Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  In a flash, the pushtigban had their spears at Pavo and Sura’s throats. Pavo braced, sword raised, ready to hack at the spear tip, but Falco squeezed his arm.

  ‘Do not, Pavo!’ Falco croaked weakly. Then he whispered in Pavo’s ear. ‘I will be with you, Son. Always.’

  Pavo hesitated, frowning, his gaze hanging on father’s sightless expression as the pushtigban disarmed Sura and Pavo then hauled them away from the fire pit and Falco. ‘Father?’ he called weakly, seeing a look of finality wash across Falco’s haggard features. The pushtigban kicked at the back of Pavo’s knees and he and Sura slumped to kneeling.

  ‘The old man will die first,’ Ramak purred, stepping over to Falco at the edge of the fire pit, eyeing him like a butcher examining a lamb. ‘His eyes are already gone and we will have little pleasure in his torture. The other two can watch him burn before their torture begins.’

  Pavo’s heart pounded on his ribs as he saw Ramak’s face contort with a grin.

  The archimagus drew a dagger from his belt and thrust it into Falco’s midriff. The blade sunk deep and black blood washed from the wound.

  Pavo heard his own cry as if from a hundred miles distant. No! He lurched up from kneeling, but a spear-point in his back winded him and dropped him to his knees again. He reached out, lips moving wordlessly as Ramak butted his palms into Falco’s chest. Falco swayed, losing his balance and falling back towards the flames. The light of the Sacred Fire danced in Ramak’s eyes as he watched, grinning. ‘Burn in the realm of Ahriman, Roman dog.’

  ‘Father!’ Pavo cried until he thought his heart would burst.

  At the last, Falco shot out a hand and grappled Ramak’s collar, halting his fall.

  Ramak yelped, choking. The pushtigban seemed frozen in indecision at this. Falco’s hair and the back of his robe had already caught light, but he hauled himself up just a fraction, and pressed his face to Ramak’s. ‘It is time for you to face the god whose name you have darkened for so long, cur!’ he hissed, then tore something from his robe. It glinted in the firelight as he brought it arcing round and across Ramak’s throat. The buckled bronze phalera tore across the archimagus’ neck, sending a dark spray of blood across the temple floor. Then, as one, Falco and Ramak toppled back into the fire pit. The flames consumed the pair. Ramak’s screams were shrill and lasting. Falco made not a sound.

  The pushtigban scrambled forward to the edge of the fire pit to see their archimagus’ blazing form thrashing and reaching out as if still in belief that he could be saved.

  Pavo felt his next actions as if they were part of a dream. He rushed forward and shoulder-charged one pushtigban into the pit. The man plummeted under the weight of his armour, his gruff cries seemingly never-ending as the fire cooked him alive. The last pushtigban backed away, spear flicking from Pavo to Sura and back again. Pavo grappled one of the timber stools nearby and held it up as a form of shield. The spearman jabbed at them confidently, his legs bracing as if readying to spring. Then, like an apparition from a nightmare, the first pushtigban hauled himself from the pit, his body ablaze and his armour glowing hot. His hoarse cries were inhuman, his face ruined by the flames. He threw himself around the chamber, clawing out at the drapes and timbers, inadvertently setting light to each. At the last, he stumbled towards his comrade, arms outstretched, his step slowing. The last pushtigban backed away, eyes bulging in terror at the mutilated creature. Backed against the wall, the last warrior thrust his spear into the burning man’s gut. The burning man wailed in agony, then wrapped his hands around the other’s throat and crushed the life from his killer. The two toppled to the floor, still and silent.

  Pavo and Sura stared at one another. For a heartbeat, the only noise in the chamber was the crackling of flames as the blaze spread around the walls. Then black smoke billowed over them, stealing their breath away. Through the blackness, they heard panicked voices along each of the corridors, then barking commands and footsteps approaching. Sura picked up two shamshirs, throwing one blade to Pavo and looking to each passageway. ‘What now?’ he said, gagging as black smoke caught in his throat. ‘Can we fight our way out of here?’

  Pavo shook his head, feeling the smoke clawing at his eyes and lungs. ‘No, this smoke will kill us before the Persian blades will.’ He saw one piece of linen that had not yet caught fire, draped on the temple wall beside a water font. He tore this down, ripped it in two and soaked it in the water then wrapped it round his head leaving just a thin gap to see through, giving the other piece to Sura. This seemed to shield their eyes and lungs from the worst of the smoke. ‘Now, we fight,’ Pavo nodded, then the pair looked again to the passageways.

