Land of the Sacred Fire

Chapter 11

The following day, the desert was still and serene. The dunes lay in a tidy weave as if having been groomed by a giant’s comb. A vulture soared on the mid-morning zephyrs, its eyes trained on the slightest movement below. There would be plenty of bounty to be had following the previous night’s storm. Then its gaze snapped round on something. It dropped from the zephyr and circled lower and lower. There, it saw it; a scrawny lizard atop one dune. A fine morning meal. But then the vulture saw that the lizard was digging at the sand and something buried there — something stringy. There was a faint tinge of blood in the air — was this the raw meat of some cadaver? A far more attractive meal than a lizard. The vulture plunged and screeched. The terrified lizard darted under the sand at once.

The vulture began pecking at the stringy morsel, then it became infuriated when the tendril would not pull free of the sand. It wrenched and wrenched until, at last, the sand shifted to reveal some shining metal disc attached to the string. The vulture strutted over to the disc and cocked its head this way and that, noticing the fleshy outline of a neck, a jaw, a face, all coated in sand. It trained its gaze on an eyelid and thought of the juicy eyeball underneath. It raised its beak to peck through the eyelid.

Pavo felt something padding up his chest then come to a halt, just over his face. The sensation stirred him from the blackness. He sat up with a gasp, casting off the veil of sand, and swiped out, feeling some feathery mass beat at him before disappearing. His lungs burned as if he had not taken a breath in days. He could see and hear nothing but blackness and the thumping of his heart. He clawed at his eyes, stinging and full of sand. He dug the sand from his ears and at last he could hear again, the terrified screeching of a vulture fading into the distance. He scrambled forward onto all fours, spitting, coughing and retching. His limbs trembled as he stood upright and he could feel the deadly heat of day scorching every inch of his skin, then the furious thirst that seemed to have shrivelled his insides demanded his attention. He rubbed at his eyes again. It hurt so badly that he cried out, but he could see something after this; a blur of gold and azure.

‘Pavo!’ a voice called out. ‘Pavo!’

Pavo swung round to see a blurry shape approaching.

‘Pavo, you’re alive!’ he felt a set of arms grapple his shoulders.

‘Sura?’ he croaked.

‘Sit down!’ another voice cried out.

‘Zosimus, sir? What happe — ’ he started, then something wet splashed across his face.

‘Just sit.’ A pair of hands pushed him down.

He gagged and spat, then realised the sand had been washed from his eyes. He blinked away the remaining blurriness and saw Zosimus and Sura before him. The pair were dressed in their torn, sand-encrusted tunics and looked as dreadful as he felt. Zosimus held out the rest of the water skin. ‘Drink!’

Pavo took it. ‘Water, how?’

Felix scrambled up to the lip of the dune beside him and tipped the skin up. ‘You drink, we’ll talk.’

Pavo nodded and savoured the liquid that washed across his parched tongue then toppled down his throat. It was hot and polluted with sand, but it instantly brought moisture to his eyes and part-quenched his thirst. He gasped in relief, then his breath stilled when he saw a bump in the sand nearby. An arm poked from it, still and lifeless, with a splatter of dried blood nearby where the vultures had been tearing at the dead legionary’s tendrils. Further away, the tortured features of a fallen camel poked from the dune, its eyes lost to the carrion birds and the sockets crawling with insects. All around him were many such bumps and sights.

‘Is there nobody else. . ’ Pavo uttered.

But then he saw it. In the shade of a nearby dune stood a cluster of haggard, familiar faces. The surviving men of the XI Claudia and the XVI Flavia Firma. There were many missing, it seemed, less than seventy left overall. Less than fifteen of the camel caravan had survived too. But there was something else. A tent with a pair of armoured legionaries standing by it. They were not of the vexillatio. They carried dark-green shields each bearing the image of a golden capricorn and a Christian Chi-Rho.

‘We found them this morning when the storm died. Or rather, they found us,’ Felix shrugged. ‘They’re from the IV Scythica, just three of them — a tribunus and two legionaries. Gallus is trying to make sense of the tribunus’ ramblings.’

Pavo squinted to see Gallus and Carbo talking to some wild-eyed man in mail armour by the tent flap. The man’s thin, wispy hair was coated in sweat and sand and pointing in every direction at once. He gripped his plumed helm underarm, his knuckles white and his face etched with terror.

Felix sighed and shook his head at the sight. ‘In the meantime, they have given over their surplus rations to us — it seems there is a spring a days’ march from here and they had a few skins to spare.’

