Fire in the East wor-1

by Harry Sidebottom

  Yelling at his men to keep together, Turpio pounded through the Sassanid camp. Once, a guy rope caught his foot and he went sprawling on his face. The metal-studded sole of the boot of one of his own men stamped into his back before strong arms dragged him to his feet and they were off again. Pounding through the camp, trying always to keep the looming royal tent in sight. Isolated Persians, individuals or- small groups, popped into view. They ran or fell where they stood. There was no organized opposition.

  In what seemed no time they were there. Several large standards hung limply from tall poles. Half a dozen guards, their gilded armour glinting in the light of the fires, made a stand in front of the huge purple tent. Leaving some of the legionaries to deal with them, Turpio ran a few yards to one side and used his blade to slice through the side of the tent. He emerged into what appeared to be a corridor. Rather than follow it, he cut through the inner wall. Now he was in an empty dining room. Some of the remains of the evening meal had not been cleared away. Turpio swept up a drinking flagon and tucked it safely in his belt.

  'No time for looting,' he bellowed and, swinging his spatha, tore through the next wall. This time he emerged into pandemonium – high-pitched screams, female voices. He swung round, knees bent, sword at the ready, seeking out any threat, trying to make sense of the sweet-smelling, soft-lit room.

  'Fuck me, it's the King's harem,' said a legionary.

  Women and girls wherever one looked. Dozens of beautiful girls. Dark, blond. Clad in silk, kohl round their eyes, cowering in corners, behind pieces of soft furniture, they called out in Persian. Turpio could not tell if they were calling for help or begging to be spared.

  'I must be dead and in the Elysian fields,' said a legionary.

  Looking round, Turpio spotted an ornate doorway. A fat eunuch dithered indecisively in front of it. Turpio kicked him out of the way. Shouting for the legionaries to follow him, he dived through the opening.

  The room was nearly dark. It was empty. There was a smell of balsam, a smell of sex. Turpio went over to the wide, rumpled bed. He put his hand on the sheets. They were warm. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, we were thatfucking close.

  A small movement caught the corner of Turpio's eye. In a flash, he whirled his sword out. The girl was in the corner of the room, trying to hide behind a sheet. Her eyes were very wide. She was naked. Turpio smiled, then realized it might not be altogether reassuring.

  Tyche! A few moments earlier and everything would have been different. Turpio noticed a gold bangle on the bed. Without thought he picked it up and slid it on his wrist. Tyche.

  His reflective mood was shattered when a legionary barrelled through the door. 'The bastards are coming for us, Dominus.'

  Outside, a group of Sassanid clibanarii on foot had banded together. They were edging forwards from the right. A tall nobleman was haranguing them.

  'Close ranks.' As soon as he sensed the legionaries around him, Turpio filled his lungs and began the call and response. 'Are you ready for war?'

  'Ready!'

  'Are you ready for war?'

  On the third response and with no hesitation the legionaries surged forward. Turpio saw a shiver run through the enemy ranks. Some of them edged sideways, trying to get closer into the protection of the shield of the man on their right. Some gave a step or two backwards.

  Excellent, thought Turpio. Momentum against cohesion, the age-old equation of battle. We have momentum, and they have just sacrificed their cohesion. Thank the gods.

  Tucking his shoulder into his shield, Turpio slammed into one of the enemy. The Sassanid staggered back, knocking the man behind him off balance as well. Turpio brought his spatha down on the first man's helmet. The helmet did not break, but it buckled, and the man fell like a stone. The next man gave ground. Turpio lunged forward. The man gave more.

  'Hold your position. Re-form the line. Now, keep facing the reptiles, and step back. Step by step. No hurry. No panic.'

  The Sassanids stayed where they were. The gap between the combatants widened. Soon the legionaries were back where they had entered the king's pavilion. Turpio ordered the nearest musician, a bucinator, to sound the recall.

  'Right, boys, on my command we turn around and get out of here at the double.'

