Legionary(57)

Carbo pushed up next to Pavo, his every breath rasping, his skin and hair caked in blood.

‘What’s happening?’ Pavo whispered.

‘The victor wants to inspect his conquered subjects,’ Carbo replied. He nodded to a space behind the circle of elephants.

There, the drafsh standard draped with the golden lion banner bobbed into view. A clutch of wing-helmed riders carried the staff.

‘Pushtigban,’ Carbo whispered, ‘the cream of the Savaran. They serve as the bodyguard of the shahanshah and his underlings.’

‘The king of kings?’ Pavo gasped. ‘Shapur is here?’

Carbo shook his head, his gaze never leaving the golden lion banner. ‘No, I fear that someone far more dangerous leads this wing of the Savaran today. Someone starved of power. The Persian Empire has long been plagued by such souls.’ He nodded to the banner. ‘That is the symbol of the House of Aspaphet. The noble line of the Persis Satrapy. And if my fears are correct, then that,’ he nodded to the rider emerging from the clutch of pushtigban, ‘is Spahbad Tamur.’

Two hooded, torch-wielding magi flanked this lone rider. The Sacred Fire dancing atop the torches cast the rider in a brilliant light. His fine, fawn skin glistened with sweat and he wore his shock of dark hair scraped back into a tail of curls that jostled at his shoulders. Beads of sweat darted from his forehead, dancing over his broad, broken nose and the scar welt on the bridge. He was broad as a bull and clad in a bronze scale vest. Over his heart he wore a gilded plate embossed with the image of a lion like the one on the banner, just like that on Yabet’s purse. He cast his baleful gaze over the clutch of weary and scarred legionaries, then it snagged on the tattered banners they clutched. Suddenly, he threw his head back and let a lungful of booming laughter ring out long and loud.

‘It seems that Ahura Mazda indeed watches over us,’ he said in jagged Greek, glaring at the IV Scythica banner. ‘Not only have we succeeded in drawing out this Roman legion from their border fort, but in the same blow,’ he continued, stabbing two fingers at the XI Claudia and XVI Flavia Firma banners, ‘we have also foiled the Roman Emperor’s expedition!’

Pavo’s brow knitted and he whispered to those beside him. ‘They knew of the mission for the scroll?’

‘From the start, it seems,’ Gallus spat, hearing his words.

Pavo’s mind flashed over the last few months. They had fended off the Cretan pirates, the dark hand of Yabet the guide and the camel raiders. All paid for by the coin of some foe – his eyes shot back up to the gold lion banner. Finally, where coin had failed, cold, hard Persian steel had cut this mission apart.

‘I know what you sought,’ Tamur continued, wagging a finger as if having heard Pavo’s thoughts. ‘I know only too well. But what you shall find will be very different, proud Romans, very different indeed.’ Tamur clapped his hands together. At this, the wretched paighan infantry were barged forward as if they were prisoners. Pavo saw the glistening, raw flesh under the shackles they wore on their ankles, chaining them together. ‘Yes, you shall have much time to think over your foolish mission,’ Tamur chuckled. ‘I know a fine place for meditation.’

‘It is time at last . . . ’ Carbo muttered, his burnt skin blanching. ‘Time to face the past,’ he muttered, his head jerking and his lips trembling.

‘Carbo?’ Pavo whispered, confused.

‘Shackle them to the paighan,’ Tamur continued. ‘Let them suffer with those wretches as they march to their fate.’

Eager-looking Median spearmen leapt upon the order, stalking forward with bundled chains and grappling legionaries all around Pavo. He saw Sura struggle, he heard Gallus snarl, then he felt hands wrench at his ankles. Two spearmen were fitting shackles to his shins. Then one stopped, looking up, his gaze snagging on Pavo’s phalera medallion. The man grinned, then reached up to lift it, turning it over in his hands, eyes glinting with its reflection. With a wrench of the wrist, he snapped the leather strap, pulling the piece free.

‘No!’ Pavo yelled, barging the other man back and swiping out to retrieve the medallion. But the spearman backed away, clutching the phalera tightly. The next thing Pavo saw was the ham-like fist of the nearest Persian spearman swinging up and crunching into his nose. White lights filled his head and he toppled to the ground. When he tried to rise again, a spear butt crashed into the nape of his neck and he crumpled.

In the darkness, he heard Tamur’s words as if from miles away.

‘Kill every second Roman – the rest will be less trouble that way.’