Pavo nodded, then took another gulp of water. He looked around him, frowning. ‘Last night,’ he spoke quietly, ‘I thought the sands had claimed me.’

‘And we thought we had found the last of the survivors some time ago, Pavo,’ Sura added. ‘We thought you were dead. If it wasn’t for that bastard of a vulture, we’d never have spotted you.’

Zosimus scratched his anvil jaw and defied his chapped, broken and utterly exhausted state to crack a grin. ‘Aye, so thank Mithras and that winged whoreson that you are still breathing. Else I would have had to promote the biggest smart-arse in Adrianople to optio,’ he jabbed a thumb at Sura.

The four grinned at this.

Felix offered Pavo a hand and wrenched him to his feet. ‘Come on, we need to be ready to move onwards. The water we have will not last for long.’

They staggered down the dune and over to the gathering of legionaries. As they approached, Pavo overheard the wild-eyed IV Scythica Tribunus’ words.

‘I. . I, we,’ he scratched at his scalp and his lips flapped. ‘We decided to reconnoitre. . ’

‘Reconnaissance? Perhaps things are done differently in these parts, Tribunus Ovidius,’ Gallus spat, ‘but I have never seen a tribunus, leader of a legion, perform such a task.’ The pair of legionaries with Ovidius shared a furtive glance at this, and the tribunus’ top lip began to tic. Gallus saw it. Pavo saw it.

‘You are in no position to question me, Tribunus Gallus,’ Ovidius blurted out. ‘The rest of my legion follow a short distance behind.’

Gallus eyed the tribunus with a glare that might even have chilled the infernal sun. ‘Then we can march south-east to meet with them. And you’re coming with us.’

‘No, you don’t understand, you can’t go that way!’ Ovidius wailed. At this, he snatched his spatha from his belt and held it out, waving it at those nearby as he backed away. ‘You can’t make me go back. They are out there, they will be the death of us — all of us!’ He turned as if to run to the north, only to be stopped by Quadratus’ ham-like fist crashing into his cheek. The big Gaul caught Ovidius as he slumped. ‘Bloody idiot,’ he grumbled.

Gallus sighed in disgust, then turned to the two legionaries who had come with Ovidius, fixing them with a winter-cold glare. ‘You will carry your tribunus until he wakes. I trust you will not follow his example?’

They both nodded hurriedly.

He clicked his fingers and turned to address the men of the XI Claudia. But he paused, seeing Pavo standing there, still alive despite the sandstorm. Pavo threw up an arm in salute. A faint narrowing of the eyes was all Gallus offered in return. That and the barest upwards flicker at the corners of his lips.

‘A spring lies to the south-east. A spring and a legion that is in dire trouble. Take on what water you can and be ready to move out before noon!’

Pavo’s breath came and went in rasps as he approached the top of the latest dune. His mind taunted him with images of the thousand more dunes that would stretch out beyond it. But hoarse cries of delight rang out from the men of the vexillatio who got there just before him. Hope surged in his heart. He renewed his efforts and hauled himself atop the sandy ridge.

The dunes were no more. A flat, sandy plain stretched out ahead. Dead in the centre, only a few hundred feet away, was an ethereal green mass. Another mirage? He rubbed his eyes and blinked. Once, twice, again. No, this was real. Date palms, long grass, thick green foliage and a shimmering, clear pool, the weakest of breezes feathering its surface. The oasis was the size of a small arena at best. Some underground spring had pierced through the desert floor to fill the pool and turn the arid dust around it into a shady, fertile haven.

The vexillatio poured forward, Pavo with them. They found strength where previously they had none. They threw down their spears then hurtled through the palms to splash into the pool. Pavo fell to his knees, panting, the coolness of the water soothing his body, sharpening his thoughts at once. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Baptista kneeling likewise, scooping water over his long, tousled locks then clasping his hands in prayer. Zosimus, Quadratus and the others of the XI Claudia, meanwhile, offered a swift salute to Mithras, before ducking under the surface, bursting free and then drinking handful after handful of the springwater. Pavo cupped and drank likewise. The first few mouthfuls were unfamiliar to his dry, cracked throat and mouth. Then he felt the coolness in his belly and at once, his eyes watered and he felt hope in his heart once more. As he drank, he cast his eye up and over the green fronds of the palms. Bunches of ripe, yellow-orange dates bulged under the leaves. Here they could fill their bellies and rest. Here, everything was possible once more.

‘Silence!’ Gallus interrupted his thoughts. All those around him stopped splashing and chattering.

