Fire in the East wor-1

by Harry Sidebottom

  'And he was acting suspiciously. He was holding a big jar in one hand, holding it away from his body, as if it were very precious, as if he were terrified of spilling a drop. And he was holding a shuttered lantern in the other hand. Again holding it unnaturally far from his body.'

  'Excellent observation, Optio.'

  'Thank you, Dominus.' The optio was in full flow now. 'As I walked towards him he saw me and turned into the gap between the first and second granaries. I called for him to stop, but he ignored me. I shouted the alarm. I ran after him and yelled to the legionaries on guard at the other end that there was an enemy coming down the eavesdrip and to cut him off.' The young optio paused as if to take questions. None came. He continued. 'When I turned into the alley I could not see him at first. I could see Piso and Fonteius blocking the far end, but he was out of sight. I knew that he must be hiding in one of the alcoves formed by the big buttresses of the granaries.'

  One of those alcoves in which Bagoas had been beaten up, thought Ballista.

  'As he was cornered, I thought that he might be dangerous. So I called Scaurus from my end to come with me. We drew our swords and started off very cautiously down the alley.' Ballista nodded to indicate that the course of action was both thoughtful and courageous. 'It was very dark. So we were going slowly, covering both sides, waiting to be attacked. Suddenly there is a noise of splintering wood up ahead. Then I am almost blinded by a bright light two alcoves down. There is a sort of whooshing sound, and a ghastly smell. When we can see again, we run forward. Piso and Fonteius are running towards us from the far end. We all get there at once. I will never forget it. Never.' He stopped talking.

  'Optio?'

  'Sorry, Dominus. It was horrible. I hope I never see anything like it again.'

  'Please continue.'

  'The bastard was crawling into the little ventilation opening at the foot of the wall. I don't know if he got stuck or if the pain stopped him, but he was just sort of writhing when we got there, writhing and screaming. Never heard anything like it. He must have torn away the wooden slats over the ventilator with his sword, emptied the jar of naptha over himself and, with the lantern, quite deliberately set light to himself. Then he tried to crawl into the ventilator. He turned himself into a human missile. It smelt like… like roast pork.'

  'What did you do?'

  'There were flames everywhere. The naptha had set the remains of the ventilator on fire. There were flames licking up the brick walls. Even the mud around him seemed to be on fire. Gods below, it was hot. It looked as if it would spread into the granary, get in the ventilator and under the wooden floor. The whole place was about to go up. It was Scaurus who thought what to do. He got his entrenching tool, stuck it in the poor bastard's thigh, and dragged him to the middle of the alley, where we left him. We threw soil on the fires until they were smothered.'

  The young optio led Ballista down the alley and introduced him to the legionaries Scaurus, Piso and Fonteius. The northerner praised them all, especially the rather singed Scaurus, and promised they would be rewarded. He asked Demetrius to make a note of it. The Greek boy was looking sick.

  The scene was as Ballista had expected. The corpse was twisted, shrivelled, its hair and clothing gone, its features melted. Beyond the fact that he had been a short man, the corpse was completely unrecognizable. The optio was right: disgustingly, it smelt of roast pork. It smelt of Aquileia. It had an entrenching tool, the wooden handle burnt away, sticking out of its leg.

  'Did you find anything interesting on the body?'

  'Nothing, Dominus.'

  Ballista crouched next to the corpse, willing his gorge down. The man's sword was a military-issue spatha. It signified little. There were many available on the open market. The man's boots did not have hobnails, but nor did the boots of a lot of soldiers these days.

  'You were right. He was not a soldier.' Ballista grinned. 'Nothing can persuade a soldier to take his ornaments, awards for valour, his lucky charms off his sword belt. All that is left of this man's belt is the buckle.' The northerner pointed to an unremarkable buckle in the shape of a fish. 'Definitely not a soldier.'

  From a little way away came the sound of retching. Demetrius was throwing up.

  'What could make a man do such a thing?' the young optio asked.

  Ballista shook his head. 'I cannot begin to imagine.'

