King of Kings

by Unknown

  ‘There is something out there, to our right – troops, I think.’ Maximus’ words brought Ballista back. He listened. The scrunch of gravel under the horses’ hooves. The rattle of equipment. The breathing of men and animals. He could hear nothing beyond his immediate environment.

  ‘There,’ whispered Maximus. Ballista pulled Pale Horse out of the line. He took off his helmet, cupped a hand to his ear and turned his head slowly, scanning through 180 degrees to the right. Still nothing. Then, from far away, he heard the call of an owl. Many cultures considered it a bad omen. Ballista could not see why. He had always found it a homely, comforting sound. He listened for the reply of another owl. It never came.

  A clink of metal on rock. The Hibernian was right. From out of sight in the darkness, not far behind where they rode, came the sounds of armed men. Ballista strained to hear. Was it the missing Roman cavalry? Was it the Sassanids?

  Just then came a confused series of shouts from the praetorians. ‘Enemy to the right!’ ‘Halt!’ ‘Form to the right!’ ‘Javelins ready!’ Shields slammed together. Weapons rattled. The sounds seemed to echo back from the night. The outline of a close-packed body of troops loomed out of the dark.

  ‘Halt! Hold the line!’ Then, a nervous praetorian centurion yelled the command for his men to throw. The command was repeated up and down the line. In no great order, each century acting on its own, the front rank ran three, four paces and hurled their weapons. They flew into blackness. Men screamed out there. Shouts echoed back.

  For a few heartbeats, nothing. Then the whistle of incoming missiles. Heavy javelins sliced down among the praetorians. They thumped into shields, clanged off helmets and armour. Now, men close by screamed.

  Ballista’s small party was in no immediate danger. The incoming missiles were falling to their rear, beyond the packhorses. Asking Turpio to hold the men where they were, and telling Maximus to follow, Ballista wheeled Pale Horse off to the left. They cantered down behind the imperial baggage and the backs of the praetorians. No incoming arrows, just javelins. No sound of horses, just foot soldiers. Not the missing cavalry? Not Sassanids? A javelin overshot the praetorians. It skidded along in front of Pale Horse. Even in the gloom, Ballista knew it was not an eastern weapon.

  ‘Cease shooting! Form testudo by centuries!’ Ballista was on horseback. He had a voice accustomed to issuing commands. The praetorians hurried to obey this unknown officer who had appeared behind them. The ragged line resolved itself into small clumps of men, roofed over with shields fitted together like tiles. Javelins continued to scythe in out of the darkness. Maximus swore as one flew far too close.

  ‘Cease shooting!’ Ballista bellowed at the outline in the dark. ‘Pietas!’ – he roared the night’s watchword. One or two more javelins fell. Then they stopped.

  Nothing moved… but there was a chest constricting tension in the stillness. Ballista moved Pale Horse to one of the gaps between the praetorian centuries. The darkness stretched in front of him. A rocky ground. An indistinct outline at the limit of his vision. He walked Pale Horse out into no-man’s land. Suddenly, it was very quiet, just a few men moaning in the distance and the sound of the gelding’s hooves on the hard ground. Ballista felt very exposed. ‘Pietas!’ he called again.

  ‘Pax Deorum!’ came the correct answer. Ballista exhaled with relief, but he kept Pale Horse to a very slow walk. Men on both sides were jumpy.

  ‘Identify youself.’

  An officer on foot detached himself from the mass and walked to meet Ballista. ‘Marcus Accius, tribune commanding the third cohort of Celts. And you?’

  ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista. The men behind me are the Praetorian Guard.’

  There were shouts and catcalls from the dark. The praetorians were detested as pampered parade-ground soldiers by both auxiliaries and legionaries. ‘Silence!’ Accius roared over his shoulder.

  Ballista swung down from the saddle. Accius stepped up angrily. ‘Why did those praetorians start shooting at us? I have men down. It is their fault.’

  ‘They are nervous’ – Ballista spoke calmly – ‘but you are out of position. The blame is shared. Now gather your wounded and fall in behind the praetorians. We still have a long way to go tonight.’