Pavo looked up. The tribunus strode round the edge of the pool, having yet to slake his own thirst. He crept round to the far side, then crouched, peering through the palm trunks. Pavo followed his gaze, and saw it too. Beyond the oasis, on the plain, a flickering column of iron moved — like some giant serpent. Pavo blinked, rising from the pool to stand tall, an odd shiver dancing across him as the hot desert breeze touched his wet skin. His spear arm clenched, and he cursed himself for having thrown down his weapon in haste. He moved his hand to his spatha hilt, watching as the iron column grew closer.

But, at the last, he saw the eagle standard this army carried. A green capricorn banner hung below the eagle — just like that etched on the shields of Ovidius’ two men. This was the IV Scythica. Over one thousand limitanei legionaries. Over one thousand spears, spathas, shields and bobbing intercisa helms. The sight was a welcome one. They were marching towards the oasis at haste — so hastily in fact that some men stumbled and others marched well out of line.

Gallus twisted round, beckoning Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix. ‘Ready the men.’ Then he pinned Tribunus Ovidius with his glare. The man was just coming round, rubbing at his throbbing cheek. ‘Bring him too.’

The men of the vexillatio slipped from the pool quietly, picking up their discarded weapons. Zosimus, Quadratus and Carbo organised their tattered centuries, then Felix beckoned them forward to the edge of the oasis. Readied, Gallus led them from the oasis and into the glare of the burning sun once more. At once, the approaching IV Scythica slowed, a distant babble of confusion spilling from their ranks as they squinted at Pavo and the vexillatio. Pavo shielded his eyes from the sun; their faces were haggard, sunburnt and blistered too. But there was something else, something dancing in their eyes. Panic.

‘Signal them!’ Gallus growled. At once, the XI Claudia aquilifer hefted the grubby ruby bull banner in the air and waved it from side to side. At once, the man leading the IV Scythica saw this and immediately, he and his legion hurried on towards the oasis.

Pavo heard the terse and panicked jabberings of the approaching men. ‘Sir, something’s not right.’

‘Aye, they’re marching in full armour,’ Gallus replied with a frown.

‘And when they saw us they panicked — they thought we were someone else.’

‘I told you,’ a voice croaked behind them. ‘We’re dead men!’

They turned to see Tribunus Ovidius, now fully awake. His eyes bulged now more than ever before and he pointed to the south-east, beyond the Scythica men. The horizon was empty. The ferocious heat haze offered nothing. ‘They’re coming. Every man on these sands will die!’ At this, Quadratus stomped over to grasp him by the collar, raising a clenched fist.

‘Strike me again and I’ll see to it that you are flogged and executed,’ the man spat, his pupils dilated and a white froth gathering at the corners of his mouth.

‘Strike a deserter and I’ll give you a year of my wage purse!’ another voice countered.

All heads turned to the approaching IV Scythica column. The figure leading them strode forward — a furious-looking officer. His skin was dark as coal, his brow bent like an angered bull’s. Pavo noticed that the ragged, bleached white tunic he wore under his mail vest bore a broad, faded purple stripe on the shoulder. The mark of a primus pilus, just like Felix wore. So this was Ovidius’ second in command.

‘This cur deserves no respect. He deserted us three nights past,’ the primus pilus stabbed his finger at the chest of Ovidius and lowered his voice, ‘and he left his men to die.’

Tribunus Ovidius wriggled in Quadratus’ grip and made to protest, only to be silenced by a growl and a re-clenched fist.

‘I guessed as much,’ Gallus said.

The dark-skinned primus pilus tore his sour glare away from Ovidius to eye Gallus and the ragged vexillatio. His eyes settled upon the frayed and filthy standards. ‘The Flavia Firma?’ he said upon recognising the dark-blue Chi Rho banner. Then he looked to the tattered remains of the XI Claudia’s ruby bull banner. ‘And what legion is this?’ he frowned. ‘What are you doing so far from Roman lands? We thought we were alone out here.’

Pavo saw Gallus and Carbo exchange a furtive glance.

Gallus was first to reply; ‘Perhaps we should find shade and water, then we can — ’

‘There is no time!’ the primus pilus cut him off, his eyes widening as he shot glances over his shoulder to the south-east.

Gallus’ lips moved to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. He frowned, eyeing the horizon.

Pavo saw it too. A flickering. Then the ground underfoot trembled. The approach of distant cavalry. Coming for them and coming fast. He glanced to Sura, to Zosimus, to Quadratus and Felix. They had all felt it. Yet the horizon offered nothing but dashes of flickering colours that appeared and then faded again. Pavo’s stomach clenched; More desert raiders?

