It was thirteen days since they had left Antioch, eleven since they had sailed from Seleuceia. Again they had tracked the enemy, around the Gulf of Issus and along the Hollows of Cilicia. The Sassanid force that had raided Antioch had crossed the Syrian Gates, overwhelming its small garrison from the rear. Across the Amanus range they had reunited with their main body and together plundered the city of Rhosus. Then they had ridden through the devastated plain of Cilicia to the coastal city of Soli. This morning they would assault its walls. The Romans were well acquainted with their plans. Calgacus had been horrified at the ingenuity with which Ballista had tortured the Sassanid stragglers, appalled at the cold-eyed lack of emotion — or was it controlled pleasure? — with which he had finally despatched them.
Calgacus cast a sly glance at Ballista. The boy was far from right. Ballista stood, unnaturally immobile, staring ahead into the mist. He had had one of the armourers make him a new helmet. The broad nasal covered most of his face, and on either side was a curled metal ram's horn. Calgacus had not felt he could ask him why. No one had. Not even the bumptious Hibernian Maximus.
Calgacus was worried — more than worried, he had an ill-defined sense of foreboding and, worse, a strong sense of guilt. Dissuading Ballista from suicide, Calgacus had not spoken the whole truth. Ballista had never been a born killer. Some men are, Maximus for one. Maybe Calgacus was himself. But not Ballista. He had been a gentle child, sensitive. Left to his own devices, he might have become a farmer, been happy tending his flocks, or maybe a bard; he had always spouted poetry. There had been no hope of that, not for the son of Isangrim, the warleader of the Angles, trained by his uncle among the fierce Harii then hauled off into the imperium. Ballista had been shaped into a killer but, until now, it had never come completely easily to him. Never before had Calgacus seen him torture and kill in cold blood — or at least never take pleasure in it. Calgacus was worried — to keep the boy alive he had pushed him further down the path.
'There!' Maximus was pointing. Out of the thinning mist a liburnian was racing out towards them. At its prow a marine was holding a red cloak above his head.
Ballista came back from wherever he had been. He shouted, 'Full ahead.'
The rowing master gave the count. 'One, two, three, strike.' Almost as one, the oars bit the water. The trireme shivered like an animal waking then gathered way. By the third stroke, the ship was accelerating smoothly, the water running fast down her sides. All around, the fleet was getting underway.
Under the enclosing helm, Ballista was speaking softly. Calgacus, next to him, had to strain his ears to catch the words. 'Come what may come. What advantage in living? No fatherland, no house, no refuge.' More gloomy Greek poetry. The boy was in a very bad way.
Yet, bad way or no, Ballista could still set out a fine plan. The Persians had two main advantages: there were more of them, and they had horses. With luck, Ballista's plan might negate both. When the Romans landed, most of the Persians would be committed to the assault on Soli's walls. Under Rutilus, the ten little liburnians, just fifteen soldiers on each, would rush the camp. In their lazy superbia, the easterners had neglected to build a palisade or even set a proper guard. If they wanted their possessions, including their vast booty from Cilicia, the Persians would have to give up their superior mobility and fight hand to hand. The gods willing, many would have left their horses in the camp. The men with Ballista would form the initial line of battle just outside the camp. He had crammed fifty soldiers on to the decks of each of the triremes. These five hundred men, in only one rank, would have to hold until Castricius could get the four thousand or so reinforcements on the transport ships up in support. Even now the latter were wallowing behind, men labouring at enormous sweeps to propel the fat roundships to the shore.
The mist was lifting fast. Through the last wisps, the shore came into view. Off to the left were the walls of Soli — ringed by a mass of tiny dark figures; just to the right, the huge, sprawling array of tents, pavilions and horse-lines that formed the camp. In the far distance rose the snow-capped Taurus mountains. It was a beautiful summer morning.
Trumpets rang out from the Persians around the city, shrill cries of alarm carried across the water from the encampment. It would take time for the Persians to disengage from the assault and form up to face this new threat.
With a shudder that threw men off their feet, the trireme grounded on the shelving beach. Boarding ladders splashed down.
In a moment Ballista had descended the first one. Calgacus rushed to follow.
