Legionary(99)

All doubt washed away from the crowd at the words. The roar that erupted seemed to shake the arena floor and the drummers struck up a frantic rhythm. The three bronze-armoured warriors they had faced in training stalked from the gate underneath the kathisma. The two at the sides swished and spun their spears and long, curved sabres. The central figure bore his weighty spike hammer with a grin that foretold the spilling of blood, then dipped his head, the exaggerated, sweeping wings on his helm poised as if readying to take flight.

‘This is it,’ Gallus said, ‘they will not let us live beyond this bout.’

Carbo stiffened. ‘Then let this bout be our finest yet, Tribunus.’

Gallus glanced to the centurion. Carbo’s knuckles were white on his sword hilt, but his eyes were distant, his lips moving soundlessly.

Forgive me . . .

Again Gallus frowned, but all confusion was swept away as the pushtigban rushed for them like swooping hawks. He rolled clear of a crashing blow from the hammer-wielder, then swiped out at one of the spearmen. The spearman sidestepped his blow and then jabbed his lance forward at Gallus’ throat, halting only inches away. A roar of laughter spilled from the banks of seating at this feigned death blow.

He righted himself, then started as uneven footsteps approached him from behind. It was Carbo, laced with cuts and breathing heavily. ‘They’re toying with us – saving us for that thing,’ the centurion nodded to the execution stone in the middle of the arena.

‘Then they can toy with my spatha hilt as it juts from their throats,’ Gallus snarled. ‘Pick your man and strike him down!’

‘Aye, sir,’ Carbo hissed.

With a roar, the pair leapt forward, Gallus leaping for the hammer-man and Carbo for the nearest spearman. With a clash of steel, Gallus’ blade sheared against the tip of the hammer. Likewise, the spearman dashed Carbo’s blade from his grip. A fervent cry of approval rang out around the crowd.

‘The portent is strong, my people,’ Ramak cried over the hubbub. ‘The Roman blade shatters on Persian steel. Rome weakens while our forces grow ever stronger. The lie is dying and the truth will prevail!’ With that, he gave the pushtigban three an almost imperceptible nod. The hammer-wielder grinned, then waved his men round behind the weaponless Romans.

Gallus kept his gaze trained on the hammer-man, even when a spear butt crashed into his back, barging him towards the execution stone. Carbo was barged forwards with him. Then both were brought to their knees by blows to the back of the legs.

Ramak leant from the kathisma balcony and spread his arms out wide. ‘What happens now, happens with the blessing of Ahura Mazda. Let us praise him, then crush these warriors of the lie.’ With that, he tilted his head skywards and he and a line of magi on the seats below chanted the first words of a Zoroastrian Gatha. In moments, the entire crowd had joined in. The haunting melody filled the arena.

The hammer-wielder declined to join the prayer. Instead, he stalked over to Gallus, crouched by his side and whispered in his ear, pointing to the execution stone. ‘Are you ready to die, Roman?’





Chapter 18





Pavo tightened the hood of his robe as they navigated through the thick crowds inside Bishapur. The people moved like a tide towards the heart of the festival, the scents of sweat and sweet wax curdling in the afternoon heat. The air rang with a chorus of lowing cattle, clucking chickens, barking dogs, yelling traders and screaming children, all mixed with the wall of noise from the arena and the incessant clashing of iron blades from its heart. He could see just the top of the arc of seating, resting on the banks of the acropolis. Even higher, atop the mount, the palace and the blue-domed temple loomed over the spectacle.

His pulse quickened as they pushed into the mass of bodies near the open end of the arena. One eyepatched trader latched onto Pavo, tugging at his sleeve. He twisted to shrug the man away, then stumbled into a body in front of him. A garrison sentry who had cut across Pavo’s path. The sentry halted and glowered at him, his narrow nose wrinkling over his thick dark moustache and beard. Pavo gawped back at the man, sure he would call out in alarm. But the sentry simply growled and butted at Pavo’s shoulder with the heel of a hand, then barged past him and off into the throng. Pavo fought hard to hide his shock and relief.

‘Keep moving,’ Falco hissed, grappling his arm. ‘We make for the acropolis and we do not look back.’

The seven carried on through the sea of sweating faces. The raucous cheering of the crowd seemed to shake the earth beneath them now, drumbeats shuddering through their bones. Pavo snatched furtive glances up over the heads of the crowd. Now he could see the full extent of the amphitheatre set against the acropolis slope. Atop the centre of the bank of seating, he saw a wooden enclosure – akin to a Roman kathisma – draped in silks and emblazoned with Zoroastrian imagery. Two figures were pressed against this balcony, leering at the combat below. Pavo’s heart stilled as he recognised the first – broad like a bull, bronze-armoured and draped in a gold-threaded cloak, sleek dark locks scraped back into a tail of curls; Tamur! There was another figure by his side. A hunched creature in a blue robe, bald and wan. The light of the flickering torch inside the box cast his features in a demonic underglow, igniting his golden eyes. Pavo’s step slowed unconsciously and he remembered all that Khaled had told him.