  Getting out of the Sassanid camp was harder than getting in. There was no organized pursuit, no systematic resistance, the camp was in uproar – but this time the Persians were awake. Three times, smallish ad hoc bands of Sassanid warriors, twenty or thirty men, blocked their path and made a stand. Each time the Romans had to check, re-form, charge and fight hard for some moments before they could resume their escape. Once, Turpio called a halt because he feared that they were lost. He had himself hoisted up on a shield. When he could see in which direction the walls of Arete lay, they resumed their headlong flight. On and on they pounded, down the alleyways formed by thousands of close-packed tents. Sometimes they turned left or right; usually they just forged straight ahead. Out of the gloom whistled missiles launched by both soldiers and camp followers. Now and then a man went down. Turpio affected to ignore the swift rise and fall of a Roman spatha when it dealt with those too wounded to keep up. Legio IIII Scythica was not leaving her own to be tortured by the enemy.

  At last there were no more tents in front. There was the road to Arete, just off to the left, and there, about one hundred paces down, was the picket fire behind which waited their friends, the century of Antoninus Prior supported by the turma of Apollonius. Turpio and his men seemed to cover the ground in no time.

  Turpio rattled out orders, his voice rough from shouting. The raiding party, the century of Antoninus Posterior, was to carry straight on, stick together but make all speed to the Palmyrene Gate. They had done more than enough for one night. Turpio joined the other century. In moments he had Antoninus Prior redeploy it from testudo to a line ten wide and seven deep. Then they set off towards safety at the double, the cavalrymen of the turma of Apollonius trotting about fifty paces ahead, ready to shoot over the heads of the legionaries at any approaching threat.

  Four hundred paces. Just 400 paces to safety. Turpio started to count, lost his place, started again, gave up. He had taken his place in the rear rank which, when the enemy caught them, would be the front. Over his shoulder he saw the first dark shapes of horsemen leaving the camp, spurring after them. There would be no chance of reaching the gate unmolested. Ahead, still at some distance, he could see through the gloom hard by the side of the road the short stretch of wall that Ballista had left standing and painted white. It marked 200 paces, the limit of accurate effective artillery shooting from the walls. More important now for Turpio, the ground on either side of the road for the last 200 paces was sown with a myriad of traps. If they could reach that white wall they would be a little bit safer. From then on, the Persian cavalry could only charge them straight down the road. Out here there were but a few pits and caltrops. Out here it was possible for the enemy to outflank then surround them.

  Looking back, Turpio saw that the Sassanid horsemen had coalesced into two groups. One was forming up on the road, the other setting off to the north in a wide sweep that would bring them behind the fleeing Romans. There looked to be at least two or three hundred horsemen in each unit. More cavalry were emerging from the camp all the time.

  Turpio ordered a halt. The cavalry on the road were moving forward. They were going to charge without waiting for the outflanking manoeuvre to be completed. The legionaries turned to face their pursuers. With a high trumpet blast the Persians put spurs to their horses and came on. These were clibanarii, the Sassanid elite heavy cavalry. Backlit by the fires in the Persian camp, they looked magnificent. For the most part, the men had had time to put on their own armour – it flashed and flickered – but not that of their horses. They came on, moving from a canter to a loose gallop. Turpio could feel the thunder of the hooves of their huge Nisean chargers reverberating up from the ground. He sensed the legionaries around him just begin to waver. Gods below, but it w
as hard to stand up to a charge of cavalry. In a moment or two some of the legionaries might flinch, open gaps in the line, and then it would all be over. The clibanarii would be in amongst them, horses sending men flying, long cavalry swords scything down.

  'Hold your positions. Keep the line unbroken.' Turpio did not think it would do much good. The enormous Nisean horses were getting larger by the second.

  Over the heads of the legionaries whistled the arrows of Apollonius's troopers. At least they have not abandoned us, thought Turpio. We will not die alone.

