Legionary(124)

At once, the three pushtigban saddled by his side set off to give the orders. Tamur was alone with just his narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar.

‘Tell me,’ he said, leaning in closer to the leader of his bodyguard and pointing a finger to the north, ‘do my eyes deceive me or is that an army disembarking from our fleet?’

The pushtigban-salar nodded. ‘It is, Spahbad.’

Tamur frowned, the heat haze falling away to reveal the iron wall of Persian troops forming up there. He gripped his reins and leant forward in the saddle, a nausea growing in his gut. This was just like before, when Ramak had commissioned the new gunds of riders. Was the archimagus still clinging onto power, even after death? He snatched glances around him, maddened. ‘Reinforcements? I did not arrange this.’

‘No, you did not. But I did,’ the pushtigban-salar replied.

‘You did this without my perm - ’ his words trailed off as he felt a cold iron dagger blade resting on his jugular. He looked at his man with bulging eyes.

‘The king of kings comes to curtail your ambitions, Spahbad,’ the pushtigban-salar spoke calmly.

Tamur’s heart froze. He looked north to see the army approaching. At least fifteen thousand fresh and well equipped cataphractii and Median spearmen moved like an iron serpent across the sands. Pointed, plumed helms, spear tips, swishing manes and vibrant drafsh banners jostled overhead. At their heart, the Drafsh Kavian standard bobbed, the purple banner and blazing golden star upon it larger than any other. Underneath, he saw the unmistakable outline of the rider who led this army. A man adorned with a gilded ram’s skull and skin atop his head. A man in a green and purple silken cloak. This was Shapur. King of kings. The Shahanshah of all Persia. The man he had set out to defy.

The pushtigban-salar purred in his ear, digging the blade a little further into his skin. ‘I will inherit the House of Aspaphet. The reward for my loyalty to the shahanshah. You,’ he said, pausing to let Tamur’s imagination cripple him, ‘will live as long as the torturers can keep you alive.’

Tamur’s breath quickened and icy cold sweat washed from his every pore. His bowels turned over and he felt their contents press down, desperate for release. The rumours of the shahanshah’s wrath were legendary. A fair man to those loyal to him. A demon to those who dared cross him. At that moment, an image flickered through his mind: the skin of Emperor Valerian, but not quite. This time, it was his own tortured and torn features stretched across the frame.

‘What should I do, Archimagus . . . what should I do?’ Tamur called out to the ether in a panic.

At this, the pushtigban-salar roared with laughter, pressing the dagger blade tighter to Tamur’s skin. ‘Ramak is dead, you fool. Nobody will protect you now!’

With those words, Tamur’s mind was made up. He thrust his throat against the pushtigban-salar’s blade. A moment of resistance was followed by a dull, grating sensation. The searing pain was followed by a warm wetness that instantly soaked his chest and a salty, metallic stench permeated his nostrils and throat. The strength drained from his limbs in moments. He toppled from the saddle and onto the dune, thrashing, pink bubbles burgeoning from the haemorrhaging wound. He tried to trace his fingers across the lion motif on his breast, but they were already numb.

The pushtigban-salar glared down at him, shaking his head, sheathing his blade. ‘You will live for eternity in the torment of Ahriman,’ the man said. ‘A torment like no other.’

As Tamur fell into blackness, terror seemed to come with him.





Pavo gawped as the pushtigban-salar, still coated in Tamur’s blood, rode down from the grassy dune and waved Tamur’s wing of Savaran back from the fray. The din of battle fell away as they withdrew, forming up on the beach a few hundred paces south of the tattered band of Roman survivors. Then he looked up the shoreline to the north, where Shapur’s army descended towards them.

The lead war elephant calmed quickly at the soothing words and touches from the flat-nosed paighan. ‘The war is over?’ the man called back over his shoulder.

‘Far from it,’ Pavo said, before climbing from the howdah cabin to slide down the rope, his arms trembling with fatigue. He landed with a thud on the bloody mire that had earlier been a pristine white-sand beach. Sura landed beside him. The pair stumbled over to stand with their comrades. Weak, scarred and bleeding hands patted their shoulders. Quadratus made to congratulate them likewise, but stopped, looking past Pavo and frowning. Pavo turned to see the source of the Gaul’s concern; despite the rest of Tamur’s Savaran having withdrawn, the gold-painted war drummer had remained only feet from the legionaries, thumping on his instrument unimpeded. His arms swung wildly, eyes bulging as if in some kind of trance, grinning maniacally, his tongue lolling in fervour.