The dust had started to drift away: the track was almost obliterated under the landslide. The Sassanids were gone; either crushed or fled.
A noise above him made Maximus look up at the top of the cliff. An ugly face gingerly peered over the edge. Seeing the Hibernian, it broke into a huge smile.
‘Try not to look so surprised. Who did you expect would save someone like you? Surely you don’t think the gods love you enough to cause a landslide? I am not really sure I do,’ said Calgacus. ‘And now I have to find my way down again.’
His back to the wall, Ballista could not move. His thighs were pinned by those of two other men, the tribune Marcus Accius on his left, Camillus of the VI Gallicana on his right. Ballista could feel the heat coming from their bodies. His own was dripping with sweat. The air was thick and he was finding it hard to breathe.
Ballista had always feared confined spaces. The subterranean cell was tiny. The majority of the senior officers of the Roman field army had been pushed into it and there was barely enough space for them all to sit. Ballista badly needed to stretch his legs, to check his cut and bloodied feet, but there was no room.
The dignitas of Rome was humbled, the emperor Valerian captured, his entire army dead or surrendered. Almost all the high command had been herded like slaves into this stinking prison – almost all: Valerian and his ab Admissionibus Cledonius were not there. They had been taken elsewhere, to endure further humiliations, to be gloated over at leisure. And Turpio was not there either. He was dead. Ballista had taken a last look at his friend as they left the valley of tears, a last look at his decapitated head stark on a pike.
From somewhere in the crush of bodies came the voice of the Praetorian Prefect Successianus. ‘Discipline, we must keep our discipline. These cock-sucking Sassanid reptiles do not know disciplina. Keep our disciplina and we can beat them.’ Over and over he muttered it. Ballista thought Successianus might be losing his mind. If so, it would be no wonder.
The march south could have robbed any man of his reason. It had been two days of hell. The line of prisoners had been driven along by blows, from whips, the butts of spears and the flats of blades, sometimes the edges. Valerian had been at the head of the line, dressed as a slave, a crown of thorns digging into his aged head. His officers, loaded with chains, followed him. Their boots had been taken and they had stumbled as the sharp rocks tore their feet. Behind them had trudged the long tail of the rank and file.
It had been hot, unbearably hot. Overhead, the sun was merciless. Swirling clouds of dust had blinded them, lodged in their throats, threatened to choke them. They had been terribly thirsty. Once a day they had been driven like cattle to water. Many had not had a chance to drink before they were beaten onwards. Twice, rounds of stale bread were thrown to them. Some had been too far gone to eat; others had fought over these scraps.
Degradation had been added to cruelty. If a man fell out to relieve himself, the Sassanids amused themselves by jeering and throwing stones as he squatted. When a man collapsed, he was beaten to his feet. If he did not rise quickly enough, he was summarily killed.
The ordinary milites had suffered worse than the officers. No residual eastern respect for rank had protected them. If a young soldier’s looks, not totally obscured by the dirt and suffering, happened to catch the eye of a guard, he was hauled out of the ranks. Held down, often in full view, he was raped, sometimes repeatedly. After the assault, the victim was left lying in the dirt. Some staggered back to the column; others remained prone in the dirt. Ballista had watched as one, a fresh-faced youth not yet twenty, covered his head and waited to die.
Not long after setting out, they had come upon a dry stream and the march was stopped. Glorious in purple and white raiment, with streamers floating behind, the Sassanid King of Kings had ridden up to inspect the stream. After consultation with some of his courtiers, Shapur had ordered a squad of legionaries to be forced down into the low watercourse. The banks had been ringed with horsemen. The Romans had fallen to their knees, arms out in supplication. It had done no good. To the accompaniment of mocking laughter, the defenceless men were riddled with arrows. An imperious order, a flurry of blows, and the column had been forced to march over the still-bleeding bodies of their comrades.
Towards the end of the first day, they reached Edessa. The white-walled city was still holding out. The ragged line of captives was halted within arrow shot, their abjectness displayed to the defenders. Near Ballista, a tribune had wept at the tantalizing closeness of safety.