As he leapt down, Calgacus lost his footing. He went down on his hands and knees into the shallow water. A boot caught him in the back. He came up spitting, blinking salt from his eyes. Ballista was away — pounding up the beach. Calgacus scrambled to his feet and ran after him.
It was hard to run on the sand in full armour carrying a heavy shield. The muscles in Calgacus's legs screamed, his chest burned. He was far too old for this shit. He ploughed on.
Soon there was harder ground under his boots. Shutting out the pain, he closed his mind to everything but running.
Ballista had stopped. Calgacus pulled up — doubled over, retching dry and painful. Ballista was looking around, arms waving the line into place. Maximus had taken station on Ballista's right shoulder, the last man in the line. Demetrius, dressed for all the world as a soldier in a comedy, was at his left. Gently, Calgacus pulled Demetrius behind his kyrios and took his place. Every man in the line would have to stand firm. There was no point in letting the young Greek get himself or all of them killed. The new standard bearer, Gratius, was on Calgacus's left.
Calgacus looked out to sea. The transports were still some way out. Snaking down to the waves, just five hundred men of Legio IIII Scythica would have to face the anger of the Persian horde, and face it alone for some time.
'Here they come.'
The first Persians were closing, a cloud of mounted archers. Through the dust they raised, Calgacus could see a solid mass of armoured cavalry forming up. The gods had not been willing: all the easterners in sight were on horseback.
About fifty paces away, the leading Persians wheeled their mounts, loosed their bows.
The legionaries tucked their chins into their chests, hunkering down behind their big shields. Arrows thumped into leather and wood, sliced past.
'Ignore them — they are nothing,' Ballista roared.
'Girls' spindles,' a legionary shouted. 'Come here, darlings, and I will give you a good fucking.'
Soldiers laughed. Calgacus grinned sourly. Something Ballista had once said floated at the edges of his thoughts. Is this what it was to be a man? True male grace under pressure?
Calgacus leant back, looked at the shore. The transports were nearly there. He squinted round his shield at the enemy. The archers were withdrawing. The Sassanid knights, the dreaded clibanarii, were ready. The pitifully thin line with Ballista would somehow have to survive one charge.
A thunder of drums. The heavy cavalry walked forward. A dark phalanx, impossible to see how deep.
Hercules' hairy arse, this was not going to be pleasant.
When the Persians' individual armour — mail, plate, gaudy surcoats, steel visors — could be made out, at about five hundred paces, they moved to a trot. The banners above their heads — lilac, red, yellow — were bright in the sun.
Trumpets rang out from the clibanarii. They began to canter. Now the banners jerked this way and that. The horses seemed to rock back and forth as they exerted themselves under the weight of man and metal.
They came on. Calgacus looked at the sea. The Roman reinforcements were splashing ashore. Too late for the initial shock. But enough of that. 'Eyes front, hold the line,' he found himself shouting.
Horribly quickly, the Persians came on. The noise was like a wave crashing on a shingle beach, louder and louder.
'Stand for your brothers. Hold the line.' Legionaries called encouragement to themselves and their contubernales. Many prayed to their fa
voured deities: 'Let me live, great god, and I will give…'
Calgacus drew his sword, thrust it out beyond his shield. He dug his heels in the ground. The very air seemed to be shaking.
Gratius, next to Calgacus, was trembling. Out of the corner of his eye, Calgacus saw the urine run on Gratius's legs. It happened. And not just to cowards. The man was still in place.
The Sassanids came on — a wall of steel, inhuman, filling the world with their coming. Wicked spear points gleamed.
One hundred paces, seventy, fifty — dear gods, let this be over — thirty — they will scatter us like chaff. Calgacus ground his teeth.
About the distance a boy could throw a stone, the first horses refused the immobile wall of shields, digging in their feet, swerving, colliding. Men fought to stay in the saddle, sliding up their horses' necks. Losing their grip, some riders crashed, tumbling to the ground, lost under the hooves.
Ten paces from the Roman line, a confusion of stationary horses. Milling, backing, heads tossing, stamping, they bumped and bored into each other.
