Land of the Sacred Fire

Chapter 16

Zubin and his goats climbed the last of the foothills before the Zagros Mountains. The hubbub around Bishapur fell away behind him and was replaced by the babbling torrents of the river gorge. He was glad to be clear of the goings on near the city. The place had become a hive of activity and expectation as the Festival Day loomed ever closer — just a week away. At market, all the talk was of the fine new arena and the blood games it was to hold, yet Zubin had no urge to see men spill blood for entertainment, and he was sure Ahura Mazda thought likewise.

He reached the peak of the hill and stopped, wheezing as he looked down into the gorge. For this short stretch, the river widened and the foaming waters calmed to a gentle babble. The sun-bathed banks were lined with shingle and pebbles, speckled with wild red poppies and shaded in parts by twisting tamarisk trees. Some said the waters on this stretch of the river had healing powers, the mountain meltwater augmented by a network of mineral-rich springs. As always, it would make a pleasant place to rest and eat while his goat herd drank and grazed on the tufts of long grass dividing the shingle and the gorge-side. But it was not for the agreeable surroundings that he chose to come here almost every day. He gazed up to the towering mountain peaks. His eyes rested on the tumbled, circular structure atop the nearest. Tears stung his eyelids and his bottom lip trembled.

Just then, three leaping, bleating goat kids swept past him from behind, their ears rising and falling in play. Zubin yelped in fright, then turned to the mother goat, who ambled up the hillside to join him, her ears hanging flat to her face, her grey beard and body showing the signs of age. ‘I remember when I used to feel like them,’ he muttered absently, watching as the kids scrambled down the steep gorge-side. They tumbled through the shingle over to the long grass, play-biting and butting at one another. ‘Now I feel I have more in common with you,’ he said, stroking the mother goat’s neck. Chuckling, he made to descend the scree slope in the wake of the kids, but he froze. There, in the centre of the calm river surface, something stirred. Bubbles frothed and the water grew choppy. Suddenly, like a leaping salmon, a hulking figure burst from the water, gasping for air, arms flailing. Moments later, another figure shot up, then another and another.

‘Mithras!’ one of the figures yelled in delight. A haggard brute of a man with a blonde moustache and beard. Beside this one, another of the same stature and a squashed nose let loose an ecstatic volley of obscenities, arms outstretched to the sky, as if he had not seen the sun in years. They clawed and scrambled their way to the shingle.

Zubin gulped, then shared a nervous glance with the mother goat.

Pavo thrashed and splashed his way to the river’s edge on all-fours. There, he retched and vomited, then retched and coughed again and again until the last of the water was gone from his belly and lungs. He clutched at the sun-warmed shingle in disbelief, breathing the sweet, clean air in wonderment, then fell on his back and squinted at his surroundings. At first, the sunlight was blinding after so long in the darkness of the mines, but gradually, shading his eyes with his hands, he saw that they were in some river valley, vast mountains to the east and tapering foothills to the west.

‘Pavo!’ Sura croaked from nearby in between spluttering fits. ‘We’re free!’

Laughter echoed nearby — instantly recognisable as that of Zosimus. ‘We bloody did it!’

Pavo sat up and hugged his knees to his chest with one arm, running the other hand through his tangled hair and wiry beard. He saw the handful of blurry figures lying or sitting nearby, each retching and coughing: Zosimus, Quadratus, Felix, Sura, Habitus. No Noster, none of the men from the wheel. . no Father. For a moment, the events of the past few hours seemed dreamlike, and he wondered if it had all really happened.

‘Father?’ he scrambled back into the shallows, eyes darting to every ripple, every sound.

He waded in until the water lapped at his chest, then he felt Zosimus’ hand on his shoulder, hauling him back. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool — the currents are too strong,’ he said, a finality in his words.

‘No!’ he cried, shrugging the big Thracian off. Just then, the waters before them bubbled. A gnarled hand shot clear of the surface, clutching for the air before the ferocious undertow threatened to snatch it back under. ‘Father!’ Pavo gasped, seeing the frayed leather strap on the wrist. He leapt forward, clasping the hand firmly. Zosimus uttered some half-curse then grabbed and held Pavo’s waist. The two pulled, groaning. At last, they hauled Falco free of the current. Falco gasped for air and then at once slumped. Pavo and Zosimus caught him, then carried him, wading back to the shallows and splashing onto the shingle. Falco fell like a dead weight, lying on his back, his breathing laboured, his skin near-blue.