  The first of the approaching Persian warriors burst into the central chamber from the northern corridor. Pavo and Sura braced, ready for combat, but the warrior swiped out wildly, blinded by the stinging smoke, then doubled over, gagging and retching. Then others staggered in likewise, tormented by the smoke and oblivious to Pavo and Sura.

  ‘Sura, come on,’ Pavo hissed, backing around the flailing men. He and Sura edged to the eastern entrance, then Pavo cast a last look back at the Sacred Fire.

  Goodbye, Father, he mouthed.

  With that, he and Sura plunged through the corridor. The black smoke was billowing along here too. They skirted around the disorientated Persian warriors, few even noticing them. When they burst from the end of the corridor and onto the acropolis, the black smoke did not abate. Thick clouds of it poured across the plateau, as if a storm had emerged from the temple. Pavo retched and spat, blinking and rubbing at his eyes.

  ‘Look!’ Sura said, pointing down the slope to the arena. The games had ceased, the crowds were spilling from the spectacle and a panicked cry had replaced the entertained roars of before. Warriors and people alike streamed through the streets and filtered up the side of the acropolis. Many carried pots sloshing with water, many more had fallen to their knees in prayer, seeking mercy from Ahura Mazda.

  ‘Pavo!’ Sura croaked.

  Pavo spun to see a quartet of Median spearmen rushing towards them. The pair braced, swords raised, but the spearmen washed around them like a river around a lone rock, haring onwards to the temple before calling out to nearby comrades carrying water vessels.

  Pavo looked to Sura and Sura looked back.

  Then they each turned their gaze upon the arena floor below.

  Chapter 20

  Dark plumes of smoke billowed from the temple, blackening the skies over the city and setting light to the adjacent orchard. Soon the palace would be ablaze too. Down in the arena the drums ceased and the crowd gawped. Then, after a moment of realisation, they were fleeing the timber banks of seating, jabbering and screaming, rushing to aid those fighting the flames, their hurried footsteps taking up the absent rhythm of the drums. Clouds of smoke billowed down across the arena, stinging eyes and bringing coughing fits to those who fled.

  But while the people of Bishapur panicked and the arena drained of spectators, Spahbad Tamur remained, barking his spearmen on from the kathisma as they tore at the five Romans. When the smoke started to obscure his view, the burly warrior leapt from the enclosure and rushed down to the foot of the arena seating. There he strode along the edge, punching a fist into his palm, motioning as if striking death blows himself.

  ‘Spill their blood!’ Tamur cried, the veins in his forehead bulging. ‘I want my victory, I want my blessing!’ He shot an anxious glance up to the blazing Fire Temple as he said this.

  Near the centre of the arena, Gallus glanced at the snarling spahbad, then back to his foe – a hook-nosed spearman with a dark, oiled beard. He parried then swept his spatha out like a serpent’s tongue, tearing across the chest of the spearman, breaking the iron loops in the man’s mail vest and scoring deep into flesh. His foe fell back, choking on his own blood. Gallus turned from the dying man and faced the next two spearmen who came for him. Three of the ten Medians facing them had been felled – caught cold or overconfident. But the remaining seven were fresh
while he and his men were tiring.

  Nearby he saw Quadratus, Carbo and Zosimus, a pair of spearmen lying in a bloody pool at their feet while they fought to fend off another three. On the other edge of the arena, another two Medians had backed Felix against the edge of the space. Suddenly, one foe punched a spear through the little Greek’s gut and into the timber strut behind him. Felix’s cry echoed around the emptying arena and a thick spray of crimson blood leapt from the wound, soaking the dusty floor. Another Median spearman lined up to strike a death blow, throwing down his spear and drawing out his shamshir, lining up to strike at Felix’s neck. Gallus’ blood froze; the Greek’s eyes met with his, a look of finality sweeping across his features.

  Instinctively, Gallus lunged forward in an attempt to burst past his own two attackers and reach Felix, but the spears of the two before him came up in a cross, blocking his path and then barging him back. He stumbled and fell.