  Everyone was waiting for the sun to rise. Already the eastern sky was a pale bronze. A cool steady breeze blew from the south. Ducks were flighting over the Euphrates and the smell of baking bread wafted around the town. If you did not look too far away or you kept your eyes on the heavens, you could imagine that Arete was at peace.

  One glance over the battlements shattered any pacific illusions. True as the light advanced, the western desert for once showed green. There were grasses and wild flowers in every little depression. Birds sang. But beyond the delicate spring scene was a black line about a thousand paces wide. The Sassanid host stood shoulder to shoulder. Thirty, forty ranks deep, it was impossible to tell. Above their heads the south wind tugged at the banners. Serpents, wolves, bears, abstract symbols of fire, of righteousness, of Mazda, snapped in the breeze.

  Behind the ranks of men loomed the instruments of war. A line of siege mantlets, tall shields mounted on wheels, could be made out running almost the length of the force. Here and there the wooden frames of ballistae stuck up; the keenest eyes counted at least twenty of them. And there, quite widely spaced and unmistakable behind the line, were the City Takers, the three tall, tall siege towers.

  Ballista was impressed despite himself. It was just seven days since the Persian horde had descended on Arete. They had found nothing useable; there was no timber for miles: Ballista's men had stripped the countryside in advance. It had done no good. The Sassanids had brought with them everything they needed. Somehow they had transported upriver all the instruments of siege warfare in prefabricated form, almost ready to use. For six days they had laboured. Now, on the seventh day, they were ready. Although he would not admit it to anyone else, would barely concede it to himself, Ballista was worried. These Sassanids were like no barbarians he had fought before. Goths, Sarmatians, Hibernians or Moors-none could have done such things, none could prosecute a siege with such vigour.

  Ballista and the defenders had not been idle in the seven days since the night raid. Turpio's foray may have failed to kill Shapur but still must be counted a success. Roman casualties had been very light. Five troopers were missing from the turma of Paulinus, none at all from that of Apollonius. Of the legionaries, there were twenty empty places in the century that had actually entered the Persian camp, that of Antoninus Posterior, and one from that of Antoninus Prior – oddly, as it had not actually been engaged. The latter, although no one said so out loud, was widely considered to have deserted. Overall the raid had raised Roman morale, and it was safely assumed to have shaken that of the Persians. Yet such a large-scale raid had not been repeated. Ballista knew that the Sassanids would now be on guard. He was waiting for the next phase of the siege, the next predictable turn of the dance. He was waiting for an all-out Persian assault.

  The Romans had not made another big foray yet the Sassanids were unlikely to have been sleeping soundly in their tents. The very night of the main raid Antigonus had returned in the early hours from across the river. He had found the girl who had been raped. She was dead; she had been mutilated. Antigonus left her there but returned with a Persian head. Two nights later he had gone south by boat and returned with another head, wrapped in a Persian cloak. The next night he had slipped out of the northern wicket gate down by the river and this time returned with two heads. Finally, last night he had gone across the river again and brought back yet another grisly bundle. In a sense five casualties meant nothing in a horde probably 50,000 strong. Yet morning after morning the news of finding yet another inexplicably decapitated corpse in yet another place was bound to summon up the very worst fears in the Persian army: a traitor turning h
is hand against his friends or, worse, far worse, a daemon able to strike at will throughout the sleeping camp.

  Ballista was pleased with his new standard-bearer. He took little pleasure in the ghastly trophies, but he solemnly unwrapped each one, solemnly thanked its bringer. Each one was a mark of revenge for both Romulus and the unknown girl. Antigonus had a gift for this sort of thing. Ballista was glad they were on the same side.

  Beyond Antigonus's nocturnal forays, beyond the normal activity of the besieged, the main activity of the seven days had been the construction of three huge mobile cranes. Every carpenter in the town had been seconded to work on them; likewise, every blacksmith had been forging the giant chains and implements they would deploy. With their completion, Ballista had the last major items necessary for when the Sassanids attempted to storm the town. Looking up and down the wall, the air already shimmering with heat where the large metal cauldrons hung over their fires, Ballista felt that he had done his best. He was far from sure that it was good enough, but he had done his best.

