Land of the Sacred Fire

Chapter 19

The pushtigban atop the acropolis seemed to be relaxed. Most had downed their winged helms and masks and stood in the shade of palms clusters or near the lip of the plateau to escape the late afternoon sun and watch the combat in the arena below. Pavo, Sura, Habitus and Falco were pressed against the palace wall, around the corner from the entrance courtyard and babbling fountain. Parakeets sang, black-shouldered kites whistled as they flitted from branch to branch and the cicada song grew louder and louder, as if determined to alert the guards to the Romans’ presence.

Falco cupped a hand to his ear and gripped Pavo’s arm. ‘The fountain,’ he wheezed, each breath rattling with blood now, ‘the scroll is in the chambers beyond.’

‘Father, you need to rest,’ Pavo started.

‘Pavo!’ Falco hissed back, stifling a wet cough. ‘The scroll!’

‘Aye,’ he winced, turning away. He inched his head forward to peek around the corner and into the courtyard. A pair of pushtigban warriors chatted near the high, arched doorway beyond the fountain that led into the palace. His heart leapt as Sura roughly shoved himself up to peek round too.

‘If those two don’t move, we can’t risk it,’ Sura observed, less than helpfully.

Just then, a roar sounded from the arena below, louder than any before. Interest piqued, the two guards stopped talking and strolled out of the courtyard. Pavo’s heart leapt and he ducked back, pressing himself against the wall, the others doing likewise. The two guards walked past them and on to the lip of the mount and stood, backs turned, only paces away from them.

Push them? Habitus mouthed.

No! Pavo and Sura mouthed in furious unison. Instead, Pavo beckoned the group forward. They stole into the shade of the courtyard, staying close to the walls. They sneaked past the fountain and then inside the palace.

Inside was cool and shady. Floral motifs and carvings of stags, lions and elephants adorned the walls. Reliefs of stern Persian warriors and kings of the past glowered down upon them. The polished black tiles underfoot seemed deathly cold in comparison to the blistering hot flagstones of the courtyard. ‘It’s empty?’ Pavo whispered, then cupped a hand over his lips as the whisper echoed around the high ceilings.

‘I very much doubt it. But you will hear any foe before you see them,’ Falco replied. ‘Now, the scroll is not on this floor. The slave who told me of it said he concealed it in the heart of the palace. The chamber on the second floor that looks out over the city. Find the stairwell.’

Pavo crept forward, casting his gaze along to where this vast chamber met with the next, a yawning archway dividing them. Beyond, he saw the base of a flight of polished marble stairs. ‘This way,’ he gestured, leading them towards it. He slowed to a halt when he heard another clatter of footsteps approaching, flitting down the stairs. Two people. He shot a glance to Sura and Habitus. They rushed to press into the shadows either side of the archway, out of sight of the stairs. Two pushtigban warriors turned briskly from the stairwell chamber into this one, striding past Pavo and his group. A muted sigh of relief escaped Pavo’s lips when, suddenly, one of the guards halted, patting his belt.

‘My water skin,’ he muttered, then turned back for the stairs. His eyes fell upon the four nestled in the shadows in the corner. The man’s face wrinkled, his dark moustache lifting as he sucked in a breath to call out in alarm. The cry had barely left his lips before Sura was up and rushing for him. Instinctively, Pavo charged behind his friend. The pushtigban levelled his spear at Sura, who feinted to duck one way then went the other, grappling the spear shaft as he did so and wrenching it from the man’s grip. Pavo followed up with a crunching hook into the man’s jaw. He toppled like a felled oak. The other guard, only feet away, rushed for the courtyard to raise the alarm. With a flash of iron, Sura loosed the spear of the fallen pushtigban like a javelin. The lance punched into the warrior’s back — failing to penetrate his armour but knocking him to the floor where his head bashed against the tiles. He lay still. Sura expelled a tense breath, shook his throwing arm and rolled his head on his shoulders. ‘The games at Adrianople, three summers ago — finest javelin marksman. Shame I got drunk later and nearly skewered the judge with my one wayward throw. They took my prize purse back for that. Shower of bast — ’

Pavo grappled his friend by the arm. ‘Tell me about it later.’ He took the shamshir from the unconscious pushtigban, while Sura took the blade of the other. Habitus took a spear. They dragged the two limp bodies into the shadows, then Pavo led Falco to the stairwell chamber, the others following close behind. The staircase was broad and led up around the walls of this central vault — nearly three times as high as the last chamber. His eyes rested on the second of three landings. ‘The heart of the palace,’ he muttered in realisation. They hurried up to this second floor and slowed at the landing. There were no guards in sight. A bright shaft of sunlight drew his gaze to the main chamber on this floor.

