Legionary(109)

Pavo shook his head, feeling the smoke clawing at his eyes and lungs. ‘No, this smoke will kill us before the Persian blades will.’ He saw one piece of linen that had not yet caught fire, draped on the temple wall beside a water font. He tore this down, ripped it in two and soaked it in the water then wrapped it round his head leaving just a thin gap to see through, giving the other piece to Sura. This seemed to shield their eyes and lungs from the worst of the smoke. ‘Now, we fight,’ Pavo nodded, then the pair looked again to the passageways.

The first of the approaching Persian warriors burst into the central chamber from the northern corridor. Pavo and Sura braced, ready for combat, but the warrior swiped out wildly, blinded by the stinging smoke, then doubled over, gagging and retching. Then others staggered in likewise, tormented by the smoke and oblivious to Pavo and Sura.

‘Sura, come on,’ Pavo hissed, backing around the flailing men. He and Sura edged to the eastern entrance, then Pavo cast a last look back at the Sacred Fire.

Goodbye, Father, he mouthed.

With that, he and Sura plunged through the corridor. The black smoke was billowing along here too. They skirted around the disorientated Persian warriors, few even noticing them. When they burst from the end of the corridor and onto the acropolis, the black smoke did not abate. Thick clouds of it poured across the plateau, as if a storm had emerged from the temple. Pavo retched and spat, blinking and rubbing at his eyes.

‘Look!’ Sura said, pointing down the slope to the arena. The games had ceased, the crowds were spilling from the spectacle and a panicked cry had replaced the entertained roars of before. Warriors and people alike streamed through the streets and filtered up the side of the acropolis. Many carried pots sloshing with water, many more had fallen to their knees in prayer, seeking mercy from Ahura Mazda.

‘Pavo!’ Sura croaked.

Pavo spun to see a quartet of Median spearmen rushing towards them. The pair braced, swords raised, but the spearmen washed around them like a river around a lone rock, haring onwards to the temple before calling out to nearby comrades carrying water vessels.

Pavo looked to Sura and Sura looked back.

Then they each turned their gaze upon the arena floor below.





Chapter 20





Dark plumes of smoke billowed from the temple, blackening the skies over the city and setting light to the adjacent orchard. Soon the palace would be ablaze too. Down in the arena the drums ceased and the crowd gawped. Then, after a moment of realisation, they were fleeing the timber banks of seating, jabbering and screaming, rushing to aid those fighting the flames, their hurried footsteps taking up the absent rhythm of the drums. Clouds of smoke billowed down across the arena, stinging eyes and bringing coughing fits to those who fled.

But while the people of Bishapur panicked and the arena drained of spectators, Spahbad Tamur remained, barking his spearmen on from the kathisma as they tore at the five Romans. When the smoke started to obscure his view, the burly warrior leapt from the enclosure and rushed down to the foot of the arena seating. There he strode along the edge, punching a fist into his palm, motioning as if striking death blows himself.

‘Spill their blood!’ Tamur cried, the veins in his forehead bulging. ‘I want my victory, I want my blessing!’ He shot an anxious glance up to the blazing Fire Temple as he said this.

Near the centre of the arena, Gallus glanced at the snarling spahbad, then back to his foe – a hook-nosed spearman with a dark, oiled beard. He parried then swept his spatha out like a serpent’s tongue, tearing across the chest of the spearman, breaking the iron loops in the man’s mail vest and scoring deep into flesh. His foe fell back, choking on his own blood. Gallus turned from the dying man and faced the next two spearmen who came for him. Three of the ten Medians facing them had been felled – caught cold or overconfident. But the remaining seven were fresh while he and his men were tiring.

Nearby he saw Quadratus, Carbo and Zosimus, a pair of spearmen lying in a bloody pool at their feet while they fought to fend off another three. On the other edge of the arena, another two Medians had backed Felix against the edge of the space. Suddenly, one foe punched a spear through the little Greek’s gut and into the timber strut behind him. Felix’s cry echoed around the emptying arena and a thick spray of crimson blood leapt from the wound, soaking the dusty floor. Another Median spearman lined up to strike a death blow, throwing down his spear and drawing out his shamshir, lining up to strike at Felix’s neck. Gallus’ blood froze; the Greek’s eyes met with his, a look of finality sweeping across his features.

Instinctively, Gallus lunged forward in an attempt to burst past his own two attackers and reach Felix, but the spears of the two before him came up in a cross, blocking his path and then barging him back. He stumbled and fell.