Saddled on his white stallion on the grassy dunes, Tamur’s head pounded with the goings-on, a handful of neatly oiled locks falling free of his ponytail to whip across his face. He shot a gaze over his shoulder. There, the paighan masses fought in vain against eight of his dozen war elephants. That battle was as good as won. Then he looked right, northwards and up the beach: the fleet had landed just as he had expected. That meant the invasion of Roman Syria would go ahead as planned. There was something about those vessels that made him uneasy though, the number of bodies spilling from the decks was more than he expected, far more than just the crew of the galleys.
Is that. . no, surely not?
He raked his fingers across his scalp, pulling more hair free of the knot, then pinched the top of his nose and blinked away the doubts. No, he asserted, the real source of consternation was dead ahead; the four rogue elephants ploughing through the melee. With victory and a Roman eagle in the palm of his hand, these confounded creatures had split from the herd, turned and run amok through his tightly-packed Savaran. Thousands of his best horsemen were dead from this encounter already, and the elephants looked set to kill hundreds more. This would be costly, he realised, seeing his precious cataphractii and clibanarii tossed up in the air like toys by the sweeping tusks. He would have to hire many more mercenaries than he had planned to cover these losses. But the image of the rich trading cities of Syria crept into his mind.
Mercenaries will be queuing up to serve in my armies. And when my ranks are swollen, I will turn them upon Shapur himself. All Persia will be mine. The House of Aspaphet will take its rightful place once more!
‘Have our archers take javelins to those creatures,’ he spat to the nearest of his bodyguards, waving a hand towards the four rogue elephants. ‘They have done enough damage already. When they have been slain, set them about finishing the dregs of Roman resistance. I have wasted enough riders on them today.’
At once, the three pushtigban saddled by his side set off to give the orders. Tamur was alone with just his narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar.
‘Tell me,’ he said, leaning in closer to the leader of his bodyguard and pointing a finger to the north, ‘do my eyes deceive me or is that an army disembarking from our fleet?’
The pushtigban-salar nodded. ‘It is, Spahbad.’
Tamur frowned, the heat haze falling away to reveal the iron wall of Persian troops forming up there. He gripped his reins and leant forward in the saddle, a nausea growing in his gut. This was just like before, when Ramak had commissioned the new gunds of riders. Was the archimagus still clinging onto power, even after death? He snatched glances around him, maddened. ‘Reinforcements? I did not arrange this.’
‘No, you did not. But I did,’ the pushtigban-salar replied.
‘You did this without my perm — ’ his words trailed off as he felt a cold iron dagger blade resting on his jugular. He looked at his man with bulging eyes.
‘The king of kings comes to curtail your ambitions, Spahbad,’ the pushtigban-salar spoke calmly.
Tamur’s heart froze. He looked north to see the army approaching. At least fifteen thousand fresh and well equipped cataphractii and Median spearmen moved like an iron serpent across the sands. Pointed, plumed helms, spear tips, swishing manes and vibrant drafsh banners jostled overhead. At their heart, the Drafsh Kavian standard bobbed, the purple banner and blazing golden star upon it larger than any other. Underneath, he saw the unmistakable outline of the rider who led this army. A man adorned with a gilded ram’s skull and skin atop his head. A man in a green and purple silken cloak. This was Shapur. King of kings. The Shahanshah of all Persia. The man he had set out to defy.
The pushtigban-salar purred in his ear, digging the blade a little further into his skin. ‘I will inherit the House of Aspaphet. The reward for my loyalty to the shahanshah. You,’ he said, pausing to let Tamur’s imagination cripple him, ‘will live as long as the torturers can keep you alive.’
Tamur’s breath quickened and icy cold sweat washed from his every pore. His bowels turned over and he felt their contents press down, desperate for release. The rumours of the shahanshah’s wrath were legendary. A fair man to those loyal to him. A demon to those who dared cross him. At that moment, an image flickered through his mind: the skin of Emperor Valerian, but not quite. This time, it was his own tortured and torn features stretched across the frame.
‘What should I do, Archimagus. . what should I do?’ Tamur called out to the ether in a panic.
At this, the pushtigban-salar roared with laughter, pressing the dagger blade tighter to Tamur’s skin. ‘Ramak is dead, you fool. Nobody will protect you now!’
With those words, Tamur’s mind was made up. He thrust his throat against the pushtigban-salar’s blade. A moment of resistance was followed by a dull, grating sensation. The searing pain was followed by a warm wetness that instantly soaked his chest and a salty, metallic stench permeated his nostrils and throat. The strength drained from his limbs in moments. He toppled from the saddle and onto the dune, thrashing, pink bubbles burgeoning from the haemorrhaging wound. He tried to trace his fingers across the lion motif on his breast, but they were already numb.
The pushtigban-salar glared down at him, shaking his head, sheathing his blade. ‘You will live for eternity in the torment of Ahriman,’ the man said. ‘A torment like no other.’
As Tamur fell into blackness, terror seemed to come with him.
Pavo gawped as the pushtigban-salar, still coated in Tamur’s blood, rode down from the grassy dune and waved Tamur’s wing of Savaran back from the fray. The din of battle fell away as they withdrew, forming up on the beach a few hundred paces south of the tattered band of Roman survivors. Then he looked up the shoreline to the north, where Shapur’s army descended towards them.
The lead war elephant calmed quickly at the soothing words and touches from the flat-nosed paighan. ‘The war is over?’ the man called back over his shoulder.
‘Far from it,’ Pavo said, before climbing from the howdah cabin to slide down the rope, his arms trembling with fatigue. He landed with a thud on the bloody mire that had earlier been a pristine white-sand beach. Sura landed beside him. The pair stumbled over to stand with their comrades. Weak, scarred and bleeding hands patted their shoulders. Quadratus made to congratulate them likewise, but stopped, looking past Pavo and frowning. Pavo turned to see the source of the Gaul’s concern; despite the rest of Tamur’s Savaran having withdrawn, the gold-painted war drummer had remained only feet from the legionaries, thumping on his instrument unimpeded. His arms swung wildly, eyes bulging as if in some kind of trance, grinning maniacally, his tongue lolling in fervour.
Suddenly, Quadratus frowned, strode forward and ripped his spatha across the straps of the drum. The instrument fell from the drummer’s chest and crashed to the sand. Quadratus put his bloodied boot through the skin, wrecking the instrument. ‘Battle’s over, you little turd!’ The enthusiasm drained from the drummer’s face to be replaced by a look of confusion and then a nascent terror. Quadratus growled and lifted his sword again, sending the man scurrying across the sand like a kicked dog.
‘That thing’s been doing my bloody head in all morning,’ Quadratus said, booting the wrecked drum away. Satisfied, he rolled his head on his shoulders, sheathed his sword, then stepped back into line with his comrades. Pavo saluted the big centurion, then came to Gallus, crimson-stained and glaring. ‘You might be sick of this question, sir, but what now?’
Gallus looked up the beach to the approaching Shapur. ‘That is for the shahanshah to decide.’
Pavo’s mind reeled. He looked to big Zosimus and Quadratus — ragged, torn apparitions of their former selves. He looked to Sura — the unofficial King of Adrianople had no more fight left in him. Tribunus Varius and the clutch of Flavia Firma legionaries likewise were wounded, stunned and cowed by the sight of the fresh Persian army approaching.