Pavo led the way gingerly, flexing his grip on the honeycomb hilt of the Persian blade. They entered this, the finest chamber yet. The far wall opened up courtesy of three tall archways, providing a breathtaking vista of sun-bathed Bishapur. Silken curtains hung either side of these archways, tied back with gold-threaded rope. The sunlight streamed in and illuminated the gilded, high vaulted ceiling and the forest of treasures that filled the floor. It was an eclectic collection of marble sculptures, porphyry carvings, suits of ancient-looking armour, shields with ornate spears crossed behind them, delicately inscribed vases and urns and fine silk drapes. They each picked their way through this treasure-trove with bated breath. Pavo’s gaze snagged on the floor mosaic — depicting a pack of Persian riders with thick, oiled beards and plumed helms, loosing their bows. A warrior on his knees before them bore their arrows in his chest — a warrior in Roman armour. Pavo gulped. Then he looked up to see Sura unwittingly backing up against one of the suits of armour. The suit had been positioned to hold a curved blade high overhead. Sura bumped the display and the arm and blade came chopping down, stopping only inches from his shoulder. His stifled yelp did little to still the nerves. He cocked an eyebrow at Pavo as he casually returned the arm to its original position.

Pavo glared at his friend, then whispered to Habitus who was scouting the far side of the chamber. ‘Guards?’

Habitus shook his head. ‘We’re alone, sir.’

Pavo turned to Falco. ‘Father. I think this is it — the heart of the palace.’

‘Aye, I can smell the finery around me. . that and the stench of power,’ Falco said, stroking a silk drape.

‘The scroll, Father. Where is it?’ Pavo said. Sura and Habitus waited on the reply, wide-eyed.

Falco’s face fell grave and he nodded as if about to perform some loathsome task. ‘In amongst this opulence, there is a vile object. Shapur’s forefather did something that he regretted until his dying breath, or so they say.’

‘Father, what do you. . ’ he stopped, his gaze catching on something beyond Falco’s shoulder. Something grotesque. A shiver shook him to his core despite the fierce heat of the sun streaming across the room. There, at the far end of the chamber, a timber frame hung on the wall, as if to hold another silk drape. But instead of a drape, a human skin was stretched across it. Patchy tufts of hair on the scalp. Gaping, empty eyeholes. Tortured, torn lips. The warped, frayed and sagging skin of limbs and a torso. Pavo felt his guts turn over and he heard Habitus retch behind him. ‘Emperor Valerian? So the myth is real.’

‘Aye, you have found it then?’ Falco replied sombrely.

‘How can anyone keep such a thing in their home?’ Sura spat.

Falco shook his head. ‘It seems they keep it because neither Shapur’s forefather, nor any Persian Shahanshah or noble since, has been able to face this piece in order to dispose of it. Shame sees it left here to stare into eternity.’

Pavo’s disgust faded momentarily. He noticed that while the other treasures in the room were spotless, the skin was heaped with dust and cobwebs. ‘No Persian comes near this piece, you said.’

Falco’s face creased with a wry smile. ‘Exactly. And that is why the brigand hid the scroll behind it. That is why it will still be there.’

Pavo, Sura and Habitus shared a breathless glance. Seeing that neither of the two were making haste to search the skin, Pavo stepped forward, gulping back the urge to retch as he approached and saw every tortured inch of the piece. He kicked a short footstool over and stood on it, pressing his head side-on to the wall to look up the back of the frame. It was thick with furrowed dust, but nothing else. His shoulders sagged and he made to sigh, when a puff of dust caught in his throat. He erupted in a coughing fit, and this blew swathes of the thick dust from behind the frame. So much so that, when he regained his breath, his eye caught on something that had been revealed. A yellowed, frayed roll of paper, wedged behind the skin of the thigh. Pavo’s heart thundered. He reached up, stretching every sinew in his arm. A trailing, sagging piece of skin from the foot dangled across his face as he did so, the musty stench of ancient decay permeating his senses. His fingertips scraped and scratched at the scroll. Finally, it fell from where it was wedged and firmly into his grasp.

