King of Kings

by Unknown

  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 his 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.

  The Sassanids were no cowards, but they had been caught unprepared, trapped between the impetus of the Romans and the steep slope down to the river. Panic spreads through an army like fire across a Mediterranean hillside in high summer. Soon the only Persians left on the stricken field were dead or helpless and soon to die. Ballista kept the Equites Tertii Catafractarii Palmirenorum close in hand. He did not let any of them descend the banks of the Chaboras, although after a time he let some dismount to throw rocks down into the tangled mass of horses and riders struggling in the stream. Any recruits in the ranks now knew that a river running red with blood was not just a literary conceit.

  Here in the south where the Chaboras had impeded their flight, the slaughter of the Sassanids had been prodigious. Some easterners had also died in the north, those who had been too close to avoid the charge of Acilius Glabrio and Equites Primi Catafractarii Parthi. In the centre, all the Persian horsemen had got away into the desert to the east. Mucapor and the Equites Singulares had merely run down some poor infantrymen. Yet Ballista’s plan had worked. Although Acilius Glabrio’s premature charge had let the majority of the Sassanid army escape, it mattered little. The easterners were scattered, their morale was broken.

  As Ballista slid from the saddle to relieve the weight on Pale Horse’s back, a wave of depression broke over him. What did it signify? He had beaten this army. The Sassanids would send another. And another after that. This was a religious war. The easterners would not stop until they had lit the Bahram fires, the sacred fires of Mazda, throughout the whole world. A black thought struck Ballista – even if he defeated Shapur himself, even if he killed or captured the King of Kings, the eternal war between east and west would continue.

  XII

  The aftermath of any battle is hellish, and the battle of Circesium was no exception. Under a high sun, the flat, bright desert stretched away. The ground was covered with the detritus of warfare: discarded, broken weapons, dead horses, the half-naked, humped corpses of men, sweet-smelling piles of horse droppings, the foul stench of human guts.

  ‘Ave, I give you joy of your victory.’ Acilius Glabrio had taken off his helmet. His usually purposefully teased curls lay flat to his skull. Sweat was running down into his beard. He was beaming, very full of himself. Ballista noticed the cut on the young patrician’s cheek was still open. ‘Celeritas and cold steel. Nothing a goat-eyed easterner can do about it.’

  Ballista stepped very close to him. ‘You insubordinate little prick. I ought to kill you now,’ he hissed.

  The smile stayed on Acilius Glabrio’s face, but his eyes went cold. ‘Be grateful, you jumped-up barbarian shit. I have just given us a great victory.’

  ‘You have just given us half a victory, and thrown away the better part,’ snapped Ballista. His right hand was swelling. It throbbed like hell. His temper was on a knife edge.

  ‘You gutless barbarian bastard.’ Acilius Glabrio’s face was full of scorn. ‘I have chased away the Sassanids you were so scared of, and now you can retake Circesium unopposed. A great victory. Enjoy it while you can. I have not forgotten what you did to my brother.’

  Ballista struggled to control his fury. ‘And what will you do about it? Hire another assassin?’

  Acilius Glabrio’s snort of laughter was genuine. ‘You judge others by yourself. I would be as low as you if I stooped to such things.’

  The cavalry prefects Niger and Albinus walked up. They said it was time to acknowledge the acclamations of the troops. Ballista, eyes still locked with those of Acilius Glabrio, stepped back. The terrible thing was, he believed him: the odious young patrician had not hired the assassin.

  Bone-tired, Ballista hauled himself back into the saddle. Pale Horse’s flanks were lathered in sweat, his head down. With his officers, Ballista slowly rode back towards the army’s starting position. Everywhere was the frenzied looting of the dead. Many of the scavengers were civilians. There were far too many to have all come from the baggage train. Ballista had seen it on so many stricken fields that he did not wonder at it. No matter how remote a battlefield from human habitation, as soon as the fighting was over, the scavengers appeared. The skinny, furtive men and the hideous old crones, sharp knives in their hands and, always among them, always upsetting the northerner, the young children, far too young for that disgusting work.