  At this, Tamur raised a hand. The two ready to slay Felix halted, waiting on their spahbad’s word. ‘You have fought bravely, Roman.’ Tamur boomed at him from the edge of the arena, his face fixed in a dark scowl, his hands resting upon his hips, the dark smoke rippling his gold-threaded cloak. ‘But now it is over. Order the rest of your men to throw down their weapons and they will live. And I will permit you a swift death.’

  Gallus looked across the arena, seeing the look of defiance in Felix’s eyes, the faint shake of the little Greek’s head. He looked back to Tamur and replied in a steady tone; ‘You will let them live? In the mines, maybe, aye. And I doubt you know how to administer a swift death. You forget I have had the pleasure of watching you and your master’s deeds in the months you kept me in that pit.’

  ‘Ramak was never my master!’ Tamur roared, shaking a clenched fist in the air, flecks of spittle clouding the air before him. The man’s eyes burned with indignation, then he flicked a finger down to the two men by Felix. With a flash of iron, the Median sword swept round and chopped through Felix’s neck, a dull clunk of iron biting into timber ringing out as the blade embedded deep in the wooden strut. The primus pilus’ head toppled to the ground and then his body slumped too. Gallus froze. The rapid drumming of his heart suddenly slowed to a steady, crashing thud that shook him to his extremities, his vision shuddering with every beat. He saw the two Medians before him close in for the kill, lowering their spear tips towards his throat.

  He heard a guttural roar, barely realising it was his own. He felt his body convulse, his sword arm sweeping round where he lay. The spatha cleaved through the hamstrings of the nearest Median, who fell, thrashing in gouts of his own blood. The second Median halted, stunned, as Gallus rose, driving the blade up and under the man’s ribs. Gallus pulled the man close, growling as he watched the light dim in his foe’s eyes, then tore his blade clear. Nearby, Carbo, Quadratus and Zosimus fought with an equal fire, their faces torn in rage at the slaying of their comrade. They hacked the arm from one Median, then Carbo tore the throat from another. When another tried to run, Quadratus’ blade spun through the air, taking the warrior in the cheek, smashing the skull and sending the bearded jaw spinning away from the face along with a shower of teeth, bone shards and blood. The Median crashed forward like a speared boar.

  Quadratus and Zosimus stalked towards the remaining two by Felix’s body. They backed away, looked to their spahbad, then turned and ran from the now deserted arena.

  Tamur’s grin melted away at this. ‘You curs!’ he cried, pulling a dagger from his belt then hurling it after the fleeing Medians. The short blade punched into one man’s neck and the life was gone from him before he crashed to the ground.

  Gallus’ gaze locked onto Tamur.

  Tamur glanced all around the arena ‘Spearmen!’ he cried, looking to the tunnel under the kathisma. His words were answered only by an echo.

  Gallus watched as the spahbad backed away, up the arena steps. ‘What’s wrong, Spahbad? Did you leave your hubris with your bodyguards?’ Gallus asked, hauling himself from the arena floor and up onto the timber seating, following Tamur. The spahbad’s eyes darted this way and that. Then, a drumming of feet landing on the top row of seats sounded. Tamur twisted to the noise.

  Pavo and Sura stood there, hair tousled, skin smoke-blackened and bloodied, chests heaving.

  ‘Reinforcements?’ Quadratus cooed between snatched breaths as he hurried up to Gallus’ side.

  ‘Aye, Mithras is truly with us, it seems,’ Zosimus laughed coldly through gritted teeth.

  Tamur could not disguise his outright panic now, and turned to flee back towards the kathisma. Quadratus made to follow, but Gallus shot out an arm to halt him. ‘Leave him – wherever he goes, there will be pushtigban, and lots of them.’

  Pavo and Sura descended the wooden steps and saluted with trembling, smoke-stained arms.

  ‘The scroll?’ Gallus asked.

  Pavo shook his head. ‘We have it. It is of no use.’

  ‘But Archimagus Ramak is dead,’ Sura offered, ‘and I am certain that is a good thing.’

  Gallus snorted at this. ‘Was it swift?’ he muttered, thumbing the hilt of his spatha.

  ‘No,’ Sura replied.

  ‘Good,’ Gallus said, his ice-blue eyes glinting like a blade.

  He looked to Pavo and saw a glassiness in his eyes. He realised the two were alone. ‘Optio, is there nobody else with you?’

