Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  Gallus heard those last words as if they had been plucked from his own heart. But the guilt that danced in this man’s eyes had been brewing for far longer than Gallus’.

  ‘The men of the Parthica kept me strong in those mines – Pavo’s father more than most. Yet when they needed me, I deserted them. My cowardice consigned them to a lingering death. Now, surely you must understand why I could not refuse when Emperor Valens offered me the chance to return to this land. Nightmares and voices have haunted me for too long.’ He nodded to that seemingly innocuous spot high up in the seating once more. ‘Today, the very shades of those I betrayed watch on from the crowd. I seek only two things; atonement and death. Today it seems, I will have only one.’

  The man’s shoulders slumped and he was silent. Gallus felt empathy and loathing quarrel in his heart until he realised the recital of the gatha was over. The chanting of the crowd fell away. Ramak leant over the kathisma balcony and pointed a talon-like finger down to the arena floor.

  ‘Ahura Mazda looks down upon us. Let us cast the Romans to the realm of Ahriman!’

  The hammer man nodded to Gallus. Hands grappled his shoulders roughly, dragging him to the execution stone.

  Falco’s words echoed in Pavo’s ears. He wrapped an arm around his father’s shoulders, scowling down upon Carbo. But while fury boiled in Pavo’s veins, Father’s anger had passed like a scudding dark cloud. ‘But he betrayed you? Else you might have been free long, long ago.’

  ‘Yet I’d bargain that his years of freedom have been tortuous,’ Falco patted Pavo’s arm. ‘He has returned to face his past. That is what matters.’ He bowed over in a coughing fit, dark blood spraying on his knotted hands. ‘Pavo, don’t let what time we have be spoiled by anger.’

  Pavo fought to suppress his rage, then it was barged aside when he saw the two pushtigban spearmen on the arena floor dragging Gallus towards the execution stone, the hammer-wielder waving his weapon to the crowd, drawing raucous cheers.

  Pavo turned to Felix. ‘Sir?’ he croaked. His words were in harmony with the others.

  The hammer-man kicked Gallus in the gut, dropping him to his knees, then pushing the side of his head onto the block.

  Felix gawped at this and then up to the palace. ‘The tribunus would insist that we go for the scroll,’ he uttered, his words devoid of conviction.

  ‘Sir? We can’t leave him to die!’ Pavo protested.

  ‘We won’t,’ Felix replied, at last breaking his gaze and fixing it upon Pavo, Sura, Falco and Habitus. He jabbed a finger up the acropolis slope. ‘You four will go for the scroll.’ Then he nodded to Quadratus and Zosimus. ‘The three of us . . . we will create a distraction so you can get up there unseen, and maybe even back down again,’ he said gravely, looking to the arena floor.

  ‘Sir, if you step into that arena you’ll be . . . ’ Pavo choked back his words, seeing the look of grim finality in the eyes of Felix, Zosimus and Quadratus.

  ‘Aye,’ Zosimus grunted, ‘we will. So be on your way. Get that scroll.’

  With that, the three turned, shoulders heaving as they sucked in breath after breath. Then, like lions, they barged through the crowds, rushing down the bank of timber seating towards the arena floor, ignorant to the protests of those they trampled upon. All eyes turned to the disturbance – the crowd, Ramak, Tamur, the sentries all around the top of the arena.

  Pavo yelled out after them, but Sura’s hand clamped over his mouth.

  ‘If we go after them then we all die,’ Sura hissed. ‘They’re sacrificing themselves for the scroll. Don’t let it be for nothing. Come on!’ He yanked Pavo back towards the acropolis slope. Pavo gritted his teeth and spun away from the arena. He grappled Falco’s arm and led him onto the slope, the scree crunching under their stride.

  He focused on the heels of Sura and Habitus ascending before him and refused to look back.

  Gallus’ nose wrinkled at the stench of the hot, dried blood staining the execution stone. The crowd had fallen silent in anticipation – so he could hear only the breathing of his executioner. ‘Your brains will stain the dust in moments, Roman dog,’ the pushtigban grunted. ‘Now look your killer in the eye, see how he smiles.’

  Gallus looked to the side, his eyes straining, until he saw the grinning features of the hammer-wielder framed by azure sky. ‘I see his eyes, cur, and he should know that he will see mine – every time he tries to sleep.’

