Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (42 page)

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’ presence.

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.

‘I very much doubt it. But you will hear any foe before you see them,’ Falco replied. ‘Now, the scroll is not on this floor. The slave who told me of it said he concealed it in the heart of the palace. The chamber on the second floor that looks out over the city. Find the stairwell.’

Pavo crept forward, casting his gaze along to where this vast chamber met with the next, a yawning archway dividing them. Beyond, he saw the base of a flight of polished marble stairs. ‘This way,’ he gestured, leading them towards it. He slowed to a halt when he heard another clatter of footsteps approaching, flitting down the stairs. Two people. He shot a glance to Sura and Habitus. They rushed to press into the shadows either side of the archway, out of sight of the stairs. Two pushtigban warriors turned briskly from the stairwell chamber into this one, striding past Pavo and his group. A muted sigh of relief escaped Pavo’s lips when, suddenly, one of the guards halted, patting his belt.

‘My water skin,’ he muttered, then turned back for the stairs. His eyes fell upon the four nestled in the shadows in the corner. The man’s face wrinkled, his dark moustache lifting as he sucked in a breath to call out in alarm. The cry had barely left his lips before Sura was up and rushing for him. Instinctively, Pavo charged behind his friend. The pushtigban levelled his spear at Sura, who feinted to duck one way then went the other, grappling the spear shaft as he did so and wrenching it from the man’s grip. Pavo followed up with a crunching hook into the man’s jaw. He toppled like a felled oak. The other guard, only feet away, rushed for the courtyard to raise the alarm. With a flash of iron, Sura loosed the spear of the fallen pushtigban like a javelin. The lance punched into the warrior’s back – failing to penetrate his armour but knocking him to the floor where his head bashed against the tiles. He lay still. Sura expelled a tense breath, shook his throwing arm and rolled his head on his shoulders. ‘The games at Adrianople, three summers ago – finest javelin marksman. Shame I got drunk later and nearly skewered the judge with my one wayward throw. They took my prize purse back for that. Shower of bast - ’

Pavo grappled his friend by the arm. ‘Tell me about it later.’ He took the shamshir from the unconscious pushtigban, while Sura took the blade of the other. Habitus took a spear. They dragged the two limp bodies into the shadows, then Pavo led Falco to the stairwell chamber, the others following close behind. The staircase was broad and led up around the walls of this central vault – nearly three times as high as the last chamber. His eyes rested on the second of three landings. ‘The heart of the palace,’ he muttered in realisation. They hurried up to this second floor and slowed at the landing. There were no guards in sight. A bright shaft of sunlight drew his gaze to the main chamber on this floor.

Pavo led the way gingerly, flexing his grip on the honeycomb hilt of the Persian blade. They entered this, the finest chamber yet. The far wall opened up courtesy of three tall archways, providing a breathtaking vista of sun-bathed Bishapur. Silken curtains hung either side of these archways, tied back with gold-threaded rope. The sunlight streamed in and illuminated the gilded, high vaulted ceiling and the forest of treasures that filled the floor. It was an eclectic collection of marble sculptures, porphyry carvings, suits of ancient-looking armour, shields with ornate spears crossed behind them, delicately inscribed vases and urns and fine silk drapes. They each picked their way through this treasure-trove with bated breath. Pavo’s gaze snagged on the floor mosaic – depicting a pack of Persian riders with thick, oiled beards and plumed helms, loosing their bows. A warrior on his knees before them bore their arrows in his chest – a warrior in Roman armour. Pavo gulped. Then he looked up to see Sura unwittingly backing up against one of the suits of armour. The suit had been positioned to hold a curved blade high overhead. Sura bumped the display and the arm and blade came chopping down, stopping only inches from his shoulder. His stifled yelp did little to still the nerves. He cocked an eyebrow at Pavo as he casually returned the arm to its original position.

Pavo glared at his friend, then whispered to Habitus who was scouting the far side of the chamber. ‘Guards?’

Habitus shook his head. ‘We’re alone, sir.’

Pavo turned to Falco. ‘Father. I think this is it – the heart of the palace.’

‘Aye, I can smell the finery around me . . . that and the stench of power,’ Falco said, stroking a silk drape.

‘The scroll, Father. Where is it?’ Pavo said. Sura and Habitus waited on the reply, wide-eyed.

Falco’s face fell grave and he nodded as if about to perform some loathsome task. ‘In amongst this opulence, there is a vile object. Shapur’s forefather did something that he regretted until his dying breath, or so they say.’

‘Father, what do you . . . ’ he stopped, his gaze catching on something beyond Falco’s shoulder. Something grotesque. A shiver shook him to his core despite the fierce heat of the sun streaming across the room. There, at the far end of the chamber, a timber frame hung on the wall, as if to hold another silk drape. But instead of a drape, a human skin was stretched across it. Patchy tufts of hair on the scalp. Gaping, empty eyeholes. Tortured, torn lips. The warped, frayed and sagging skin of limbs and a torso. Pavo felt his guts turn over and he heard Habitus retch behind him. ‘Emperor Valerian? So the myth is real.’

‘Aye, you have found it then?’ Falco replied sombrely.

‘How can anyone keep such a thing in their home?’ Sura spat.

Falco shook his head. ‘It seems they keep it because neither Shapur’s forefather, nor any Persian Shahanshah or noble since, has been able to face this piece in order to dispose of it. Shame sees it left here to stare into eternity.’

Pavo’s disgust faded momentarily. He noticed that while the other treasures in the room were spotless, the skin was heaped with dust and cobwebs. ‘No Persian comes near this piece, you said.’

Falco’s face creased with a wry smile. ‘Exactly. And that is why the brigand hid the scroll behind it. That is why it will still be there.’

Pavo, Sura and Habitus shared a breathless glance. Seeing that neither of the two were making haste to search the skin, Pavo stepped forward, gulping back the urge to retch as he approached and saw every tortured inch of the piece. He kicked a short footstool over and stood on it, pressing his head side-on to the wall to look up the back of the frame. It was thick with furrowed dust, but nothing else. His shoulders sagged and he made to sigh, when a puff of dust caught in his throat. He erupted in a coughing fit, and this blew swathes of the thick dust from behind the frame. So much so that, when he regained his breath, his eye caught on something that had been revealed. A yellowed, frayed roll of paper, wedged behind the skin of the thigh. Pavo’s heart thundered. He reached up, stretching every sinew in his arm. A trailing, sagging piece of skin from the foot dangled across his face as he did so, the musty stench of ancient decay permeating his senses. His fingertips scraped and scratched at the scroll. Finally, it fell from where it was wedged and firmly into his grasp.

‘I have it!’ he gasped, spluttering the dust from his lips and hopping down from the stool.