Legionary(96)

Next, Tamur entered the kathisma, flanked by a pair of pushtigban. His dark hair glistened with fresh oil and wax. He was armoured in a bronze scale vest with the lion emblem on the breast, and wore a gold cloak draped over his shoulders. The sight of him brought a roar from the people.

Two spearmen jogged over to Gallus and Carbo, then threw down a pair of spatha blades. Carbo took one and handed the other to Gallus.

Then Ramak threw his arms up and the crowd fell utterly silent. He cast his glare around the crowd. ‘I urged you all to come today. I promised you a gift from Ahura Mazda – a vision of our destiny.’

A murmur of excitement rippled round the crowd.

‘You may have heard whisperings that the armies of Persis are mustering. This is indeed the case. More . . . they are now gathered and marching towards Bishapur, where our glorious spahbad will take his place at their head!’

Gallus tensed, realising what was coming next.

‘Tomorrow, they will march west. To crush and scatter the lie. To drive Rome’s legions into the sea!’

The crowd reacted, many cheering but a few gasping and some unsure.

‘Soon, ancient Syria will fall to our armies. The House of Aspaphet will reign supreme once more. Our great god wills it!’ At this, Ramak held out his hands, palms upturned, then raised them as if lifting some invisible burden. At the same time, the two torches either side of the kathisma flared, columns of blue-green flame shooting skywards as if conjured by the archimagus.

Now the crowd erupted, every one of them on their feet and chanting in fervour.

‘Cheap tricks to buy the hearts of thousands,’ Gallus scowled, seeing the robed magi who had thrown copper filings on the flames ducking down out of sight.

‘First,’ Ramak continued, ‘we send in our Median spearmen. Hardy hill fighters – a match for any Roman legionary.’

Gallus noticed shapes moving in the arched tunnel that led from under the bank of seating. Three lithe and tall figures emerged, their faces and moustaches slick with sweat. They wore pointed, plumed iron helms, mail shirts and strapped boots, and carried square wicker shields and lengthy spears. Gallus cast his eyes over the three, welcoming the anticipation of battle; the red-hot thumping of blood through his veins, the clarity of thought, the brief respite from the past.

Ramak raised both arms and cast his gaze round the crowd. Thousands of breaths halted in silent anticipation. ‘Begin!’ he roared, chopping his arms down like blades.

At once, drums in the highest rows of seats burst into life in a slow, steady and ominous beat. The crowd roared in delight as the three spearmen stepped around the pair in time to the drumbeat. Gallus and Carbo faced in opposing directions, the shoulders of their sword arms pressed together and their shields on the outside, twisting round with the movement of the spearmen. There was no more training, no more mercy or wooden swords, Gallus realised. They had been brought here to die and die they would. The drumbeat grew faster and faster, the spearmen now dancing round the pair until Gallus’ mind swirled. Suddenly, the drumbeat stopped dead.

At once, the three spearmen sprung forward and the crowd roared. Gallus swiped his shield up to parry one spear thrust, then cried out as a second scored across his back. Instinctively, he spun, swung his spatha up and straight into the ribs of the spearman who had injured him. The blade pierced the chain mail and went almost hilt deep such was his anger. The spearman staggered backwards, blood pumping from his nostrils and lips as he toppled, taking the spatha with him. Weaponless, Gallus swung round to the next man and punched forward with his shield boss. This crashed into the man’s mouth and sent a shower of teeth across the arena floor. He grappled the stunned man’s spear shaft, snatching it from him before driving it into the spearman’s belly. Ripping the lance free, he swung round to tackle the third warrior. But he halted at the sight before him. Carbo, lips curled back and teeth clenched, blood dripping from his face, gripping the hair of the third spearman, his spatha driven through the man’s throat.

The crowd fell silent.

Gallus strode over to the corpse that still bore his sword, rested a foot on the chest then tore it free. He held the blade up in the sunlight and examined the edge.

‘Still sharp?’ Carbo asked, cleaning his own blade.

‘Aye, plenty of fight left in it,’ Gallus replied.

Together, the pair glared at the sea of faces that stared back at them. Concerned murmurs broke out – the fight had lasted barely moments. Gallus looked up at Ramak. The archimagus’ eyes narrowed and he whispered to Tamur. Then he leant from the balcony again.

‘The Median spearmen have served us well,’ he cried. ‘They have weakened the Romans. Now, let them feel the wrath of Ahura Mazda’s creations . . . ’