Suddenly a dull crash filled the air, as if a titan had swung a hammer into the earth. It seemed to shake their very bones. Then came another crash and another.

‘War drums,’ the coal-skinned primus pilus cried. Then a horn wailed out too. Suddenly, a solid spot of silver pierced the horizon. The spot grew and grew, spilling round the skyline as if coaxed by the throbbing drums. The man spun back to Gallus, his face streaked with panic. ‘They have been tracking us for days. Now they have us.’

‘They?’ Gallus snapped.

The primus pilus’ face grew sombre. ‘The Savaran, Tribunus. A wing of Persia’s iron riders. Thousands of them.’

Tribunus Ovidius began wailing in the background. ‘I tried to tell you — we must flee!’

Gallus stepped forward, his eyes darting over the nascent silver band on the horizon. ‘Can we outrun them, perhaps flee and hide in the dunes?’ he asked the primus pilus.

‘There is no time. They would still ride us down with ease.’

At this, a babble erupted from the gathered legionaries of the vexillatio. A steely glare from Gallus silenced them.

The primus pilus continued; ‘We must stand and fight. Have your men join our left flank, and be ready,’ the man leant in closer to whisper in Gallus’ ear. ‘With God’s fortune we will be slain swiftly and spared the misery of Persian shackles.’ With that, the man spun away to bark his legion into a line, facing the horizon.

Gallus frowned at the man’s parting words, then shook his head clear of the thought and waved the camels forward. ‘Men, don your armour and weapons.’ At once, the remaining few of the vexillatio readied for battle. Shields were hauled from the camel’s backs. Scalding mail shirts were pulled on and helms were fastened. Someone thrust a spear into Pavo’s grip.

‘Third century. . into line!’ Zosimus cried out.

Pavo buckled his sword belt in place then echoed the order. The depleted century hastened to join with Quadratus’ men on the IV Scythica left flank. Carbo, Baptista and the handful of Flavia Firma legionaries soon joined them. Panicked breaths came and went as they pushed together, shoulder to shoulder. Shields clattered, coming together as a protective wall. Spears were raised like the spines of a trapped porcupine. All eyes peered over the tops of shields, trained on the approaching wall of silver.

The ground juddered now and the silver tide took form. Pavo gawped; an ironclad pincer of more than three thousand riders came for them, topped with vibrant banners and plumes, bristling with spear tips, arrows and blades. Those of the Flavia Firma broke out in a Christian chant. Baptista was the epitome of their zeal, his jaw stiff, his chest rising and falling with the chorus.

Finally, Gallus’ voice boomed out. ‘Much hangs in the balance today; our mission, our lives. . our empire. We are far from home, but Mithras watches over us, for in this burning land we find brothers to fight alongside.’ He shot a furtive glance to Carbo and Baptista. ‘We call out to two gods for providence. But we stand or fall as one. For the empire,’ he spoke in a firm tone. Then he cried out and drew his spatha, bashing it on his shield boss then thrusting it aloft; ‘For the empire!’

Pavo roared along with the hardy few, a roar so fierce that it countered the Persian war drums. But only for a heartbeat. Sura and Zosimus pressed closer to him. The blood pounded in his ears. The carrion birds gathered overhead like a storm cloud. The silver mass of the Savaran raced for them.

Gallus braced, one foot ahead of the other, spear and shield clasped firmly, eyes dancing across the Persian front. A sea of bear, eagle, horse and scorpion banners bobbed above the thundering Persian ranks, but one standard rose higher than all others. It was topped with a Faravahar, the Zoroastrian guardian angel stretching out its wings as if readying to take flight. Hanging from the crossbar was a dark silk banner emblazoned with a tawny gold lion. Gallus’ top lip curled at the sight, thinking of the motif on Yabet’s purse.

Heavily armoured Horsemen formed a wide and deep centre. A gund of one thousand cataphractii, he realised. The riders wore iron scales like the skin of a snake, wrapped around their torsos and shoulders. Thick rings of iron hugged their limbs and they were crowned with pointed helms topped with dancing, balled plumes. Each wore a shamshir — a long, straight sword not unlike the Roman spatha — on their sword belt, and gripped a lengthy lance two-handed. He frowned, seeing that each spear seemed to be chained to the mount’s armour at the neck and at the thigh. This was something he had not seen before.

‘It channels the full momentum of the charge into the end of the spear tip,’ Carbo cried over the din of approaching hooves, following Gallus’ gaze. ‘And their horses can certainly charge.’

‘Nisean mares?’ Gallus reckoned seeing the dark bay and palomino colours of their tall and lithe mounts. The beasts wore scale aprons on their bodies and baked leather chamfrons strapped over their faces — with bulging bronze baskets protecting their eyes.

