Pavo and Sura shared a glance riddled with anxiety and hope.
Water or Persian steel?
They crested the rise and every man drew in a breath, then gasped.
Pavo gawped, disbelieving of what lay before them.
Like a shade, the flickering green was utterly gone.
Before them lay only snaking, golden sand dunes. Miles and miles of them, as far as the eye could see.
‘Mithras, no!’ Felix croaked by his side, his face drawn and pale.
Quadratus and Zosimus flanked the little primus pilus and muttered weak, disbelieving curses of their own.
Pavo felt the sun’s glare like never before, his skin crawling as sweat spidered down his back. He heard Carbo’s hushed words to Gallus nearby.
‘It was as I feared,’ Carbo said. ‘A mirage, a trick of the light. Men see water, lush green grass and palms, only for it to melt away into the burning sands.’
Gallus’ head dropped at this. The sight of the iron tribunus in despair tainted Pavo’s thoughts with fear and doubt. Then he looked out over the sea of sand seeking some ember of hope. But all he found were images of the nightmare – Father standing there on the dunes, reaching out for him.
A shiver clawed through the murderous heat and grappled his heart.
By the time he entered the western gate of Bishapur, Jabbah’s breath came and went in shallow, rasping gasps and he could taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. The arrow wound to his back had nearly been the end of him, he realised, thinking of the Maratocupreni riders who had felled his band. He reaffirmed his grip around the waist of the leather-armoured Persian scout who had found him. He heard the rider click his tongue, directing the mare, and looked up to see that they were headed towards the acropolis. A blue-domed temple and a tall, fine palace awaited them at the top.
He glanced weakly around the sun-baked lower city streets; high-arched villas, tessellated courtyards and stucco-clad fountains. Persian citizens paused in their daily tasks to gawp at his ruinous state; a group of women dressed in fine, vibrant silks and slippers and carrying baskets of oranges shrunk at the sight of him; men riding wagons frowned, farmers driving herds stared and those slicked in sweat as they repaired a tannery stopped to mutter and point.
They cut across the market square as they headed for the acropolis. Jabbah frowned at the activity there. Sweat-soaked workers hewed timber and erected poles, forming what looked like an arc of seating, nestled into the base of the acropolis. ‘An arena?’ he croaked. He had seen the like before, in Palmyra and the other desert cities that had been touched by Rome.
‘Aye,’ the scout replied. ‘For the Jashan of Shahrevar. The archimagus wants to hold blood games on that day. The Festival of Iron is the talk of this entire city and all of the Persis Satrapy. Ahura Mazda wills that something special is to happen that day.’
Jabbah frowned, gawping at the sheer scale of this arena. Meanwhile, the scout identified himself to the pair of wing-helmed pushtigban warriors standing guard at the foot of the mount. The pair parted and the scout ascended the stone steps carved into the acropolis-side, reaching the plateau and then cantering to the domed temple. There, they dismounted and the scout tethered the mare. The scout then led Jabbah inside the arched entrance of the temple. The shade soothed his blistered and cracked skin and eased the fire in his lungs. Finally, they came to the domed central chamber and the crackling pit of the Sacred Fire in the floor. It was even hotter in here than outside.
The hunched, bald, hawk-faced man who awaited them there rubbed his hands together as if warming them from some bitter cold, his golden eyes seeming to scrutinise Jabbah. The scout rider pressed his hands on Jabbah’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees.
‘He brings word from the west, Archimagus Ramak,’ the scout said. ‘We found him prone on his horse, near-death in the heart of the desert. He claims that his men’s assault on the Roman column failed, and he has ridden for days on end – to get word to you.’
Jabbah nodded. ‘It is true. The Iberian you planted in the Romans’ midst was not with them, but still we fought bravely. We were almost victorious, until the Maratocupreni saved the Romans at the last.’
‘So you rode on the cusp of death, to inform me that the Roman column marches on?’ Ramak asked, crouching and cupping Jabbah’s jaw.
Jabbah felt the man’s gaze rake at his soul. He nodded weakly. ‘I come from a noble line. Like my father and his father before him, when I take coin in return for doing some deed, I will not rest until I see that the deed is done.’
‘Very noble indeed,’ Ramak nodded through taut lips. ‘A noble fool to the last. For only a fool would come before me in failure.’