  Pavo shook his head in silence.

  ‘Then your Father . . . ’

  ‘He is gone, sir.’ Pavo said, turning his grave look upon Carbo.

  The fire of the fight seemed to lessen in Carbo’s eyes at these words. ‘Lad, I . . . ’

  ‘I know what happened,’ Pavo said stonily.

  Carbo could offer no reply.

  Zosimus interrupted the moment. ‘Sir!’ he yelled to Gallus, pointing to the tunnel. There, a cluster of shadows approached, jostling as they ran down the passageway. Spears and swords glinting. Too many to count.

  Gallus looked this way and that. Then Carbo grappled his shoulder.

  ‘Eventually, we all must face our past, Tribunus.’ With that, the centurion turned away and loped across the arena, headed for the tunnel mouth. He stopped only to pick up the discarded spike-hammer, then twisted round to glance at Pavo and Gallus, his grey-streaked locks whipping across his fiery scowl. ‘Go . . . run!’ he yelled before turning to plunge into the shadows of the tunnel mouth with a frenzied cry. His roar was met with yelps of surprise, the crash of crumpling armour and the thick cracking of bones.

  Gallus gazed into the darkness of the tunnel mouth, Carbo’s words ringing in his ears. Then hands clasped down upon his shoulders, wrenching him back, towards the open end of the arena.

  ‘Sir, come on!’ Zosimus cried.

  Tamur crouched amongst the gutted ruins of the Fire Temple’s central chamber. While the blaze raged on near the palace, the inferno here had been extinguished. The place was still fiercely hot and an acrid stench of charred flesh hung in the air. He gazed at the grotesque, blackened form before him, propped against one wall in sitting position. It was hairless and near-featureless, the skin hanging in half-melted welts. This was the mighty archimagus he had looked up to for so many years – the one who had stepped in to defend him as his father’s heir. This was the man who had promised him his destiny. Tamur had always feared what might happen without the Archimagus by his side. Now, he felt only a great burden lifting from his shoulders. As the surrounding smoke cleared, Tamur’s thoughts came together for the first time in so long.

  ‘You worked my father like an ox. Then you harnessed me.’

  At that moment, the corpse juddered. The charred, crispy eyelids cracked open, and Ramak’s predatory glare was upon him once again. Terror lanced through Tamur’s veins.

  ‘You . . . will . . . obey me, Spahbad,’ Ramak hissed in little more than a whisper. The skin of his throat had melded together with that of his jaw, fusing some serrated wound there and offering him a desperate grip on life. ‘The army . . .
must wait . . . until I recover . . . ’

  Tamur’s terror turned to ire. Fury that this creature still tried to control him. ‘I have listened to your words for too long, Archimagus. Aye, the conquest will begin. But your time is over.’ He looked this way and that; nobody else was in the central chamber. Nobody had seen that the archimagus still clung to life.

  Ramak’s eyes grew wide as Tamur reached out with both hands, clasped them to Ramak’s head, then twisted, his great arms bulging. With a tortured crunching of bone and snapping of sinew, the archimagus’ head swivelled sharply and then fell limp, dangling at an absurd angle.

  Tamur stood, his nostrils flaring. ‘Now I will lead my armies. I will seize my own destiny!’

  He left the ruined temple and flitted down from the acropolis in a blur. First, the Romans had to be stopped before they could take word back to the empire. It was doubtful they would ever make it across such a vast distance in any case, but he had to be sure. He barged through the city streets towards the western gates, shoving the crush of sweating, babbling fools from his path. When one prune-faced old stable hand nearly tripped him, he swiped his shamshir from his scabbard and slashed it across the old fool’s belly. The man’s scream was piercing. His guts bulged from the cut and then toppled onto the street. The swell of people nearby broke out into a panicked chorus at this too.

  ‘Clear a path for me!’ Tamur barked.

  At once, the pack of ironclad pushtigban following him drew their blade. The rasping of iron was enough to split the crowd. They reached the western gatehouse and Tamur motioned to his men. ‘Have the gates closed. Not a soul enters or leaves this city.’

  ‘But, Noble Spahbad, the palace is still ablaze, the palms on the slopes have caught light and now the northern quarter of the city is in flames too. Our homes will burn unless we can ferry enough river water through the gates. The levels of the cistern and the underwater canal are too low and . . . ’