There was only one thing left for it now, Pavo realised. His heart thundered as he waved frantically across the crowd.
Peroz’s day had already been foul. His wife had cooked him a meal last night that had churned in his gut for hours and denied him even a heartbeat of sleep. Now, while the citizens were to enjoy the feasting and games of the Festival of Iron, he was to spend the day standing here in the stifling heat amidst this sea of toothless farmers and paupers. And it was approaching the hottest part of the day.
He tried to distract himself with thoughts of what his wife might conjure for his evening meal tonight, then remembered with a groan that she had cooked enough of the foul, gut-churning stew to last for a few days. He grappled his cane shield and spear as if throttling his troubles, then yelped when a splinter of wood on the spear shaft pierced the skin on his palm. ‘Why do you mock me, Ahura Mazda?’ he muttered skywards. ‘What next – a boil on my arse?’
Wave after wave of dust stuck to the sweat on his skin. The only way out of this shift would be to feign injury or . . . his gaze snagged on something in the crowd. A clutch of men. Their skin was fair, their features notably different. They bore scars and wiry, knotted beards. And one of them, one of them was missing his eyes. The escaped slaves?
He saw one of them signal to someone, something – waving frantically. All doubt was gone. He could be a hero. Even more importantly, he would be relieved from his shift. He sucked in a breath until his lungs creaked, full and ready to call out in alarm. But then a furious bleating halted the cry in his throat.
He swung to see some disturbance in the crowd. Zubin the farmer was crying out in distress. It seemed some mother goat of his had lost her temper in the heat. She bleated angrily, butting through the crowd and sending one man and a basket of melons up into the air, then she cut across the throng. Peroz glanced from the animal to the odd-looking men in the crowd, then back to the animal. The goat was charging straight for him, and it wore a look even more foul than his own. He glanced back to the crowd. The curious clutch of men were gone. He frowned, twisting to look to the gate – just in case they had slipped past him. Then the full force of the angry goat smacked into his hip. In an instant, sky and earth changed places and then he thudded onto the ground. He stood up, brushing himself down, choking on dust, hearing the belly laughter of the watching throng. He snarled and shook his spear at those around him and the laughter died sharply.
Can this day get any worse? he thought with a low growl.
The arena sweltered under the afternoon sun like a cauldron. The thunder of drums filled the air and the crowd watched on, breaths held in their lungs, awaiting the glorious moment they had been promised – the felling of the Romans. Suddenly, from the heart of the arena, a pained animal howl rang out and the thundering drums fell silent. The crowd slumped back with a collective groan of disappointment.
Gallus staggered back from the spear lodged in the tiger’s chest, his gaze fixed on the eyes of the dying creature. He had longed for the beast to follow the example of the other – the first cat having leapt up the side of the arena and onto the first row of seats, mauling three pushtigban and tearing the throat from one rotten-toothed spectator who had revelled in every moment of the action that had gone before. But both cats were now slain, as were the jackals, their torn bellies buzzing with flies and the stench of their open guts overpowering. He dipped his head, a nausea stabbing at his stomach. They had been fighting for over an hour, his limbs were tiring and his mouth was parched.
‘Stand up, Tribunus!’ Carbo panted by his side, sweat dripping from his jaw and spidering across his chest. Like him, the centurion bore a network of cuts and scratches on his chest and legs. The blood loss was not mortal, yet.
He stood and glared defiantly up at Ramak and Tamur. They seemed rattled by the hardiness of him and Carbo, that was for sure. But Ramak’s sickly features danced with shadow, uplit by the crackling flames of the Sacred Fire. He was far from finished.
What next, you whoreson?
The answer to the question came instantly, Ramak clapping his hands. Once again, the shadows in the tunnel jostled.
Gallus’s eyes narrowed on the tunnel mouth. ‘With me, Centurion,’ he hissed to Carbo.
‘I’m with you,’ Carbo replied, then his words grew faint, ‘I will not desert you as I deserted them.’
Gallus scowled at the man. ‘Centurion?’
But before Carbo could reply, Ramak stepped forward, gesturing to the tunnel. ‘Ahura Mazda watches as we come to the climax of this sacred day. Now the life will be struck from the Romans by the finest of our warriors. The champions of the pushtigban!’