  The sun was rising over Mesopotamia. A wash of gold splashed over the bright Sassanid banners, picked out their gorgeous costumes, the jewels in the headdresses. As one, every man in the vast host sank to his knees then prostrated himself in the dust of the desert. Trumpets blared, drums boomed, and across the plain rolled chants of 'Maz-da, Maz-da' as they hailed the rising sun.

  The sun had now risen clear of the horizon. The chanting stopped, and the Persian army got to its feet. They waited in silence.

  High on the battlements of the Palmyrene Gate, Ballista also waited and watched. The twenty-first day of April, ten days before the kalends of May: it was the Parilia, the birthday of eternal Rome. From the right of the Sassanid army, preceded by the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the great battle flag of the house of Sasan, came the now familiar figure clad in purple riding a white horse.

  'Shah-an-Shah, Shah-an-Shah.' A new chant rolled across the plain.

  Shapur halted in front of the centre of the line. The great jewel-encrusted banner moved above his head, catching the sunlight, flashing yellow, violet, red. His horse stamped its foot, tossed its head and neighed, high and clear across the plain.

  On the battlement Bagoas gave a small whimper of pleasure. 'The sure sign. When the charger of the King of King's does thus before the walls of a town, that place will surely fall.'

  'Silence, boy.' Ballista would not have his slave spreading despondency. 'It is an easy enough omen to create.'

  'What are they doing now?' Maximus asked. A line of seven roped men were being driven towards the priests, magi, around the Drafsh-i-Kavyan. 'This does not look good.'

  Bagoas said nothing. He cast his eyes down. For once he looked rather shamefaced.

  The men were wearing Roman uniforms. They were struggling, but being beaten forward. One fell. He was kicked back to his feet. They were driven to where a small fire was burning. A pot was hanging on a tripod, heating over the fire. The Romans were forced to their knees and held tightly. Their heads were forced back. One of the magi unhooked the pot from the tripod, lifted it free of the fire.

  'Gods below, the barbarian bastards.' Maximus looked away.

  The priest stepped over to the first of the prisoners. Two magi held the man's head. The priest tipped the pot. The man screamed.

  'What is it?' Ballista tried to keep his voice level. 'What are they doing to them?'

  'Olive oil.' Bagoas answered very quietly. 'They are blinding them with boiling olive oil.'

  A single trumpet call was picked up by innumerable others. The vast Sassanid horde stirred itself and began to form up for its slow advance.

  Gangs of men began to push the ballistae, mounted on squat carts or moved on rollers forward, to within effective range, about 200 paces of the walls. From there the stone-throwers would aim to destroy the defenders' artillery and knock down the battlements while the bolt-throwers swept Roman soldiers from the wall walks.

  The mantlets were pushed to the fore. These would travel to within effective bow shot, about fifty paces from the town. Forming an unbroken line of reinforced wood, the mantlets were intended to shield both the Persian archers and the storming parties as they assembled.

  Most ponderously of all, hauled by hundreds of men each, the three City Takers began to inch forward. These monstrous wheeled siege towers were made of wood but entirely clad in plates of metal and damp skins. Water was frequently poured down their sides from the top to try to prevent the enemy setting fire to them. They had ballistae on their upper levels, but these were only secondary to their main purpose. The City Takers were designed to creep up to and overtop the walls of the town, let down a drawbridge and release on to the battlements a mass of screaming warriors. As the drawbridges came down, a host of storming parties carrying ladders would burst forth in support from the line of mantlets.

  Ballista looked at them. They were the key to the assault. Everything else would revolve around them. They were quite far apart. One was on the road, heading straight for the gate where Ballista stood. The others were aimed to hit the wall beyond, three towers away north and south. Travelling at about one mile an hour, in theory they could strike the wall in about half an hour. Ballista knew that was not going to happen. The City Takers would make many stops, to change the crews of men hauling them, to test, smooth and reinforce the ground ahead, as well as to fill in Ballista's traps – if, of course, the latter were detected.

