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.