Suddenly, Quadratus frowned, strode forward and ripped his spatha across the straps of the drum. The instrument fell from the drummer’s chest and crashed to the sand. Quadratus put his bloodied boot through the skin, wrecking the instrument. ‘Battle’s over, you little turd!’ The enthusiasm drained from the drummer’s face to be replaced by a look of confusion and then a nascent terror. Quadratus growled and lifted his sword again, sending the man scurrying across the sand like a kicked dog.
‘That thing’s been doing my bloody head in all morning,’ Quadratus said, booting the wrecked drum away. Satisfied, he rolled his head on his shoulders, sheathed his sword, then stepped back into line with his comrades. Pavo saluted the big centurion, then came to Gallus, crimson-stained and glaring. ‘You might be sick of this question, sir, but what now?’
Gallus looked up the beach to the approaching Shapur. ‘That is for the shahanshah to decide.’
Pavo’s mind reeled. He looked to big Zosimus and Quadratus – ragged, torn apparitions of their former selves. He looked to Sura – the unofficial King of Adrianople had no more fight left in him. Tribunus Varius and the clutch of Flavia Firma legionaries likewise were wounded, stunned and cowed by the sight of the fresh Persian army approaching.
The shahanshah rode forward from the vast column he led, the archers in his ranks lifting nocked bows – thousands of them. He was surrounded by pushtigban riders wearing armour that was itself a treasure, gilded and bejewelled. The narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar from Tamur’s ranks rode forward, dismounting to prostrate himself before Shapur. He spoke in even tones, pointing to the figure of Tamur lying in a pool of blood on the grassy verge. Shapur gazed at the corpse for what seemed like an eternity, the sea breeze lifting his pure-white locks and richly-oiled beard.
Finally, the shahanshah turned away and trotted onwards, towards the bloodied legionaries. When they came to a halt, the serene sounds of nature carried on around them as if oblivious to the tumult of moments ago: the crashing of waves, the screeching of gulls and contented munching of the feasting carrion birds.
This close, Pavo saw that Shapur was old. His skin was mottled and deeply lined and he wore a dog-tired expression. But most of all, his eyes betrayed his years. They were weary, almost sickened of life.
‘I tire of the sight of blood,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the rolling crimson waves around the legionaries’ feet. ‘Our empires have spilled oceans of it in my time. And now it seems that I will spend my final years spilling the blood of those within my own lands. Those who seek to seize my throne.’ His gaze grew distant once more, until the narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar approached him, muttering in his ear, pointing to the Romans.
Shapur looked up and beheld them. Then he raised his hand. Pavo’s blood iced. One flick of the finger and it would all be over. Death, torture or a return to the mines. He sensed his comrades brace likewise by his side.
But Shapur pointed to the Roman triremes.
‘Leave, Romans.’
With that, he heeled his mount round, and waved his riders with him.