Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  They all fell silent as they heard scuffling above, waiting to hear the bleating of the mother goat and Zubin’s sanguine chatter. They heard Zubin, but his tone was different. His words were muffled, and Pavo strained to make them out. Then another voice split the air like a blade.

  ‘You have seen nothing?’ the voice snapped.

  ‘I am alone in these hills. You are the first soul I have spoken to in weeks.’

  A silence ensued. ‘It would not be wise to lie to us, farmer.’

  ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘You have no love for your rulers – I know this.’

  Zubin chuckled wryly. ‘I do not love them. But I do not hate them. I pity them and the fate that awaits them beyond this life.’

  Pavo’s mind flashed with images of the aggressors drawing some blade on Zubin for this retort, but there was no sound for what felt like an eternity.

  ‘Come on,’ the voice snarled at last, ‘this dog is wasting our time!’ A drumming of feet sounded and then faded.

  Pavo shared an anxious look with his comrades. Then the trapdoor whooshed open. Zubin’s face was wrinkled in concern. ‘It is not safe here anymore.’

  Under cover of night, Pavo and Sura crept through the brush atop one hill, then peered down to the valley. A group of five Persian scout riders ate around a campfire there, and another three were posted at either end of the shallow valley. Pavo glanced back over his shoulder to the row of hills behind them, Zubin’s farmhouse perched atop the furthest.

  ‘There are too many of them,’ Sura said. ‘That’s the third such party we’ve sighted.’

  ‘Aye, they’re crawling all over these hills like ants,’ Pavo agreed. He looked past the guards and off to the west, seeing the faint outline of the river gorge in the darkness, and then the orange glow of torchlight from the city of Bishapur, looming over the river where the foothills tapered off. Felix had sent them out in the hope of reconnoitring possible routes they could take to make a break towards the Gulf coast, some thirty miles into the darkness beyond the city. The primus pilus would not be pleased with their findings.

  He glanced to the east and noticed that a band of dark orange glowed behind the Zagros Mountains. He batted a hand to Sura’s shoulder. ‘Come on, it’s nearly dawn, we should get back before it gets too light.’ The pair slid back down the hillside, careful not to make too much noise, then they scuttled along the ridge of hills towards Zubin’s farmhouse. Pavo noticed something as they ran; from here he could see the flatland around the city of Bishapur, and the roads leading to the city seemed to writhe in the first shafts of dawn light. Wagons, animals and vast swathes of people, pouring towards the city gates. He frowned at this, then turned his attentions on the farmhouse, ahead. And as soon as he did, he and Sura froze. Two silhouettes walked near the farmhouse door.

  ‘Scouts?’ Sura gasped as the pair ducked behind a thorny bush.

  Pavo’s tongue darted out to dampen his lips, his heart crashed like a drum and he flexed his sword hand, cursing the absence of a spatha. Then his fear melted. ‘No!’ he said, recognising one figure as Zubin. Then it skipped a beat when he saw the other. Father!

  The next moments were a blur. He scrambled up the hill, grasping and then embracing Falco. The paleness had left his skin, and he walked unaided.

  ‘It feels as if I have awoken from a nightmare nearly as dark as those bloody mines,’ Falco croaked.

  ‘The root?’ Pavo uttered, glancing to Zubin.

  Zubin grinned. ‘The fever broke while you were out. He has eaten like a pregnant goat and talked only of you.’

  Falco held up one hand as if to catch the morning light. ‘I never thought I would feel the sun on my skin again.’

  Pavo smiled, then realised the sun was rising fast, pulling the shadows from the land. ‘Quickly, we must get inside – there are scouts not far from here.’

  They hurried inside, Sura and Pavo rolling back the rug, readying to lift the trapdoor. But Falco halted at the table, grasping it for stability. His chest heaved and he erupted in a coughing fit. The black blood still flecked his lips. Pavo’s joy was swept away at the sight.

  ‘The root has cured one ailment, but not the lung disease of the mines,’ Zubin said, his grin fading as he helped Falco to sit by the table, ‘there is no cure for that foul sickness once the blood has turned black.’

  Pavo gulped and sat beside Falco, stifling the flood of tears behind his eyes. His heart ached until he thought it would burst.