‘I have it!’ he gasped, spluttering the dust from his lips and hopping down from the stool.

Sura gawped. ‘We must be sure — check!’

Habitus, Sura and Falco hurried round as Pavo unravelled the scroll.

The writing was faint and completely faded in parts around the edges.

The River Euphrates is to be the border between our two great empires. Like brothers overlooking east and west, neither shall allow their armies to trespass upon the other’s territory. Any such encroachment will incur the wrath of the many bold and noble kingdoms and republics that encircle our borders.

Pavo glanced up, shaking his head. ‘It’s real, it’s just as we hoped!’

Falco gripped his son’s arm, his lips stained with black blood. ‘It can stave off war with Persia?’

‘Yes, it states it plainly, it. . ’ he fell silent as he read the last line in the treaty, just above the flaking wax seals of Jovian and Shapur.

While Flavius Jovianus Augustus remains at Rome’s helm, this treaty will remain sacrosanct.

His heartbeat slowed and a nausea swam in his veins, as if he had just taken a blow to the guts.

‘. . it’s useless,’ he muttered, dropping his hands by his side. ‘Jovian did enough to protect himself and no more.’

Sura wrung his fingers through his locks, backing away. ‘We’ve come all the way from the empire, through scalding desert, through months of torture in those mines, and now into the heart of the palace to find this, a useless sheaf of paper?’

Pavo reached out a hand to console Sura. But he froze as he heard footsteps scraping at the entrance to the chamber.

‘Useless for Rome, perhaps. But invaluable to me,’ a voice rasped.

A winter-cold fear gripped Pavo. He and the group backed away as the hunched, blue-robed figure of Archimagus Ramak moved through the arched entrance, stepping between the artefacts dotted around the chamber. His fingers were steepled and his eyes hungry, peering along his sharp nose. ‘That scroll has been like a demon, preying upon my dreams, stifling my ambitions. Always, it taunted me with the possibility of its existence,’ Ramak continued, approaching. ‘When I heard from my spies in Antioch that Emperor Valens was to send an expedition to Persia to retrieve it, I feared the worst. And for a moment, when I watched you find it and begin to read its contents, I was sure I would have to slay you and burn the scroll, in order to smooth the coming invasion of Roman Syria.’ He produced a silk cloth from his sleeve and patted it to his bald crown, blotting away the beads of sweat there. His tongue poked out to dampen his lips. ‘Now, I realise the scroll is no threat to my ambitions. It never was. Jovian is long dead. Roman Syria can be taken without reprisal. I need no longer burn the scroll.’ He lifted a hand and stretched out a single, bony finger that seemed to lance into Pavo’s heart. ‘But you must die. All of you. Perhaps I will skin you and mount your hides alongside this one?’ he grinned, nodding at Valerian’s remains. He clapped his hands. At that moment, six pushtigban entered the chamber, fanning out behind Ramak, then marching in front of him in a phalanx, picking their way around the displays in the chamber towards Pavo.

Pavo tucked the scroll into his robe. As he backed away from the approaching six, he grappled at one small stucco bust of a Persian noble and hurled it at the nearest warrior. The piece smacked against the man’s forehead with a dull thud. The bust hit the floor and the warrior swayed where he stood, his helm caved in, blood gushing from his eye sockets and nostrils before he toppled to the floor. At this, the rest of the warriors growled, suddenly enraged, then rushed forward.

Pavo staggered back, knowing his sword could not compete against the lengthy pushtigban spears. In moments, he and his comrades were cornered by the leftmost archway overlooking the courtyard and the city. Habitus used his spear as best he could, jabbing out at them, swiping to keep them back.

