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.
Chapter 20
Dark plumes of smoke billowed from the temple, blackening the skies over the city and setting light to the adjacent orchard. Soon the palace would be ablaze too. Down in the arena the drums ceased and the crowd gawped. Then, after a moment of realisation, they were fleeing the timber banks of seating, jabbering and screaming, rushing to aid those fighting the flames, their hurried footsteps taking up the absent rhythm of the drums. Clouds of smoke billowed down across the arena, stinging eyes and bringing coughing fits to those who fled.