The crowd stared back silently. Only the bleating of a distant goat herd sounded over Bishapur.
Gallus looked up to Ramak as if to challenge the archimagus. Tamur barged to the front of the kathisma beside Ramak, nostrils flared in disgust. ‘Kill them!’ he cried. At once, the crowd roared in agreement, and Ramak waved a band of ten Median spearmen lining the arena forward.
Gallus, Felix, Quadratus, Zosimus and Carbo gathered once again in the centre of the arena.
Gallus glanced to the slope leading up to the palace. ‘Was that enough of a distraction?’ he panted.
Ramak settled back to watch as the ten spearmen leapt into battle with the Roman five. But two things nagged at him. Firstly, the afternoon was wearing on and the sun was approaching the western horizon; when it touched the land, the festival would end. If the Romans survived until then, then his grand demonstration of Persian might with these games would look foolish. The second irritation came in the form of Tamur, by his side. The brutish warrior seemed to believe that his destiny truly rested on the outcome of this bout, his fists clenched as if striking every blow, the veins in his temples seeking to break free of the skin.
‘Perhaps we have trained these dogs too well, Archimagus?’ Tamur seethed.
Ramak bristled at this, but mustered an even tone to reply; ‘Remember that today is but a facade, Spahbad, a means of bringing the people of Persis with us on our path to greatness. Should these curs somehow live to the end of the blood games, then it will not change what happens tomorrow.’
Tamur turned from the fight, his eyes wide, teeth clenched. His fists slackened and his shoulders slumped a fraction. ‘But, Archimagus. . ’
‘The armies are mustered, are they not?’
‘They are coming through the Zagros Mountains as we speak, and will be formed outside the city before nightfall,’ Tamur nodded. ‘Ten thousands Savaran riders, ready to march west and seize Roman Syria.’
Ramak flicked a finger to the exhausted Roman five on the arena floor. ‘That will not change because of a few tenacious dogs who refuse to die, will it? Besides, should they live until the festival comes to an end, I will order their throats to be slit when the crowds have dispersed.’
Tamur’s brow knitted. The oaf was easily confused — just like his father, Ramak thought. The spahbad’s powerful frame was balanced by such a weak mind. ‘Clear your mind of portents, clear your mind of Ahura Mazda’s wills,’ Ramak hissed, teeth bared. ‘Today, all will proceed as I have planned.’
Tamur’s eyes narrowed at this.
‘As we have planned,’ Ramak corrected himself.
Just then, a cry of horror rang out from the crowd. The head of one spearman spun from his shoulders and bounced across the arena. The hardy Roman Tribunus had killed again. This one had made his own people doubt him. If they doubted him and the army that would form before the city tonight, things could become complicated. Already, complication was rife. The scale of the disaster at the Dalaki mines was becoming clearer with every report; three chambers were flooded and hundreds of slaves had escaped — many still roaming uncaptured. At least if the three who had burst onto the arena floor to help the plumed tribunus had come from the mines then that would soon be three less to worry about. He swiped a hand through the air. There were plenty more salt mines. And who would need salt when the riches of Roman Syria dangled before him like a ripe fruit?
His gaze drifted skywards as he focused on the power and riches that lay ahead. That was when his gaze snagged on something, on the slope of the acropolis, approaching the base of the palace. A small cloud of dust and. . movement. Someone was climbing up the scree. Deliberately avoiding the carved steps. Desperate not to be seen. A creeping chill spread across his skin. When the three Romans had leapt into the arena to help the plumed tribunus, he had been bemused, little more. But if there were others. .
‘Spahbad, you will oversee the rest of this bout,’ he said, standing, ignoring Tamur’s scowl at this order. ‘Now, I need six of your best men,’ he clicked his fingers, his gaze never leaving the top of the mount.
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 — ’