'Charge!' Ballista was running forward. He was yelling something. It sounded like, 'Nasu! Nasu!'
Ballista's long sword arced. It smashed into a horse's rear leg just above the hock. Tendons severed, the animal collapsed backwards, throwing its rider. Two quick steps and, almost casually, Ballista finished the man on the ground. The northerner's blade swung again, this time slicing off a horse's muzzle. Blood sprayed. Maddened by pain, the animal leapt forward. It crashed into another. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.
A Sassanid thrust at Ballista. Sidestepping, Ballista punched the tip of his weapon through the beast's armour and deep into its chest. It stood for a moment, pink froth at its nostrils, chest heaving, suffocating. It too went down, its rider tumbling in front of Calgacus. Chop — immediately the Persian's helmet cracked under Calgacus's blade.
Ballista was gone, into the mass of the enemy. Neither Calgacus or Maximus could keep up with him. Fucking fool, thought Calgacus. Never get in the midst of panicking horses. You will get trodden, knocked down, crushed, trampled.
Calgacus saw Ballista duck clean under a horse. As he came up the other side, large coils of pinky-grey intestines slithered from the animal's sliced belly. It tried to run, slipped on its own guts, went down.
Some god had to be holding his hands over Ballista. Calgacus watched him move with the grace of a dancer, untouched through the thundering chaos, sword flashing, quick as a snake. Men and horses were screaming. There was blood everywhere.
Calgacus took a blow on his shield, ducked, pushed forward. Over the hellish din, he could hear Ballista: 'Nasu! Nasu!'
Some of the Sassanids were fighting; more were sawing on their reins, trying to turn, get free from the chaos.
'Nasu! Nasu!' — oddly it seemed that some of the Persians were taking up Ballista's chant. 'Nasu! Nasu!' — they fought to get away from the huge, grim figure in the horned helmet.
Behind the tumult, pushing against the tide of retreating easterners, and astride the most splendid horse, a tall figure in purple and white, a high golden crown on his head. The King of Kings gesticulated. His mouth was open, shouting, but the words vanished into the uproar. Calgacus could see, near Shapur, the aged figure of the captive Roman emperor Valerian.
Ballista had been standing, hands down, a still centre in the eye of the storm. Now he recognized Shapur. He hurled his shield away and leapt forward, howling.
Shapur saw Ballista coming. The King of Kings drew his sword, kicked his mount forward.
A big Sassanid warrior put himself in front of the king. He swung at Ballista. The northerner ducked. The blade glanced off Ballista's helmet.
Shapur's nobles swarmed around their monarch. They grabbed his reins, turning his horse's head. The beloved of Mazda roared orders. For once they were disobeyed. The nobles closed ranks, their gorgeous silks surrounding the king.
Try as he might, Calgacus could not get to Ballista. Horses, men, friend and foe got in the way. Maximus also was caught up in the melee.
Ballista's sword sang — desperate to be past the big Persian warrior and at Shapur. In a berserk fury, Ballista hacked his sword deep into the back of the neck of the Persian's horse. The steel edge cut through the armour, severing the ligament. As the horse went down, the warrior jumped free. He landed on his feet.
The great war standard of the house of Sasan was moving away. Shapur was being forcibly led to safety. Valerian was being dragged after him.
The big Persian warrior cut at Ballista's left thigh. The northerner caught the blow on his blade, pirouetted like a dancer and sank his own sword into the man's left shoulder. The warrior staggered. Dropping his sword, his right hand automatically went to the wound. He swayed in agony. He did not fall.
Overhead, Ballista brought his weapon down on to the man's other shoulder. Metal buckled, and gave. The man sank to his knees. In a flurry of blows, Ballista finished him.
'Nasu! Nasu!' Ballista cried at the fluttering Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the Sassanids, and the retreating Persian king. They were gone too far. Like an animal savaging its prey, Ballista chopped again and again at the corpse at his feet.
Calgacus reached him. Ballista continued his gory work of mutilation. The Persian's head was nearly severed, his reddish hair spread in the dirt.
'Stop, boy,' Calgacus said.
Ballista continued the butchery, dismembered the body.
'Leave him. It is over.'
