaze over his shoulder. There, the paighan masses fought in vain against eleven of his dozen war elephants. That battle was as good as won. Then he looked right, northwards and up the beach: the fleet had landed just as he had expected. That meant the invasion of Roman Syria would go ahead as planned. There was something about those vessels that made him uneasy though, the number of bodies spilling from the decks was more than he expected, far more than just the crew of the galleys.

Is that . . . no, surely not?

He raked his fingers across his scalp, pulling more hair free of the knot, then pinched the top of his nose and blinked away the doubts. No, he asserted, the real source of consternation was dead ahead; the rogue elephant ploughing through the melee. With victory and a Roman eagle in the palm of his hand, this confounded creature had split from its herd, turned and run amok through his tightly-packed Savaran. Thousands of his best horsemen were dead from this encounter already, and the elephant looked set to kill hundreds more. This would be costly, he realised, seeing his precious cataphractii and clibanarii tossed up in the air like toys by the creature’s sweeping tusks. He would have to hire many more mercenaries than he had planned to cover these losses. But the image of the rich trading cities of Syria crept into his mind.

Mercenaries will be queuing up to serve in my armies. And when my ranks are swollen, I will turn them upon Shapur himself. All Persia will be mine. The House of Aspaphet will take its rightful place once more!

‘Have our archers take javelins to that creature,’ he spat to the nearest of his bodyguards, waving a hand towards the elephant. ‘It has done enough damage already. When it has been slain, set them about finishing the dregs of Roman resistance. I have wasted enough riders on them today.’

At once, the three pushtigban saddled by his side set off to give the orders. Tamur was alone with just his narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar.

‘Tell me,’ he said, leaning in closer to the leader of his bodyguard and pointing a finger to the north, ‘do my eyes deceive me or is that an army disembarking from our fleet?’

The pushtigban-salar nodded. ‘It is, Spahbad.’

Tamur frowned, the heat haze falling away to reveal the iron wall of Persian troops forming up there. He gripped his reins and leant forward in the saddle, a nausea growing in his gut. This was just like before, when Ramak had commissioned the new gunds of riders. Was the archimagus still clinging onto power, even after death? He snatched glances around him, maddened. ‘Reinforcements? I did not arrange this.’

‘No, you did not. But I did,’ the pushtigban-salar replied.

‘You did this without my perm - ’ his words trailed off as he felt a cold iron dagger blade resting on his jugular. He looked at his man with bulging eyes.

‘The king of kings comes to curtail your ambitions, Spahbad,’ the pushtigban-salar spoke calmly.

Tamur’s heart froze. He looked north to see the army approaching. At least fifteen thousand fresh and well equipped cataphractii and Median spearmen moved like an iron serpent across the sands. Pointed, plumed helms, spear tips, swishing manes and vibrant drafsh banners jostled overhead. At their heart, the Drafsh Kavian standard bobbed, the purple banner and blazing golden star upon it larger than any other. Underneath, he saw the unmistakable outline of the rider who led this army. A man adorned with a gilded ram’s skull and skin atop his head. A man in a green and purple silken cloak. This was Shapur. King of kings. The Shahanshah of all Persia. The man he had set out to defy.

The pushtigban-salar purred in his ear, digging the blade a little further into his skin. ‘I will inherit the House of Aspaphet. The reward for my loyalty to the shahanshah. You,’ he said, pausing to let Tamur’s imagination cripple him, ‘will live as long as the torturers can keep you alive.’

Tamur’s breath quickened and icy cold sweat washed from his every pore. His bowels turned over and he felt their contents press down, desperate for release. The rumours of the shahanshah’s wrath were legendary. A fair man to those loyal to him. A demon to those who dared cross him. At that moment, an image flickered through his mind: the skin of Emperor Valerian, but not quite. This time, it was his own tortured and torn features stretched across the frame.

‘What should I do, Archimagus . . . what should I do?’ Tamur called out to the ether in a panic.

At this, the pushtigban-salar roared with laughter, pressing the dagger blade tighter to Tamur’s skin. ‘Ramak is dead, you fool. Nobody will protect you now!’

With those words, Tamur’s mind was made up. He thrust his throat against the pushtigban-salar’s blade. A moment of resistance was followed by a dull, grating sensation. The searing pain was followed by a warm wetness that instantly soaked his chest and a salty, metallic stench permeated his nostrils and throat. The strength drained from his limbs in moments. He toppled from the saddle and onto the dune, thrashing, pink bubbles burgeoning from the haemorrhaging wound. He tried to trace his fingers across the lion motif on his breast, but they were already numb.

The pushtigban-salar glared down at him, shaking his head, sheathing his blade. ‘You will live for eternity in the torment of Ahriman,’ the man said. ‘A torment like no other.’

As Tamur fell into blackness, terror seemed to come with him.

Pavo gawped as the pushtigban-salar, still coated in his murdered master’s blood, rode down from the grassy dune and waved Tamur’s wing of Savaran back from the fray. The din of battle fell away as they withdrew, forming up on the beach a few hundred paces south of the tattered band of Roman survivors. Then he looked up the shoreline to the north, where Shapur’s army descended towards them.

The war elephant calmed quickly at the soothing words and touches from the flat-nosed paighan. ‘The war is over?’ the man called back over his shoulder.

