The fire of the fight seemed to lessen in Carbo’s eyes at these words. ‘Lad, I . . . ’
‘I know what happened,’ Pavo said stonily.
Carbo could offer no reply.
Zosimus interrupted the moment. ‘Sir!’ he yelled to Gallus, pointing to the tunnel. There, a cluster of shadows approached, jostling as they ran down the passageway. Spears and swords glinting. Too many to count.
Gallus looked this way and that. Then Carbo grappled his shoulder.
‘Eventually, we all must face our past, Tribunus.’ With that, the centurion turned away and loped across the arena, headed for the tunnel mouth. He stopped only to pick up the discarded spike-hammer, then twisted round to glance at Pavo and Gallus, his grey-streaked locks whipping across his fiery scowl. ‘Go . . . run!’ he yelled before turning to plunge into the shadows of the tunnel mouth with a frenzied cry. His roar was met with yelps of surprise, the crash of crumpling armour and the thick cracking of bones.
Gallus gazed into the darkness of the tunnel mouth, Carbo’s words ringing in his ears. Then hands clasped down upon his shoulders, wrenching him back, towards the open end of the arena.
‘Sir, come on!’ Zosimus cried.
Tamur crouched amongst the gutted ruins of the Fire Temple’s central chamber. While the blaze raged on near the palace, the inferno here had been extinguished. The place was still fiercely hot and an acrid stench of charred flesh hung in the air. He gazed at the grotesque, blackened form before him, propped against one wall in sitting position. It was hairless and near-featureless, the skin hanging in half-melted welts. This was the mighty archimagus he had looked up to for so many years – the one who had stepped in to defend him as his father’s heir. This was the man who had promised him his destiny. Tamur had always feared what might happen without the Archimagus by his side. Now, he felt only a great burden lifting from his shoulders. As the surrounding smoke cleared, Tamur’s thoughts came together for the first time in so long.
‘You worked my father like an ox. Then you harnessed me.’
At that moment, the corpse juddered. The charred, crispy eyelids cracked open, and Ramak’s predatory glare was upon him once again. Terror lanced through Tamur’s veins.
‘You . . . will . . . obey me, Spahbad,’ Ramak hissed in little more than a whisper. The skin of his throat had melded together with that of his jaw, fusing some serrated wound there and offering him a desperate grip on life. ‘The army . . . must wait . . . until I recover . . . ’
Tamur’s terror turned to ire. Fury that this creature still tried to control him. ‘I have listened to your words for too long, Archimagus. Aye, the conquest will begin. But your time is over.’ He looked this way and that; nobody else was in the central chamber. Nobody had seen that the archimagus still clung to life.
Ramak’s eyes grew wide as Tamur reached out with both hands, clasped them to Ramak’s head, then twisted, his great arms bulging. With a tortured crunching of bone and snapping of sinew, the archimagus’ head swivelled sharply and then fell limp, dangling at an absurd angle.
Tamur stood, his nostrils flaring. ‘Now I will lead my armies. I will seize my own destiny!’
He left the ruined temple and flitted down from the acropolis in a blur. First, the Romans had to be stopped before they could take word back to the empire. It was doubtful they would ever make it across such a vast distance in any case, but he had to be sure. He barged through the city streets towards the western gates, shoving the crush of sweating, babbling fools from his path. When one prune-faced old stable hand nearly tripped him, he swiped his shamshir from his scabbard and slashed it across the old fool’s belly. The man’s scream was piercing. His guts bulged from the cut and then toppled onto the street. The swell of people nearby broke out into a panicked chorus at this too.
‘Clear a path for me!’ Tamur barked.
At once, the pack of ironclad pushtigban following him drew their blade. The rasping of iron was enough to split the crowd. They reached the western gatehouse and Tamur motioned to his men. ‘Have the gates closed. Not a soul enters or leaves this city.’
‘But, Noble Spahbad, the palace is still ablaze, the palms on the slopes have caught light and now the northern quarter of the city is in flames too. Our homes will burn unless we can ferry enough river water through the gates. The levels of the cistern and the underwater canal are too low and . . . ’
Tamur’s arm knotted like tough rope and then he brought his knuckles round to smack into the man’s mouth. The pushtigban warrior stumbled back, blood washing down his iron chestplate. Tamur glowered at the rest of his guards. Not one held his gaze, each of them shuffling to stand upright. ‘You do as I say, you do it immediately and cut down any who try to pass through these gates. If this city burns to the ground then so be it. The Romans must not leave these walls.’