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Legionary(26)



Tamur dismounted, his guards doing likewise to flank him, then he strode to the temple’s eastern entrance. Inside, the sweltering heat of the day instantly lifted. The cool interior was shaded and silent. As they strode through the whitewashed, arched corridor, an orange light danced on the polished black slabs underfoot. Then the spitting and crackling of a fire grew louder and louder, and a new heat emerged; fiercer than the sun. They came to the square chamber at the heart of the temple. The Sacred Fire burned fiercely in this room, directly under the blue dome. The flames danced in a deep, circular pit in the floor, illuminating the mosaics on the walls and the arched corner niches; soulless masks, staring faces and sultry women draped only in transparent veils. The air above the pit rippled in a haze, bringing the gilt ceiling relief of the Faravahar to life.

‘Leave us,’ Tamur said to his guards. With a chinking of iron, their footsteps died away.

He looked up and across the flames. ‘The talks are over.’

A silence hung in the air.

‘And what does Shapur have to say?’ a voice called out in reply, echoing around the domed area. On the other side of the fire, a face appeared, rippling and changing in the fierce heat haze: taut skin, hairless, with golden eyes and a hawk-like nose bent over narrow lips.

Tamur stifled a sigh. ‘He speaks of nothing but goodwill for his satrapies, Archimagus.’

At this, the figure emerged fully, walking around the fire. Archimagus Ramak held the key to his destiny. Despite the many thousands of warriors he could call upon as spahbad, it was Ramak who harnessed the Sacred Fire and held the power of the Divine Ahura Mazda in his hands. As such, every Zoroastrian in these lands would heed Ramak’s word if the archimagus wished it so. His father had taught him as much.

‘Shapur’s cheap words are turning you from our plans? Your resolve is weakening, Spahbad?’ Ramak hissed.

‘No, Archimagus, never,’ Tamur punched a fist to his broad breast and squared his rock-like jaw, his nostrils flaring in defiance.

‘Remember, Shapur sent your father to his death all those years ago – ordering his Savaran wing to lead the charge on the Roman lines by the Tigris.’

Tamur’s mind flashed with memories of his adolescence. The dark days after news of his father’s death had crushed him. All that his father had promised to teach him – how to ride, how to lead men, how to seize the battlefield – was gone with that news. Pretenders to his father’s seat at the head of the Persis Satrapy had gathered like carrion birds. Then, as now, it was Ramak who had seen them off, then shielded him, nurtured him.

‘Your father wanted then what we both want now. The House of Aspaphet has been asleep too long. Shapur’s reign is but a yoke for your noble lineage.’ Ramak purred. ‘You control a vast portion of the Savaran riders. But this alone is not enough to challenge Shapur. You need to expand your holdings. The Satrapy of Persis and the lands to the south are not populous or rich enough to support your designs. This was your father’s problem and now it is yours.’

Tamur’s thoughts buzzed like a swarm of hornets. He remembered a time when he was little more than a babe, when Father was not all-consumed by the desire to challenge Shapur. The years before Ramak rose to the post of archimagus. He felt the beginnings of a frown.

‘So Roman Syria must be acquired,’ Ramak continued, scattering his nascent thoughts. ‘And while Shapur hesitates over the taking of those ripe lands, we must not. We must capitalise upon his dithering,’ Ramak held up a hand and curled his fingers into a shaking fist.

‘Yes,’ Tamur nodded, focusing on Ramak’s words. ‘And I have told you time and again, Archimagus; my armies are ready to march west, to crush the Roman cities and forts, to seize the trade routes, to enrich and swell my ranks and then to march upon Shapur’s palace in Ctesiphon.’ Tamur’s heart beat faster as he spoke and he broke out in a fresh sweat. This always happened in moments of tense conversation; while others seemed able to remain cool and composed, his body was always swift to ready for battle.

Ramak nodded as if in acquiescence, scooping a wiry arm up and around Tamur’s shoulders. ‘While Shapur hesitates, you, brave spahbad, are too eager. Any advance upon Roman lands must be seen as legitimate. Thus, we must resolve the matter of the lost - ’

‘The lost scroll of Jovian and Shapur?’ Tamur could not catch his temper. ‘You still insist we first find this cursed scroll that may not even exist?’

Ramak tightened his grip on Tamur’s shoulder. It was cold and belied the aged archimagus’ feeble form. He held up his other hand before Tamur’s face, a single, bony finger extended. ‘I was there with your father the day those scrolls were written; Shapur’s weakness was showing even then. He conceded something to the Roman Emperor Jovian that day. Should the last remaining copy of that scroll contain the clause I fear it does – then we must ensure it never falls into Roman hands. For if it does, we could never breach the Roman borders. If we did, Shapur and Rome would come against us, the proud princes of Armenia and Iberia would offer us no shelter. Even the desert raiders and the gruff Isaurians would turn their blades upon us. The House of Aspaphet would be ground into the dust. Your father and his fathers would be shamed like never before.’ Ramak leant in closer to hiss in Tamur’s ear. ‘Your young sons would be tossed from the walls of Bishapur and their brains dashed out against the rocks.’