‘Come on, this is no drill, tighten up,’ Pavo barked, seeing Habitus, Noster and Sextus leaving a gap between their shields. He fell back to the rear of the century and clacked his staff against his shield. At the right of the first rank, Sura backed up the demand with a thump of his spear butt into the ground. The three offenders bunched up in a heartbeat and the XI Claudia ranks were ready – replete bar the eighteen they had lost in the pirate clash. Their scuffed ruby shields and worn, patched armour contrasted sharply with that of the Flavia Firma ranks, but their faces bore the grimaces of men well versed in legionary life. All within the compound fell silent as the gates creaked open. The tall, lean figure of Gallus strode in and beheld the three centuries of the expedition force.
Gallus met the eyes of each and every man. Then he nodded to the XI Claudia aquilifer, who raised the ruby bull standard in the air.
‘Move out!’ the tribunus bellowed.
Chapter 6
The midday sun baked the lands of the Persis Satrapy. A rocky river gorge stretched across the flat brushland as if cut by a giant’s plough long ago, from the jagged peaks of the Zagros Mountains in the east, snaking off towards the Persian Gulf in the west. A road ran along the fertile southern banks of this gorge, passing lush meadows and shimmering crop fields. Where the brushland met the mountains, the great city of Bishapur stood, hugged to the north by the gorge and fuelled from east and west by a steady stream of wagons, men and cattle.
Today was market day, a day that brought people to the city from many miles around. Sentries lined the beetling, sun-bleached and near-perfectly square walls, watching over the influx. The market-goers brought with them hides, wheat, dates, oil, figs and oranges. Once inside, these crowds spilled through the palm-lined streets and around the arched, stucco-clad villas and halls. They were headed for the centre of the city. Here lay the main market square at the foot of the acropolis. The stench of dung clashed with an aroma of cooking meat and the cries of traders mixed with the jabber of shoppers and the twanging of a highly-strung lute. Exotic animals were led in a parade around the square, ostrich eggs decorated with peacock feathers were held aloft like some grand prize and dark-skinned Indian slaves were led in chains to trading platforms. It seemed that not even a blade could splice this mob. Then all of a sudden they parted and the incessant babble died. All heads turned to the figure saddled on a white mare, ambling towards the stone staircase cut into the acropolis mount.
This was Tamur, noble son of the House of Aspaphet. At just twenty-six he was the Spahbad of the armies of the Persis Satrapy. When he rode, he could call upon more than fifteen thousand spears to ride and march with him. Today he wore a red silk robe in place of armour, but there was no mistaking his stock as a warrior. The veins on his temples pressed against the skin and his sleek dark locks were scraped back into a tail of curls that dangled to his shoulders. His chest bulged and his shoulders were broad enough to carry a man on each with ease. His fawn skin was smooth, spoiled only by a serrated battle scar on his cheek and a white scar welt across the bridge of his broken nose. His lips were turned down in a fixed gurn and his hazel eyes reflected this mood. Riding with him were a pair of ironclad and wing-helmed pushtigban riders. Just as their kind served Shapur in the great city of Ctesiphon, the few hundred garrisoned here in Bishapur were Tamur’s loyal bodyguards.
As his subjects bowed all around him, Tamur traced his gaze up the carved steps before him. Up there on one edge of the acropolis stood his palace. The palace of his father, Cyrus, and his father before him. The high-vaulted roofs seemed to climb upon one another, with the centre-most stretching highest, as if to touch the sky itself. The structure was majestic, surrounded by orchards, palms and fountains. He felt that familiar needling in his chest. This land of his forefathers was the heart of all Persia. Yet his noble lineage, the House of Aspaphet, remained subsumed in Shapur’s realm, his family mere vassals.
He traced a finger over the brooch fastening his robe – it bore the image of a golden lion, his family’s crest. ‘My father once spoke highly of you, Shapur,’ he muttered to himself as they begun the ascent, ‘but then he saw you for what you were. Like him, I will not be your dog.’
As he said this, his gaze swept to the other edge of the acropolis. Here stood the Fire Temple. The polished limestone walls of the temple offered four arched entrances, north, south, east and west. The blue dome cresting the temple glistened in the white-hot afternoon sun. This place would offer him the key to his stolen destiny.
They reached the top of the winding carved steps and trotted onto the plateau. Sixteen Median spearmen posted around the temple leapt to attention on seeing their leader. They wore pointed iron helms and clutched lengthy spears, and their chests were clad in leather armour.