Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  As he said this, his gaze swept to the other edge of the acropolis. Here stood the Fire Temple. The polished limestone walls of the temple offered four arched entrances, north, south, east and west. The blue dome cresting the temple glistened in the white-hot afternoon sun. This place would offer him the key to his stolen destiny.

  They reached the top of the winding carved steps and trotted onto the plateau. Sixteen Median spearmen posted around the temple leapt to attention on seeing their leader. They wore pointed iron helms and clutched lengthy spears, and their chests were clad in leather armour.

  Tamur dismounted, his guards doing likewise to flank him, then he strode to the temple’s eastern entrance. Inside, the sweltering heat of the day instantly lifted. The cool interior was shaded and silent. As they strode through the whitewashed, arched corridor, an orange light danced on the polished black slabs underfoot. Then the spitting and crackling of a fire grew louder and louder, and a new heat emerged; fiercer than the sun. They came to the square chamber at the heart of the temple. The Sacred Fire burned fiercely in this room, directly under the blue dome. The flames danced in a deep, circular pit in the floor, illuminating the mosaics on the walls and the arched corner niches; soulless masks, staring faces and sultry women draped only in transparent veils. The air above the pit rippled in a haze, bringing the gilt ceiling relief of the Faravahar to life.

  ‘Leave us,’ Tamur said to his guards. With a chinking of iron, their footsteps died away.

  He looked up and across the flames. ‘The talks are over.’

  A silence hung in the air.

  ‘And what does Shapur have to say?’ a voice called out in reply, echoing around the domed area. On the other side of the fire, a face appeared, rippling and changing in the fierce heat haze: taut skin, hairless, with golden eyes and a hawk-like nose bent over narrow lips.

  Tamur stifled a sigh. ‘He speaks of nothing but goodwill for his satrapies, Archimagus.’

  At this, the figure emerged fully, walking around the fire. Archimagus Ramak held the key to his destiny. Despite the many thousands of warriors he could call upon as spahbad, it was Ramak who harnessed the Sacred Fire and held the power of the Divine Ahura Mazda in his hands. As such, every Zoroastrian in these lands would heed Ramak’s word if the archimagus wished it so. His father had taught him as much.

  ‘Shapur’s cheap words are turning you from our plans? Your resolve is weakening, Spahbad?’ Ramak hissed.

  ‘No, Archimagus, never,’ Tamur punched a fist to his broad breast and squared his rock-like jaw, his nostrils flaring in defiance.

  ‘Remember, Shapur sent your father to his death all those years ago – ordering his Savaran wing to lead the charge on the Roman lines by the Tigris.’

  Tamur’s mind flashed with memories of his adolescence. The dark days after news of his father’s death had crushed him. All that his father had promised to teach him – how to ride, how to lead men, how to seize the battlefield – was gone with that news. Pretenders to his father’s seat at the head of the Persis Satrapy had gathered like carrion birds. Then, as now, it was Ramak who had seen them off, then shielded him, nurtured him.

  ‘Your father wanted then what we both want now. The House of Aspaphet has been asleep too long. Shapur’s reign is but a yoke for your noble lineage.’ Ramak purred. ‘You control a vast portion of the Savaran riders. But this alone is not enough to challenge Shapur. You need to expand your holdings. The Satrapy of Persis and the lands to the south are not populous or rich enough to support your designs. This was your father’s problem and now it is yours.’

  Tamur’s thoughts buzzed like a swarm of hornets. He remembered a time when he was little more than a babe, when Father was not all-consumed by the desire to challenge Shapur. The years before Ramak rose to the post of archimagus. He felt the beginnings of a frown.

  ‘So Roman Syria must be acquired,’ Ramak continued, scattering his nascent thoughts. ‘And while Shapur hesitates over the taking of those ripe lands, we must not. We must capitalise upon his dithering,’ Ramak held up a hand and curled his fingers into a shaking fist.

  ‘Yes,’ Tamur nodded, focusing on Ramak’s words. ‘And I have told you time and again, Archimagus; my armies are ready to march west, to crush the Roman cities and forts, to seize the trade routes, to enrich and swell my ranks and then to march upon Shapur’s palace in Ctesiphon.’ Tamur’s heart beat faster as he spoke and he broke out in a fresh sweat. This always happened in moments of tense conversation; while others seemed able to remain cool and composed, his body was always swift to ready for battle.

