Jabbah frowned as Ramak’s grip grew fiercer upon his jaw. The archimagus’ lips curled back in a grimace and he squeezed until his hand trembled, his nails splitting Jabbah’s flesh and drawing blood. But Jabbah did not flinch. His eyes darted over the archimagus’ face. It seemed nobility was not a trait shared by this holy man. ‘If I am to die for my failure then so be it.’
Ramak released his grip and stood tall. With a throaty but mirthless laugh, he turned to the fire pit and fumbled with something resting in there. ‘No, you are to live.’
Jabbah frowned, shuffling to catch sight of the archimagus’ hands.
‘You will live,’ Ramak reaffirmed, ‘ . . . in the deepest chambers of my salt mine.’
Jabbah’s heart froze and then thundered in terror. The dark tales of the mines had spread far and wide amongst his people. They talked of it as the underworld, the antithesis of the wide and endless plains of the living. Where men suffered brutal and short lives in darkness and squalor. ‘No . . . NO!’ he gasped, scrambling back from Ramak towards the temple entrance. He saw the light of day outside and reached out for it as he clambered on all fours. But then two wing-helmed silhouettes stepped over the entrance, blocking his path. The Persian scout grappled at his shoulders and hauled him back to kneel again. ‘Kill me!’ Jabbah grasped at the scout’s thigh, his eyes manic and darting. ‘Don’t put me in those mines! No man should face such a fate!’
‘Hold him,’ Ramak said, still tending to something in the fire.
Jabbah’s neck cracked as the scout grappled him by the hair and wrenched his head back. His eyes bulged as he saw Ramak turn round from the fire. The man grinned as he lifted a dual-pronged, white-hot poker, fresh from the flames.
‘And in the dark, airless mines,’ Ramak enthused, ‘you will have little need for your sight.’
The last thing Jabbah saw was the tips of the poker, with Ramak’s animal grin in the sweltering background. The white-hot irons grew closer and closer until they filled his field of vision. Then, with a pair of thick pops and an unearthly pain that filled his head like fire, the prongs lanced into his eyeballs and sunk inside the sockets. Wet, hot fluid spilled from his eye sockets and down his cheeks and he heard his own animal moaning. Eternal blackness was upon him.
As the scout dragged him away by the hair, he heard the archimagus talking, as if addressing the fire itself.
‘The mercenaries have failed me, but my spahbad will not! Ride well, Tamur, and crush those who dare to enter our lands.’
Four days of marching through the dunes saw the legionary column transformed beyond recognition. The banners were stowed on the ever-more burdened camels. Now, to a man, the legionaries wore no helmets, just linen rags tied around their heads and thick smears of kohl on their noses and cheeks. Many had slit their tunics from collar to breastbone to allow a fraction more airflow. They had marched from imperial lands carrying their spears high and proud, now they used them as crooks, to haul their weary limbs up the endless banks of burning sand.
Pavo stabbed his spear butt into one dune as he approached the crest, then afforded barely a glance at the thousand more dunes that lay beyond. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, his rasping breaths mingling with those of the men around him. He wondered if the muddy pool they had come across yesterday had been a blessing or a curse, for the tepid, grainy water they had drank from it served only to prolong this agony. Some men had fallen ill from drinking it, vomiting through the bitterly cold night. They were gaunt, burnt and trembling. None had fallen, yet. But Pavo knew that sixteen days more of this lay ahead before they reached the waters of the Gulf. The desert would have its victims before then, of that he was sure.
He realised his vision was narrowing. He recognised this moment from the countless battles of his time in the legions – the moment when the last drops of energy were ebbing. He blinked and shook his head, clutching the phalera, seeking out the will to go on.
He half-staggered, half-slid down the far side of the dune. The sand kicked up by his clumsy descent clung to his lips and nostrils as he came to a halt at the bottom of the dune, on his knees. He coughed weakly and waved away Sura’s offer of a hand, propping himself up using his spear shaft.
‘Come on,’ he croaked to the swaying, trembling men of the century behind him. ‘Every dune we pass is one more enemy defeated.’
Suddenly, the sand before him puckered. A black, shiny scorpion burst into view, no bigger than his thumb. The creature scurried up the dune then plunged back under the sand near the tip.