Legionary(69)

This had startled Gallus in their first days in this pit, but now he was used to hearing this Roman soldier speaking the tongue of the enemy. But in the five weeks they had been kept in this miserable hole, he had picked up only the basics of the language himself – yes, no and the like, but not enough to follow conversation. ‘What is your secret, Centurion?’ he grumbled under his breath.

Suddenly, Carbo’s mutterings changed to Greek. ‘Forgive me . . . ’

Gallus frowned. This was new, yet the tone seemed hauntingly familiar from his own nightmares.

Then Carbo sat bolt upright, reaching out as Gallus had done only moments ago. ‘I should have waited on you. Forgive me!’

‘Centurion?’ Gallus said.

For a moment, Carbo’s bulging eyes continued to stare at some ethereal torment, his lined face slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling at haste. Then he blinked, seeing Gallus, seeing the pit walls. ‘Tribunus,’ he frowned, at once donning a fragile mask of non-expression. ‘Is it time?’

Gallus eyed him furtively for a moment and then stood. The pit was tall enough only to allow him to stand with a crooked neck. The raised grating allowed him to see out across their surroundings; the hole was in the heart of a market square at the foot of an acropolis. His eyes were at ankle-level of the many passers-by. Persian men and women glowered down at him, their noses wrinkling in distaste. They hauled back their inquisitive children and hissed or mouthed curses at the Roman prisoners. But there were no spearmen nearby and none approaching, it seemed. ‘No, we have some time yet.’

Over the course of these last weeks, the market square around them had been transformed. An arc of timber seating had been set into the northern slopes of the acropolis, sweating workers labouring over the final sections. He glanced up, past the seating, to the twin structures studding the acropolis plateau. The blue-domed Fire Temple and the high-vaulted palace resembled vultures perched upon a rock, eyeing their prey. Then he noticed two figures descending from the plateau. One a powerful and broad-shouldered warrior, the other his antithesis – hunched and peering, with a pallid bald crown and painfully taut features. Tamur and his master, Ramak. The curs who had sent his men into the mines and denied him the honour of sharing their fate.

We have another purpose for you, Roman, Tamur had barked, before he and Carbo had been hauled to this sweltering pit. Carbo had been vociferous in his protests, demanding to instead be sent back into the mines, then weeping when his pleas went unheard. Another layer in the riddle of the centurion’s past life, it seemed.

They had been led into Bishapur, tethered behind Tamur’s mount like captured enemy kings. Gathered crowds lauded the spahbad like a hero. Gallus was certain that he and Carbo were to die that day – executed before the masses, no doubt. And if it had been up to Tamur alone that would surely have been the case. But they were led to this market square where a crowd waited, and the lone figure of Ramak stood on a raised platform. One look in this man’s eyes and Gallus realised that their deaths would be anything but swift.

Ahura Mazda, the Sacred Fire burns brightly today as you bless us with this portent, the Archimagus had said, arms outstretched, his words directed to the skies. A Persian guard hissed a translation of the Parsi into Gallus’ ear. These soldiers of Rome marched from their dark realm to challenge your noble truth. Instead, it is their lie that will meet its end. Ramak had then turned his gaze across the gathered people. The Jashan of Shahrevar will be upon us in less than two moons. On that day of the Festival of Iron, these Romans will fight their last. And as they fall to their knees, I will reveal to you Ahura Mazda’s will for the people of Persis, and the House of Aspaphet.

Then, to the thunderous cheering of the thousands gathered to watch, he and Carbo had been thrown into this pit. The days since had followed a simple routine. They would wake to the infernal heat, then at mid-morning they would be taken to the gymnasium. To prepare for what was to come. Gallus looked over the network of fresh bruises and cuts on his skin, then glanced at the sun, wondering how much longer they had before they came for them today.

A thud-thud of boots approached, and the shadows of two Median spearman blotted out the sunlight, answering the question.

‘It is time for you to bleed once more,’ one spearman grinned as the other unlocked the grating.





The populace muttered in distrust, sharp curses rising here and there as Gallus and Carbo were marched at spearpoint around the base of the acropolis to the gymnasium. They halted in the shade of a palm cluster before the pale-pink walls and timber gates of the compound, hearing the clash-clash of swords from within and knowing what was to come. Then the gates creaked open.