‘Father?’ Pavo fell to his knees. Falco did not respond. He pressed his palms upon Falco’s chest, but no water came up.

‘Easy,’ Felix croaked, ‘His enemy is not water in the lungs, it is the cold from those icy depths.’

‘Then we need fire, heat, dry robes!’ Pavo looked this way and that in search of something they could use. Instead, he froze as his gaze snagged on something else: a lone man, a Persian with a neatly groomed beard dressed in a loose-fitting linen robe and trousers crouching in the long grass. He was desperately trying to pull a stubborn goat kid back into the grass. Then the goat kid bleated and the eyes of the eight were upon him.

The Persian stood up, coddled the goat kid like a child and dabbed his tongue out to dampen his lips. Felix urged the others to their feet to surround the man.

‘A Persian soldier?’ Quadratus said, his eyes narrowing.

The Persian shook his head. ‘A soldier? The only enemies I fight are of the four-legged variety!’ He frowned as the goat kid took its cue to bite at his beard. He chided the beast, then set it down to join the others in play.

‘My name is Felix. We are Roman,’ Felix said cagily, stepping forward, ‘but we have no wish for trouble.’

‘I am Zubin. I am a farmer. I honour Ahura Mazda and pray he will strengthen my crops and allow my last years to be peaceful.’

‘But your armies will be looking for us,’ Zosimus snapped, his eyes still narrowed in distrust.

As Zosimus’ words echoed through the gorge, Zubin cocked an eyebrow. ‘Shout any louder and they will find you. But you are right, the militia will be looking for you. As they would any men who escaped the mines.’

Quadratus and Felix braced at this.

Zubin held up a hand of supplication quickly. ‘I recognise those whip wounds. My son was cast into the depths of Dalaki. The only morsel of comfort they offered me was to bring me his scar-laced corpse after he died.’ He extended a finger to the tall mountains upriver, pointing to a squat circular ruin on the closest. ‘I laid him to rest upon the Tower of Silence, there, atop the nearest peak. That is why I come here — to graze my goats and to remember him. I have no sympathy with those who consign men to the mines. I love Ahura Mazda, and I do not believe he would ever condone such treatment of men.’ He removed the hemp sack on his shoulder and laid out the contents. Fresh bread and dates. ‘Come, eat with me.’

The eight Romans encircling the man looked to one another.

‘What if we’re not hungry?’ Quadratus said, a hint of suspicion still glowing in his eyes. A grumble from his guts immediately followed.

‘Then you should tell your belly that,’ Zubin fired back, a broad grin splitting his features. ‘Now please, eat,’ he said, tearing off a piece of bread for himself then offering the rest to Pavo.

Pavo took the bread but passed it straight on to Sura. ‘Your offer of food is generous,’ he said to Zubin, then he gestured to Falco, ‘but we need fire and blankets. My Father, he is — ’

‘Indeed,’ Zubin frowned, stepping closer to examine the prone Falco. ‘He has been in the river too long.’ He looked Pavo in the eye, then glanced to each of the others, drawing a long breath in through his nostrils. He shot a wistful glance up to the Tower of Silence, then turned back to them and nodded. ‘Come with me.’

They carried Falco and followed Zubin from the gorge. They trekked through the deserted foothills until they came to a small farmhouse on the brow of a hillock dappled with red poppies. Inside, the single room was cool and sparsely furnished, with just a small bed in one corner, a wooden trunk by the door, a table and chairs in the centre of the floor and a hearth at the far side. Zubin wordlessly helped lay Falco on the bed, then brought thick blankets from the trunk and wrapped them around the shivering Roman. While Pavo and the others sat on the floor near the bed, Zubin then set about kindling a fire in the hearth then heating a pan of water over it. He decanted the hot water into cups and added a generous dose of honey to each before giving one to each of them, and two to Pavo. Pavo understood and nodded his thanks. He took just a swift gulp of his own cup — the thick, sweet drink at once warming him and soothing his battered body — then held the other to Father’s lips, Sura gently raising Falco’s head to the cup. Most of the drink spilled across Falco’s chin, but his lips trembled and opened slightly. He drank a little then sighed weakly.