Ballista stopped. He looked down at the dead Persian.
'Garshasp the Lion,' Ballista said, and drove the tip of his blade into the man's chest. He left it there, quivering.
Blood ran in every crevice of Ballista's armour, clotted in the links of his mail coat. It dripped from his dented helmet, his unshaven face.
Ballista was in a place where Calgacus could not follow.
'Nasu! Nasu!' Ballista screamed at the sky.
Calgacus remembered: Nasu was the Persian daemon of death.
'And this,' Rutilus said to Ballista, 'is the pavilion of the King of Kings.'
'Kyrios,' Demetrius interrupted, 'Ragonius Clarus wishes to see you. He says it is most urgent — for the good of the Res Publica. He has been waiting for hours, since the Persians ran.'
Ballista did not look round. 'Let him wait.'
No one was quite sure why the Persians had run. Despite their disarray, everyone had expected them to canter out of range, rally and charge again. Centurions and optiones had shouted themselves hoarse getting the legionaries back to the standards, getting the reinforcements into position. When the line was re-set — this time eight deep and with a comforting barrier of dead and injured horses in front — they had been surprised that the Persians were a distant smudge of dust. The only easterners left were dead or too maimed to hobble to safety. The latter were soon dead as well.
Panic can spread through an army in seconds. Certainly some credit had to go to an opportune sally into the Persian rear from the town. This had been led by the eirenarch of Soli — a man called Perilaus. Demetrius thought, if ever in the history of mankind, let alone of the imperium, there was a case of a brigand turned estate guard, it was Perilaus. He had to be either a close ally of Trebellianus or, more likely, one of his deadliest enemies.
Yet Demetrius knew Perilaus was not the real reason for the Persian rout. Demetrius had been there. He had stood in the battle line. True, that was all he had done — stand in the battle line. When Ballista, Calgacus and the others had run forward, Demetrius had taken just a couple of steps after them. He had his sword out. His intentions were good. But there had seemed no way into the maelstrom of horses and men. Everywhere flailing, falling horses, terrible, sharp weapons. Demetrius had not fought, but he had seen and he had heard everything that mattered: Ballista, miraculously unscathed, sword swinging, screaming from under his helmet — 'Nasu, Nasu.' Demetrius had witnessed the fear of the daemon of death spread through the Sassanid warriors. He had
seen Shapur, the proud King of Kings, hustled away.
If ever a man had won a battle single-handed, it was Ballista today. But had Ballista been alone? Demetrius seriously thought that his beloved kyrios had been possessed — Nasu, the daemon of death.
Demetrius followed the others into the cool, purple shade of the royal tent. A long corridor later, they emerged into a cavernous room. Wherever they looked were bowls, pitchers, tubs and caskets, all exquisitely worked. The chamber itself breathed a marvellous scent of incense and spices. Couches and tables were laid for a banquet. At the far end was an ornate throne. Before it was a low altar on which burned a sacred Zoroastrian flame.
Ballista spoke, to no one in particular. 'This, it seems, is what it is to be a king.'
The northerner, his face still largely hidden under the blood-spattered helmet, looked around. He picked up a big pitcher of wine, took a drink. Then he carried it to the altar. Slowly he poured the wine over it. A cloud of steam rose as the sacred fire hissed and died.
This was too much for Demetrius. 'When a man who takes a city includes in the general destruction temples of the high gods…'
A laugh came from under Ballista's grim helmet. He finished the quotation from Euripides: 'He is a fool; his destruction follows him close.' Ballista laughed again, strangely carefree. 'I know it all too well, boy.'
At the sacrilege, two eunuchs, who had been hovering quietly behind the throne, started wailing.
Ballista went over to them. His hand went to his sword. It was not there. He had left it embedded in the corpse of Garshasp. Ballista drew Isangrim's miniature sword from his other hip. He killed both the eunuchs.
'Never cared for their sort in the north.'
From behind the hangings at the rear of the room came a terrible high keening.
Rutilus smiled. If, like Demetrius, he had been shocked by the killing, he had recovered quickly. 'To the victor the spoils.' He whisked back the curtain. The wailing redoubled.
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