Valerian had been escorted up to the eastern gate. Under duress, the elderly emperor had called for the governor. When he appeared, Valerian commanded him to surrender the city. High on the battlements, Aurelius Dasius put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. Having performed proskynesis, the governor snapped a military salute and wordlessly turned away.
The second day, they had been marched down to Carrhae. Across the flat plain, the city rose like a platform in the distance. Word ran down the column that Carrhae had opened its gates to the Persians.
A few miles short of the city, they were brought to a halt by the temple of Nikal, the bride of Sin. The sanctuary of the moon goddess and her powerful consort was a hive of peaceful activity. Under watchful Persian eyes, local priests scurried around the banks of the sacred lake. Soon a great fire was lit and a holocaust committed. It had been hard to choose which was the more tormenting, the smell of whole animals roasting or the sight of the unattainable clear waters of the lake.
A Sassanid noble had ridden up to the bedraggled Roman officers. Laughing, he had called out in Greek, ‘See, we treat you, our honoured guests, like the gods. They too dine on the smoke of sacrifice.’
The ordinary milites had been left outside the city walls. The officers were marched under an ornate gateway, through streets where the citizens were encouraged to jeer and throw things, then manhandled into the cramped, airless cell.
‘Disciplina …’ In the gloom, the Praetorian Prefect’s mutterings ran on. Ballista’s legs were seized with cramp. Apologizing to Aurelian, the young Italian prefect wedged in front of him, Ballista painfully flexed them. He was weary to the bone. He wanted to shut his eyes, but he knew that when he opened them again the airless press of bodies and his inability to move would cause a wave of panic that might engulf him. On the march he had been glad enough not to be one of the rank and file, but now he would have given a lot to be with them. At least they had the night air on their faces and the delicious luxury of just a little unrestricted movement.
There was the screech of a drawn bolt, and the door swung open. Two easterners, long swords in hand, scanned the crush.
‘Which one of you is Ballista?’
Unwillingly, Ballista raised his hand. This was not a good turn of events. The Roman general who had slaughtered so many easterners at Arete, had defeated a Sassanid army at Circesium and had then in their eyes committed the terrible sacrilege of burning their bodies could expect only harsh hospitality from the King of Kings.
‘You come with us.’
It took some time for Ballista to get out of the cell. First he had to get to his feet. This involved levering himself up by using the wall. Then the Roman officers had to clamber on top of one another, all dignitas dispelled, to clear a path.
As the door shut, Ballista heard Successianus. ‘Disciplina, keep your disciplina,’ the Praetorian Prefect repeated.
Fuck you and your Roman disciplina, Ballista thought. I was born a warrior of the Angles. We have our own ways of facing down fear. Allfather, Deep Hood, Death-blinder, Woden-born as I am, do not let me disgrace myself or my forefathers.
Two guards took Ballista’s arms. Two more, weapons drawn, followed. Ballista felt the cuts on the soles of his feet open as he shuffled along. The chains fastened to his ankles threatened to trip him at every step. Movement made the manacles on his wrists and the weight of the chain that linked them hurt like all hell.
He was hustled along corridor after corridor t
hrough the palace cellars. At first he tried to memorize every turn. Then he realized he had forgotten the route they had taken in getting to the cell. After that, he concentrated on not giving way to his fear.
The guards opened the door to another cell. They pushed him inside, surprisingly gently. He did not fall full length, merely staggered. The door was shut. The bolts slammed.
Standing still, Ballista took stock. The cell smelled musty but clean. There were no windows, so it was completely dark. Squatting into position for an ungainly crawl, Ballista explored his new prison: about six paces by six, bare earth floor, rough stone walls, nothing movable, nothing that could be used as a weapon.
With a grunt of effort, Ballista settled himself against a wall. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, easing the metal away from the abrasions and sores on his wrists and ankles. Now he was alone he missed the companionship of the other officers. At least they had all been in it together.