  XXX

  The day came almost unannounced to the tired men of the army. One moment, all was black, the next there was a broad band of brilliant blue on the horizon. Above it, the dark of the night, now tinged purple, stretched away up over their heads and off to the west. The sun would be up soon.

  The army was halted. Ballista had taken the weight off Pale Horse’s back. He was giving the gelding a drink and a small tub of mash. Maximus touched his arm and pointed. Camillus was riding back down towards the imperial party. Handing his mount over, Ballista walked up alongside the Equites Singulares until he was in earshot.

  ‘Dominus.’ Camillus sketched a salute to Valerian. The tribune of VI Gallicana looked exhausted. ‘Anamu has gone.’

  ‘Most likely,’ Quietus said quickly, ‘he is merely scouting ahead.’

  ‘No, he has gone,’ Camillus snapped.

  ‘How can –’

  ‘Dominus,’ the Praetorian Prefect interrupted, ‘we have a more pressing matter.’ Successianus pointed to the east.

  The sun was rising over the crest of the hill. The skyline seemed to waver, to be moving. Speechless, the Romans watched in horror. The sun rose higher, silhouetting the solid black mass of Sassanid cavalry. The horsemen filled the horizon. Golden rays glinted on their spear points and helmets. Bright colours flashed from the banners above their heads.

  ‘Gods below,’ muttered Valerian.

  Everyone looked around. The Roman army was in a broad upland valley, somewhere between the city of Edessa and the Euphrates river. No one knew where. After the chaos of the night march, they were totally lost. The floor of the valley was bare except for patches of thorny scrub. It was ringed with hills.

  A single trumpet rang out from the eastern hill. Its clear notes echoed back and forth in the still, early-morning air. Then, with a sickening inevitability, it was answered. Once, twice, three times. From the south, the west, the north, trumpets rang out. On all the surrounding hills appeared rank after rank of the enemy. A murmur of dismay ran through the Roman army.

  ‘What have we done for the gods to desert us?’ Valerian sounded old, defeated.

  ‘Dominus’ – Quietus’ voice was wheedling – ‘you must parley with them.’

  The heavy silver head of the emperor continued to regard the easterners. His face became set. He squared his shoulders. ‘An imperator under arms does not parley. Successianus, have the light infantry flank our column. Comites, we march north.’

  Ballista ran back to his men. As he checked Pale Horse’s girths, a thin screen of Mesopotamian archers got into position on either side. He mounted up and they moved off.

  The tired men of the beleaguered field army trudged on. They did not have long to wait. The terrible, familiar drums thundered, resounding around the valley. The easterners gave voice, calling on Mazda to grant them victory. Thousands of Sassanid horse bowmen raced down the slopes. Their mounts ate up the ground. Quickly, they were on the Romans.

  The air was filled with the ghastly sound of thousands of razor-sharp arrowheads. Ballista saw them fall like hail among the Equites Singulares in front. Horses reared and plunged. Men toppled from saddles. Pale Horse shied as a missile whipped past his nose. Ballista calmed him and concentrated on using his shield to keep the points away from his beloved animal. To the northerner’s right, Maximus, holding his shield in his right hand, was doing the same with his mount.

  Arrowheads thumped into the linden wood of Ballista’s big round shield. He glanced back at Demetrius. ‘Not long – they will soon run out of arrows.’ The young Greek smiled back. Thump – an arrowhead punched half through Ballista’s shield. Its point clinked off the gold arm ring he had been given on his return from Circesium. He snapped the shaft.

  The Roman lig
ht infantry were doing what they could, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Soon Pale Horse was stepping over or around the dead and wounded. A centurion lay by the side of the path; an arrow had pinned his thighs together. He held up his money belt, offering it to anyone who would help him, tears running down his face, pleading. No one even dropped out of line to kill and rob him.

  The rain of arrows slackened. The Persians were cantering back uphill. A feeble cheer started in the Roman ranks, then faltered and gave way to a groan. There on the skyline were the unmistakable silhouettes of laden camels. Even Demetrius must have known what was happening as the Sassanids rode up to them, grabbed a bundle and spurred back at the Romans. The easterners would not run out of arrows. The foresight of the King of Kings had seen to that. Again the arrow storm howled down.