  Ballista judged that the assault would probably not come until midday. Unfortunately, that would be good for the attackers in several ways. The morning sun would no longer be directly in their eyes as it was now. It would give plenty of time for the City Takers to reach the walls and for subsidiary attacks to be ready to go in on the other walls.

  Clouds of horsemen had been spotted the day before on the other sides of the northern and southern ravines. Ballista had altered his order of battle, ordering 300 men, 100 mercenaries from each of the numeri of the caravan protectors, to join the defence of the dangerously undermanned north wall. It was odd that this weakness had been spotted by his accensus, the completely unmilitary Demetrius, not by himself nor any of his army officers. Sometimes one got too close to things. As Ballista's people said: you could not see the wood for the trees.

  Midday. The northerner turned the timing over in his mind. Midday. The time when Romans ate their first substantial meal of the day. Bagoas had told him that Persians ate later, towards late afternoon. At midday the Persians would not be hungry, but the Romans would. Ballista was about to issue orders to bring forward the time of the soldiers' lunch when he saw something that might prove to be terribly important.

  The distinctive figure clad in purple riding a white horse was on the move. Although now accompanied by a glittering entourage of the high nobility and client kings, there was no mistaking the high, domed golden helmet, the long purple and white streamers that indicated the King of Kings.

  Ballista had been waiting for this moment, had been praying that it would come. In the Roman army, at the start of a siege it was customary for the commander to ride forward into range of the defenders' artillery. It was a tradition that served two goals. At a purely pragmatic level, it gave the commander a fine chance to observe the state of the defences. At an altogether more intangible but possibly far more significant level, it allowed the general to rouse the spirits of his troops by demonstrating his studied contempt for the weapons of their enemies. A fine tradition, one which killed two birds with one stone. The only problem was that it sometimes killed the besieging general as well.

  Until this moment Ballista had not known if the Sassanids held to a similar practice. Asking Bagoas had produced no useful answer – 'Of course, Shapur, the beloved of Mazda, has no fear of the weapons of his foes.' More and more the northerner wondered just how much or how little the Persian boy knew about war. Bagoas clearly came from the Persian elite, but was it becoming ever more likely that he was from a family of scribes or priests than one of warri
ors?

  Shapur and his men reined in just outside artillery range. Animated conversation could be seen. The King of Kings was doing most of the talking. Informing his high-status audience of his view of the direction the assault should take, Shapur made wide arcs and sweeps with his arms, the streamers flying behind him.

  Ballista stared intently not at Shapur but at two distinctive humps of stone left on either side of the road. The sides facing the wall were painted white. They marked 400 paces, the maximum range of his artillery. Come on, you cowardly eastern bastard. Come on, just have the balls to get within range.

  Forcing his mind away, Ballista issued orders for the men to take their lunch no less than two hours earlier than usual. As the messengers moved away, the northerner realized with a nasty lurch that he had not issued the far more pressing orders for every piece of artillery to aim at the Persian king but not to shoot until the Dux Ripae gave the command. As the next batch of messengers moved away, Ballista was slightly reassured by the thought that their message most likely was redundant – it would be a very poor ballistarius indeed who had not already trained the weapon on the man on the white horse.

  The trick of turning the washers, slackening the torsion and decreasing the apparent range of the weapons was an old trick, an obvious one. Had it worked? And even if it had, would the traitor have betrayed it? Was the Sassanid mocking him?

  Shapur kicked on, and the white horse moved down the road towards the Palmyrene Gate. Past the whitewashed piles of stone, with his meteor trail of the powerful, Shapur came on. Allfather, Deceitful One, Death-Bringer, deliver this man to me.

  Ballista was painfully aware of the expectation surrounding him. The dead silence on the battlements was broken only by the small noises of well-oiled machinery being subtly adjusted as the ballistae tracked their target. Wait until he stops moving. Do not snatch at this. Wait until the right moment.

  Nearer and nearer came Shapur; closer and closer to the white-painted section of wall at 200 paces.