Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘They’re terrified!’ Gallus realised.

  ‘Never is an animal more dangerous than when it knows fear,’ Carbo replied.

  ‘I didn’t step out here to slay creatures,’ Gallus growled in frustration.

  ‘And they didn’t come here to slay you,’ Carbo fired back, ‘but that is how it is. Steel yourself, Tribunus.’

  Gallus stifled another growl, then pressed up, back-to-back with Carbo. He locked eyes with the nearest tiger, the jackals circling nearby. The cat’s pupils shrank, then it sprang for him.

  Many thousands trekked from the foothills and onto the westerly road to Bishapur. They wore wide-brimmed hats and carried linen shades stretched out over cane frames, shielding them from the fierce afternoon heat. But seven men walking amongst them had only the ragged hoods of the ill-fitting and frayed robes they wore to shield them from the worst of it.

  Pavo pulled his hood tighter, sensing the scornful glares of the travellers around them. These crowds were both a danger and a perfect way to evade the many scouting parties. They had stolen through the hills from Zubin’s farmhouse, narrowly avoiding detection from the Persian scouts, then blended into this throng. Felix, Zosimus, Quadratus, Sura and Habitus walked with him, heads bowed in an effort to remain inconspicuous. And then there was Father, right by his side. Pavo winced as Falco shuddered in another fit of coughing. He was weakening visibly from this trek. Pavo had tried to convince him to remain at the farmhouse, but Father was having none of it. If you are determined to find the scroll, then you need me – for I know exactly where it is. I’m coming, was all Falco had said.

  And Zubin had been equally as adamant that he was coming with them – despite all he had already done for them. Pavo looked up, along the road they walked; the Persian farmer and his goats walked a few hundred feet ahead of the seven. I pray we don’t need to call upon you, but Mithras bless you for coming with us, he mouthed.

  ‘What the . . .’ Sura muttered by Pavo’s side, shaking him from his thoughts.

  Pavo followed his friend’s gaze down into the gorge below. There, a vast carved relief dominated the rock face. It showed the Persian God, Ahura Mazda, handing a diadem to a Persian Shahanshah. Around the next bend in the gorge, there was a grander relief still. It was as tall as six men, and depicted another Persian Shahanshah on horseback, the beast trampling on a figure that was unmistakably Roman. An emperor. Pavo fought to suppress a shudder of doubt.

  As they approached the city, the throng thickened. The masses were swelling around the eastern gates. Bodies jostled all around them and the stench of sweat and animal dung was rife. Thick dust clung to their skin and the back of their throats. Pavo squinted to see what was holding up entry into the city. He passed into the shade of the beetling walls and saw the plumed, pointed helms and spear tips of the guards lining the battlements. But there were also a few on the ground, outside the gate. He, Felix, Quadratus and Zosimus looked to one another, straining to hear their jabberings.

  Falco cupped an ear to their chatter. ‘They’re checking every person that enters the city. Pavo, one look at our faces – not to mention our scars – will give us away.’

  Pavo’s eyes darted. He saw the nearest of the sentries peering into the crowd. The man’s eyes narrowed under his dusty felt cap as he scoured the sea of faces. Then his gaze seemed to snag on the group, his broad nose flaring, his bottom lip curling and his fingers flexing on his spear shaft.

  ‘I think they’ve seen us, Father,’ he whispered to Falco.

  Falco pulled his hood down to cover his eye sockets. ‘Whatever you do, don’t look at them,’ he hissed.

  Pavo heard these words as he locked eyes with the sentry. The guard opened his mouth to yell out to his comrades.

  There was only one thing left for it now, Pavo realised. His heart thundered as he waved frantically across the crowd.

  Peroz’s day had already been foul. His wife had cooked him a meal last night that had churned in his gut for hours and denied him even a heartbeat of sleep. Now, while the citizens were to enjoy the feasting and games of the Festival of Iron, he was to spend the day standing here in the stifling heat amidst this sea of toothless farmers and paupers. And it was approaching the hottest part of the day.

  He tried to distract himself with thoughts of what his wife might conjure for his evening meal tonight, then remembered with a groan that she had cooked enough of the foul, gut-churning stew to last for a few days. He grappled his cane shield and spear as if throttling his troubles, then yelped when a splinter of wood on the spear shaft pierced the skin on his palm. ‘Why do you mock me, Ahura Mazda?’ he muttered skywards. ‘What next – a boil on my arse?’

  Wave after wave of dust stuck to the sweat on his skin. The only way out of this shift would be to feign injury or . . . his gaze snagged on something in the crowd. A clutch of men. Their skin was fair, their features notably different. They bore scars and wiry, knotted beards. And one of them, one of them was missing his eyes. The escaped slaves?

  He saw one of them signal to someone, something – waving frantically. All doubt was gone. He could be a hero. Even more importantly, he would be relieved from his shift. He sucked in a breath until his lungs creaked, full and ready to call out in alarm. But then a furious bleating halted the cry in his throat.

  He swung to see some disturbance in the crowd. Zubin the farmer was crying out in distress. It seemed some mother goat of his had lost her temper in the heat. She bleated angrily, butting through the crowd and sending one man and a basket of melons up into the air, then she cut across the throng. Peroz glanced from the animal to the odd-looking men in the crowd, then back to the animal. The goat was charging straight for him, and it wore a look even more foul than his own. He glanced back to the crowd. The curious clutch of men were gone. He frowned, twisting to look to the gate – just in case they had slipped past him. Then the full force of the angry goat smacked into his hip. In an instant, sky and earth changed places and then he thudded onto the ground. He stood up, brushing himself down, choking on dust, hearing the belly laughter of the watching throng. He snarled and shook his spear at those around him and the laughter died sharply.

  Can this day get any worse? he thought with a low growl.

  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 ou
r 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.’