  A lucky arrow must have hit a vital part of a Sassanid horse. It fell, skidding forwards and sideways. Its rider was thrown over its head. He remained airborne for an improbably long time before smashing into the road, his armour ringing and clattering around him. The horse took out the legs of its neighbour. It too went crashing. The horse on the other side swerved away and barged into the next horse, which lost its footing. The second rank of horses could not stop quickly enough. They had no option but to plough into the fallen. Within moments, the magnificent charge had been transformed into a tipping, thrashing line of chaos, of men and horses writhing in pain and surprise.

  'About turn, at the double, let's get as far from them as possible.' They would have to sort the chaos out. It had bought Turpio and his men a few moments, a few yards nearer to safety.

  Jogging down the road, Turpio anxiously looked to his left to see what had become of the party of Sassanid cavalry riding to outflank his men from the north. He could see no sign. He felt his fear rising. Hercules' hairy arse, how could they have got between us and the gate so quickly? Then his spirits lifted. They were not between Turpio and the gate; they were drawing off towards their camp. A group of figures with torches looking down at a fallen horse indicated why. A single horse had fallen into one of the sparse traps set in the band between 200 and 400 paces from the wall. A single horse had fallen, and they had given up.

  Now there was only one threat to face. But probably it was too much. Turpio felt that, the next time Sassanid clibanarii thundered down the road at them, the legionaries would break. It had been a very long, frightening night. Men's nerves can only take so much.

  'Halt. About turn. Prepare to receive cavalry.'

  This time the clibanarii were taking their time. They had formed up in a column seven wide, and Turpio could not see how many men deep. The front rank consisted of seven who had somehow found the time to armour their horses as well as themselves. They were riding knee to knee, big men on big horses. They formed a solid wall of iron, hardened leather, animal horn, the chilling steel points of their lances catching the starlight above them.

  Turpio felt a ripple run through the legionaries around him. He could hear feet shuffling nervously, hobnails scraping on the surface of the road. The man on his right was glancing back over his shoulder, looking at the safety of the town. Turpio caught the rank smell of fear. Theirs or his, he was not sure.

  'Hold the line. Keep steady. Stand tall. Horses will not run into formed infantry.' Turpio was shouting himself hoarse. He would not be able to speak tomorrow. He grinned as the other unfortunate implication of this struck him. He turned to encourage the ranks behind him.

  'If we don't budge they cannot touch us. Keep the line and we will be all right.' Jupiter's bollocks, but the gate looked close. Anyone could imagine turning, running and getting into safety. It was only about 150 paces away. So near you felt you could be there in a moment. 'Do not think of running. You cannot outrun a horse. Run and you are dead. Hold the line and we all live.' The men were not meeting his eye; it was not going to work.

  A trumpet shrilled, cutting through the ambient noise of the disturbed night. The clibanarii dipped their awful lances and began to advance down the road at a walk. There was the jingle of armour, the ringing of their horses' hooves on the road, but no sound of humanity. They came on like a long serpent, scale-armoured and implacable.

  Twang – slide – thump. The noise of a ballista shooting. Twang – slide – thump. Another. Then another. Louder than anything in the night, all the artillery on the western wall of the town of Arete was shooting – shooting blind into the dark night.

  A terrible silence after the first volley. The clibanarii stopped. The legionaries froze. Everyone knew that the ballistae were reloading, the greased winches turning, the ratchets clicking, the torsion springs tightening. Everyone knew that within a minute at most the ballistae would shoot again, that again with superhuman speed and power, missiles would rain down across the plain, falling on friend and foe alike.

  Twang – slide – thump. The first of the second round of ballistae was heard. 'Stand up. Stand up. Stand your ground.' Turpio's men were cowering, shields held pathetically above their heads in a useless attempt to protect them from incoming artillery bolts or stones.

  Turpio turned to look down the road at the Sassanids, and started to laugh.

  'Right, boys, now get up and RUN!'

  There was a shocked pause, then they all realized that the clibanarii were cantering away into the night, back to their camp, out of range of the artillery on the walls of Arete. The legionaries turned and ran.

