Legionary(63)

‘The clibanarii are all but invincible, are they not?’ Pavo asked, recalling the fearsome iron-plated, masked riders from the desert.

‘Invincible? I thought so too, once. The finest blades – lances and swords – will blunt on their plate-armour. Then I saw a shepherd’s boy fell one of them with his sling. The shot punctured the iron plate as if it was paper. So I had a sling in my belt that day on the battlefield.’ He made a gesture with his arm, as if spinning an imaginary sling. ‘Took down three of them before we were overrun. Tamur’s army was beaten back that day. He still had some light in his heart then, and consoled us at first. But when Ramak questioned him in front of the ranks, seeking answers for his defeat, his mood grew foul. So he took out his ire upon his paighan, claiming some of us tried to run and caused the defeat. Some of us did,’ he shrugged, ‘but not me. Regardless, Ramak saw fit to blame me and the hundred who fought under my drafsh.’ He held out his arms as if in wonderment. ‘And this is my reward.’ His bitter smile faded. ‘Many of my people follow the noble traditions of old Persia, the traditions I was raised by: speak quietly and eloquently, never criticise bad advice, do not leer at food being brought to you, always speak the truth . . . never mistreat a slave. In the far-flung satrapies, slaves are allowed three days of rest a month, they are not subjected to violence and can aspire to freedom. Such virtues are smiled upon by our God, Ahura Mazda, but not in these lands – not by Ramak. The archimagus does little to uphold Ahura Mazda’s glory, for he is too preoccupied coveting and multiplying his own. He talks of Persia and Rome as the truth and the lie. The only truth is that Ramak is the lie.’ He stopped for a moment, struggling to control his anger. Then a canny smile lined his aged features. ‘When an ambitious man seeks to harness the gods; kings, empires and armies should beware.’

‘Aye, I’ll say,’ Pavo pulled a wry smile, remembering the events surrounding the Bosporus mission. Then he stood to begin stretching his arms. He wondered at the significance of this pair, Tamur and Ramak. They knew of the mission for the scroll, it seemed. So they must have known of its importance. He had said nothing of the scroll to Khaled yet. He had quickly grown to like the man, and was now starting to trust him, but past experience had told him to be wary of strangers in the guise of friends. Thus, he decided to tread cautiously. ‘This Ramak . . . how far could his designs for power stretch?’

Khaled shook his arms and rolled his head on his shoulders. ‘The man would gladly slide a blade between Shahanshah Shapur’s ribs then sit upon his throne in Ctesiphon, and still he would not be content. But he cannot do so – for the rest of the Satrapies would crush him. Controlling the Persis Satrapy alone will not realise Ramak’s wants. He needs gold to swell his forces, to challenge Shapur.’

A cold shiver ran down Pavo’s spine, thinking of the ruinous state of the Strata Diocletiana, and then of Roman Syria and the riches a conqueror could harvest from that land. ‘A ripe target. And if the scroll remains lost, a viable one,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Eh?’ Khaled cocked his head to one side.

Pavo shook his head. ‘Nothing . . . perhaps I will talk of it later.’ He sought to change the subject, then realised Khaled had finally answered his question. ‘You were captured and brought here thirteen years ago, you said?’

Khaled flinched at this. ‘Indeed,’ he said, his lips tightening as he twirled the ends of his moustache. ‘It has been a long time. But this place will not break me. I will not allow it. I pray to Ahura Mazda every day, and ask him to deliver me back to my family. They are out there,’ he said, gazing up as if able to see through the hundreds of feet of thick rock and out into the light of day. ‘I will be with them again.’

Pavo dropped his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you think of that which troubles you.’ But something screamed in his thoughts. If Khaled has survived here for thirteen years, then perhaps there were others who had survived for . . .

‘That I know of no other in these mines who has been here longer than me tells me something,’ Khaled continued, a single tear hovering on his eyelid. ‘That I am destined to live on until I am reunited with them.’

His words hit Pavo like a blow to the guts. Father was dead. He had known this in the deepest recesses of his mind all along, but the truth felt like an icy dagger to the heart. He disguised his anguish by hurriedly tying a rag of cloth over his nose and mouth in preparation for the coming shift. But his lips trembled and a stinging behind his eyes blurred his vision with a veil of tears.