Legionary(101)
‘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.’