  This brought only a sharp jab from the other pushtigban pinning him down, the man’s knuckles splitting the flesh on Gallus’ cheek and sending a shower of white sparks across his vision.

  ‘Be careful,’ the hammer-wielder chided. ‘I don’t want him to be unconscious. I want him to feel the last moments of his life, as the spike stoves in his skull and dashes out his brains.’

  The other two chuckled at this. Gallus could only watch the hammer-wielder’s grin broaden as he lined up the weapon to take aim, the spike resting on Gallus’ temple, its weight splitting the skin and grinding on the bone underneath.

  ‘Goodbye, Roman,’ his killer hissed, then hefted the hammer back.

  Gallus stared through the man and the glinting weapon. He saw through the thousands of faces that looked on, eager to witness his death. He saw the roadside near Mediolanum. He saw the curves of Olivia under the blankets by the campfire. She had one arm wrapped around the sleeping Marcus. He reached out to cradle them both. To shield them as he should have done that night. Let me find them in the darkness, Mithras. Let me protect them there as I should have done in this life.

  Suddenly, a cry of surprise rang out all around. Gallus felt the numbness of certain death crumble, and the pressure of the hands restraining him eased. He saw the hammer-man freeze, weapon raised, his head twisting to the edge of the arena. Gallus frowned, then a spear smacked into the dust, inches from the hammer-wielder’s feet. The man staggered back, as did the other two. Gallus rolled clear of the execution stone and looked to see three figures running towards him.

  No! he mouthed in disbelief. Like a mirage, Felix led big Zosimus and Quadratus in a charge across the arena. A pair of Median spearmen lay in an unconscious heap at the edge of the ring, denuded of their weapons and shields. Felix carried a Persian shamshir, Quadratus a spear and shield and Zosimus a spear, sword and dagger. All three looked haggard and unkempt – as if they had spent these last months in Hades.

  ‘How in the realm of Mithras . . . ’ Gallus stammered. A wave of warmth washed across his heart at the sight of them.

  ‘To your feet, sir,’ Felix grinned, skidding to a halt by Gallus while Zosimus and Quadratus hauled Carbo up by the shoulders, pressing the hilt of a blade into his palm.

  The three pushtigban warriors glanced from the five Romans to the kathisma. Tamur grappled the edge of the balcony, ready to signal for the many other guards to storm the arena and slay these newcomers. But Ramak whispered in his ear, pointing out the cheering crowd – buoyed by the excitement of this turn of events. Tamur nodded, instead signalling down to the tunnel. In moments, a troop of three Median spearmen emerged in their iron garb and pointed, plumed helms. They joined the pushtigban in a curved line, facing the Roman five like a set of pincers, spears levelled. The games were to continue, it seemed.

  Gallus pressed up, back to back with his three officers and Carbo as the spear tips approached. ‘How in Hades did you escape the mines?’ he hissed to Felix.

  ‘We did, sir, that’s all that matters. More, Pavo, Sura, Habitus and . . . Pavo’s father are on their way to get the scroll,’ Felix whispered back.

  ‘Pavo’s father?’ Gallus uttered, then glanced to Carbo and understood what the man had seen in the crowd.

  Carbo’s eyes darted. ‘Falco lives?’

  ‘It seems atonement waits on you today also?’ Gallus clamped a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. Then his thoughts halted and he beheld Felix. ‘You said they’re going to get the scroll?’ he gasped. In these last months he had forgotten entirely of its existence. ‘You know where
it is?’

  Felix’s glance to the palace atop the acropolis was enough to betray an answer.

  ‘They’re going in there?’ Gallus shook his head. ‘That place is crawling with guards! Even if they get in, they’ll never get out!’

  ‘I said we’d create a distraction,’ Felix said.

  ‘A distraction – how, exactly?’

  ‘I didn’t think it that far through, sir,’ Felix replied sheepishly.

  Just then, Ramak leant from the edge of the kathisma and chopped his arms down like axe heads. ‘Destroy them!’

  The Persian six stalked forward with purpose. The hammer-wielder flicked a finger out to direct those by his sides to their targets.

  Quadratus, Zosimus, Carbo and Felix spread out to stand by Gallus’ side.

  ‘You think you can handle those on the flanks?’ Gallus whispered.