  Ramak nodded as if in acquiescence, scooping a wiry arm up and around Tamur’s shoulders. ‘While Shapur hesitates, you, brave spahbad, are too eager. Any advance upon Roman lands must be seen as legitimate. Thus, we must resolve the matter of the lost - ’

  ‘The lost scroll of Jovian and Shapur?’ Tamur could not catch his temper. ‘You still insist we first find this cursed scroll that may not even exist?’

  Ramak tightened his grip on Tamur’s shoulder. It was cold and belied the aged archimagus’ feeble form. He held up his other hand before Tamur’s face, a single, bony finger extended. ‘I was there with your father the day those scrolls were written; Shapur’s weakness was showing even then. He conceded something to the Roman Emperor Jovian that day. Should the last remaining copy of that scroll contain the clause I fear it does – then we must ensure it never falls into Roman hands. For if it does, we could never breach the Roman borders. If we did, Shapur and Rome would come against us, the proud princes of Armenia and Iberia would offer us no shelter. Even the desert raiders and the gruff Isaurians would turn their blades upon us. The House of Aspaphet would be ground into the dust. Your father and his fathers would be shamed like never before.’ Ramak leant in closer to hiss in Tamur’s ear. ‘Your young sons would be tossed from the walls of Bishapur and their brains dashed out against the rocks.’

  Tamur slumped at this and pinched the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger. At last, he nodded, clutching one hand over the golden lion brooch on his breast. ‘Aye, your reasoning is sound as always, Archimagus.’ Yet his thoughts churned and he frowned. ‘But if the scroll is truly lost somewhere in our land, then why should we fear that the Romans will find it?’

  ‘Because a messenger came in while you were travelling,’ Ramak nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as he stroked his beard. ‘The spies I planted throughout Roman Syria some time ago have confirmed my fears. A Roman expedition is to set off into the desert. They are coming to these lands in search of the scroll. They might know of its whereabouts or they might not. Either way we must . . . ’

  ‘Crush them!’ Tamur finished, punching a fist into his palm.

  ‘All is in hand, brave spahbad. All is in hand,’ Ramak assured him, the light of the fire dancing in his eyes. ‘I have a man in the ranks of the Roman expedition. They will march out into the desert, and they will die.’ He outstretched both arms to the blazing fire pit. ‘Ahura Mazda wills it!’ he purred.

  As Ramak’s words echoed around the dome, Tamur felt a wave of relief and a cold sliver of fear at this man’s foresight.

  Ramak continued; ‘We will crush the expedition, and then we will set our sights on Roman Syria. I have already issued notice to the outlying towns – the muster of your armies is even now underway.’

  Tamur felt a surge of anger at another man giving orders to his armies. But before he could voice his displeasure, Ramak’s face bent into a wide grin.

  ‘And the mustering will be complete within three moons, in time for the Jashan of Shahrevar. The Festival of Iron will be a momentous day for us. It will be the day that our armies set forth to destroy the lie . . . to seize Roman Syria and drive the empire’s legions into the sea. The first step on the journey to restore your honour, and that of your noble house!’

  Tamur felt his heart pounding once more, his ire buried under a wave of hubris, and he nodded.

  ‘Remember, Tamur, with me by y
our side, you harness the power of Ahura Mazda,’ Ramak continued. ‘With me by your side, your destiny can be realised.’

  Tamur steeled his troubled features. ‘Yes, Archimagus.’

  Chapter 7

  The column marched due east from Antioch for four days. With every mile, the air became dryer, the sun fiercer and the greenery sparser. Now pale dust seemed to be swallowing up all but a few hardy shrubs dotting the hilly and scree-strewn lands. Tunics were sodden with sweat, boots and armour started chafing on skin.

  Gallus and Felix led the column. Carbo walked with them, pointing out the route, while Yabet had taken to dropping back to banter with the men. He would share words of advice; ‘Stay ahead of your body’s needs – eat before you are hungry, drink before you are thirsty. Finally – and this is vital; if you need to shit,’ he stopped, walking backwards before them, a grave look on his face and one finger wagging in the air, ‘make sure you are downwind of me first!’ his face melted into a wicked grin, stirring the weary men of the XI Claudia into belly laughter. Those of the Flavia Firma century who laughed were quickly stared down by Baptista.

