‘Scouts?’ Sura gasped as the pair ducked behind a thorny bush.
Pavo’s tongue darted out to dampen his lips, his heart crashed like a drum and he flexed his sword hand, cursing the absence of a spatha. Then his fear melted. ‘No!’ he said, recognising one figure as Zubin. Then it skipped a beat when he saw the other. Father!
The next moments were a blur. He scrambled up the hill, grasping and then embracing Falco. The paleness had left his skin, and he walked unaided.
‘It feels as if I have awoken from a nightmare nearly as dark as those bloody mines,’ Falco croaked.
‘The root?’ Pavo uttered, glancing to Zubin.
Zubin grinned. ‘The fever broke while you were out. He has eaten like a pregnant goat and talked only of you.’
Falco held up one hand as if to catch the morning light. ‘I never thought I would feel the sun on my skin again.’
Pavo smiled, then realised the sun was rising fast, pulling the shadows from the land. ‘Quickly, we must get inside – there are scouts not far from here.’
They hurried inside, Sura and Pavo rolling back the rug, readying to lift the trapdoor. But Falco halted at the table, grasping it for stability. His chest heaved and he erupted in a coughing fit. The black blood still flecked his lips. Pavo’s joy was swept away at the sight.
‘The root has cured one ailment, but not the lung disease of the mines,’ Zubin said, his grin fading as he helped Falco to sit by the table, ‘there is no cure for that foul sickness once the blood has turned black.’
Pavo gulped and sat beside Falco, stifling the flood of tears behind his eyes. His heart ached until he thought it would burst.
‘I am surprised I have lasted this long, Pavo. Few survive as long as I have in that place,’ Falco said. ‘Memories of being with you kept me strong down there,’ Falco continued. ‘And memories of your mother.’
Pavo nodded, his thoughts a blur. Mother had died in giving birth to him and he had never felt free of the shackles of guilt at this.
‘She would never have had it any other way, Pavo,’ Falco said as if reading his thoughts. ‘Did I ever tell you that in those last moments, when she held you in her arms? She knew she was dying, but she said to me . . . ’ his words trailed off and he bowed his head.
Pavo wrapped an arm around Falco’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, Father.’
‘She said she had never been happier than at that moment. For the three of us to have had those precious few heartbeats together meant everything to her. I may not have long Pavo, but . . . ’
‘Father,’ Pavo cut him off. ‘You are free. We will escape this land. You will return to the empire. We will find a healer,’ he insisted, desperately trying to stave off the doubts in his own mind.
Falco erupted in another fit of blood-streaked coughing, and Pavo could do little other than hold and comfort him. He saw his father reach down to the leather bracelet on his withered arm. ‘Pavo, there is something you need to know . . . ’
Just then, the trapdoor creaked open. Felix poked his head out then climbed into the hearth room. ‘How’s it looking out there?’ he said as Zosimus, Quadratus and Habitus joined him.
‘Scouting parties in every direction, sir,’ Pavo sighed. Then he thought of the roads leading to the city. ‘And there are many people visiting Bishapur today, it seems?’
‘Of course,’ Zubin said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Today is the Jashan of Shahrevar, the Festival of Iron.’
Pavo frowned. ‘You seem to be one of the few who chooses not to attend?’
‘There are others like me, Roman. Others who feel that the Persis Satrapy has a dark soul at its helm. The archimagus aims to whip his people into a fervour with a display of blood games today. I do not believe Ahura Mazda would wish for his people to indulge in such brutality.’
‘Archimagus Ramak?’ Pavo cocked an eyebrow.
‘Indeed. I imagine you met plenty of his enemies within the mines,’ Zubin nodded. ‘He is a foul creature. I have heard dark rumours in these past months – of mustering and recruitment. He has been gathering an army. I fear that the blood games today will be the start of something far more grave.’
The words hit Pavo like a fist; in the breakneck escape from the mines, he had forgotten about all that lay ahead. The Persian invasion of Roman Syria. The scroll. The scroll! He swept his eyes round his comrades until they rested upon Falco, by his side.
Pavo clasped his hands to Falco’s shoulders. ‘The scroll,’ he panted.
‘The scroll?’ Falco frowned.
‘The scroll!’ Pavo repeated. Through all the tumult of these last days and in the seeming certainty that he would never escape the mines, he had forgotten entirely of Khaled’s last words – that the Romans in the seventh chamber knew of the scroll. ‘Father, the scroll of Jovian. There was a man, a Persian whom I shared a cell with. He told me that, he said that . . . ’ his words tumbled out in a single breath.