  Turpio saw Ballista waiting in the gateway. The torchlight made the northerner's long hair shine golden. He was smiling. As he ran up to him, Turpio again started laughing. They shook hands. They hugged. Turpio was slapping his Dux on the back.

  'Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant,' Turpio panted.

  Ballista tipped his head back and laughed. 'Thank you. I liked it. Not such a stupid northern barbarian then?'

  'Brilliant… mind you, obviously I realized straight away that the ballistae were not loaded, that the mere sound would scare the reptiles off.'

  The young optio was prepared to be most helpful. The matter reflected well on Legio IIII Scythica, and it reflected well on the young optio. The latter was a not inconsiderable factor for a junior officer with a career to make.

  'Gaius Licinius Prosper, of the vexillatio of Legio IIII Scythica, Optio of the Century of Marinus Posterior. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' The salute was smart.

  'Tell me exactly what happened.' Ballista returned the salute. Almost certainly the 'exactly' was redundant. Prosper clearly intended to have his moment, to take his time telling the story before he would lead them to the corpse. Ballista sniffed. He could smell the corpse, or at least what had killed him, from here.

  'Last night, as the turma of Apollonius was withdrawn from guard duties at the military granaries so that it could take part in the raid on the Sassanid camp – many congratulations on the success of the raid, Dominus, a piece of daring worthy of Julius Caesar himself, or of -'

  'Thank you.' Ballista spoke quickly before they were sidetracked into lengthy comparisons between himself and any daring generals from Rome's past whom the optio could recall. 'Thank you very much. Please continue.'

  'Of course, Dominus. As I was saying… as the turrna ofApollonius was not guarding the granaries, you ordered Acilius Glabrio to select thirty-two legionaries drawn from the centuries of Naso, Marinus Prior, Marinus Posterior and Pudens to take over the guard duties.' Ballista stifled a yawn. It was the third hour of daylight. He had had no sleep the previous night and, now the excitement of the raid had drained out of him, he was very tired. 'You did me the honour of choosing me to be the optio in command of the guard detail.'

  Ballista was careful not to smile. He had merely told Acilius Glabrio to put a small but adequate guard on the granaries last night. Until a few moments ago he had not been aware of the existence of the young optio. It is easy to collapse all hierarchies above oneself into one almost undifferentiated rank, to assume that your superiors know each other and that your commander-in-chief knows about you. 'You have more than repaid that honour by your diligence,' he said. 'Now please tell me what happened.'

  The youth smiled broadly. 'Well, I thought it best to station two legionaries at the doors at each end of the granaries.
I thought that, if there were always two legionaries together, there would be far less risk of them being overpowered or one of them falling asleep.' He looked suddenly embarrassed. 'Not that legionaries of IIII Scythica would ever fall asleep on guard duty.'

  No, but I might at any moment, if you don't get a move on. Ballista smiled. 'Very good,' he said encouragingly.

  'Of course this left only myself as a mobile patrol.'

  Ballista reflected that the young optio – Prosper, must remember his name – might recount a lot of information that was unnecessary, but that was better than one of those tongue-tied witnesses you were always having to prompt and chivvy along, especially when he was as dog-tired as he was now.

  'I first saw him in the fourth watch, at the end of the tenth hour of the night, just before you had the artillery shoot, when I was proceeding south towards the palace of the Dux Ripae, that is, towards your palace.' Ballista nodded weightily as if at the insight that he was the Dux Ripae and the palace was his. At least they were finally getting somewhere. 'He was walking north between the town wall and the eastern four granaries. Of course there is a curfew, so he should not have been there anyway. Yet there are always soldiers or their slaves out and about at night. He was dressed as a soldier – tunic, trousers, boots, sword belt – but I was suspicious. Why would a soldier be off duty last night of all nights? And he looked wrong somehow. Now I realize it was his beard and hair. They were far too long. No centurion would have let him get away with it, not even in an auxiliary unit. Not that you could tell now, not with the condition he is in.' The young man shuddered slightly.