Out of range again, the Sassanids resumed their jeering and boasting. The first test of the day was passed. But it would be a brief respite. The easterners would come again within half an hour. Ballista idly wondered how many such attacks the column had weathered. It was the ides of March, the fifteenth day of the month. Six days counting inclusively, as everyone did, since Acilius Glabrio's nearly ruinous charge. Six days of marching under a hot sun with the spirits of death hovering close at hand. Six days with wave after wave of attacks. As a heavy surf assaults some roaring coast Piling breaker on breaker whipped by the West Wind
… And in come more shouldering crests, arching up and breaking Against some rocky spit, exploding salt foam to the skies — So wave on wave they came… 'Here they come again,' called Maximus.
With a thunder of hooves, the Persian light horse surged forward. Their shadows flickered out far in front of them. The sun was still quite low. Allfather, it can only be the second hour of the day, thought Ballista. Again the storm of arrows burst over the Roman column. Again the inhuman noise, as wicked steel and bronze filled the air. Acting on instinct, Ballista caught an arrow on his shield, the impact jarring up his arm. He saw an arrowhead dink off Maximus' helmet. He looked around to check Calgacus and Demetrius were safe. He tried to smile reassuringly at the tense-faced Greek boy. With no warning, Albinus was in front of him.
'You had better come to the front of the column.'
Ballista nodded and waved for his immediate entourage to follow. As they cantered up between the columns of infantry and cavalry, Ballista wondered what could be important enough to make the commander of Equites III Palmirenorum seek him out himself. The pressure was always greater on the rear of the column than the front. So, every day, Ballista rotated the units at the two stations. In both places Albinus had shown himself calm and capable. Ballista had a far from good feeling about this.
When they reached the front of the column, Ballista peered out for a few seconds from behind his shield. He saw nothing unexpected: incoming arrows, Persians, dust. He ducked back then looked again. This time he saw it: Sassanids on foot, plying bows and slings.
'Bugger, infantry.'
Behind him he heard Demetrius ask Maximus why it mattered.
'It means there are a lot more of the bastards than we thought.' The Hibernian's voice was resigned. 'This is not a cavalry raiding force but a full-scale fucking army.'
I have to nip this in the bud, thought Ballista. Don't think, just act. He repeated the mantra to himself a couple of times then, putting his shield aside, braving the missiles his standard attracted, he raised himself in the saddle and called out to the nearest men. 'A few reptiles without horses — who gives a fuck? Everyone knows they have the hearts of sheep. They do not have the bollocks to fight on foot. And their big, baggy trousers mean they cannot run. All the more for us to kill at Circesium. Remember: every one of them carries all his wealth sewn in his belt — rich cowards who cannot run!'
A thin cheer rippled away down the front line.
The arrow storm faltered and died as they rode back down the column. With Demetrius inconspicuously prompting him, Ballista called out to men by name as they passed. Already dust powdered the legs of the infantry white, like men on a threshing floor.
At the rear of the column they found Acilius Glabrio and Niger under the red standard of the Equites I Parthi. The young patrician had a nasty-looking gash on his cheek. They all saluted each other.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready, next time, you must let me lead the men out, just a short, controlled charge to drive the goat-eyed bastards away,' Acilius Glabrio said in one breath.
'No, we hold the line until Circesium.'
Unexpectedly, Niger joined in. 'The cavalry commander is right. The men will not take much more. The infantry are having to walk backwards, trying to defend themselves as they do. My cavalry are losing horses and men and have no way of striking back. No men can take that for ever.'
'No, I know it is hard, but it is not far to Circesium now. Then we will all charge as one. If we charge too soon, if we do not all charge together, we have no chance of smashing them and we risk disaster.' The northerner looked at their unconvinced faces. 'I know it is torture, but not for long.' Then, again, using the saddle horns, he raised himself up and called out to the soldiers. 'The reptiles are only brave at a distance. Not far to Circesium now, and then you can kill to your hearts' content.' He paused. There was a less than convincing cheer. 'Remember: they are all as rich as Croesus. They carry all their gold in their belts, hidden in their clothes, maybe stuffed up their arses, for all we know. There will not be a poor man in our camp tonight.' This time the cheer was somewhat louder.