Flanking this cavalry centre were two small packs of running infantrymen. They looked reluctant — and barely like soldiers — wearing ragged trousers, tunics, felt caps and carrying only cane shields. This would be the infamous Persian paighan spearmen; men forced onto the field as missile-fodder for the enemy, or for the Persian riders to pivot around. A glance to the chains on their ankles confirmed this. A handful of mail-shirted Median spearmen ran alongside them like guards. They cracked whips to drive the paighan on. To the rear of the Persian lines, there was something else. Gallus squinted, sure the dust cloud and the heat haze were playing tricks on his eyes. A dozen shapes swayed. Hulking forms, bigger than any living thing he had ever set eyes upon. He gawped, seeing the swishing trunks, the glint of bronze-coated tusks and the jagged shapes of archers in the howdah cabins on the beasts’ backs. War elephants? Mithras, no!

The earth shuddered furiously as this tide of iron swept for the beleaguered Roman pack. Gallus recognised a long forgotten sensation needling at his heart. Fear. With a growl, he crushed the unwelcome emotion. ‘Stay tight, stay together. No horse will charge a nest of spears!’ he bellowed.

The Persian war cry drowned out his words. He felt his men instinctively push closer together. His eyes narrowed on the cataphractus bearing down on him, the rider’s spear tip trained on the gap between the rim of his shield and the brow of his helm. He braced for the impact. But, as if swept away by an unseen wind, the cataphractii split and wheeled away at the last, like curtains being swept apart across the Roman front. Gasps of relief rang out all round, only to be caught in throats at the sight of what lay behind the cataphractii.

Another gund of iron riders. However, unlike the departed first wave, these riders carried not lances, but bows. The weapons were already nocked with arrows, bent and raised, index fingers of bow hands pointing out as if identifying their intended victims, two more arrows clutched in the palm ready for the next volley. Over one thousand bowstrings twanged and loosed a storm of arrows skywards. Gallus gawped at the ascending storm, seeing the beauty of the strategy, realising what was to happen. The cataphractii had feigned a charge and pushed the Roman lines into a dense mass. The perfect target for their archer companions.

The men of the XI Claudia, the Flavia Firma and the IV Scythica alike scrambled from the path of the incoming hail — the dense mass breaking apart like a shattering urn. The arrows hammered down. Most smacked into the dust where the legionaries had been moments ago. Some struck the backs of those too slow to escape, showering blood across the dust. Crucially though, the legionary line was now utterly broken.

A shiver danced up Gallus’ spine as the archer cavalry split and wheeled away, just as the cataphractii lancers had done moments ago. Waiting behind was a final gund of riders. But no ordinary riders. One thousand men and mounts, pure iron, seemingly wrought with a hammer. They bore every armament of the cataphractii, but with the additional carapace of iron plates on their chests, greaves on their shins and iron gauntlets protecting their hands. And their faces brought a wail of dismay from the stumbling legionaries; pure, sculpted iron masks with sombre features, just two eyeholes and a mirthless mouth slit betraying the merest glimpse of humanity. They levelled their lances and kicked their mounts into an all-out charge. The war drums struck up a frantic rhythm like a panicked heartbeat as the riders’ plumes danced atop their tall helms.

‘This is it,’ Carbo panted by his side. ‘They have prised us apart like a clam. Now, the clibanarii will feast.’

The smattering of legionaries who had bows hurriedly nocked and loosed, and those with plumbatae hurled them in a disordered volley. The missiles smacked against the chests, helms and limbs of the clibanarii, bouncing away as if they were merely twigs. The iron riders thundered onwards unharmed. Gallus braced.

With a smash of iron upon iron, flesh and bone, the clibanarii ploughed into the Roman lines, casting men into the air like splinters thrown up from a well-aimed arrow and trampling over others. Whole centuries crumpled under this impact. Thick clouds of dust billowed up and puffs of fine crimson mizzle spat skywards where iron met flesh. Gallus’ shield shuddered as Persian lance and sword in turn battered against the boss and hacked chunks from the edge. He staggered back, struggling to stay on his feet. Those by his side were torn down, trampled, skewered on Persian lances. Within moments, only Carbo remained with him.

‘Tribunus!’ Carbo cried.

