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?