But while the people of Bishapur panicked and the arena drained of spectators, Spahbad Tamur remained, barking his spearmen on from the kathisma as they tore at the five Romans. When the smoke started to obscure his view, the burly warrior leapt from the enclosure and rushed down to the foot of the arena seating. There he strode along the edge, punching a fist into his palm, motioning as if striking death blows himself.
‘Spill their blood!’ Tamur cried, the veins in his forehead bulging. ‘I want my victory, I want my blessing!’ He shot an anxious glance up to the blazing Fire Temple as he said this.
Near the centre of the arena, Gallus glanced at the snarling spahbad, then back to his foe — a hook-nosed spearman with a dark, oiled beard. He parried then swept his spatha out like a serpent’s tongue, tearing across the chest of the spearman, breaking the iron loops in the man’s mail vest and scoring deep into flesh. His foe fell back, choking on his own blood. Gallus turned from the dying man and faced the next two spearmen who came for him. Three of the ten Medians facing them had been felled — caught cold or overconfident. But the remaining seven were fresh while he and his men were tiring.
Nearby he saw Quadratus, Carbo and Zosimus, a pair of spearmen lying in a bloody pool at their feet while they fought to fend off another three. On the other edge of the arena, another two Medians had backed Felix against the edge of the space. Suddenly, one foe punched a spear through the little Greek’s gut and into the timber strut behind him. Felix’s cry echoed around the emptying arena and a thick spray of crimson blood leapt from the wound, soaking the dusty floor. Another Median spearman lined up to strike a death blow, throwing down his spear and drawing out his shamshir, lining up to strike at Felix’s neck. Gallus’ blood froze; the Greek’s eyes met with his, a look of finality sweeping across his features.
Instinctively, Gallus lunged forward in an attempt to burst past his own two attackers and reach Felix, but the spears of the two before him came up in a cross, blocking his path and then barging him back. He stumbled and fell.
At this, Tamur raised a hand. The two ready to slay Felix halted, waiting on their spahbad’s word. ‘You have fought bravely, Roman.’ Tamur boomed at him from the edge of the arena, his face fixed in a dark scowl, his hands resting upon his hips, the dark smoke rippling his gold-threaded cloak. ‘But now it is over. Order the rest of your men to throw down their weapons and they will live. And I will permit you a swift death.’
Gallus looked across the arena, seeing the look of defiance in Felix’s eyes, the faint shake of the little Greek’s head. He looked back to Tamur and replied in a steady tone; ‘You will let them live? In the mines, maybe, aye. And I doubt you know how to administer a swift death. You forget I have had the pleasure of watching you and your master’s deeds in the months you kept me in that pit.’
‘Ramak was never my master!’ Tamur roared, shaking a clenched fist in the air, flecks of spittle clouding the air before him. The man’s eyes burned with indignation, then he flicked a finger down to the two men by Felix. With a flash of iron, the Median sword swept round and chopped through Felix’s neck, a dull clunk of iron biting into timber ringing out as the blade embedded deep in the wooden strut. The primus pilus’ head toppled to the ground and then his body slumped too. Gallus froze. The rapid drumming of his heart suddenly slowed to a steady, crashing thud that shook him to his extremities, his vision shuddering with every beat. He saw the two Medians before him close in for the kill, lowering their spear tips towards his throat.
He heard a guttural roar, barely realising it was his own. He felt his body convulse, his sword arm sweeping round where he lay. The spatha cleaved through the hamstrings of the nearest Median, who fell, thrashing in gouts of his own blood. The second Median halted, stunned, as Gallus rose, driving the blade up and under the man’s ribs. Gallus pulled the man close, growling as he watched the light dim in his foe’s eyes, then tore his blade clear. Nearby, Carbo, Quadratus and Zosimus fought with an equal fire, their faces torn in rage at the slaying of their comrade. They hacked the arm from one Median, then Carbo tore the throat from another. When another tried to run, Quadratus’ blade spun through the air, taking the warrior in the cheek, smashing the skull and sending the bearded jaw spinning away from the face along with a shower of teeth, bone shards and blood. The Median crashed forward like a speared boar.
Quadratus and Zosimus stalked towards the remaining two by Felix’s body. They backed away, looked to their spahbad, then turned and ran from the now deserted arena.
Tamur’s grin melted away at this. ‘You curs!’ he cried, pulling a dagger from his belt then hurling it after the fleeing Medians. The short blade punched into one man’s neck and the life was gone from him before he crashed to the ground.
Gallus’ gaze locked onto Tamur.
Tamur glanced all around the arena ‘Spearmen!’ he cried, looking to the tunnel under the kathisma. His words were answered only by an echo.
Gallus watched as the spahbad backed away, up the arena steps. ‘What’s wrong, Spahbad? Did you leave your hubris with your bodyguards?’ Gallus asked, hauling himself from the arena floor and up onto the timber seating, following Tamur. The spahbad’s eyes darted this way and that. Then, a drumming of feet landing on the top row of seats sounded. Tamur twisted to the noise.
Pavo and Sura stood there, hair tousled, skin smoke-blackened and bloodied, chests heaving.
‘Reinforcements?’ Quadratus cooed between snatched breaths as he hurried up to Gallus’ side.
‘Aye, Mithras is truly with us, it seems,’ Zosimus laughed coldly through gritted teeth.
Tamur could not disguise his outright panic now, and turned to flee back towards the kathisma. Quadratus made to follow, but Gallus shot out an arm to halt him. ‘Leave him — wherever he goes, there will be pushtigban, and lots of them.’
Pavo and Sura descended the wooden steps and saluted with trembling, smoke-stained arms.
‘The scroll?’ Gallus asked.
Pavo shook his head. ‘We have it. It is of no use.’
‘But Archimagus Ramak is dead,’ Sura offered, ‘and I am certain that is a good thing.’
Gallus snorted at this. ‘Was it swift?’ he muttered, thumbing the hilt of his spatha.
‘No,’ Sura replied.
‘Good,’ Gallus said, his ice-blue eyes glinting like a blade.
He looked to Pavo and saw a glassiness in his eyes. He realised the two were alone. ‘Optio, is there nobody else with you?’
Pavo shook his head in silence.
‘Then your Father. . ’
‘He is gone, sir.’ Pavo said, turning his grave look upon Carbo.
The fire of the fight seemed to lessen in Carbo’s eyes at these words. ‘Lad, I. . ’
‘I know what happened,’ Pavo said stonily.
Carbo could offer no reply.
Zosimus interrupted the moment. ‘Sir!’ he yelled to Gallus, pointing to the tunnel. There, a cluster of shadows approached, jostling as they ran down the passageway. Spears and swords glinting. Too many to count.
Gallus looked this way and that. Then Carbo grappled his shoulder.
‘Eventually, we all must face our past, Tribunus.’ With that, the centurion turned away and loped across the arena, headed for the tunnel mouth. He stopped only to pick up the discarded spike-hammer, then twisted round to glance at Pavo and Gallus, his grey-streaked locks whipping across his fiery scowl. ‘Go. . run!’ he yelled before turning to plunge into the shadows of the tunnel mouth with a frenzied cry. His roar was met with yelps of surprise, the crash of crumpling armour and the thick cracking of bones.
Gallus gazed into the darkness of the tunnel mouth, Carbo’s words ringing in his ears. Then hands clasped down upon his shoulders, wrenching him back, towards the open end of the arena.
‘Sir, come on!’ Zosimus cried.