Gallus twisted to see a clibanarii spear only inches from him. He jinked, the lance tearing through his chain mail, gouging his shoulder and sending blood spurting from the wound. He staggered back to see the rider charge past, the spear punching through the chest of one young legionary and then another, showering those cowering behind in blood, organs and entrails. All along what had moments ago been a coordinated Roman line, the clibanarii hacked panicked pockets of legionaries down. Their spears plunged through necks, tore heads from shoulders, shattered limbs and barged men to the ground where they were trampled underhoof.

Gallus spun this way and that, desperate to catch sight of some show of resistance in the flurry of thick dust. Carbo had delved off into the fray, fighting desperately by the side of three men from his century. Elsewhere, clusters of legionaries fought together — but there were so few. Some groups had pulled the riders from their saddles, others had plunged their spears into the unarmoured bellies of the mounts, bringing down rider and beast. But for every dead or dying clibanarius in the tangle of fallen bodies, there were many more shattered legionary corpses.

He coughed and retched as the dust billowed all around him, staggering through the carpet of bone, blood and spilled guts. Suddenly, a clibanarius rider burst into view, coming for him. He swung his spear shaft up to parry the rider’s lance, the collision shattering both weapons, then ducked under the follow-up kick the rider aimed from the saddle. He snatched at the rider’s leg and hauled the man from the saddle. The man fell to his knees with a crunch of iron, then struggled to stand. The rider drew his shamshir and Gallus tore out his spatha. Sparks flew as the blades clashed again and again. A swift strike saw the rider score the flesh on Gallus’ already bleeding shoulder. Gallus roared and hacked back, the edge of his spatha dashing against the clibanarius’ midriff. It would have been a death blow to any other, but the blade simply bounced back from the plate-armour this rider wore around his ribs. Gallus swore he could hear the masked rider laugh over the din of screaming and thundering war drums. Another strike on the rider’s thighs rendered no damage — the ring armour there as hardy as the rest. Exhausted, Gallus staggered back. The clibanarius pulled off his mask to reveal his bearded, flat-boned face and a snarling grimace.

‘Ahura Mazda wills death upon you and your family, Roman dog,’ the rider spat in jagged Greek as he pointed his long, straight blade at Gallus accusingly, then hefted it to strike.

Gallus stared through the rider, seeing instead the shadows of those who had taken Olivia and Marcus from him. He felt his sword arm shudder as he parried the rider’s blow, then he felt the soft ripping of meat as he drove his spatha into the man’s jaw, down into his throat. Hot blood erupted over Gallus’ face, and he stared into and beyond the rider’s bulging eyes, whispering as he tore his blade free; ‘A poor choice of words, cur.’ The light left the rider’s eyes and Gallus remained, staring into the past as the corpse toppled. He heard nothing but his dead wife and son’s last cries. He saw nothing but their blackened corpses on the pyre. Then the tumult of the battle all around came back to him like a storm wind.

In every direction, his vexillatio and those of the IV Scythica were being butchered. He saw the coal-skinned primus pilus surrounded by the bodies of his men. The primus pilus screamed in defiance, before a clibanarius swept the head from his shoulders, bringing gouts of blood from the neck stump. Through the crimson spray, Gallus saw that the XI Claudia banner still stood. He set off through the fray to join them.

If I am to die today then, by Mithras, it will be by their side.

Pavo wiped the blood from his eyes and grappled Tribunus Ovidius by the scruff of his mailshirt as arrows rained down around them. ‘Sir! We must stand together!’

But Ovidius was insensible to these hoarse words. He clawed at Pavo’s shoulders, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging as he gawped past Pavo, off to the north-west. ‘The dunes, run for the dunes!’ he squealed.

Now Baptista grabbed and shook him. ‘If you run, they will ride you down and. . ’

Baptista’s words trailed off as he saw a pack of three of the clibanarii riders haring for them. He pushed Ovidius to one side, pulled up his shield, then nodded to Pavo who followed suit.

‘Brace!’ the pair cried.

Pavo, Baptista, Sura and the seven other men nearby clustered together as the three riders thundered towards them. But the clibanarii broke to ride past them like a river round a rock. Baptista crouched as they swept past, thrusting his spear up and into the belly of one mount. The mount charged on, ripping the spear from the optio’s grip, but the blow was fatal and just a few strides on, the horse crumpled, throwing the clibanarius to the ground. On the other side, Sura barged his shield boss out to knock another rider off balance. The man fell from the saddle, his cry abruptly ended when he landed on his head, the weight of his armour crushing his neck bones. The last of the three riders galloped on and levelled his spear at the one figure who had not stood firm — Ovidius, staggering for the dunes. The rider punched his lance into Ovidius’ spine. The spear burst through the tribunus’ breast, skewering chunks of lung and heart. Another rider swept past in the opposite direction and scythed his sword through the top of Ovidius’ helmetless head, showering the tribunus’ brains across the battlefield. Ovidius’ body fell, mouth agape, one hand outstretched and pointing to the dunes.