  ‘I am surprised I have lasted this long, Pavo. Few survive as long as I have in that place,’ Falco said. ‘Memories of being with you kept me strong down there,’ Falco continued. ‘And memories of your mother.’

  Pavo nodded, his thoughts a blur. Mother had died in giving birth to him and he had never felt free of the shackles of guilt at this.

  ‘She would never have had it any other way, Pavo,’ Falco said as if reading his thoughts. ‘Did I ever tell you that in those last moments, when she held you in her arms? She knew she was dying, but she said to me . . . ’ his words trailed off and he bowed his head.

  Pavo wrapped an arm around Falco’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, Father.’

  ‘She said she had never been happier than at that moment. For the three of us to have had those precious few heartbeats together meant everything to her. I may not have long Pavo, but . . . ’

  ‘Father,’ Pavo cut him off. ‘You are free. We will escape this land. You will return to the empire. We will find a healer,’ he insisted, desperately trying to stave off the doubts in his own mind.

  Falco erupted in another fit of blood-streaked coughing, and Pavo could do little other than hold and comfort him. He saw his father reach down to the leather bracelet on his withered arm. ‘Pavo, there is something you need to know . . . ’

  Just then, the trapdoor creaked open. Felix poked his head out then climbed into the hearth room. ‘How’s it looking out there?’ he said as Zosimus, Quadratus and Habitus joined him.

  ‘Scouting parties in every direction, sir,’ Pavo sighed. Then he thought of the roads leading to the city. ‘And there are many people visiting Bishapur today, it seems?’

  ‘Of course,’ Zubin said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Today is the Jashan of Shahrevar, the Festival of Iron.’

  Pavo frowned. ‘You seem to be one of the few who chooses not to attend?’

  ‘There are others like me, Roman. Others who feel that the Persis Satrapy has a dark soul at its helm. The archimagus aims to whip his people into a fervour with a display of blood games today. I do not believe Ahura Mazda would wish for his people to indulge in such brutality.’

  ‘Archimagus Ramak?’ Pavo cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Indeed. I imagine you met plenty of his enemies within the mines,’ Zubin nodded. ‘He is a foul creature. I have heard dark rumours in these past months – of mustering and recruitment. He has been gathering an army. I fear that the blood games today will be the start of something far more grave.’

  The words hit Pavo like a fist; in the breakneck escape from the mines, he had forgotten about all that lay ahead. The Persian invasion of Roman Syria. The scroll. The scroll! He swept his eyes round his comrades until they rested upon Falco, by his side.

  Pavo clasped his hands to Falco’s shoulders. ‘The scroll,’ he panted.

  ‘The scroll?’ Falco frowned.

  ‘The scroll!’ Pavo repeated. Through all the tumult of these last days and in the seeming certainty that he would never escape the mines, he had forgotten entirely of Khaled’s last words – that the Romans in the seventh chamber knew of the scroll. ‘Father, the scroll of Jovian. There was a man, a Persian whom I shared a cell with. He told me that, he said that . . . ’ his words tumbled out in a single breath.

  Falco hushed him, placing his hands on Pavo’s shoulders. ‘You came out here for the scroll of Jovian? Times on the eastern frontier must be desperate indeed.’

  ‘Aye, they are, but Father, do you - ’

  ‘Pavo,’ Falco
cut him off. ‘Yes, I know where the scroll is.’

  All eyes fell upon Falco. All breaths were stilled.

  ‘It sits within the palace, right in the heart of Bishapur,’ he said calmly.

  Chapter 17

  It was early afternoon on the day of the Festival of Iron. The games were about to begin and the populace of Bishapur flocked to the arena. Landworkers and peasants came with nothing other than the few coins they possessed and the rags they wore. Those from the noble houses came dressed in fine silks and carried bunches of vibrant blooms. They wore their hair tied above their heads, with perfumed wax applied to their scalps and kohl lining their eyes to temper the sun’s glare. The singing, chanting, twanging of lutes, keening of horns and thumping of drums came and went like waves of a tide as the crowds filtered into the arc of seating at the foot of the acropolis mount. Here, some enjoyed shade and cool drinks. The arena floor and the sunken pit at its heart, however, baked in the fierce afternoon sun.