  On they trudged through the valley of tears. Time lost all meaning. Sharp thorns in the brushwood lacerated their legs, pierced their horses’ hooves. Blood on the sand. The cries of the wounded were pitiful in the Romans’ ears. They were tired, hungry, their mouths as bitter as aloes. The sun was high in the sky. Clouds of dust wheeled up to obscure it. The heat was overpowering.

  Here and there, individuals maddened beyond endurance ran out at the enemy. The Sassanids drew back. Let them run, raving, then shot them down, a dozen shafts quivering in their bodies.

  It could not go on. Disciplina and desperation could not hold the remains of the army together much longer. Word was passed back to make for a lone hill to the right. They would make a stand there.

  The Roman units wheeled, stumbled across the plain. The Sassanids redoubled their efforts. They rode close, very close, shooting from point-blank range, cutting down stragglers with their long, straight swords.

  Somehow, the Romans reached the hill. Despite their suffering, so far, the disciplina of the majority just about held. They formed a perimeter, shields locked together. It brought no relief. The Persians did pull back a little way, but the Romans on the hill were set out like men in the tiers of a theatre. Closer packed than on the march, they were hard to miss. The Roman light infantry had long run out of missiles. Only a few of them had enough fight left to scurry around picking up the incoming arrows.

  A little way up the hill, Ballista stood holding Pale Horse’s bridle. He had turned the gelding to face the enemy and protected both their heads with his shield. Four of the twelve Dalmatians were gone but, of the rest, only old Calgacus had a wound of any account: an ugly gash on his arm.

  Tired, thirsty, despairing, most of the Romans had sunk to their knees. Ballista glanced over to where the imperial standard still flew. The huge purple flag snapped in the strong south wind with an ironic jauntiness. Under it, ringed by praetorian shields, Valerian sat with his head in his hands.

  A groan rose up from the hillside, like that when a favourite chariot team crashes in the circus. The arrow storm seemed to have slackened. Ballista peeked out from behind his shield. A small unit of legionaries was cut off on the plain. There were probably about two hundred of them. They were huddled in testudo, completely surrounded by Persian light horse. Shot from the closest range, arrows were smashing through shields. Men were falling fast. The legionaries were pushing and dragging their dead to form a low barricade at their feet.

  The tempo of the drums changed. The light horse trotted away. A wide space opened around the trapped unit. A wasteland of low thorn bushes, spent missiles, discarded equipment, isolated bodies. All the drums fell silent. A hush descended over the plain, then all eyes were pulled to the far hillside, where one drum began to beat.

  Above the skyline appeared a huge, rectangular banner. It was yellow, red and violet and topped by a golden globe: the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the house of Sasan. A lone horseman, clad in purple and white, mounted on a white horse, rode up beneath the banner. The King of Kings had come to oversee his triumph.

  The drum changed to a double beat. Through the dust that hung down on the plain, a solid block of horsemen walked slowly towards the isolated Roman unit. These were no light cavalry; these were the feared clibanarii. Armoured in mail and steel plate, riding knee to knee, a dense array of long pikes above, men and horses appeared one solid mass. The outline changed as the pikes came down. The knights of Mazda quickened to a trot. The ground trembled beneath their horses’ hooves.

  Cracks opened in the testudo facing the clibanarii. Heads popped out to stare in horror, then ducked back. It would have been almost funny had it not been so tragic. The clibanarii moved to a canter. The first Roman threw away his shield, turned and ran. Another then another followed. The testudo began to lose shape. The Sassanids were galloping. The testudo disintegrated. All bar one tiny knot of legionaries ran. It was three hundred or more paces to the main army on the hill. They did not have a chance.

  The wave of clibanarii broke around the handful of legionaries still holding their ground. They spurred on in pursuit of the fugitives.

  As he watched, a half-remembered line from Plato came to Ballista: War was the highest – or was it the worst? – form of hunting.

  Across the plain, the great pikes dipped and struck. The sharp steel pierced the fleeing backs of their foes. The armoured faces of the clibanarii were as cold and emotionless as statues.