  ‘You should have met the whoresons we had to deal with in the mines,’ Zosimus grumbled. Quadratus and Felix could not contain a dry chuckle at this.

  Even Gallus felt a smile tickle his lips. ‘Fine, then leave the hammer man to me.’ With that, Gallus stooped to lift his plumed intercisa from the dust. He planted it on his head. At once, the iron rim framed his vision and he gained a last surge of strength. ‘XI Claudia . . . forward!’ he cried. The four parted. In his peripheral vision, he saw Quadratus and Felix lunging for the men on the left, Carbo and Zosimus springing to the right. Gallus stalked forward, fixed his gaze on the hammer-man and saw his foe’s knuckles whitening. The hammer came up and swung round in a ferocious swipe. Gallus saw it coming and skidded to a halt, letting the blow whoosh past his midriff. The hammer-man staggered back, desperately trying to still the weapon and bring it back round. But Gallus leapt upon him like a starved leopard, butting his head forward so the tip of his intercisa fin smashed into the man’s mouth, sending teeth and blood in every direction. The man stumbled and fell, his head bashing onto the execution stone. The man flailed to right himself but the weight of his armour pinned him where he lay. Gallus hefted his spatha, then stood over his gasping, disbelieving foe, the blade resting on the man’s neck.

  Thousands of pairs of eyes watched expectantly.

  ‘No,’ Gallus said, shaking his head and gazing down at the pushtigban. He tossed his spatha into the dirt and turned away. Gasps of relief sounded from the hammer-man and murmurs of confusion rippled around the crowd. Gallus glanced up to see Ramak’s eyes narrowing at this move.

  Then he stooped to pick up the spike hammer.

  ‘You have sent many wretches to their deaths in the most brutal fashion,’ he said, turning back to the hammer-man. The downed man now gawped at the bloodied spike on the end of his own weapon. ‘Some may have deserved it, some certainly did not. You, whoreson, have most certainly earned this.’ Gallus’ eyes bulged, and his teeth ground together as he hefted the hammer overhead. The pushtigban’s mouth opened in a cry for mercy. But Gallus swiped the weapon down. The spike ploughed through skin, skull and brain then clunked against the stone as the pushtigban’s head exploded, fragments pattering down around Gallus like rain. Nearby, gurgling cries rang out as Felix, Quadratus, Carbo and Zosimus hacked and chopped their foes down. He saw Carbo fell the last, leaping like a wounded lion to slice through the man’s neck. Their opponents felled, the Roman five stood alone, gazing stonily over the crowd.

  The crowd stared back silently. Only the bleating of a distant goat herd sounded over Bishapur.

  Gallus looked up to Ramak as if to challenge the archimagus. Tamur barged to the front of the kathisma beside Ramak, nostrils flared in disgust. ‘Kill them!’ he cried. At once, the crowd roared in agreement, and Ramak waved a band of ten Median spearmen lining the arena forward.

  Gallus, Felix, Quadratus, Zosimus and Carbo gathered once again in the centre of the arena.

  Gallus glanced to the slope leading up to the palace. ‘Was that enough of a distraction?’ he panted.

  Ramak settled back to watch as the ten spearmen leapt into battle with the Roman five. But two things nagged at him. Firstly, the afternoon was wearing on and the sun was approaching the western horizon; when it touched the land, the festival would end. If the Romans survived until then, then his grand demonstration of Persian might with these games would look foolish. The second irritation came in the form of Tamur, by his side. The brutish warrior seemed to believe that his destiny truly rested on the outcome of this bout, his fists clenched as if striking every blow, the veins in his temples seeking to break free of the skin.

  ‘Perhaps we have trained these dogs too well, Archimagus?’ Tamur seethed.

  Ramak bristled at this, but mustered an even tone to reply; ‘Remember that today is but a façade, Spahbad, a means of bringing the people of Persis with us on our path to greatness. Should these curs somehow live to the end of the blood games, then it will not change what happens tomorrow.’

  Tamur turned from the fight, his eyes wide, teeth clenched. His fists slackened and his shoulders slumped a fraction. ‘But, Archimagus . . . ’

  ‘The armies are mustered, are they not?’

