‘I have it!’ he gasped, spluttering the dust from his lips and hopping down from the stool.
Sura gawped. ‘We must be sure – check!’
Habitus, Sura and Falco hurried round as Pavo unravelled the scroll.
The writing was faint and completely faded in parts around the edges.
The River Euphrates is to be the border between our two great empires. Like brothers overlooking east and west, neither shall allow their armies to trespass upon the other’s territory. Any such encroachment will incur the wrath of the many bold and noble kingdoms and republics that encircle our borders.
Pavo glanced up, shaking his head. ‘It’s real, it’s just as we hoped!’
Falco gripped his son’s arm, his lips stained with black blood. ‘It can stave off war with Persia?’
‘Yes, it states it plainly, it . . . ’ he fell silent as he read the last line in the treaty, just above the flaking wax seals of Jovian and Shapur.
While Flavius Jovianus Augustus remains at Rome’s helm, this treaty will remain sacrosanct.
His heartbeat slowed and a nausea swam in his veins, as if he had just taken a blow to the guts.
‘ . . . it’s useless,’ he muttered, dropping his hands by his side. ‘Jovian did enough to protect himself and no more.’
Sura wrung his fingers through his locks, backing away. ‘We’ve come all the way from the empire, through scalding desert, through months of torture in those mines, and now into the heart of the palace to find this, a useless sheaf of paper?’
Pavo reached out a hand to console Sura. But he froze as he heard footsteps scraping at the entrance to the chamber.
‘Useless for Rome, perhaps. But invaluable to me,’ a voice rasped.
A winter-cold fear gripped Pavo. He and the group backed away as the hunched, blue-robed figure of Archimagus Ramak moved through the arched entrance, stepping between the artefacts dotted around the chamber. His fingers were steepled and his eyes hungry, peering along his sharp nose. ‘That scroll has been like a demon, preying upon my dreams, stifling my ambitions. Always, it taunted me with the possibility of its existence,’ Ramak continued, approaching. ‘When I heard from my spies in Antioch that Emperor Valens was to send an expedition to Persia to retrieve it, I feared the worst. And for a moment, when I watched you find it and begin to read its contents, I was sure I would have to slay you and burn the scroll, in order to smooth the coming invasion of Roman Syria.’ He produced a silk cloth from his sleeve and patted it to his bald crown, blotting away the beads of sweat there. His tongue poked out to dampen his lips. ‘Now, I realise the scroll is no threat to my ambitions. It never was. Jovian is long dead. Roman Syria can be taken without reprisal. I need no longer burn the scroll.’ He lifted a hand and stretched out a single, bony finger that seemed to lance into Pavo’s heart. ‘But you must die. All of you. Perhaps I will skin you and mount your hides alongside this one?’ he grinned, nodding at Valerian’s remains. He clapped his hands. At that moment, six pushtigban entered the chamber, fanning out behind Ramak, then marching in front of him in a phalanx, picking their way around the displays in the chamber towards Pavo.
Pavo tucked the scroll into his robe. As he backed away from the approaching six, he grappled at one small stucco bust of a Persian noble and hurled it at the nearest warrior. The piece smacked against the man’s forehead with a dull thud. The bust hit the floor and the warrior swayed where he stood, his helm caved in, blood gushing from his eye sockets and nostrils before he toppled to the floor. At this, the rest of the warriors growled, suddenly enraged, then rushed forward.
Pavo staggered back, knowing his sword could not compete against the lengthy pushtigban spears. In moments, he and his comrades were cornered by the leftmost archway overlooking the courtyard and the city. Habitus used his spear as best he could, jabbing out at them, swiping to keep them back.
Pavo glanced all around him. There was only one way out of this, he realised, peering out of the archway and the fifty foot drop to the courtyard below. He felt the silken curtains trace on his skin and a glimmer of hope sparkled in his mind. He saw Sura’s eyes glint too as if sharing the thought. With a yank, the pair tore the curtain from its pole, then hurriedly tied the top to a marble sculpture of a scale-clad Persian warrior. Pavo tugged on the curtain twice and it held firm. He grappled Falco around the waist and pulled him close. ‘Hold on tight,’ he demanded, stepping up onto the ledge of the archway. Sura grasped the curtain too.
‘Strike them down!’ Ramak seethed.
‘Habitus, come on!’ Pavo cried, but the reply only came in the form of Habitus’ bloody gurgle – a pair of pushtigban spears punching through his chest and bursting from his back. Habitus crumpled and the pushtigban surged over his corpse, spears raised to strike.