‘Fool,’ Baptista spat.

‘Forget him; look, we’re not done yet,’ Pavo jabbed a finger out to the cluster of legionaries under the XI Claudia banner, a short distance away. Gallus was there, as were Zosimus, Felix, Quadratus and Carbo plus some fifty others. They hacked and parried furiously, coated in blood. ‘If we can get to them. . ’

The keening of a Persian war horn drowned out his words. At once, the clibanarii withdrew from the fray, leaving just these islands of hardy legionaries in a sea of bloody sand and corpses. The battle din quelled.

Pavo panted, watching as the iron riders returned to their position in Persian centre. The cataphractii and archer cavalry had spilled round the flanks and now stood poised like pincers. Bows nocked, lances levelled. Watching, waiting. The rumbling war drums fell silent and every legionary’s breath seemed to still with them. An eerie calm settled over the gory scene.

‘What are they waiting for?’ Sura panted, running his gaze over the Savaran noose.

Beside them, Baptista growled, clutching his Chi-Rho; ‘You will soon see. I pray to God that it will be over swiftly.’ He met the eyes of both Pavo and Sura. ‘Know this: we could never be friends, but you make fine comrades on the battlefield.’

‘Aye,’ Pavo replied, ‘at the last, I am glad of you by my side.’

Baptista nodded briskly, then closed his eyes and muttered in prayer.

Pavo and Sura peered ahead, over the line of clibanarii. There seemed to be some activity there, shrouded behind the wall of dust. Suddenly, the calm was shattered as the earth rumbled under them once more. This time it was ferocious, as if titans were now running towards them. The clibanarii parted, and the dust behind them swirled and swished rapidly, a shaft of midday sunlight piercing it and silhouetting a dozen hulking shapes. Then a dozen nightmarish, trumpeting roars rang out, shaking Pavo to his bones.

‘God of the Light, no!’ he gasped as the war elephants thundered into view. Their trunks swiped in fury. Their tusks were coated in bronze, the tips sharpened and serrated. Their colossal limbs crashed on the dust underfoot like falling rocks, and they came at a great pace that belied their size. The archers packed into the howdah cabins strapped to their backs grinned zealously as they leant out to take aim with their nocked bows. The wild-eyed, eager mahout seated on the lead beast’s neck yelled some jagged command, driving the creature onwards.

Pavo glanced across to Gallus and the cluster of men around the XI Claudia banner. The iron tribunus had nothing, and could only gawp at these giant creatures.

‘We’re dead,’ Sura whispered, as if stealing Pavo’s thoughts.

Instinctively, a few legionaries nearby broke away, scrambling back. Pavo stared up at the nearest creature, its enraged features encircled by a halo of sunlight. A pair of arrows thudded down into the dust before him and then the beast lifted its huge foot. The shadow of the beast fell over him and finally his resolve cracked. He, Sura and the rest of his cluster scrambled back too.

‘Sir!’ Sextus yelped behind him, one hand outstretched having stumbled to his knees.

Pavo reached out to Sextus, when an elephant foot came crashing down upon the young legionary, crushing him like bracken. Then the swinging trunk bashed into Pavo’s breast, knocking the breath from him, cracking a rib and hurling him over the heads of the rest of his men. He landed on his back and rolled through the dust. Winded, he retched and spat, then scrambled up to see the mahout smash his iron-tipped cane on the beast’s head. This maddened the creature, provoking it into swishing its head, bringing one bronze-coated tusk up and through Baptista’s flank, ripping the side of his torso away. The blood of the mutilated Flavia Firma optio showered those who fled and his lifeless corpse toppled to the dust. Sura cried out as an arrow hissed down, slashing past the side of his face with a spray of blood, then another punched into his calf, knocking him to the ground beside Pavo. Nearby he saw Gallus, Carbo and the others scrambling back likewise until they were together in a panting, panicked cluster. The war elephants rounded on them as if herding cattle, then slowed, obeying the barking commands and thrashing canes of the mahouts. The circle of great beasts glowered down upon the surviving legionaries — less than thirty all told. Pavo squinted up as the howdah archers stretched their bows once more, each taking aim for a volley that would finish them all and end the quest for the scroll.

Pavo grappled his phalera medallion and thought of Father.