Ballista turned his horse. He looked steadily first at Acilius Glabrio, then Niger. 'Hold the line until my command: six blasts on the trumpet. Hold the line until Circesium.'
By the time Ballista and his entourage reached their station with the Equites Singulares in the centre of the cavalry column, the Persians had struck again. Now the dust hung so thick that you could not see further than a shepherd could throw a stick. The arrows scythed out of the murk before the horsemen could be seen. Again the air was full of horrible, inhuman sounds.
In the middle of the maelstrom Turpio calmly rode up to Ballista. As Turpio saluted, a gold bangle on his wrist flashed. It was his proudest possession. He had taken it in a daring night raid on the Persian camp outside Arete, taken it from the hastily vacated bed of Shapur, the Sassanid King of Kings himself.
Ballista and Turpio leant from their horses to embrace.
'How goes it with the baggage train?'
'Rather quieter than with you,' Turpio replied. 'But rather less well than it was going. There are marshes fringing the Euphrates here. They are getting wider. It is making it harder to ferry the wounded out to the boats. I am running out of porters and animals on shore to carry them and the supplies.'
Ballista looked over and stopped. He had grown so used to the dust and noise all around wherever he looked that it was a shock to be able to see all the way down to the water, across the river and to the sandy bluff opposite. It was, he noticed, a beautiful day, quiet and sunny. From this distance, the boats looked serene, bobbing on the turquoise waters.
'If it comes to it, abandon the supplies. If we win today, we can take all we want, and if we do not…' Ballista shrugged.
Turpio nodded. 'I am not going to ask for them, but I could do with some more of your Equites Singulares. The twenty you seconded to me are becoming overwhelmed by the number of malingerers trying to hide among the wounded and get out to the boats — the light infantry mainly, but some legionaries and cavalrymen too.'
'Do your best. As I keep saying, not long now.'
Turpio saluted and rode away. Ballista watched him go down to the riverbank. The dust raised by his horse streamed away to the north. Good, thought Ballista, the wind is getting down to the plain. Hopefully it will be strong enough to blow away some of this shit, and then we will be able to see what the fuck is going on.
The ides of March. An ill-omened day for Romans — the day Julius Caesar was assassinated. A day of bad memories for Ballista — a year ago, he had first encountered the Sassanids: they had ambushed him, chased him, and a big blond Batavian with the ridiculously Roman name of Romulus had paid with his life for the escape of Ballista and the others. Not a good day for a battle. But there was no choice.
Another wave of arrows swept through the Roman ranks. Ballista had not even noticed the previous attack end. At least now the wind was getting up you could see the bastards shooting at you. A slingshot clunked off the armour on Pale Horse's shoulder. Ballista pulled him out of line and circled him. He did not seem to be lame. The slingshot meant there were Sassanid infantry all around the army now. Was this the third or fourth attack of the morning? Ballista was not sure. His mind wandered. The ides of March. Julius Caesar was killed, stabbed to death in the senate house by fellow s
enators, by men he had pardoned, men whose careers he had advanced, men he had thought of as friends. But they could not be his friends, precisely because they and he were senators and he had advanced or even pardoned them. The dignitas of a Roman senator did not allow another senator to advance, let alone pardon him. Caesar himself had said his dignitas meant more to him than life itself. Times may have changed under the autocratic rule of the emperors, but dignitas still lay at the heart of a senator's being. Dignitas could still be a reason to kill. And whose wounded dignitas drove them to try and have me killed, Ballista thought sourly. That of Acilius Glabrio, a dead brother to avenge, the stain of obeying the man who abandoned him to wipe out? Or that of the sons of Macrianus the Lame? Quietus, who he had punched in the balls? Or Macrianus the Younger, who had been shown up in failing to help his brother? Macrianus himself? The Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae was not often called a cunt to his face in the courtyard of the emperor's palace. Maybe more to the point, he was not a man who liked to be crossed when he had decided who should have a command on the Euphrates against the Persians. Perhaps it was nothing to do with the Romans at all. Perhaps it was something altogether simpler, something Ballista understood better: perhaps it was a straightforward northern bloodfeud between him and the Borani?
