Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

Tamur’s arm knotted like tough rope and then he brought his knuckles round to smack into the man’s mouth. The pushtigban warrior stumbled back, blood washing down his iron chestplate. Tamur glowered at the rest of his guards. Not one held his gaze, each of them shuffling to stand upright. ‘You do as I say, you do it immediately and cut down any who try to pass through these gates. If this city burns to the ground then so be it. The Romans must not leave these walls.’

  As one, they dropped to their knees and kissed the ground, then leapt once more to their feet. They clipped their iron masks on and fanned out across the gates, facing into the city, spears levelled. Behind them, the western gates swung shut. Those clutching vessels and rushing to leave for the riverbank halted, gawping at the closed gates and the line of soulless iron masks gazing back at them. At once, a wail of despair rang out, pleading for the gates to be reopened.

  Tamur ignored this chorus of mewling as he ascended the stairs to the gatehouse. Smoke needled at his eyes and the late-afternoon sun burned on his glistening skin. He reached the battlements and saw that the two Median spearmen there looked terrified as they saluted. Good, he mused, fear is power!

  ‘The gates are to remain closed. Five Romans are looking to escape from the city . . . ’ he stopped, seeing the taller of the two glance at the other nervously. This was more than just fear. ‘You have something to tell me?’

  ‘There were a group of riders, Spahbad. Just a short while ago, five of them.’ He pointed a finger to a small dust plume in the west, heading towards the Persian Gulf. ‘We thought they looked different. They trotted out for a few hundred feet and then broke into a gallop.’

  Tamur felt his top lip twitch in fury as he gazed out over the western plain. The five had a good start and there were several hours of light left in the day. He rested his fingers on the honeycomb hilt of his shamshir and considered taking the heads from this pair. Their deaths would solve nothing, but might quell his anger a fraction. He turned to gaze back across his burning city, then saw the answer to the east. Just behind Bishapur, a sea of flickering silver moved closer, pouring from the Zagros Mountain roads like a ferocious tide. The Savaran were here. He relaxed his grip on his sword and saw the pair of sentries visibly slump in relief. A chill laugh toppled from his lips as he looked back to the west and the fleeing five.

  ‘Flee then, Romans. But these lands are vast and your horses will soon tire. The Savaran will be on your heels by morning. The carrion birds will feast on your corpses by noon. And I will be there to watch.’

  Chapter 21

  The five lay flat in their saddles, galloping in silence across the brushland of the Persis Satrapy. After Carbo’s last act had given them precious moments to escape the arena, they had slipped into the panicked crowds thronging the city streets. They had acquired these mounts from a stable at the acropolis foot, unguarded by anyone bar a deaf and dithering old stable hand with a face like a well-dried prune. He had insisted on giving them several water skins and a sack of food too, seemingly thinking they were Persian scouts. More, he had been intent on leading them to the western gates, all the while muttering about his wife’s mother. They had ridden through the streets with their heads down, and it was like swimming upriver at times, with endless waves of people rushing in the opposite direction, carrying vessels of water from the cistern. But, to their relief, the gates were open to allow streams of people to bring water in from the riverbank. The two guards on the gatehouse did seem to overly scrutinise them, but offered no challenge. At the last, the good-hearted, prune-faced old man had left them outside the gates and wandered back inside.

  Pavo hoped the old man would not be punished for his part in helping them escape. A good man who was merely doing his job. A thought had crossed his mind at that moment; for every dark-hearted cur they had encountered in Persian lands, there had been just as many good souls. He thought of Khaled, of Zubin.

  They rode hard for a good two hours, staying close to the Shapur River gorge. Apart from this jagged fissure, the dusty plain ahead was featureless, dry, and utterly flat. The faint band of blue that heralded the Persian Gulf seemed to forever slip further away. Worse, the outline of Bishapur still loomed behind them, magnified by the smudges of dark smoke that coiled from it and reached up into the dusk sky like claws.