‘He will need to rest, eat and drink in turn. When the cold has penetrated into your heart, it is like a demon, refusing to be driven out,’ Zubin said gravely.

‘But he will recover, won’t he?’ Pavo said, turning to the Persian. He caught sight of Zubin’s grave look. It was enough to answer the question. Then Falco’s body shuddered in a fit of weak coughing. Pavo saw the flecks of blood on his lips. Black blood. No, Pavo mouthed. The fever and the lung disease now battled to take Father from him. His head swam and he stifled the urge to cry out in anger. He felt Sura clasp a hand to his shoulder in reassurance.

‘You can rest here for a short while,’ Zubin said gently. ‘But I fear the men from the mines and the garrison of nearby Bishapur will be out looking for you soon.’ He flicked the hemp rug on the floor back with his foot to reveal a trapdoor. ‘I expect you are tired of dwelling underground, but my cellar would be a safer place for you to recover.’

Pavo clasped Falco’s cold hands tightly, then looked around his comrades. Felix, Zosimus and Quadratus seemed unsure of Zubin’s offer, but what other option was there? They were weak, exhausted and wounded. Felix nodded, and they stood to help lift the trapdoor.

As Pavo readied to help carry Falco down the ladders, he fixed Zubin with an earnest gaze. ‘Thank you.’

Zubin nodded modestly.

The cellar was a modest space, lit only by timber slats near the ceiling — level with the ground outside. Grain sacks were piled up around the walls, and these made makeshift beds. They afforded the most comfortable of these to Falco, wrapping him well in the blankets then dressing themselves in the tattered robes Zubin brought them.

The next days were a meld of thick, dreamless sleep and eating and drinking their fill time and again. Zubin brought them fresh loaves, sticky sweet dates, a zesty orange fruit and urns of hearty stew. This fare soothed and warmed their battered bodies. Zubin had also brought them a small barrel of water, a roll of linen bandage and a few pots of salve. They used this to wash and treat their wounds. Pavo ate and slept by Falco’s side.

On the third day, Pavo was woken from a deep sleep when Zubin came down to the cellar to whisper to them; ‘Word has spread about the disaster at the mines. Three chambers were flooded. Many slaves escaped in the chaos. Riding parties are scouring the brush and the flatlands around the mine. With any luck they will not come into these hills.’

Indeed, by the fourth day, no scouts had come by the farmhouse. More, Pavo noticed that a sparkle of strength was returning to his comrades’ eyes. Sores and raw flesh had begun to heal, and their ribs seemed to jut less severely. They had even begun to talk of their next move. But Pavo heard their words as little more than a background jabber, for he focused only on Falco, crouching by him. Father had grown feverish and now muttered almost incessantly. Zubin’s honeyed hot water seemed powerless to expel the icy cold from Father’s chest. The hope was dying in Pavo’s heart. He held the phalera in his palm, the disc buckled where it had defied Gorzam’s spear. His memories drifted to that day in the slave market when the crone had given the medallion to him, lifting him from despair. He pressed the piece into Father’s palm, wrapping his fingers over it. ‘Don’t give up, Father,’ he whispered.

‘How is he?’ Sura asked, crouching beside Pavo.

‘No better,’ Pavo replied flatly.

‘But no worse either,’ Sura added firmly, clasping a hand to Pavo’s shoulder.

Just then, a noise startled them. The scuffing of feet up above — more than one person. Each of them held their breath. Then they heard the bleating of a goat and Zubin’s comical and one-sided conversation with the animal. They exhaled in relief and broke out in a chuckle. Zubin opened a trapdoor at that point, him and the mother goat grinning down at them.

‘I have more honeyed water and a fresh batch of dates,’ he said as he descended. Then he brought out a small piece of yellow root. ‘And this,’ he offered it to Pavo. ‘It may be the only thing that will rid him of the fever. Put it in his drink and be sure he drinks plenty and often. It will cause him to sweat out all that is in him. It will cure him, or. . ’ Zubin fell silent.

‘I understand,’ Pavo nodded, taking the root.