  Inside the pit, Gallus splashed olive oil on a rag, then took to polishing his intercisa. He rubbed and rubbed at one spot until he could see his own reflection; sunburnt, scowling and furious. The raucous babbling of the spectators echoed across the arena floor, spilling into the pit through the raised grating. Suddenly, he tossed the helmet to one side and growled, letting his head fall into his hands, panting.

  Carbo sat across from him, calmly polishing his own helm. ‘Save your anger for them,’ he flicked his head up to the iron grating.

  ‘Why – why should I?’ He gestured to his forearm, the muscles there taut and bulging. ‘They have fed and trained us all these weeks, for what? Just to slaughter us today like prize pigs. Why should I fight to entertain them? Why should I not simply stride out there and extend my neck, invite them to cut open my jugular.’

  ‘Because you are a tenacious whoreson, Tribunus,’ Carbo replied calmly. ‘Use your troubles to fire your sword arm today.’

  ‘My troubles?’ Gallus cast him an incredulous look, shrugged, then glanced through the grating and around the arena. ‘I’d say you have been in the sun too long, Centurion.’

  Carbo beheld Gallus then, his gaze for once steady, earnest. ‘I am not the only one who talks in his sleep, Tribunus.’

  Now Gallus’ eyes darted, unable to meet Carbo’s gaze.

  ‘Fear not, Tribunus. I will not pry. I heard enough to understand that there is a black stain on your soul.

  Gallus slumped to sitting, lifting his helm once more and gazing at his reflection. A long silence passed. At last, he glanced up. ‘Aye, a black stain indeed.’

  Carbo nodded and stood, buckling on his helmet and smoothing his tousled white beard. ‘And one you must cleanse. Believe me, I know what shame can do to drive a man on.’ He smiled. It was warm yet doleful. ‘Indeed, it is shame that demanded I lived through our journey east and drove me back to these lands. A shame that has shackled me now for over ten years.’

  Gallus frowned. ‘Centurion?’

  Before Carbo could reply, the clanking of a spear on the iron grating above startled him. ‘Romans, be ready,’ the man there grinned, lifting the grating aside. He threw a knotted rope down to Gallus, then turned and strutted across the arena floor, shooting both hands up in the air and conjuring a cheer from the growing crowd.

  Gallus strapped on his helm, then hefted his battered wooden shield. Dressed only in a loincloth, this would be his only means of protection today. He climbed from the pit, into the glare of the fierce sun. A wall of noise battered him from every side. Sweating, eager faces glared down from the steep gallery of seats overlooking the arena floor. Pushtigban warriors studded the top row of seats like fangs and more looked down like vultures from the edge of the acropolis, above. The open end of the arena was packed with a mass of standing spectators corralled behind a timber barrier and a row of Median spearmen.

  Gallus saw all heads turn to one spot. Atop the arc of seating, a timber viewing box had been erected, much like a Roman kathisma. The balcony front was emblazoned with a gilded stucco effigy of the Faravahar, the Zoroastrian winged guardian angel, and a gold silk awning cast the enclosure in precious shade. Gemmed torches were affixed to the sides of the kathisma, the Sacred Fire dancing on each of them. Then a shadowy figure entered the enclosure, and Gallus knew who it was even before the features were uplit by the flames. Ramak. The archimagus moved to the front of the kathisma, surveying the masses like a hungry gull, his fingers coiling and uncoiling over the edge of the balcony. He wore a blue silk robe threaded with gold that glinted like his eyes.

  Next, Tamur entered the kathisma, flanked by a pair of pushtigban. His dark hair glistened with fresh oil and wax. He was armoured in a bronze scale vest with the lion emblem on the breast, and wore a gold cloak draped over his shoulders. The sight of him brought a roar from the people.

  Two spearmen jogged over to Gallus and Carbo, then threw down a pair of spatha blades. Carbo took one and handed the other to Gallus.

  Then Ramak threw his arms up and the crowd fell utterly silent. He cast his glare around the crowd. ‘I urged you all to come today. I promised you a gift from Ahura Mazda – a vision of our destiny.’

  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.