But the onslaught ceased with a single strike on the war drum. The archers’ arms slackened and their gleeful grins grew sour. Silence fell over the plain bar a few snorts, whinnies and shuffles of the Persian mounts. The dust settled and the baking heat of early afternoon seared their skins.

Carbo pushed up next to Pavo, his every breath rasping, his skin and hair caked in blood.

‘What’s happening?’ Pavo whispered.

‘The victor wants to inspect his conquered subjects,’ Carbo replied. He nodded to a space behind the circle of elephants.

There, the drafsh standard draped with the golden lion banner bobbed into view. A clutch of wing-helmed riders carried the staff.

‘Pushtigban,’ Carbo whispered, ‘the cream of the Savaran. They serve as the bodyguard of the shahanshah and his underlings.’

‘The king of kings?’ Pavo gasped. ‘Shapur is here?’

Carbo shook his head, his gaze never leaving the golden lion banner. ‘No, I fear that someone far more dangerous leads this wing of the Savaran today. Someone starved of power. The Persian Empire has long been plagued by such souls.’ He nodded to the banner. ‘That is the symbol of the House of Aspaphet. The noble line of the Persis Satrapy. And if my fears are correct, then that,’ he nodded to the rider emerging from the clutch of pushtigban, ‘is Spahbad Tamur.’

Two hooded, torch-wielding magi flanked this lone rider. The Sacred Fire dancing atop the torches cast the rider in a brilliant light. His fine, fawn skin glistened with sweat and he wore his shock of dark hair scraped back into a tail of curls that jostled at his shoulders. Beads of sweat darted from his forehead, dancing over his broad, broken nose and the scar welt on the bridge. He was broad as a bull and clad in a bronze scale vest. Over his heart he wore a gilded plate embossed with the image of a lion like the one on the banner, just like that on Yabet’s purse. He cast his baleful gaze over the clutch of weary and scarred legionaries, then it snagged on the tattered banners they clutched. Suddenly, he threw his head back and let a lungful of booming laughter ring out long and loud.

‘It seems that Ahura Mazda indeed watches over us,’ he said in jagged Greek, glaring at the IV Scythica banner. ‘Not only have we succeeded in drawing out this Roman legion from their border fort, but in the same blow,’ he continued, stabbing two fingers at the XI Claudia and XVI Flavia Firma banners, ‘we have also foiled the Roman Emperor’s expedition!’

Pavo’s brow knitted and he whispered to those beside him. ‘They knew of the mission for the scroll?’

‘From the start, it seems,’ Gallus spat, hearing his words.

Pavo’s mind flashed over the last few months. They had fended off the Cretan pirates, the dark hand of Yabet the guide and the camel raiders. All paid for by the coin of some foe — his eyes shot back up to the gold lion banner. Finally, where coin had failed, cold, hard Persian steel had cut this mission apart.

‘I know what you sought,’ Tamur continued, wagging a finger as if having heard Pavo’s thoughts. ‘I know only too well. But what you shall find will be very different, proud Romans, very different indeed.’ Tamur clapped his hands together. At this, the wretched paighan infantry were barged forward as if they were prisoners. Pavo saw the glistening, raw flesh under the shackles they wore on their ankles, chaining them together. ‘Yes, you shall have much time to think over your foolish mission,’ Tamur chuckled. ‘I know a fine place for meditation.’

‘It is time at last. . ’ Carbo muttered, his burnt skin blanching. ‘Time to face the past,’ he muttered, his head jerking and his lips trembling.

‘Carbo?’ Pavo whispered, confused.

‘Shackle them to the paighan,’ Tamur continued. ‘Let them suffer with those wretches as they march to their fate.’

Eager-looking Median spearmen leapt upon the order, stalking forward with bundled chains and grappling legionaries all around Pavo. He saw Sura struggle, he heard Gallus snarl, then he felt hands wrench at his ankles. Two spearmen were fitting shackles to his shins. Then one stopped, looking up, his gaze snagging on Pavo’s phalera medallion. The man grinned, then reached up to lift it, turning it over in his hands, eyes glinting with its reflection. With a wrench of the wrist, he snapped the leather strap, pulling the piece free.

‘No!’ Pavo yelled, barging the other man back and swiping out to retrieve the medallion. But the spearman backed away, clutching the phalera tightly. The next thing Pavo saw was the ham-like fist of the nearest Persian spearman swinging up and crunching into his nose. White lights filled his head and he toppled to the ground. When he tried to rise again, a spear butt crashed into the nape of his neck and he crumpled.

In the darkness, he heard Tamur’s words as if from miles away.

‘Kill every second Roman — the rest will be less trouble that way.’

Blackness fell upon him like a rock.