  It was over in moments. A new trail of corpses stretched out. The clibanarii walked back to surround the tiny clump of legionaries still under arms.

  A tall, slim figure with gorgeous silks over his armour emerged from the re-forming ranks of the clibanarii. He was followed by a standard bearer carrying a bright banner with the symbol of a wild beast, a tiger or some other big cat. Ballista had seen him before. The Persian boy Bagoas had pointed him out at the siege of Arete. He was one of the sons of Shapur. Ballista could not remember which.

  The Sassanid prince did not stop until he was little more than a sword thrust from the huddle of legionaries. He bowed in the saddle, touched his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. Then he gestured. The ranks of the clibanarii opened. A lane appeared, running to the Roman army on the hill. The lone horseman motioned the legionaries to go.

  After a hesitation, the tiny band of survivors began to move. There were no more than twenty unwounded. They dragged maybe another dozen of the not mortally wounded. They carried their weapons. Above them was the eagle of the legion.

  Low at first, then swelling, the Sassanids started to sing as the Romans passed through their ranks. Some of the clibanarii pushed back their face masks, the better to be heard.

  ‘Gods below,’ Demetrius muttered in Ballista’s ear. ‘What cruel oriental trick is this?’

  ‘No trick. They are praising the bravery of those men. They sing that they are warriors, the sons of warriors.’

  The survivors reached the Roman line. The shieldwall opened. Ballista was pleased to see Camillus, the tribune, lead in all that was left of Legio VI Gallicana.

  The big drum on the hill thundered. Throughout the valley, the others took up the beat. The Sassanids, clibanarii and light horse, turned and trotted away.

  Demetrius grabbed Ballista’s arm. ‘Is that it? Is it over? Are they going to spare us?’ The young Greek could not keep the desperate hope from his voice.

  Ballista patted him on the shoulder. ‘I am afraid not. They are going to have lunch.’

  Unfortunately, Ballista was only partly right. A large group of Sassanid light horse rode off to the south of the hill and dismounted. Soon, the first coils of smoke rose up from the dry brushwood. The easterners got back in the saddle and spurred away. The strong south wind drove the line of fire towards the Romans.

  Leaving the injured Calgacus, Demetrius and two of the Dalmatian troopers to guard their horses, Ballista led the others, stumbling down the hill and out in front of the line of shields. He called to the nearby centurions to lend a hand. They ignored him.

  The brushwood was dry and tough. It was hard to cut with swords. The thorns shredded Ballista’s soft leather riding gloves, cut his hands, lacerated his
bare forearms. Looking up, he was relieved to see Camillus had brought out some of his remaining men. Squads of others were being chivvied by officers to join in.

  The smoke was rolling towards them, the dry bushes crackling, the fire drawing closer. The work was slow and painful. Ballista’s back ached like hell. The hilt of his sword was slippery with blood. He could feel the heat of the fire on his face.

  ‘Enough.’ Maximus’ hand was on Ballista’s arm. The fire was only a few paces away, but there was a narrow firebreak. The northerner followed the others back.

  For the Romans, the midday meal was a miserable affair. They sat on the ground. Many had no food or drink at all. Maximus passed round some air-dried meat. Ballista’s mouth was too dry to chew it. They shared out the last of their water. Apart from one gulp, which he held in his mouth for as long as possible, Ballista gave his to Pale Horse. Then he forced himself to eat the tough shreds of meat. Smuts drifted down, further dirtying already grimy Roman clothes and armour. The smoke blew into their faces, gritting eyes, choking breathing. Men stamped and beat where glowing embers carried on the wind had sparked small fires. The remaining horses shifted unhappily.

  The Sassanids were having an altogether better time. On the hills, there was music, dancing even. They sang – not paeans of praise, but drinking songs. Some of them taunted the Romans, waving skins of drink, bread and meat.

  At length, as the easterners saw to their horses, a lone horseman left the group under the Drafsh-i-Kavyan. He picked his way down the opposite slope. When he reached the floor of the valley, he kicked on into a gallop. Coloured streamers floated behind him. This man Ballista recognized from the siege of Arete. It was the Lord Suren.