Legionary(114)

‘After that?’ Quadratus asked, stretching and cricking his neck to either side.

Gallus turned and strode away from the fire, casting back over his shoulder; ‘After that, we pray that the gods will spirit us home.’





Pavo woke refreshed from a deep and dreamless sleep. It was still dark, but he could see the blackness of the eastern horizon was tinged with a shade of dark-blue. He sat up and scratched at his scalp. The nightmares of Father had not come to him, and he felt an odd sadness at their absence. He thought again of Father’s last half-sentence.

Before I met your mother, I . . .

He smoothed at the leather bracelet again and cocked a half-smile. ‘I can only imagine, Father.’

At that moment, a flock of nightjars swooped overhead, emitting a gentle, soothing trill. At the same time, the dark-blue in the east split with a sliver of orange-pink dawn light. His heart warmed at the sight, and he recalled the embrace he had shared with Father.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he stood and stretched. Oddly, while Quadratus, Zosimus and Sura lay near him, Gallus was nowhere to be seen. He stripped off his filthy robe to wade into the shallows of the river, bracing at the chill. A glance all around the flatland offered no sign of threat. Perhaps the situation at Bishapur had spiralled out of control after they had left. Perhaps there would be nobody out looking for them. This glow of optimism lifted his heart further. He plunged under the waters and ran his fingers through his locks, rising and feeling human once more. He blinked the water from his eyes, wiped droplets from his lips and saw the other three stirring. Quadratus was last to rise, sitting bolt upright, lifting one leg and emitting a high-pitched and tortured chorus of farts, grinning as he saw Zosimus’ and Sura’s faces wrinkle in disgust. Pavo waded from the river, towelling himself with his ragged robe, patting his face dry. Then he stopped, blinking.

Something was moving on the eastern horizon.

No . . . the entire eastern horizon was moving. Even closer were a pair of riders. Persian scouts. They circled on their mounts, pointing at Pavo, then wheeled around and melted back into the crawling horizon.

‘Sir,’ Pavo spoke hoarsely, then cleared his throat. ‘Sir!’ he cried this time, head snapping this way and that to locate Gallus.

A crunching of rocks sounded from further up the riverbank, and Gallus appeared over the top of one tall, jutting rock, before sliding down its face. The look on the tribunus’ face told him two things: he had not slept at all and he had seen exactly what was coming for them.

‘On your horses – move!’ Gallus cried.





Tamur lofted the golden lion standard in the air, the veins in his arms bulging at the weight. ‘Onwards, to crush the lie!’ he bellowed. The reply came like a guttural roar of giants as more than ten thousand warriors echoed their spahbad’s rallying call. The Savaran riders swept across the land like a plague of locusts, kicking up a wall of dust in their wake. On the river adjacent to their route, sturdy rafts carried the Median spearmen and some two thousand wretched, chained paighan downriver with them.

At the mouth of the Gulf, the fleet of the Persis Satrapy would be waiting to take Tamur and his army across the Persian Gulf. Upriver, they could then strike out across the desert and fall upon Roman Syria like a plague. Perhaps then the blackened ruin of his palace would seem insignificant. He shuddered with rage as he remembered the last thing he had seen before mounting to leave and lead the Savaran; his treasure vault, wrenched open and emptied by the people who were supposed to fear and respect him. The image brought flickering fire to his every thought. While his agents back in the city would deal with the perpetrators, he would have the pleasure of dealing with the five Romans who had started the blaze. They would suffer like dogs. They would plead for the relief of death.

‘Noble Spahbad Tamur,’ a voice spoke beside him.

He swung his scowl round to see his pushtigban-salar, the leader of his bodyguard.

The man lifted his gilt iron facemask to reveal narrow eyes and an eager grin. ‘The Romans have been sighted.’

‘As I knew they would,’ Tamur replied flatly.

‘We will be upon them within the hour. They are headed for the coast.’

‘Excellent,’ he purred. ‘This will serve as a fine exercise in battlefield formations. Have our ranks form an arc – we will herd these five towards the shores like cattle. And have the paighan on the rafts disembark nearer the coast then join our right flank.’

‘A fine plan, Noble Spahbad,’ the pushtigban-salar nodded as he backed away then kicked his mount into a trot to convey the order.

Tamur sneered at the sycophantic dog as he departed. The man’s family had long coveted the seat of the House of Aspaphet. When Tamur was a boy, he remembered the cur and his father’s frequent visits to the palace, their brazen attempts to dictate policy. Only Ramak’s presence by Tamur’s side had staved off their push for power. But Ramak was gone. Not for the first time since the archimagus’ death, Tamur felt an odd curdling of hubris and self-doubt. While he relished this new found autonomy, he also longed to have another to consult, another to prompt him. Sibilant voices whispered in his head and he snatched at each, wondering if they were his own thoughts or those of Ramak, nestled in his mind like some demon. He closed his eyes and grappled on his reins until his knuckles whitened and his hands shook. The voices fell silent, and he saw what he had to do.