Then, with a ferocious crack like a clap of thunder, the centre of the corridor-end salt face collapsed. The guards stumbled to a halt, their eyes bulging. At that moment, the arid seventh chamber of the Dalaki salt mines was quenched with a tumultuous roar. The underground river spat forth, blowing chunks of salt and rock from the opening, widening it and intensifying the deluge. Pavo and those nestled in the corner of the corridor end were spared the ferocious thrust of the river, but the cries of the guards were drowned out, their bodies punched back through the corridor by the force of the flood. Sharp cracking rang out as the torrents dashed their bodies against the stalagmites at the other end of the chamber, the water washing the stony spikes clean of the layers of gore that had accumulated there over the years.
Pavo blinked through the spray as the river claimed the corridor. The intense flooding had slowed, but now the water level rose swiftly and steadily. It splashed around his chest, so they shuffled to stand higher upon rocks – his head scraping on the passageway ceiling. In moments it was chest high again, then it lapped around their necks. ‘Father . . . what now?’ he cried as the water inched up with every heartbeat until it touched his chin.
‘Now take a deep breath, be ready to swim just as I taught you, and pray that the gods wish us to be free,’ Father replied.
Pavo looked to the gaping hole the river had blown in the end of the corridor. Darkness lay beyond. ‘But what if - ’ the water spilled into his mouth and then over his eyes. A heartbeat later, the air was utterly gone and the corridor completely flooded. At once, he could hear only the pounding of blood in his ears and the muffled underwater cries of his fellow legionaries as they thrashed to right themselves. He felt Falco’s arms clasp around his waist. Father needed him. His comrades needed him. He looked through the murky darkness to the hole in the end of the corridor, then waved towards it. In the gloom, Quadratus saw him and beckoned the others.
He swam with all his strength towards the opening, fighting the steady current. All the while one question rang in his thoughts. What in Hades lies on the other side?
He felt the roof of the opening scrape against his heel as he passed through it. On the other side was nothing but near-black water. Bubbles rushed past his ears in thundering torrents. The water stung at his eyes, and he saw only swirling murky shapes and the thrashing limbs of his comrades. He kicked in the direction he prayed was up, but saw no sign of a surface or light of any kind. He clasped his hands to Father’s. Suddenly, the current grappled them like an invisible titan, pulling and twisting their bodies round and round. After that, there was only pure darkness. The next thing he knew, they were falling. They were plummeting downwards, deeper and deeper underground – of that there could be no doubt. They had gambled and lost. The snatched half-breath in his lungs had lost its freshness and now his chest stung, demanding more air. Panic insisted that he open his mouth to yell out, to breathe again, but then another current smashed into him from the side, parting him from Father and propelling him onwards at great haste. He tumbled round and round until he lost all sense of direction. Up, down, all around, blackness. Nausea, burning lungs. Terror.
Chapter 16
Zubin and his goats climbed the last of the foothills before the Zagros Mountains. The hubbub around Bishapur fell away behind him and was replaced by the babbling torrents of the river gorge. He was glad to be clear of the goings on near the city. The place had become a hive of activity and expectation as the Festival Day loomed ever closer – just a week away. At market, all the talk was of the fine new arena and the blood games it was to hold, yet Zubin had no urge to see men spill blood for entertainment, and he was sure Ahura Mazda thought likewise.
He reached the peak of the hill and stopped, wheezing as he looked down into the gorge. For this short stretch, the river widened and the foaming waters calmed to a gentle babble. The sun-bathed banks were lined with shingle and pebbles, speckled with wild red poppies and shaded in parts by twisting tamarisk trees. Some said the waters on this stretch of the river had healing powers, the mountain meltwater augmented by a network of mineral-rich springs. As always, it would make a pleasant place to rest and eat while his goat herd drank and grazed on the tufts of long grass dividing the shingle and the gorge-side. But it was not for the agreeable surroundings that he chose to come here almost every day. He gazed up to the towering mountain peaks. His eyes rested on the tumbled, circular structure atop the nearest. Tears stung his eyelids and his bottom lip trembled.
Just then, three leaping, bleating goat kids swept past him from behind, their ears rising and falling in play. Zubin yelped in fright, then turned to the mother goat, who ambled up the hillside to join him, her ears hanging flat to her face, her grey beard and body showing the signs of age. ‘I remember when I used to feel like them,’ he muttered absently, watching as the kids scrambled down the steep gorge-side. They tumbled through the shingle over to the long grass, play-biting and butting at one another. ‘Now I feel I have more in common with you,’ he said, stroking the mother goat’s neck. Chuckling, he made to descend the scree slope in the wake of the kids, but he froze. There, in the centre of the calm river surface, something stirred. Bubbles frothed and the water grew choppy. Suddenly, like a leaping salmon, a hulking figure burst from the water, gasping for air, arms flailing. Moments later, another figure shot up, then another and another.