King of Kings wor-2

by Harry Sidebottom

  A fold in the plain hid the Sassanid army until it was quite close. The first things that could be seen quite clearly were the big standards: fierce beasts — lions, wolves, bears; and abstract, minimal designs — here a straight line, there a curve, something like the shape of a cup. They flashed bright in the sunshine, all colours: scarlet, yellow, violet. Strange, thought Ballista, how the abstract patterns were more threatening than the animals. A bear is just a bear, but who in the Roman army could tell what powers and horrors the minimal and totally alien designs symbolized?

  The Sassanids were drawing closer. As their cavalry breasted the slight rise, individuals could be easily made out. They were less than a thousand paces away now. Ballista looked carefully. He could just about determine that some wore pointed helmets and others domed caps, while the majority appeared bareheaded. Now they were less than seven hundred paces away, and advancing at a brisk canter. There were a lot of them. They filled the plain. The thunder of their coming preceded them.

  'Steady, boys,' Ballista called as he rode along behind his front line. He had reinforced the two hundred Saracen archers led by Viridius with the three hundred and fifty slingers of Sandario, but the line still looked horribly thin. Light infantry will seldom stand a really determined charge by cavalry. It was a risk, but he did not want to weaken the rest of his formation. 'Steady, boys,' Ballista called again, as much to himself as anyone.

  At five hundred paces he could pick out details of the Sassanid riders' accoutrements: flashes of colour, glints of metal, the paler smudges of their faces, the occasional white sock on a horse. The northerner felt a tentative sense of relief. He could see the riders' faces, see the legs of the horses. These were not the feared Sassanid clibanarii, the terrible, heavily armoured men on heavily armoured horses. Ballista's gamble with having only light infantry in his front line might work. These Sassanids were horse archers. These bowmen should have no intention of trying to charge home against an unbroken enemy.

  'Hold the line, boys. They are just horse archers. They will never close with us.'

  Ballista rode past Acilius Glabrio, to his left at the head of the central column of the army, the cavalry column. 'They will not charge home. Leave them to our infantry. Hold the line,' the northerner called. He did not notice any response from the patrician.

  Ballista moved on, offering a few words of encouragement to the front line as he went. Now and then Demetrius would lean over and mutter in his ear, and then he would call out to junior officers and one or two men by name.

  'No fear, Dominus. These easterners do not have the balls to face us,' shouted a grizzled slinger.

  'True, comilitio, and they are only light cavalry — they are nothing close to the steel,' replied Ballista. He did not add, But the clibanarii, the heavy cavalry, they are out there somewhere, hidden by the drifting dust cloud, waiting, long spears in hand and murder in their hearts, and they, fellow-soldier, they are something, something terrible close to the steel.

  Ballista pushed Pale Horse into a canter. The others followed: Maximus, Calgacus, Demetrius, the standard bearer called Bargas, a trumpeter and ten Equites Singulares. The great white draco hissed and snapped above their heads. Ballista had wanted to speak to Sandario, on the extreme left of the front line, before the attack came into range. Now it was obvious that was not going to happen.

  Ballista was still some way short when he saw Sandario make the signal: the trumpets called, the slings whirred round and he half-glimpsed the slingshots fly towards the enemy. A moment or two later Roman trumpets rang out behind Ballista. He turned in his saddle and watched Viridius' men loose their bows. Archers on foot outrange those on horseback, and slingers outrange both. For a short time, the Romans were in the god-like position of being able to kill without the least danger of being killed. With a clear view over his own infantry, Ballista could see the effect on the Sassanids. Men were knocked from saddles, some horses went down in a maelstrom of thrashing hooves and dust. But far, far too few to stop the charge.

  The bright day darkened and a storm of Persian arrows came slicing down. All around, men were roaring with fury, screaming in pain. Ballista felt an arrow tug at his cloak, saw the sparks as another ricocheted off Pale Horse's armour. He made a signal and turned his tiny column back the way it had come. Everyone feels better with their left, shielded side to the enemy. As if in confirmation of the thought, Ballista was knocked sideways in his saddle as an arrow punched into his shield. Pulling on the horns of his saddle, he hauled himself upright. The bright fletchings of the arrow nodded as he moved, its steel tip embedded in the thick linden boards.