For some time, Ballista's eyes had been resting on the black smudge in the sky to the south beyond the head of the column. Now, with a hollow feeling inside, he began to realize what it might be. Without signalling to his entourage, he kicked his heels into his mount's flanks and set off towards the front of the army. He was only slightly aware of the sound of hooves behind him. His attention was focused on the blackness in the sky.
Infantry to the left, cavalry to the right, soldiers of his army flashed past. Some called out. He did not answer. Their voices vanished behind him. Missiles shot from left to right across the front of his face. He galloped on, almost oblivious, his thoughts concentrated on the black marks against the brilliant blue of the sky.
Arriving at the front of the column, Ballista skidded Pale Horse to a halt. He gazed out over the heads of the infantry. He vaguely noticed his followers pulling up in a clump behind him, Albinus trotting up next to him. The wind was getting up. It was shredding the curtain of dust — blowing it straight at the Romans. Ballista wiped his streaming eyes. He could see the Sassanids, horse and foot, about fifty paces away, shouting, edging closer. Squinting, he could see beyond them the road, running straight and dark through the desert. And, about two hundred paces away, he could see the first tombs of the necropolis on either side of the road and, spreading wide on either side of them, suburban gardens and orchards. And there, no more than four hundred paces off, were the walls: tall, crenellated, mud-brick, the same colour as the desert. Beyond the walls was the city of Circesium, but he could not see it. The billowing black smoke was getting in the way. The city was burning.
The city had fallen. Circesium, just like Arete, had fallen to the Sassanids. Ballista had failed again. They will have a field day in the consilium, was Ballista's first thought. Led by Acilius Glabrio, they would close in for the kill: negligence and sloth — how long wasted in unnecessary training upriver? — if not something worse — what do the reports of the frumentarii say?
'Fuck, oh fuck,' said Maximus.
The flow of lively obscenity put an end to Ballista's unhappy imaginings. What was the point of worrying about what people might say some time in the future when he had to find a way to stop them all dying here and now?
Ballista looked south. Not much more than a hundred and fifty paces to the first of the tombs, gardens and orchards. As soon as the head of the column reached there, he would order the charge — the walls, ditches, close-packed trees, and huts of the market gardens would shield the right wing of the army. Any sooner would mean throwing away the chance to trap the enemy, might even bring catastrophe. Just a few more moments of torment. Not long now.
A huge, swelling roar rolled up the line of the Roman march. Ballista could make out hundreds, thousands, of voices chanting, 'Ready, Ready, Ready.' He could not hear who was shouting out the formulaic question — 'Are you ready for war?' — but he could guess. His heart sank. There was a great, rattling thunder as the soldiers beat their weapons on their shields.
Calling Maximus over and leaning on his shoulder, Ballista precariously stood on his saddle. He looked back to the north and saw what he expected to see. With the red signum fluttering above them, the two hundred or so remaining troopers of the Equites Primi Catafractarii Parthi were charging out to the east against the enemy. They were riding knee to knee in a tight-packed wedge. At their head was an elegant figure in scarlet and gold. Too soon, you fool, Ballista cursed, too soon. Most of the reptiles will escape. He watched for a few moments. The Sassanids turned to flee. Some were too slow. In their confidence, they had come too close. The first Sassanids, both horse and foot, were bowled over by the heavily mailed Roman cavalry, disappearing beneath the pounding hooves.
Ballista clambered down into the saddle. Thanks to Gaius Acilius Glabrio, the Romans were charging too soon, not all charging as one. Somehow Ballista had to try to retrieve the position. He rapped out a string of orders: Infantry, open ranks! Cavalry, prepare to charge! Light infantry to follow! Legionaries will then close ranks and remain halted! Aurelian commands until my return! Ballista signalled to the trumpeter. Six blasts rang out. The men roared. It was the moment for which everyone had been waiting, six long days of waiting. The die was cast.
