‘Jump!’ Sura cried, barging he, Pavo and Falco from the ledge.
With a whoosh of air in his ears, Pavo realised two things. Firstly, he was falling. Secondly, he had given no thought to the length of the curtain. If it was too long, they would be dashed on the courtyard slabs. He braced as the slabs rushed up at them, waiting on the shattering impact. At the last, the curtain jolted rigid and they dangled, feet from the ground. They slid from the curtain and staggered back, pushtigban spears clattering down around them only inches away. Ramak curled his fingers around the ledge above and glared down upon them. ‘Spearmen!’ he roared. His cry seemed to echo across the plateau and all over Bishapur. At once, the rustle of iron and thundering footsteps seemed to come at them from every direction.
Pavo wrenched Falco to his feet and darted past the fountain towards the palm cluster and the lip of the acropolis where they had ascended. ‘Stay with me, Father!’ he cried as Falco foundered, coughing, blood snaking from his lips.
‘Pavo!’ Sura cried.
Pavo skidded to a halt just in time as a trio of Median spearmen burst into view by the cluster of palms. He swung round only to see Ramak and the pushtigban haring towards them from the palace. He looked this way and that, seeing that the only way clear was across the acropolis, towards the blue-domed Fire Temple. ‘This way!’
They hurried from the pursuing pack of warriors and rushed through a shady orchard, startling one Median spearman who had clearly not heard Ramak’s cry. The mail-shirted spearman dropped the bright orange fruit he was munching upon, wiped his moustache clean then grappled at his spear and grimaced. Pavo ducked under the spear thrust, pulling Falco down with him. Sura followed them, throwing a sharp jab into the man’s cheek, sending him staggering, dazed.
Branches thwacked against their skin as they pushed onwards, then they burst out into the sunlight again. The three stumbled on towards the temple. Ramak and the pursuing pack were only paces behind. Pavo took his father’s arm, leading him forward to the lip of the acropolis beside the temple. ‘Brace yourself, Father, it will be a steep descent, but . . . ’ He froze, seeing more Median spearmen climbing the scree-strewn slopes towards them, fanned out all around this end of the acropolis.
‘We’re trapped!’ Sura said it first.
Pavo backed towards the temple now, readying to fight, but there were more than thirty men in all coming for them. With no other option presenting itself, he hauled Falco inside the temple’s eastern entrance. Their footsteps echoed along a broad, vaulted corridor. An orange light glowed at the end of the corridor, and its reflection danced on the whitewashed ceiling and sparkled on the black-slabbed floor. As they approached this light, a dryer, fiercer heat than ever before swirled around them. At last, they spilled into the temple’s central chamber. A circular pit dominated this square room and the flames that danced within it licked high in the air, as if trying to reach the gilt ceiling and the relief of the winged Faravahar there.
‘We’re in the temple?’ Falco said. ‘This is the beating heart of Ramak’s realm.’ He trembled with weakness, his teeth stained with black blood.
‘Father, you need to stand back,’ Pavo winced, glancing to each of the four passageways leading to this central chamber, shadows jostling in the slivers of daylight. ‘Stay back and we’ll protect you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Falco squared his jaw. ‘I have waited over fifteen years to fight that whoreson, Ramak.’
‘Father, you’re all I have, please, stand back!’ Pavo pleaded.
At this, Falco frowned, shaking his head. ‘You mean the crone didn’t tell you?’
‘Father?’ Pavo frowned.
Falco pulled the strip of well-worn leather from his wrist and tied it hurriedly onto Pavo’s. ‘Before I met your mother, I . . . ’
A storm of footsteps echoed down each corridor, cutting him off. But then the footsteps stopped. A lone, rasping voice echoed into the chamber; ‘You cannot escape.’
Pavo’s eyes darted as the words seemed to dance around him. The shadows of the Persian warriors in each passageway were still. The only movement came from the southern corridor. The three backed away from this corridor, until they reached the edge of the fire pit and felt the flames sting their skin.
‘Now you will burn along with your scroll. Rome, the lie, will burn to fuel the destiny of the House of Aspaphet, the truth . . . my destiny.’ The echoing words grew closer until Ramak emerged into the chamber, flanked by two pushtigban. ‘I urge you to cast yourselves into the flames, Romans,’ he gestured to the fire pit, ‘before my guards seize you. Else you will see that I have many long and memorable ways of introducing non-believers to the Sacred Fire.’ As he said this, he sidled round the edge of the room to a rack where a variety of fire-charred irons hung. Some like swords, others hooked, some spiked. He eyed them and then looked over Falco. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘I put out your eyes a long, long time ago then sent you to the mines. Perhaps this time I will have to cripple you too. Though that might be a waste of effort, for you have but hours to live anyway,’ he mused, seeing the dark blood dripping from Falco’s lips.