  The three centuries marched abreast. The XI Claudia centuries were side by side on the right with the aquilifer carrying the ruby bull banner proudly at their head. The Flavia Firma century were on the left with their dark-blue Chi-Rho banner held even higher as if in competition. The three centuries screened the camel train in the centre – or, as Pavo had put it, the camels screened the XI Claudia from the Flavia Firma, each party exchanging haughty glares and scowls when their eyes met.

  ‘Raging because the emperor chose us, then raging when he chose them to help us – unbelievable,’ Zosimus muttered, before wrenching the cork from his soured wineskin to take a pull on the contents. The big Thracian smacked his lips together in satisfaction, a sparkle of mischief lighting his eyes, then he started whistling the first notes of a song in praise of Mithras. In moments, Quadratus, heading up the other century, had joined in with the words. Soon, the whole right side of the column was in song. The singing was brutal and peppered with spontaneous obscenity but their spirits soared, and Pavo was sure he could see a hint of a smile touching the edge of Gallus’ lips up ahead. Baptista and the Flavia Firma men were less than amused, to put it mildly.

  Just then, one camel strayed out of line, trotting along directly in front of Centurion Quadratus, its tail swishing, brushing and batting near the Gaul. Quadratus’ face puckered in an angry grimace as he exchanged heated words with the nearest dromedarius rider.

  ‘I’m bloody sick and tired of watching a camel’s arse, complete with flies and regular consignments of turds and farts, in this bloody inferno.’

  Yabet latched onto this, dropping back to chirp; ‘Ah, now you know how the men marching behind you feel!’

  Both centuries of the XI Claudia erupted in laughter at this and Yabet moved quickly to the head of the column once more, ducking as if to avoid the volley of abuse hurled at him by Quadratus.

  Eventually the sun dipped to the horizon, tinting the land in a rich orange hue. The men eagerly awaited dusk to come and sweep the heat away. At this point, they came to a small crater in the land ringed by rich green reeds.

  A babble broke out amongst the ranks and one phrase surfaced. ‘Fresh water?’

  They approached it eagerly, but sighs rang out when they saw that the crater contained only dust. Gallus’s jaw shuffled in annoyance as he looked around the arid land.

  At this point, Yabet slid down the side of the basin. He looked around at the lie of the reeds above, scratched his jaw, then pulled out a dagger and began gouging at the dust of the basin wall below the thickest of the reeds. The dirt grew darker. First red, then dark-brown. Finally, as if the land had come to life, a muddy brown trickle spidered from the burrowed hole. A murmur of interest broke out, then grew to a raucous cheer when the muddy trickle became a clear, tumbling stream. Yabet held up a cupped hand to drink from the spring, then twisted round to the vexillatio with a broad grin that transcended language.

  Gallus almost smiled. Almost. Then he gave the order to make camp for the night.

  By the morning of the fifth day of the march, the rocky hillsides had fallen away, leaving flat, dusty steppe-land in every direction, even the hardy shrubs now absent. The heat was intense already and seemed ready to bake them once again. Then, just as the morale started to ebb, a ripple of excitement spread around the column.

  ‘There’s a road,’ Zosimus panted, seeing the edges of old, worn flagstones jutting from the dust here and there, running north to south.

  ‘The Strata Diocletiana?’ Gallus looked to Yabet and Carbo, who nodded in confirmation.

  ‘This is it, the Limes Arabicus. The edge of the empire.’ Carbo said.

  ‘The sandy arse of the empire, more like,’ Quadratus muttered.

  But Carbo didn’t hear this. The centurion shaded his eyes, stretched out a finger and pointed north, then south. ‘You see the quadriburgia?’

  Gallus strained to look along the road in both directions. He could make it out, just; in the horizon at each end, rippling in the heat haze, was a tiny, sun-bleached bump in the otherwise flat horizon.

  ‘Each of those forts house a cohort of limitanei. Some can even accommodate full legions. We should head south along this road. If we’ve stayed true to our course then that fort should hold a cohort of the III Cyrenaica . . . and a cistern-full of water!’

  ‘You know this place well?’ Gallus asked over the men’s cheers.