  Without conscious thought, Ballista had slipped into the altered state of almost complete calm that sometimes came on him in battle. At the centre of the storm, he looked out over the heads of his infantrymen and tried to work out how the fight was going. Men were falling on both sides. Neither side wore heavy armour. The Sassanids had the advantage of numbers, but the dust and movement made it impossible to judge by how much. On horseback the Sassanids were bigger targets, but then again they were moving.

  As the northerner watched, the front rank of Sassanids, no more than thirty paces distant, turned to their right, spun round and headed away. As they retreated they aimed their arrows back over the rumps of their horses, employing the famous 'Parthian shot'. The next rank, and the one after that, and all those following repeated the manoeuvre. Arrows still rained down, but in next to no time the whole force was cantering away.

  A great wave of confused noise hit Ballista. It came from up ahead, from near the centre of the Roman line. For a few seconds the northerner could not accept the evidence of his eyes. There was the scarlet and gold figure of Acilius Glabrio out in front of the line. The standard bearers and musicians were with him. Behind him, the column of cavalry surged forward. The heavy cavalry of Equites Primi Catafractarii Parthi were riding through, riding over the line of Roman light infantry. Slingers ran desperately out of the way. One or two, too slow, were bowled over, were either sent spinning like tops or, worse, disappeared beneath the plunging hooves. Acilius Glabrio, scarlet paludamentum flying, was leading his men out in a hell-for-leather charge after the Sassanid light cavalry.

  You fool — they are not running, it is just their way. They will turn in a moment. Ballista was not sure if he shouted out loud or not. He found that he had put Pale Horse into a flat-out gallop towards the point where more and more armoured horsemen were pouring out of the Roman formation. Ballista turned in the saddle. His entourage were still with him: Maximus, Calgacus, Demetrius, the others. Good. He called for the trumpeter to sound recall. Towards the rear of the column some of the troopers began to rein in their horses.

  Ballista angled his horse into the charging column of catafractarii. His knee crunched painfully into the armoured knee of a trooper. Highly strung for the charge, the trooper rounded on the man who had barged into him then, as he recognized his general, the fight drained out of him. Ballista seized the trooper's reins and pushed their mounts across the four-wide column, bringing those behind them to a skidding halt.

  Rising in the saddle, Ballista looked round to take stock. He had managed to prevent about one hundred men of Equites I Parthi leaving the army. But the rest of the unit, some two hundred troopers, were streaming away across the plain.

  'Bugger,' said Maximus eloquently. 'Bugger, bugger, bugger.'

  Ballista summoned over a decurion. Demetrius quietly provided his name. 'Lappius, I am appointing you in temporary command of those of Equites I Parthi still here with the main body of the army. I want you to get them in order and form them up in close order, knee to knee, in a line two deep, with the right-hand men by the riverbank. Hold that position. On no account move without a direct order from me.' To give him credit, the decurion took this unexpected turn of events in his stride, saluting smartly and barking out orders to make things so.

  Staring out across the plain, Ballista watched the rest of Equites I Parthi hurtle towards
their fate. They were already some two hundred paces away. The Persians, of course, were giving way before them. But now some of the eastern horse archers were beginning to hang back to lap round their flanks. In a classic manoeuvre, the Persians were drawing the Romans on while flowing around them like water.

  Ballista spoke fast but clearly to a messenger. 'Tell Mucapor to bring the Equites Singulares forward. I want them in a line one hundred across and two deep, in open order, a horse's length between each rider, the whole line cantered on me.'

  The messenger clattered away. Ballista looked back out over the plain. The majority of the Equites I Parthi still galloped hard after Acilius Glabrio, though now they were strung out like the train of a meteor. Carrying their own heavy armour and their armoured riders, the horses must be nearly blown. Towards the rear, some troopers were slackening their pace. One or two had even stopped and were tuning their mounts.