  ‘They are coming through the Zagros Mountains as we speak, and will be formed outside the city before nightfall,’ Tamur nodded. ‘Ten thousands Savaran riders, ready to march west and seize Roman Syria.’

  Ramak flicked a finger to the exhausted Roman five on the arena floor. ‘That will not change because of a few tenacious dogs who refuse to die, will it? Besides, should they live until the festival comes to an end, I will order their throats to be slit when the crowds have dispersed.’

  Tamur’s brow knitted. The oaf was easily confused – just like his father, Ramak thought. The spahbad’s powerful frame was balanced by such a weak mind. ‘Clear your mind of portents, clear your mind of Ahura Mazda’s wills,’ Ramak hissed, teeth bared. ‘Today, all will proceed as I have planned.’

  Tamur’s eyes narrowed at this.

  ‘As we have planned,’ Ramak corrected himself.

  Just then, a cry of horror rang out from the crowd. The head of one spearman spun from his shoulders and bounced across the arena. The hardy Roman Tribunus had killed again. This one had made his own people doubt him. If they doubted him and the army that would form before the city tonight, things could become complicated. Already, complication was rife. The scale of the disaster at the Dalaki mines was becoming clearer with every report; three chambers were flooded and hundreds of slaves had escaped – many still roaming uncaptured. At least if the three who had burst onto the arena floor to help the plumed tribunus had come from the mines then that would soon be three less to worry about. He swiped a hand through the air. There were plenty more salt mines. And who would need salt when the riches of Roman Syria dangled before him like a ripe fruit?

  His gaze drifted skywards as he focused on the power and riches that lay ahead. That was when his gaze snagged on something, on the slope of the acropolis, approaching the base of the palace. A small cloud of dust and . . . movement. Someone was climbing up the scree. Deliberately avoiding the carved steps. Desperate not to be seen. A creeping chill spread across his skin. When the three Romans had leapt into the arena to help the plumed tribunus, he had been bemused, little more. But if there were others . . .

  ‘Spahbad, you will oversee the rest of this bout,’ he said, standing, ignoring Tamur’s scowl at this order. ‘Now, I need six of your best men,’ he clicked his fingers, his gaze never leaving the top of the mount.

  Chapter 19

  The pushtigban atop the acropolis seemed to be relaxed. Most had downed their winged helms and masks and stood in the shade of palms clusters or near the lip of the plateau to escape the late afternoon sun and watch the combat in the arena below. Pavo, Sura, Habitus and Falco were pressed against the palace wall, around the corner from the entrance courtyard and babbling fountain. Parakeets sang, black-shouldered kites whistled as they flitted from branch to branch and the cicada song grew louder and louder, as if determined to alert the guards to the Romans’ presen
ce.

  Falco cupped a hand to his ear and gripped Pavo’s arm. ‘The fountain,’ he wheezed, each breath rattling with blood now, ‘the scroll is in the chambers beyond.’

  ‘Father, you need to rest,’ Pavo started.

  ‘Pavo!’ Falco hissed back, stifling a wet cough. ‘The scroll!’

  ‘Aye,’ he winced, turning away. He inched his head forward to peek around the corner and into the courtyard. A pair of pushtigban warriors chatted near the high, arched doorway beyond the fountain that led into the palace. His heart leapt as Sura roughly shoved himself up to peek round too.

  ‘If those two don’t move, we can’t risk it,’ Sura observed, less than helpfully.

  Just then, a roar sounded from the arena below, louder than any before. Interest piqued, the two guards stopped talking and strolled out of the courtyard. Pavo’s heart leapt and he ducked back, pressing himself against the wall, the others doing likewise. The two guards walked past them and on to the lip of the mount and stood, backs turned, only paces away from them.

  Push them? Habitus mouthed.

  No! Pavo and Sura mouthed in furious unison. Instead, Pavo beckoned the group forward. They stole into the shade of the courtyard, staying close to the walls. They sneaked past the fountain and then inside the palace.

  Inside was cool and shady. Floral motifs and carvings of stags, lions and elephants adorned the walls. Reliefs of stern Persian warriors and kings of the past glowered down upon them. The polished black tiles underfoot seemed deathly cold in comparison to the blistering hot flagstones of the courtyard. ‘It’s empty?’ Pavo whispered, then cupped a hand over his lips as the whisper echoed around the high ceilings.