  Yet on the plain before Circesium, most of those despoiling the dead were soldiers. The Roman moralists were wrong. Disciplina was not a durable, inherent quality. On the contrary, it was terribly fragile. A victory could shatter it as easily as a crushing defeat. When the milites saw the cavalcade coming they stopped their searching. They drew their swords and, hunched over, chopped down, as many blows as it took. Then, as the horsemen drew near, they stood. They thrust out their right arms in a sort of salute, in their fists the severed Persian heads. One man had a head in each hand and the long black hair of a third gripped in his teeth. The gore ran up his arms, down the front of his mail shirt. As a Roman general should, Ballista inspected the grisly trophies, commended those holding them with a kind word or an affectionate look.

  In the liberty of the moment, the soldiers called out whatever they pleased: praise, jokes, boasts. Small knots of men chanted the names of the officers. Ballista noted that more chanted for Acilius Glabrio than for himself. The northerner bitterly reflected how all his hard work, all his planning, counted for next to nothing in their eyes. One foolish, insubordinate charge – a charge which brought a half success and squandered total victory – had won the odious little patrician the hearts of the men.

  ‘Gaius Acilius Glabrio! Gaius Acilius Glabrio!’

  The chanted name rang through Ballista’s angry thoughts. Acilius Glabrio was an arrogant, stupid, self-satisfied fool – but not a murderer. Ballista had been so convinced that he had hired the assassins. But there had been an honesty in the young nobleman’s contemptuous retort – ‘I would be as low as you, if I stooped to such things.’ It had changed the northerner’s mind.

  ‘Gaius Acilius Glabrio! Gaius Acilius Glabrio!’

  Ballista’s thoughts scrabbled round like rats in a trap. Not Acilius Glabrio… then who? Ballista had never really thought it was the Borani prince, Videric. This conclusion was not from any misty-eyed sentiment that northerners such as himself would not resort to such underhand methods. They did. Often. Bloodfeuds in Germania involved murder. It was more that various things did not seem right: the assassin in the clearing shouting, ‘The young eupatrid sends you this,’ the pantomime masks and cavalry parade helmet in the alley, the man himself in the silver mask calling Ballista a barbarian. But if it hadn’t been Videric or Acilius Glabrio who had hired the assassin, it must be the sons of the sinister Count of the Largess, Macrianus the Lame. But which one? Quietus, who Ballista had punched in the balls? Macrianus the Younger, who had been shown to lack the courage to help his brother? Or was it both of them? And what of their powerful, devious father? Was Macrianus the Lame a part of it? If he was, Allfather help me, thought Ballista. Apart from the emperor, there could be no more dangerous enemy in the whole imperium.

  Voices were raised in anger. A fight had broken out among some of the looters. Ballista ran his right hand over his face. He felt a stab of pain. At least one knuckle was broken and the hand was swelling fast. I must get a grip on things, he thought. He had to take charge before this army de
scended into chaos, laid itself open to a Sassanid counterattack.

  Ballista called his officers to him. He rapped out orders. Niger and Albinus were to send out patrols. They were to report immediately if any still-formed bodies of Persian troops were to be found within five miles. Mucapor was to recall the Equites Singulares to the standard and have them fall in behind Ballista. Legio III, under its prefect, Rutillius Rufus, was to secure the town. Sandario was to use his slingers and any other light infantry he needed to bring the fires there under control. Turpio was to get the baggage train in order and, as soon as possible, quarter it safely within the walls. Acilius Glabrio was to disperse the looters, sending the troops among them back to their units on pain of death. Legio IIII was to remain formed on the road as a reserve under Castricius. Aurelian was to attend the Dux Ripae.

  Some horsemen clattered away purposefully. Others remained, looking concerned. There was something unspoken in the air. Aurelian? Where was Aurelian?

  Macapor edged his horse forward. ‘He is hurt.’

  ‘Badly?’

  Mucapor shrugged.

  ‘Everyone, carry out your orders. Mucapor, we will go to him.’ Even in the extremity of his fear – this was no trick, no false alarm – Ballista did not push Pale Horse too hard. He forced himself to keep the gelding to the gentlest of canters, forced down the hollow feeling of panic.