Pavo glanced all around him. There was only one way out of this, he realised, peering out of the archway and the fifty foot drop to the courtyard below. He felt the silken curtains trace on his skin and a glimmer of hope sparkled in his mind. He saw Sura’s eyes glint too as if sharing the thought. With a yank, the pair tore the curtain from its pole, then hurriedly tied the top to a marble sculpture of a scale-clad Persian warrior. Pavo tugged on the curtain twice and it held firm. He grappled Falco around the waist and pulled him close. ‘Hold on tight,’ he demanded, stepping up onto the ledge of the archway. Sura grasped the curtain too.

‘Strike them down!’ Ramak seethed.

‘Habitus, come on!’ Pavo cried, but the reply only came in the form of Habitus’ bloody gurgle — a pair of pushtigban spears punching through his chest and bursting from his back. Habitus crumpled and the pushtigban surged over his corpse, spears raised to strike.

‘Jump!’ Sura cried, barging he, Pavo and Falco from the ledge.

With a whoosh of air in his ears, Pavo realised two things. Firstly, he was falling. Secondly, he had given no thought to the length of the curtain. If it was too long, they would be dashed on the courtyard slabs. He braced as the slabs rushed up at them, waiting on the shattering impact. At the last, the curtain jolted rigid and they dangled, feet from the ground. They slid from the curtain and staggered back, pushtigban spears clattering down around them only inches away. Ramak curled his fingers around the ledge above and glared down upon them. ‘Spearmen!’ he roared. His cry seemed to echo across the plateau and all over Bishapur. At once, the rustle of iron and thundering footsteps seemed to come at them from every direction.

Pavo wrenched Falco to his feet and darted past the fountain towards the palm cluster and the lip of the acropolis where they had ascended. ‘Stay with me, Father!’ he cried as Falco foundered, coughing, blood snaking from his lips.

‘Pavo!’ Sura cried.

Pavo skidded to a halt just in time as a trio of Median spearmen burst into view by the cluster of palms. He swung round only to see Ramak and the pushtigban haring towards them from the palace. He looked this way and that, seeing that the only way clear was across the acropolis, towards the blue-domed Fire Temple. ‘This way!’

They hurried from the pursuing pack of warriors and rushed through a shady orchard, startling one Median spearman who had clearly not heard Ramak’s cry. The mail-shirted spearman dropped the bright orange fruit he was munching upon, wiped his moustache clean then grappled at his spear and grimaced. Pavo ducked under the spear thrust, pulling Falco down with him. Sura followed them, throwing a sharp jab into the man’s cheek, sending him staggering, dazed.

Branches thwacked against their skin as they pushed onwards, then they burst out into the sunlight again. The three stumbled on towards the temple. Ramak and the pursuing pack were only paces behind. Pavo took his father’s arm, leading him forward to the lip of the acropolis beside the temple. ‘Brace yourself, Father, it will be a steep descent, but. . ’ He froze, seeing more Median spearmen climbing the scree-strewn slopes towards them, fanned out all around this end of the acropolis.

‘We’re trapped!’ Sura said it first.

Pavo backed towards the temple now, readying to fight, but there were more than thirty men in all coming for them. With no other option presenting itself, he hauled Falco inside the temple’s eastern entrance. Their footsteps echoed along a broad, vaulted corridor. An orange light glowed at the end of the corridor, and its reflection danced on the whitewashed ceiling and sparkled on the black-slabbed floor. As they approached this light, a dryer, fiercer heat than ever before swirled around them. At last, they spilled into the temple’s central chamber. A circular pit dominated this square room and the flames that danced within it licked high in the air, as if trying to reach the gilt ceiling and the relief of the winged Faravahar there.

‘We’re in the temple?’ Falco said. ‘This is the beating heart of Ramak’s realm.’ He trembled with weakness, his teeth stained with black blood.

‘Father, you need to stand back,’ Pavo winced, glancing to each of the four passageways leading to this central chamber, shadows jostling in the slivers of daylight. ‘Stay back and we’ll protect you.’

‘Nonsense,’ Falco squared his jaw. ‘I have waited over fifteen years to fight that whoreson, Ramak.’

‘Father, you’re all I have, please, stand back!’ Pavo pleaded.