  As tiredness set in, Pavo found his thoughts jumbled and jabbering. His heart ached with every beat as he thought of Father. This was tempered only by the occasional glow of pride as he recalled Father striking the life from Ramak. He ran a hand over his dirt and blood-encrusted beard, then took to smoothing at the worn leather bracelet Father had tied around his wrist. They were free. But Father was gone. Now there was no more guessing, no more doubt. He twisted to look back over his shoulder and wondered at all that burned in that city; Father, the tortured remains of Emperor Valerian, the vile creature, Ramak and, down on the arena floor, Felix. The little Greek had been at the heart of the XI Claudia since the day he had enlisted. Ever since that day, many such men had died, and now so few remained. Habitus, Noster, Sextus and Rufus, just a few of the many that had been lost along the way in this mission. Then there was Carbo. A man who had betrayed his comrades in exchange for freedom, then found that he could not live with his deeds, marching back to the scene of his shame to die. His emotions were tangled over the centurion. On one hand, he had betrayed Father. On the other hand, if Father had been so underhand to secure his own freedom, would Pavo have shunned him for it?

  A wheezing from his bay mare snapped him from his thoughts. She was sweating and frothing at the mouth. He stroked her mane as they rode, pouring some water over her neck. ‘Easy, girl,’ he whispered, lying flatter in the saddle.

  The others and their mounts were in a similar shape. At last, with darkness almost conquering the last of the navy blue sky in the west, Gallus called out; ‘Enough. If we ride on then our mounts will be crippled.’

  They crossed the river at a shallow section then tethered their horses on the banks of the far side where dry grass provided plenty of fodder. Pavo gathered kindling and soon they had a fire crackling in a small, rocky nook by the riverside. The babbling torrents of the river, the singing cicada song and the distant howling of some desert dog was all there was to be heard. Wordlessly, they sat in the shingle around the flames, sharing out the contents of the food sack. There were three flatbreads, a clay pot of yoghurt, a cut of salted goat mutton, a parcel of dates and a small container of honey.

  Pavo chewed ravenously on the meat, and it seemed to reinvigorate his limbs. The dates, yoghurt and quickly toasted bread filled his belly and made him drowsy. They washed this down with fresh river water, and let the fire die to mere embers. Each of them looked to one another with weary gazes. Gallus had the look of a hunting wolf, his usually tidy, greying peak of hair tousled and matted, his jaw lined with thick, dark stubble, his limbs taut and bulging from his months of training in the Persian gymnasium. Zosimus and Quadratus, the two titans of the XI Claudia, were equally haggard. Quadratus’ blonde beard and moustache were flowing and tangled like his hair – giving him the look more apt for his Gaulish ancestors than a hardy Roman. Zosimus’ usually perma-stubbled anvil jaw and scalp were likewise sprawling with thick, dark-brown hair like some kind of unkempt street-sweeping brush, and he seemed to have aged in these last months – his broken nose more severe and his foul glare just a fraction fouler. Sura too looked ragged – his unkempt blonde mop and beard framing his sunken cheekbone. But the eyes were the key, Pavo thought, looking round each of them once more. Each pair of eyes told the story of these last few months. The march, the treachery, the ambushes, the sandstorms, the mines, the arena, the palace. One question hung on everyone’s lips. Pavo was the first to air it.

  ‘What now?’ he said, stoking the embers with a twig.

  ‘When we reach the Gulf, perhaps we might buy a berth on a merchant cog,’ Gallus suggested, avoiding the issues of their lack of coin and the certainty that there would be a massive price on their heads.r />
  ‘Aye, well we certainly aren’t walking back,’ Quadratus said with a wry smirk.

  At this, Zosimus, Sura and Pavo erupted in a chorus of dry laughter, Gallus going as far as cocking a languid eyebrow.

  When the laughter faded, Sura held up his water skin. ‘If . . . when we make it back, then we’ll drain the taverns of ale for Felix.’ For once, he said this with no mischief and not a trace of his trademark grin. Pavo raised his water skin along with the others.

  After a short silence, Gallus turned to Pavo. ‘You still have the scroll?’

  Pavo nodded, pulling it from his belt and handing it to him.

  Gallus unfurled it and read, his eyes sparkling at first, then dulling as he came to the clause that rendered it useless. ‘So Jovian chose to protect the empire only while he held the throne.’

  ‘Saved his own skin and to Hades with the future of the empire?’ Quadratus scowled.

  Zosimus shrugged. ‘Aye, but then he saved the lives of his army on that day too. Had he not put his seal to that scroll, they might all have been slain . . . or worse,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the Dalaki salt mines.

