Falco hushed him, placing his hands on Pavo’s shoulders. ‘You came out here for the scroll of Jovian? Times on the eastern frontier must be desperate indeed.’
‘Aye, they are, but Father, do you - ’
‘Pavo,’ Falco cut him off. ‘Yes, I know where the scroll is.’
All eyes fell upon Falco. All breaths were stilled.
‘It sits within the palace, right in the heart of Bishapur,’ he said calmly.
Chapter 17
It was early afternoon on the day of the Festival of Iron. The games were about to begin and the populace of Bishapur flocked to the arena. Landworkers and peasants came with nothing other than the few coins they possessed and the rags they wore. Those from the noble houses came dressed in fine silks and carried bunches of vibrant blooms. They wore their hair tied above their heads, with perfumed wax applied to their scalps and kohl lining their eyes to temper the sun’s glare. The singing, chanting, twanging of lutes, keening of horns and thumping of drums came and went like waves of a tide as the crowds filtered into the arc of seating at the foot of the acropolis mount. Here, some enjoyed shade and cool drinks. The arena floor and the sunken pit at its heart, however, baked in the fierce afternoon sun.
Inside the pit, Gallus splashed olive oil on a rag, then took to polishing his intercisa. He rubbed and rubbed at one spot until he could see his own reflection; sunburnt, scowling and furious. The raucous babbling of the spectators echoed across the arena floor, spilling into the pit through the raised grating. Suddenly, he tossed the helmet to one side and growled, letting his head fall into his hands, panting.
Carbo sat across from him, calmly polishing his own helm. ‘Save your anger for them,’ he flicked his head up to the iron grating.
‘Why – why should I?’ He gestured to his forearm, the muscles there taut and bulging. ‘They have fed and trained us all these weeks, for what? Just to slaughter us today like prize pigs. Why should I fight to entertain them? Why should I not simply stride out there and extend my neck, invite them to cut open my jugular.’
‘Because you are a tenacious whoreson, Tribunus,’ Carbo replied calmly. ‘Use your troubles to fire your sword arm today.’
‘My troubles?’ Gallus cast him an incredulous look, shrugged, then glanced through the grating and around the arena. ‘I’d say you have been in the sun too long, Centurion.’
Carbo beheld Gallus then, his gaze for once steady, earnest. ‘I am not the only one who talks in his sleep, Tribunus.’
Now Gallus’ eyes darted, unable to meet Carbo’s gaze.
‘Fear not, Tribunus. I will not pry. I heard enough to understand that there is a black stain on your soul.
Gallus slumped to sitting, lifting his helm once more and gazing at his reflection. A long silence passed. At last, he glanced up. ‘Aye, a black stain indeed.’
Carbo nodded and stood, buckling on his helmet and smoothing his tousled white beard. ‘And one you must cleanse. Believe me, I know what shame can do to drive a man on.’ He smiled. It was warm yet doleful. ‘Indeed, it is shame that demanded I lived through our journey east and drove me back to these lands. A shame that has shackled me now for over ten years.’
Gallus frowned. ‘Centurion?’
Before Carbo could reply, the clanking of a spear on the iron grating above startled him. ‘Romans, be ready,’ the man there grinned, lifting the grating aside. He threw a knotted rope down to Gallus, then turned and strutted across the arena floor, shooting both hands up in the air and conjuring a cheer from the growing crowd.
Gallus strapped on his helm, then hefted his battered wooden shield. Dressed only in a loincloth, this would be his only means of protection today. He climbed from the pit, into the glare of the fierce sun. A wall of noise battered him from every side. Sweating, eager faces glared down from the steep gallery of seats overlooking the arena floor. Pushtigban warriors studded the top row of seats like fangs and more looked down like vultures from the edge of the acropolis, above. The open end of the arena was packed with a mass of standing spectators corralled behind a timber barrier and a row of Median spearmen.
Gallus saw all heads turn to one spot. Atop the arc of seating, a timber viewing box had been erected, much like a Roman kathisma. The balcony front was emblazoned with a gilded stucco effigy of the Faravahar, the Zoroastrian winged guardian angel, and a gold silk awning cast the enclosure in precious shade. Gemmed torches were affixed to the sides of the kathisma, the Sacred Fire dancing on each of them. Then a shadowy figure entered the enclosure, and Gallus knew who it was even before the features were uplit by the flames. Ramak. The archimagus moved to the front of the kathisma, surveying the masses like a hungry gull, his fingers coiling and uncoiling over the edge of the balcony. He wore a blue silk robe threaded with gold that glinted like his eyes.