'Albinus, I will ride with you.' Ballista then raised his voice. 'Equites Tertii Catafractarii Palmirenorum, good hunting.' The two hundred and fifty or so troopers made their way carefully between the ranks of infantry and re-formed beyond them. Ballista trotted a few paces forward to form the apex of the wedge, Maximus on his right, Albinus on his left, Calgacus just behind, his white draco and the unit's green signum following, hopefully Demetrius tucked in somewhere ostensibly safe towards the back.
Another roar drew Ballista's attention to the left. Mucapor at their head, the main body of the Equites Singulares was charging. It was a small, armoured wedge, not many more than a hundred horsemen, but the Sassanids were running from them. All along the line, the easterners were running. Damn, thought Ballista, it is all too soon, all fragmented, most of the bastards will escape.
Ballista put Pale Horse into a trot, rising gently to a canter. There were one hundred paces of bare desert to the backs of the nearest Sassanids. Time to take charge, thought Ballista, it is all or nothing now. He pushed on into a flat-out gallop. The distance between the horsemen and the running Persian foot soldiers closed quickly. Ballista unsheathed his long cavalry sword. He fixed his eyes on the point between the green-clad shoulder-blades of a running easterner. He held the sword out straight. At the last second, a glimpse of terrified, dark eyes, and the man hurled himself to the ground. The charge ran over him.
They were through the infantry. Ahead were the backs of the cavalry. Ballista angled the charge towards the right. The horsemen there were moving more slowly, were milling about. Ballista could feel himself starting to grin like an idiot. His plan might yet work. Despite Acilius Glabrio, it might yet work. The Persian cavalry in front of him realized the Romans were coming. The easterners began to push, to jostle each other. They came to blows. They were at a standstill, literally fighting to get to the lip of the bank, to have a chance to scramble down the steep banks of the Chaboras.
A clibanarius at the back of the mob sawed on the reins to bring his horse round to face Ballista. The horse's nostrils were wide, its mouth bloody. The man's surcoat was a delicate violet, covered in abstract swirls. His face was hidden behind a mail hanging. Even the eyes, in deep shade, could not be seen. The man must have thrown away his lance. He was tugging his sword out. Ballista aimed a vicious back-handed cut over Pale Horse's ears. Steel rang and sparks flew as the clibanarius parried the blow with his own blade. As his gelding drew level, Ballista reached out and with hi
s left hand grabbed the mail aventail covering the Persian's face. It slipped up, blinding the warrior. The momentum of Pale Horse dragged the Persian half out of his saddle. Ballista smashed the pommel of his sword down into the hidden face of his opponent. There was a sickening sound like the carcass of a chicken breaking. Ballista pushed the man over the far side of his horse to the ground.
Another Persian came at Ballista from his left, heavy sword swinging down in a mighty overhand chop. The northerner took the blow on his shield. Splinters flew, and he heard the linden boards crack. Blindly, he thrust out under the damaged shield. The point of his sword slid off the Sassanid's armour. The press of horses and men crushed Ballista and his opponent together, too close to effectively use their swords. The Persian's left hand shot up, his mail-clad fingers clawing at Ballista's face, searching for his eyes. Swaying back, hot blood on his cheek, Ballista dropped his sword, feeling its weight tug at the wrist strap. He grabbed a streamer floating from the easterner's helmet. He yanked hard. The man began to topple backwards. Then the streamer tore. The Sassanid grinned savagely as he regained his balance. Their horses moved a little apart. Ballista punched the metal boss of his broken shield into the man's face. The man grunted with pain. He swayed in the saddle. Flicking the hilt of his sword back into his grasp, Ballista swung with his right fist. The Sassanid jerked his head aside. Ballista felt a scrunch of bones as at least one of his knuckles shattered on the steel of the man's helmet. A stab of white-hot agony shot up his arm. Bellowing with pain, Ballista smashed the edge of his shield across the easterner's face. The jagged wood sliced through flesh. Screaming, the man doubled up, his hands flying to his lacerated face. Bright blood matted his black beard. Ballista chopped the blade of his sword down into the back of the man's neck, one, two, three times. Ignoring the sharp bursts of pain from his broken hand, he finished the job.
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