On the morning of the sixth day in the cellar, Pavo woke before his comrades at sunrise, feeling strong and sharp. He began slicing at the yellow root with a dagger. The juices of the root had a sharp, tangy flavour, and turned the honeyed water ever more golden. He turned to Father, bathed in sweat, just as Zubin had predicted. Yet he was no less feverish, and his skin was pale. Pavo gulped, then held the cup to Falco’s mouth, making sure not a drop was wasted. Shortly after, the rest of the XI Claudia woke, then sat on the grain sacks in a circle as they ate a full breakfast of goats’ cheese, bread and eggs, washing it down with sweet water.

‘Ah,’ Zosimus sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘I almost feel like a legionary once again.’

Quadratus stretched his arms then cricked his neck. ‘Aye, who’d have thought that it would be a Persian who would come to our aid in the end, eh?’

Felix chuckled at this, then his face fell solemn as he looked around them all and then to Falco. Pavo knew what the little Greek was going to say. ‘We cannot stay here for much longer.’

Pavo nodded, clasping Falco’s hand a little tighter. ‘I know.’

‘A long trek awaits us if we are to escape this land,’ Felix continued, shooting furtive glances to Falco.

‘I understand, sir,’ Pavo replied.

‘By nightfall tomorrow, we need to make a move — ’

They all fell silent as they heard scuffling above, waiting to hear the bleating of the mother goat and Zubin’s sanguine chatter. They heard Zubin, but his tone was different. His words were muffled, and Pavo strained to make them out. Then another voice split the air like a blade.

‘You have seen nothing?’ the voice snapped.

‘I am alone in these hills. You are the first soul I have spoken to in weeks.’

A silence ensued. ‘It would not be wise to lie to us, farmer.’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘You have no love for your rulers — I know this.’

Zubin chuckled wryly. ‘I do not love them. But I do not hate them. I pity them and the fate that awaits them beyond this life.’

Pavo’s mind flashed with images of the aggressors drawing some blade on Zubin for this retort, but there was no sound for what felt like an eternity.

‘Come on,’ the voice snarled at last, ‘this dog is wasting our time!’ A drumming of feet sounded and then faded.

Pavo shared an anxious look with his comrades. Then the trapdoor whooshed open. Zubin’s face was wrinkled in concern. ‘It is not safe here anymore.’

Under cover of night, Pavo and Sura crept through the brush atop one hill, then peered down to the valley. A group of five Persian scout riders ate around a campfire there, and another three were posted at either end of the shallow valley. Pavo glanced back over his shoulder to the row of hills behind them, Zubin’s farmhouse perched atop the furthest.

‘There are too many of them,’ Sura said. ‘That’s the third such party we’ve sighted.’

‘Aye, they’re crawling all over these hills like ants,’ Pavo agreed. He looked past the guards and off to the west, seeing the faint outline of the river gorge in the darkness, and then the orange glow of torchlight from the city of Bishapur, looming over the river where the foothills tapered off. Felix had sent them out in the hope of reconnoitring possible routes they could take to make a break towards the Gulf coast, some thirty miles into the darkness beyond the city. The primus pilus would not be pleased with their findings.

He glanced to the east and noticed that a band of dark orange glowed behind the Zagros Mountains. He batted a hand to Sura’s shoulder. ‘Come on, it’s nearly dawn, we should get back before it gets too light.’ The pair slid back down the hillside, careful not to make too much noise, then they scuttled along the ridge of hills towards Zubin’s farmhouse. Pavo noticed something as they ran; from here he could see the flatland around the city of Bishapur, and the roads leading to the city seemed to writhe in the first shafts of dawn light. Wagons, animals and vast swathes of people, pouring towards the city gates. He frowned at this, then turned his attentions on the farmhouse, ahead. And as soon as he did, he and Sura froze. Two silhouettes walked near the farmhouse door.

‘Scouts?’ Sura gasped as the pair ducked behind a thorny bush.

Pavo’s tongue darted out to dampen his lips, his heart crashed like a drum and he flexed his sword hand, cursing the absence of a spatha. Then his fear melted. ‘No!’ he said, recognising one figure as Zubin. Then it skipped a beat when he saw the other. Father!