At this, Falco frowned, shaking his head. ‘You mean the crone didn’t tell you?’

‘Father?’ Pavo frowned.

Falco pulled the strip of well-worn leather from his wrist and tied it hurriedly onto Pavo’s. ‘Before I met your mother, I. . ’

A storm of footsteps echoed down each corridor, cutting him off. But then the footsteps stopped. A lone, rasping voice echoed into the chamber; ‘You cannot escape.’

Pavo’s eyes darted as the words seemed to dance around him. The shadows of the Persian warriors in each passageway were still. The only movement came from the southern corridor. The three backed away from this corridor, until they reached the edge of the fire pit and felt the flames sting their skin.

‘Now you will burn along with your scroll. Rome, the lie, will burn to fuel the destiny of the House of Aspaphet, the truth. . my destiny.’ The echoing words grew closer until Ramak emerged into the chamber, flanked by two pushtigban. ‘I urge you to cast yourselves into the flames, Romans,’ he gestured to the fire pit, ‘before my guards seize you. Else you will see that I have many long and memorable ways of introducing non-believers to the Sacred Fire.’ As he said this, he sidled round the edge of the room to a rack where a variety of fire-charred irons hung. Some like swords, others hooked, some spiked. He eyed them and then looked over Falco. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘I put out your eyes a long, long time ago then sent you to the mines. Perhaps this time I will have to cripple you too. Though that might be a waste of effort, for you have but hours to live anyway,’ he mused, seeing the dark blood dripping from Falco’s lips.

Pavo wrapped an arm around the shivering Falco, helping him to stand tall. Father’s body was growing cold. The realisation tore Pavo’s heart in half. ‘You might see today as some kind of victory, Archimagus. Aye, the scroll poses you no threat. But look at what stands before you; Roman legionaries, like a dagger in the heart of your realm. If a dogged few can do this, then think what the empire’s many legions might achieve.’

Ramak halted in his stride and glared at Pavo, then threw his head back and boomed with laughter that filled the domed chamber. ‘Your legions in Syria are weak and scattered. Most have been forced to rush west to fight the Goths. I know this.’ He spread out his arms as if savouring the moment. ‘I know all of this.’ A serene expression hung on his face momentarily, then a shadow from the fire transformed it into a searing scowl. ‘Seize them!’

In a flash, the pushtigban had their spears at Pavo and Sura’s throats. Pavo braced, sword raised, ready to hack at the spear tip, but Falco squeezed his arm.

‘Do not, Pavo!’ Falco croaked weakly. Then he whispered in Pavo’s ear. ‘I will be with you, Son. Always.’

Pavo hesitated, frowning, his gaze hanging on father’s sightless expression as the pushtigban disarmed Sura and Pavo then hauled them away from the fire pit and Falco. ‘Father?’ he called weakly, seeing a look of finality wash across Falco’s haggard features. The pushtigban kicked at the back of Pavo’s knees and he and Sura slumped to kneeling.

‘The old man will die first,’ Ramak purred, stepping over to Falco at the edge of the fire pit, eyeing him like a butcher examining a lamb. ‘His eyes are already gone and we will have little pleasure in his torture. The other two can watch him burn before their torture begins.’

Pavo’s heart pounded on his ribs as he saw Ramak’s face contort with a grin.

The archimagus drew a dagger from his belt and thrust it into Falco’s midriff. The blade sunk deep and black blood washed from the wound.

Pavo heard his own cry as if from a hundred miles distant. No! He lurched up from kneeling, but a spear-point in his back winded him and dropped him to his knees again. He reached out, lips moving wordlessly as Ramak butted his palms into Falco’s chest. Falco swayed, losing his balance and falling back towards the flames. The light of the Sacred Fire danced in Ramak’s eyes as he watched, grinning. ‘Burn in the realm of Ahriman, Roman dog.’

‘Father!’ Pavo cried until he thought his heart would burst.

At the last, Falco shot out a hand and grappled Ramak’s collar, halting his fall.