  The jingle of equipment, the stamp of hooves, and the muted grunt of orders announced that his bodyguard, the Equites Singulares, were being deployed behind him, as Ballista wished. He did not turn around, he kept his eyes on the plain. The main group of Roman troopers had come to a halt. He could see the standards still flying above them. They were about four hundred paces away. And the Sassanids were closing around them. Across the plain were isolated Roman troopers. Sassanid light cavalry will fight hand to hand if the odds are well in their favour. One after another, the isolated Roman cavalrymen were dragged down, overwhelmed by sheer numbers as the trap closed. In a matter of moments the main body of Acilius Glabrio's men was surrounded. Arrows were flying at them from all directions.

  Leave the bastard there. A small voice spoke in Ballista's mind. The bastard hired someone to kill you. Leave the bastard to die. It is his own fault.

  Mucapor approached, saluted, and waited for orders.

  But leave the bastard and you leave the rest of them to die…

  Ballista returned the salute. 'Mucapor, you will take the right-hand hundred men of the bodyguard, and I will lead the left. We will advance separately, driving the Sassanid horse archers before us until we are on either side and just beyond where, as you can see, the Legate Acilius Glabrio has got his men trapped. Then, while the remnants of Equites I Parthi run back to the army, we will conduct a controlled withdrawal, one line withdrawing through the other so that there are always some troopers facing the enemy.' Ballista paused for questions. There were none. 'The river should help guard your right flank.' As it occurred to him, the general issued orders for Sandario to try to protect the left flank with his slingers.

  Ballista indicated where the unit was to be divided. He and Mucapor trotted off in opposite directions to take up their positions in the centre and just in advance of their men. Once in position, Ballista wasted no time making the signal to advance.

  They advanced slowly, a walk at first, never rising to more than the gentlest of canters. Ballista gave some of his attention to dressing the line of his men — it was vital they kept together — and some to the Persian horse archers ahead. But much, much more of his mind was directed to piercing the cloud of dust that hung over the plain. Somewhere behind that thick, swirling, red-brown cloud were the Sassanid clibanarii, the terrible heavy cavalry that could sweep over the tiny forces of his own cavalry in a matter of moments.

  This is madness, thought Ballista. I am risking the whole army on the off chance of saving a couple of hundred men and a man who probably paid an assassin to kill me.

  As was only natural, the Persian light horse withdrew before these new forces of Roman heavy cavalry. A few feinted towards them, loosed off an arrow or two, but then were gone. As Ballista made the signal to halt, he saw the surviving troopers of Acilius Glabrio's unit streaming towards the army. Some of them were on foot, discarding their weapons and armour as they ran. He could not see if the young patrician was still with them.

  Ballista waited a few moments. The Persians were rallying just out of bowshot. He ordered the retreat to begin. The front line of the men with him turned to the right, passed through the line behind them, cantered for about fifty paces, then turned again and pulled up once more, facing the enemy. Then the other line turned and repeated the procedure. So it went, Ballista and his immediate entourage remaining always with the line nearest the enemy.

  It seemed no time at all before the horse archers were back, snapping round the heels of Ballista's men, shooting innumerable arrows from but a few yards. Despite their heavy armour, men and horses of the Equites Singulares were being wounded, were falling. A rider crashed into Pale Horse. Ballista turned to curse him, then realized with a lurch that there was no point. The man was dead, held on his mount by the horns of his saddle. Two arrows protruded from his face. As the horse carried him away, the shafts seemed to dance in a grotesque parody of a set of Pan pipes.

  Ballista looked back at the Roman army — still some three hundred paces away. They were going to be a very long three hundred paces. Then he looked south towards the Persians. For a moment, the dust cloud parted — and there was the sight that the northerner least wanted to see. Glinting and flashing in the sunlight, coming on like an army of living statues was a solid line of Sassanid heavy cavalry, the clibanarii.

  The dust cloud covered them again. How far away had they been? Ballista was unsure. He had made out details of their surcoats. They must be within at least five hundred paces, probably much closer. This ordered retreat was not going to work. The clibanarii would overrun them before they reached the army and then, with no organized force at the front of the Roman columns, they would overrun the whole army.

  Ballista gestured wildly for a messenger to attend him. 'Ride to the Legate Aurelian, who is with the infantry column. Ride as fast as ever you can. Tell him I want him to bring five hundred legionaries around to the front of the army. I want them set out in five blocks of one hundred. Enough space for our cavalry to pass between each block. As soon as my men have passed, he must have them ready for the rear ranks to come round to form an unbroken line. They must be ready to lock shields, ready to repel a cavalry charge. Got that? Good, now go.'