  Carbo’s weathered features creased in a reminiscent grin. ‘Legio II Parthica once marched these lands like gods; the sight of our gold centaur banner was enough to ward off any threat from the east. Heroes to a man.’

  An unspoken sense of calm and wellbeing spread across the column as they approached the southerly quadriburgium. From a distance, they could discern that it was a sturdy-looking medium sized fort with four protruding watchtowers, one at each corner. But when they arrived at the foot of the sun-bleached walls of the fortification, they saw only a handful of intercisa helms glinting atop the battlements. Equally, the expected tink-tink of hammers, whinnying of horses and babbling of men was curiously absent. There was no tang of wood smoke, nor the pungent reek of latrines.

  ‘A bit quiet, isn’t it?’ Quadratus grunted as they came to a halt at the foot of the northern gate.

  Just then, a lone head popped over the top of the gatehouse. An aged, sunburnt legionary, his lips cracked and blistered, puffs of white hair poking out below a linen rag tied over his scalp. The old man threw an arm up in salute, and was swift and attentive in opening the gate. The men of the column were even hastier to pile inside and surround the shaded cistern by the eastern wall. But as Gallus entered, he swiftly understood Emperor Valens’ concerns. He counted just twenty-three legionaries dotted around the walls and honing tools and weapons in the workshop. A few of them wore battered intercisa helmets, but possessed no other armour.

  ‘So much for the full cohort,’ he muttered dryly to Carbo.

  ‘Aye, it would seem that much has changed since last I was here.’

  The aged man from the walls scuttled down the stone steps, belying his years. He skidded to a halt before Gallus, squaring his shoulders. His skin was lashed with sweat and he was dressed in a worn linen tunic, sword belt and frayed sandals. Once more, he threw up his arm in salute.

  ‘Optio Silvanus of the III Cyrenaica, third cohort, second century!’ he croaked.

  Gallus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Where is the rest of your cohort, Optio?’

  The old man’s face fell. ‘What you see here is my cohort, sir. An imperial messenger promised a relief force - a fresh century,’ he shook his head. ‘But that was last summer.’

  ‘Where is your commanding officer?’

  The old man’s shoulders sagged now, and it seemed that every one of his days was etched on his face. ‘I am in charge, sir. The last centurion was slain in the autumn. Desert raiders drew him and twenty of our me
n out. He was a brave man, but . . . ’

  ‘But he went too far into the sands?’ Yabet finished for Silvanus with a wince.

  Silvanus nodded. ‘They ran out of water. The desert raiders didn’t even slay them in the end; they just let them cook in their armour and die of thirst.’

  Gallus’ nose wrinkled at this, then he shook the sorry tale from his thoughts. ‘Then you should be commended, Optio, for holding this fort in the time since. You have my sympathies, for the limes of the east fare little better than those of Thracia, it seems,’ Gallus remarked wryly. ‘Yet in Thracia, from where we have come, we have watched our fabricae being stripped of every last surplus of weapons and armour. Ships brimming with such supplies have set off from our ports, sent east – here – to bolster these limes against the expected Persian invasion.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ the Silvanus nodded. ‘But it is the few comitatenses legions holed up in the fortress cities of Damascus, Antioch and Palmyra who receive those goods, not us,’ he flashed a dry but nervous smile. ‘Yet it is my men and I who will face the wrath of the Persians before any of them.’

  Gallus could not contain a dry snort at this.

  The optio nodded to one of his men by the ovens. ‘Now, if you will permit me, sir. I can have fresh bread and cool water ready for you and your men before noon. You can eat with us then rest until the worst of the midday heat has passed.’

  A chorus of parched croaking and rumbling bellies sounded behind Gallus.

  The column marched on down the Strata Diocletiana. Each of the forts they came to afforded them water and shelter for the night. At noon on the eleventh day, they reached the desert city of Palmyra.

  The figure marching with them cast his eyes over this, what was once a marvel of the empire. The western end of the city was a charred, tumbled ruin, with skeletal buildings, toppled columns and flagstones prised from the weed-strewn streets. The opposite end of the city clung to the greatness of the past, a vibrant, bustling market square thriving around the base of the three massive legionary forts that had been thrown up against the city’s eastern walls. This was the last bastion of the empire the vexillatio would enjoy before they set out into the wastes of the Syrian Desert. The figure’s thoughts turned over and over. This was the moment to put his plan into action.