Ramak yelped, choking. The pushtigban seemed frozen in indecision at this. Falco’s hair and the back of his robe had already caught light, but he hauled himself up just a fraction, and pressed his face to Ramak’s. ‘It is time for you to face the god whose name you have darkened for so long, cur!’ he hissed, then tore something from his robe. It glinted in the firelight as he brought it arcing round and across Ramak’s throat. The buckled bronze phalera tore across the archimagus’ neck, sending a dark spray of blood across the temple floor. Then, as one, Falco and Ramak toppled back into the fire pit. The flames consumed the pair. Ramak’s screams were shrill and lasting. Falco made not a sound.

The pushtigban scrambled forward to the edge of the fire pit to see their archimagus’ blazing form thrashing and reaching out as if still in belief that he could be saved.

Pavo felt his next actions as if they were part of a dream. He rushed forward and shoulder-charged one pushtigban into the pit. The man plummeted under the weight of his armour, his gruff cries seemingly never-ending as the fire cooked him alive. The last pushtigban backed away, spear flicking from Pavo to Sura and back again. Pavo grappled one of the timber stools nearby and held it up as a form of shield. The spearman jabbed at them confidently, his legs bracing as if readying to spring. Then, like an apparition from a nightmare, the first pushtigban hauled himself from the pit, his body ablaze and his armour glowing hot. His hoarse cries were inhuman, his face ruined by the flames. He threw himself around the chamber, clawing out at the drapes and timbers, inadvertently setting light to each. At the last, he stumbled towards his comrade, arms outstretched, his step slowing. The last pushtigban backed away, eyes bulging in terror at the mutilated creature. Backed against the wall, the last warrior thrust his spear into the burning man’s gut. The burning man wailed in agony, then wrapped his hands around the other’s throat and crushed the life from his killer. The two toppled to the floor, still and silent.

Pavo and Sura stared at one another. For a heartbeat, the only noise in the chamber was the crackling of flames as the blaze spread around the walls. Then black smoke billowed over them, stealing their breath away. Through the blackness, they heard panicked voices along each of the corridors, then barking commands and footsteps approaching. Sura picked up two shamshirs, throwing one blade to Pavo and looking to each passageway. ‘What now?’ he said, gagging as black smoke caught in his throat. ‘Can we fight our way out of here?’

Pavo shook his head, feeling the smoke clawing at his eyes and lungs. ‘No, this smoke will kill us before the Persian blades will.’ He saw one piece of linen that had not yet caught fire, draped on the temple wall beside a water font. He tore this down, ripped it in two and soaked it in the water then wrapped it round his head leaving just a thin gap to see through, giving the other piece to Sura. This seemed to shield their eyes and lungs from the worst of the smoke. ‘Now, we fight,’ Pavo nodded, then the pair looked again to the passageways.

The first of the approaching Persian warriors burst into the central chamber from the northern corridor. Pavo and Sura braced, ready for combat, but the warrior swiped out wildly, blinded by the stinging smoke, then doubled over, gagging and retching. Then others staggered in likewise, tormented by the smoke and oblivious to Pavo and Sura.

‘Sura, come on,’ Pavo hissed, backing around the flailing men. He and Sura edged to the eastern entrance, then Pavo cast a last look back at the Sacred Fire.

Goodbye, Father, he mouthed.

With that, he and Sura plunged through the corridor. The black smoke was billowing along here too. They skirted around the disorientated Persian warriors, few even noticing them. When they burst from the end of the corridor and onto the acropolis, the black smoke did not abate. Thick clouds of it poured across the plateau, as if a storm had emerged from the temple. Pavo retched and spat, blinking and rubbing at his eyes.

‘Look!’ Sura said, pointing down the slope to the arena. The games had ceased, the crowds were spilling from the spectacle and a panicked cry had replaced the entertained roars of before. Warriors and people alike streamed through the streets and filtered up the side of the acropolis. Many carried pots sloshing with water, many more had fallen to their knees in prayer, seeking mercy from Ahura Mazda.

‘Pavo!’ Sura croaked.

Pavo spun to see a quartet of Median spearmen rushing towards them. The pair braced, swords raised, but the spearmen washed around them like a river around a lone rock, haring onwards to the temple before calling out to nearby comrades carrying water vessels.

Pavo looked to Sura and Sura looked back.

Then they each turned their gaze upon the arena floor below.