  ‘Who knows what Jovian was thinking,’ Gallus surmised. ‘Reading the minds of the living is difficult and dangerous enough. Reading the minds of the dead . . . ’ his words tapered off into a mirthless chuckle as he tucked the scroll inside his robe.

  ‘Has it all been for nothing?’ Zosimus shrugged, staring into the fire.

  Pavo felt as if the big Thracian had reached into his heart and pulled the words from there.

  ‘We’ve lost a lot in getting this far,’ Gallus nodded. ‘We have little to show for it. But we tried,’ he clenched a fist and glanced at the darkness and the veil of stars that cloaked the sky. ‘By Mithras, we tried. That must mean something.’

  Pavo saw a glassiness welling in Gallus’ eyes as he searched the ether for an answer, the idol of Mithras clutched in the tribunus’ right hand.

  As if aware he was being watched, Gallus tossed a sinew of goat meat into the embers of the fire, then stood, his eyes at once turning icy cold and his lips growing taut. ‘All that remains is for us to ensure that word gets back to the empire. Emperor Valens must be informed of Tamur’s intent. We sleep here and then we rise before dawn. We’ve ridden a good ten miles today so the Gulf coast is roughly another twenty miles away. I reckon we could reach the shores by mid-morning.’

  ‘After that?’ Quadratus asked, stretching and cricking his neck to either side.

  Gallus turned and strode away from the fire, casting back over his shoulder; ‘After that, we pray that the gods will spirit us home.’

  Pavo woke refreshed from a deep and dreamless sleep. It was still dark, but he could see the blackness of the eastern horizon was tinged with a shade of dark-blue. He sat up and scratched at his scalp. The nightmares of Father had not come to him, and he felt an odd sadness at their absence. He thought again of Father’s last half-sentence.

  Before I met your mother, I . . .

  He smoothed at the leather bracelet again and cocked a half-smile. ‘I can only imagine, Father.’

  At that moment, a flock of nightjars swooped overhead, emitting a gentle, soothing trill. At the same time, the dark-blue in the east split with a sliver of orange-pink dawn light. His heart warmed at the sight, and he recalled the embrace he had shared with Father.

  Wiping the tears from his eyes, he stood and stretched. Oddly, while Quadratus, Zosimus and Sura lay near him, Gallus was nowhere to be seen. He stripped off his filthy robe to wade into the shallows of the river, bracing at the chill. A glance all around the flatland offered no sign of threat. Perhaps the situation at Bishapur had spiralled out of control after they had left. Perhaps there would be nobody out looking for them. This glow of optimism lifted his heart further. He plunged under the waters and ran his fingers through his locks, rising and feeling human once more. He blinked the water from his eyes, wiped droplets from his lips and saw the other three stirring. Quadratus was last to rise, sitting bolt upright, lifting one leg and emitting a high-pitched and tortured chorus of farts, grinning as he saw Zosimus’ and Sura’s faces wrinkle in disgust. Pavo waded from the river, towelling himself with his ragged robe, patting his face dry. Then he stopped, blinking.

  Something was moving on the eastern horizon.

  No . . . the entire eastern horizon was moving. Even closer were a pair of riders. Persian scouts. They circled on their mounts, pointing at Pavo, then wheeled around and melted back into the crawling horizon.

  ‘Sir,’ Pavo spoke hoarsely, then cleared his throat. ‘Sir!’ he cried this time, head snapping this way and that to locate Gallus.

  A crunching of rocks sounded from further up the riverbank, and Gallus appeared over the top of one tall, jutting rock, before sliding down its face. The look on the tribunus’ face told him two things: he had not slept at all and he had seen exactly what was coming for them.

  ‘On your horses – move!’ Gallus cried.

  Tamur lofted the golden lion standard in the air, the veins in his arms bulging at the weight. ‘Onwards, to crush the lie!’ he bellowed. The reply came like a guttural roar of giants as more than ten thousand warriors echoed their spahbad’s rallying call. The Savaran riders swept across the land like a plague of locusts, kicking up a wall of dust in their wake. On the river adjacent to their route, sturdy rafts carried the Median spearmen and some two thousand wretched, chained paighan downriver with them.