  The messenger disappeared to the north, and Ballista's world slowed to an agonizing snail's pace. At his signal, the rank of cavalry nearest to the enemy turned and followed him as he cantered away. The Sassanids surged after them, yelling, howling. Their arrows, loosed at almost point-blank range, hissed at the riders' backs, at the horses' hind quarters. So many arrows, some had to find an unprotected spot or even punch clean through armour. Men and horses were screaming, falling, writhing in the dust. The Romans rode through their second line, and the Sassanids pulled back a little.

  Ballista looked at the Roman army. There was no sign yet of Aurelian's legionaries. He looked at the Sassanids. There was nothing to see except the myriad wheeling horse archers and the plumes of dust — no further sign of the dreaded clibanarii.

  Again Ballista made the signal, and the line of cavalry nearest to the enemy turned and cantered away. Again the Sassanids swept forwards. Again the arrows flew, and men and beasts felt the sharp stab of pain and fell. There was a nightmarish quality to these awful repetitions, to this painfully slow flight from a terrifying menace you could not see but knew was coming.

  An arrow punched into Ballista's shield. Its feathers were dyed scarlet. In fact, he was surprised to see, there were four arrows embedded in his shield. The earlier clarity of his battle-calm had slipped away, leaving him as if in a trance. He pulled himself together and looked at the army. At last. There they were. He could make out Aurelian's legionaries. They were about two hundred paces away, jogging across the front of the army.

  Ballista turned to regard the Sassanids. There was nothing to see but horse archers and dust. He made the signal, and the front rank of the Equites Singulares followed him away. And something had changed. Arrows were still falling, but not so many and not released from so close. Ballista swivelled in the saddle. Still nothing in sight but horse archers and dust. Almost
casually, he fended off an arrow with his shield. All the eastern riders were galloping away from the Euphrates, away to the east. Already there were none down by the riverbank. Absently, Ballista noted the little galleys out on the river, saw their torsion-powered artillery bolts speeding after the Persians. I must remember to praise Turpio for his initiative… Ballista waved the trumpeter and Bargas the standard bearer to his side… If I get to see the bugger again. He looked at the Roman army. It was about a hundred and fifty paces away. Aurelian's men were not yet quite in position. It could not be helped. It had to be now. He gave the order: all-out retreat, every man for himself.

  It takes a little while for a heavily caparisoned horse to reach full speed. But fear communicates itself easily from man to mount. Soon, all the Equites Singulares, those under Mucapor as well as those with Ballista, were galloping flat out across the plain, riders leaning forward, horses with nostrils wide, ropes of saliva streaming back from gaping mouths, galloping straight and hard, only when essential jinking round a clump of camel thorn.

  Ballista glanced over his shoulder. The horse archers were gone, cantering now off to the north-east to lap round the flank of the main body of the Roman army — and in their place were the clibanarii. No more than a hundred paces away, a solid wall of steel, bronze, leather and horn, as far as the eye could see. The earth trembled under their horses' hooves and the air above them was bright with banners, with flowing streamers — yellow, violet, red — and with wicked, glinting spearheads.

  Ballista was riding hard, but not pushing Pale Horse near the gelding's limit. He was reasonably secure in his mind. The Sassanid clibanarii had to maintain their line. They could not ride at a full gallop like the fleeing Romans. It should be all right.

  Pale Horse swerved around some thorn bushes. Beside and behind him Ballista heard a sound like a whimper. Demetrius was half off his horse, clinging despairingly to its neck. No horseman, the boy must have been dislodged as his mount avoided the sharp camel thorn. As Ballista watched, the Greek youth's grip failed and he was rolling on the hard, dusty ground. Without thought, Ballista reined in, grabbed the bridle of Demetrius' mount and circled back. The boy was on his feet. He was babbling as the northerner led up his horse. The Greek youngster looked over his shoulder, saw the advancing clibanarii and leapt at his horse. He misjudged it entirely and slipped back to the ground.