The next moments were a blur. He scrambled up the hill, grasping and then embracing Falco. The paleness had left his skin, and he walked unaided.

‘It feels as if I have awoken from a nightmare nearly as dark as those bloody mines,’ Falco croaked.

‘The root?’ Pavo uttered, glancing to Zubin.

Zubin grinned. ‘The fever broke while you were out. He has eaten like a pregnant goat and talked only of you.’

Falco held up one hand as if to catch the morning light. ‘I never thought I would feel the sun on my skin again.’

Pavo smiled, then realised the sun was rising fast, pulling the shadows from the land. ‘Quickly, we must get inside — there are scouts not far from here.’

They hurried inside, Sura and Pavo rolling back the rug, readying to lift the trapdoor. But Falco halted at the table, grasping it for stability. His chest heaved and he erupted in a coughing fit. The black blood still flecked his lips. Pavo’s joy was swept away at the sight.

‘The root has cured one ailment, but not the lung disease of the mines,’ Zubin said, his grin fading as he helped Falco to sit by the table, ‘there is no cure for that foul sickness once the blood has turned black.’

Pavo gulped and sat beside Falco, stifling the flood of tears behind his eyes. His heart ached until he thought it would burst.

‘I am surprised I have lasted this long, Pavo. Few survive as long as I have in that place,’ Falco said. ‘Memories of being with you kept me strong down there,’ Falco continued. ‘And memories of your mother.’

Pavo nodded, his thoughts a blur. Mother had died in giving birth to him and he had never felt free of the shackles of guilt at this.

‘She would never have had it any other way, Pavo,’ Falco said as if reading his thoughts. ‘Did I ever tell you that in those last moments, when she held you in her arms? She knew she was dying, but she said to me. . ’ his words trailed off and he bowed his head.

Pavo wrapped an arm around Falco’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, Father.’

‘She said she had never been happier than at that moment. For the three of us to have had those precious few heartbeats together meant everything to her. I may not have long Pavo, but. . ’

‘Father,’ Pavo cut him off. ‘You are free. We will escape this land. You will return to the empire. We will find a healer,’ he insisted, desperately trying to stave off the doubts in his own mind.

Falco erupted in another fit of blood-streaked coughing, and Pavo could do little other than hold and comfort him. He saw his father reach down to the leather bracelet on his withered arm. ‘Pavo, there is something you need to know. . ’

Just then, the trapdoor creaked open. Felix poked his head out then climbed into the hearth room. ‘How’s it looking out there?’ he said as Zosimus, Quadratus and Habitus joined him.

‘Scouting parties in every direction, sir,’ Pavo sighed. Then he thought of the roads leading to the city. ‘And there are many people visiting Bishapur today, it seems?’

‘Of course,’ Zubin said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Today is the Jashan of Shahrevar, the Festival of Iron.’

Pavo frowned. ‘You seem to be one of the few who chooses not to attend?’

‘There are others like me, Roman. Others who feel that the Persis Satrapy has a dark soul at its helm. The archimagus aims to whip his people into a fervour with a display of blood games today. I do not believe Ahura Mazda would wish for his people to indulge in such brutality.’

‘Archimagus Ramak?’ Pavo cocked an eyebrow.

‘Indeed. I imagine you met plenty of his enemies within the mines,’ Zubin nodded. ‘He is a foul creature. I have heard dark rumours in these past months — of mustering and recruitment. He has been gathering an army. I fear that the blood games today will be the start of something far more grave.’

The words hit Pavo like a fist; in the breakneck escape from the mines, he had forgotten about all that lay ahead. The Persian invasion of Roman Syria. The scroll. The scroll! He swept his eyes round his comrades until they rested upon Falco, by his side.

Pavo clasped his hands to Falco’s shoulders. ‘The scroll,’ he panted.

‘The scroll?’ Falco frowned.

‘The scroll!’ Pavo repeated. Through all the tumult of these last days and in the seeming certainty that he would never escape the mines, he had forgotten entirely of Khaled’s last words — that the Romans in the seventh chamber knew of the scroll. ‘Father, the scroll of Jovian. There was a man, a Persian whom I shared a cell with. He told me that, he said that. . ’ his words tumbled out in a single breath.

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.