  At the mouth of the Gulf, the fleet of the Persis Satrapy would be waiting to take Tamur and his army across the Persian Gulf. Upriver, they could then strike out across the desert and fall upon Roman Syria like a plague. Perhaps then the blackened ruin of his palace would seem insignificant. He shuddered with rage as he remembered the last thing he had seen before mounting to leave and lead the Savaran; his treasure vault, wrenched open and emptied by the people who were supposed to fear and respect him. The image brought flickering fire to his every thought. While his agents back in the city would deal with the perpetrators, he would have the pleasure of dealing with the five Romans who had started the blaze. They would suffer like dogs. They would plead for the relief of death.

  ‘Noble Spahbad Tamur,’ a voice spoke beside him.

  He swung his scowl round to see his pushtigban-salar, the leader of his bodyguard.

  The man lifted his gilt iron facemask to reveal narrow eyes and an eager grin. ‘The Romans have been sighted.’

  ‘As I knew they would,’ Tamur replied flatly.

  ‘We will be upon them within the hour. They are headed for the coast.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he purred. ‘This will serve as a fine exercise in battlefield formations. Have our ranks form an arc – we will herd these five towards the shores like cattle. And have the paighan on the rafts disembark nearer the coast then join our right flank.’

  ‘A fine plan, Noble Spahbad,’ the pushtigban-salar nodded as he backed away then kicked his mount into a trot to convey the order.

  Tamur sneered at the sycophantic dog as he departed. The man’s family had long coveted the seat of the House of Aspaphet. When Tamur was a boy, he remembered the cur and his father’s frequent visits to the palace, their brazen attempts to dictate policy. Only Ramak’s presence by Tamur’s side had staved off their push for power. But Ramak was gone. Not for the first time since the archimagus’ death, Tamur felt an odd curdling of hubris and self-doubt. While he relished this new found autonomy, he also longed to have another to consult, another to prompt him. Sibilant voices whispered in his head and he snatched at each, wondering if they were his own thoughts or those of Ramak, nestled in his mind like some demon. He closed his eyes and grappled on his reins until his knuckles whitened and his hands shook. The voices fell silent, and he saw what he had to do.

  The narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar would not return home from this campaign, he affirmed with a half-grin. The man’s death would be a fine treat. First though, the Roman
dogs would serve as a pleasant appetiser. He squinted ahead, seeing the tiny dust plume of the five Roman riders fleeing in vain for the western horizon. When the plume disappeared over the distant grassy sandbanks, Tamur’s eyes narrowed. ‘There is nowhere left to run now, Roman dogs . . . ’

  The blood pounded in Pavo’s ears as his mare galloped over the grassy sandbanks and down onto the soft, white-sand shores of the Persian Gulf. Waves crashed rhythmically onto the shore, throwing up a wall of foaming white surf, and hazy turquoise waters stretched out beyond. Overhead, gulls and cormorants shrieked as they swooped and circled. The hot, early morning air was spiced with a salty tang. He slowed by the water’s edge, the others stopping beside him. Wordlessly, they gazed out across the waves. Then they glanced just a mile or so up the shoreline to the north, where the Euphrates estuary flowed into the Gulf. There, through the haze of heat and salt-spray, they saw a mass of ships bobbing on the waves, sails billowing. The Persian fleet, Pavo guessed. The Savaran were coming for them from the east, and this fleet would ensnare them from the north. He glanced to the south: only open, sandy flats for miles – nowhere to hide.

  Zosimus said it first; ‘We’re trapped.’

  ‘No,’ Gallus said flatly as he heeled his mount into the shallows. His lips were cracked and his skin glistened with sweat and salt spray. He trotted back and forth through the waterline, nostrils flared, spatha drawn, his battered intercisa glinting in the sun, the plume and the ragged robe he wore fluttering in the sea breeze – like a battered remnant of Rome in this far-flung land. Finally, his gaze seemed to narrow upon the approaching fleet.

  ‘Sir, we can’t win this one,’ Quadratus said gravely.

  ‘The five of us? No, we can’t,’ Gallus cocked an eyebrow, heeling his mount round to face them. ‘But we’re not alone.’

  ‘Sir?’ Pavo said. Then, when Gallus pointed to the fleet, he understood.