‘Far from it,’ Pavo said, before climbing from the howdah cabin to slide down the rope, his arms trembling with fatigue. He landed with a thud on the bloody mire that had earlier been a pristine white-sand beach. Sura landed beside him. The pair stumbled over to stand with their comrades. Weak, scarred and bleeding hands patted their shoulders. Quadratus made to congratulate them likewise, but stopped, looking past Pavo and frowning. Pavo turned to see the source of the Gaul’s concern; despite the rest of Tamur’s Savaran having withdrawn, the gold-painted war drummer had remained only feet from the legionaries, thumping on his instrument unimpeded. His arms swung wildly, eyes bulging as if in some kind of trance, grinning maniacally, his tongue lolling in fervour.

Suddenly, Quadratus frowned, strode forward and ripped his spatha across the straps of the drum. The instrument fell from the drummer’s chest and crashed to the sand. Quadratus put his bloodied boot through the skin, wrecking the instrument. ‘Battle’s over, you little turd!’ The enthusiasm drained from the drummer’s face to be replaced by a look of confusion and then a nascent terror. Quadratus growled and lifted his sword again, sending the man scurrying across the sand like a kicked dog.

‘That thing’s been doing my bloody head in all morning,’ Quadratus said, booting the wrecked drum away. Satisfied, he rolled his head on his shoulders, sheathed his sword, then stepped back into line with his comrades. Pavo saluted the big centurion, then came to Gallus, crimson-stained and glaring. ‘You might be sick of this question, sir, but what now?’

Gallus looked up the beach to the approaching Shapur. ‘That is for the shahanshah to decide.’

Pavo’s mind reeled. He looked to big Zosimus and Quadratus – ragged, torn apparitions of their former selves. He looked to Sura – the unofficial King of Adrianople had no more fight left in him. Tribunus Varius and the clutch of Flavia Firma legionaries likewise were wounded, stunned and cowed by the sight of the fresh Persian army approaching.

The shahanshah rode forward from the vast column he led, the archers in his ranks lifting nocked bows – thousands of them. He was surrounded by pushtigban riders wearing armour that was itself a treasure, gilded and bejewelled. The narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar from Tamur’s ranks rode forward, dismounting to prostrate himself before Shapur. He spoke in even tones, pointing to the figure of Tamur lying in a pool of blood on the grassy verge. Shapur gazed at the corpse for what seemed like an eternity, the sea breeze lifting his pure-white locks and richly-oiled beard.

Finally, the shahanshah turned away and trotted onwards, towards the bloodied legionaries. When they came to a halt, the serene sounds of nature carried on around them as if oblivious to the tumult of moments ago: the crashing of waves, the screeching of gulls and contented munching of the feasting carrion birds.

This close, Pavo saw that Shapur was old. His skin was mottled and deeply lined and he wore a dog-tired expression. But most of all, his eyes betrayed his years. They were weary, almost sickened of life.

‘I tire of the sight of blood,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the rolling crimson waves around the legionaries’ feet. ‘Our empires have spilled oceans of it in my time. And now it seems that I will spend my final years spilling the blood of those within my own lands. Those who seek to seize my throne.’ His gaze grew distant once more, until the narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar approached him, muttering in his ear, pointing to the Romans.

Shapur looked up and beheld them. Then he raised his hand. Pavo’s blood iced. One flick of the finger and it would all be over. Death, torture or a return to the mines. He sensed his comrades brace likewise by his side.

But Shapur pointed to the Roman triremes.

‘Leave, Romans.’

With that, he heeled his mount round, and waved his riders with him.

Epilogue

Pavo sat cross-legged on the deck of the trireme as the small Roman fleet made its way up the Euphrates. The sail cast him in blessed shade and gulls echoed overhead. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed. It was late August, just two days since Shapur had let them leave in peace. They were many miles from that bloodied beach. But it all still felt so raw, so close.

He opened his eyes and looked across the deck. Zosimus sat there in the shade of the trireme side, scraping a sharpened dagger over his oil-soaked scalp. The last of his matted locks fell to the deck of the vessel and left him with his distinctive dark crop once more. ‘Mithras, the breeze on my scalp feels good,’ the big Thracian chuckled, then moved the blade to his brush-like beard, angling another well-polished dagger to see his reflection.

All of a sudden, Pavo felt his own overgrown locks and beard itchier than ever, the heat of the afternoon sun prickling on his skin. Yesterday, they had stopped off at a fishing village to bathe and wash off the worst of the battle-gore, but his hair was still matted with blood in places. He patted at his belt and cursed the absence of a dagger of his own.

Zosimus hesitated and looked up, as if hearing his thoughts. ‘You’ll get your turn,’ he frowned, then winked.

Pavo snorted. ‘It’ll be blunt by then.’

Just then, big Quadratus emerged from below deck, washed and with his jaw clean-shaven and his blonde moustache carefully groomed. He carried two cups and a half-loaf of bread underarm.

‘Ah, have we opened a fresh barrel of water?’ Pavo asked.

Quadratus snorted; ‘This isn’t water, lad!’

Pavo saw the frothy head on the drinks.

‘Haven’t had a drop in months – it’s going to taste sweet as honey!’ the big Gaul grinned, strolling over to sit by Zosimus, handing his fellow centurion a cup. Zosimus – still half-bearded – set down his shaving dagger at this and tore into the bread then gulped at the ale. In moments, Quadratus began recounting a tale from happier times; the day he had walked in on Felix, asleep in the barracks, mid-dream, groping and pelvic-thrusting at his pillow. Zosimus’ gruff laughter came with a spray of breadcrumbs. Then the pair fell silent, before raising their cups to their fallen friend, clashing them together then drinking more.