Ballista was tired. His fatigue was a mine that each of the last two days had dug deeper, the tunnel burrowing away from the light, the air even harder to breathe. He thought of Julia, his wife, of Isangrim and Dernhelm, his two beautiful sons. He imagined their pain when news reached Antioch of the disaster. If he died, would they ever hear of it? Or would he just be gone, his end an empty space their minds would fill with terrible tortures and pain?
Shutting his eyes, Ballista promised himself that if there were a chance – no matter what it took, no matter at what cost to himself – he would get back to them.
The door crashed open and Ballista was temporarily blinded by the light. Two easterners entered and put lamps on the floor. Someone laughed outside. The door shut. Ballista peered up at the two men. The younger, he half recognized. The man was dressed in the garb of a Persian nobleman, his face made up, kohl around his eyes. He exuded a smug air of self-controlled menace. The older wore more outlandish clothes, a jacket with empty, hanging sleeves and a fur cloak, and had strange braids in his hair. Ballista did not know him. The stranger stepped over to Ballista and kicked him. The blow landed on his arms. The man shouted something in a language Ballista had never heard and kicked out again.
‘On your feet,’ the Sassanid by the door said, in Persian.
Ballista stayed where he was. He peered out from behind his raised arms, trying to look confused, helpless. ‘Latin, I only speak Latin.’
The Sassanid moved from the door. He leant down, bringing his face close. He did look very familiar. Smiling unpleasantly, he spoke. ‘We have met before. The first time, at Arete, your excellent command of my language tricked me into letting you escape. I vowed there would be a reckoning. The second time, not long ago, your status as an ambassador robbed me of my revenge.’
Ballista remembered now: he was Vardan, son of Nashbad, a captain in the service of the Lord Suren. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you. And Woden knew, Ballista had made enough of them.
As Ballista got up, Vardan grabbed him from behind, pinioning his elbows to his sides. The manacles dug into Ballista’s wrists, the chain between them drew tight across his stomach.
‘Be assured, northerner, nothing can save you tonight,’ Vardan hissed, his breath hot in Ballista’s ear. ‘We have the whole night. My revenge and pleasure will be sweet as they come together.’ Vardan laughed. ‘But first …’
The other man spat in Ballista’s face. He began to shout furiously, the unintelligibility of the words to the northerner making them more frightening. The man spat again. His breath was heavy with spicy food and strong wine. This man was full of hatred, but Ballista had no idea why.
The man stepped back and removed one of his slippers. Screaming what was abuse in any language, he beat Ballista around the head with it. Even though the slipper was light, it hurt. The frenzied attack went on until Vardan said something in the incomprehensible language.
Vardan again whispered in Ballista’s ear. ‘This is Hamazasp, King of Georgian Iberia. You killed his son at Arete.’
Vardan spoke again. The language must be Georgian. Hamazasp laughed. He began to unbuckle his belt. ‘Do not worry, barbarian, you will not have to live with the shame for long.’ He smirked. ‘Afterwards, we will kill you.’
Ballista threw himself backwards, smashing Vardan into the wall. The Persian wheezed as the impact forced the air out of his lungs. Ballista stamped his left heel down on Vardan’s foot, making him howl.
Hamazasp was bent forward, fumbling his trousers up. Ballista lunged and hooked the chain of his manacles over the Georgian’s head. Pulling him close, Ballista drove his right knee up into his crotch.
As Hamazasp doubled up, Ballista freed the chain and spun round, swinging it with him. The hard metal links snapped into Vardan’s face. There was a scream, blood sprayed and the Persian staggered sideways.
The door was thrown open. Ballista rushed at the guards. The chains around his ankles tangled in his feet. He crashed forward on all fours. Scrambling, he tried to rise. A savage kick caught him under the chin. His head snapped backwards. There was a blinding flash of light, a roaring sound in his ears.
Something animal makes the body defend itself, even when the mind is dazed. Ballista found he was curled up on the floor, arms trying to shield his head. The kicks were hard, shrewdly aimed. One after another they came, in his kidneys, stomach, mouth, ears. Ballista felt blood pouring from his nose. His mouth was full of shattered tooth fragments. Relentlessly, the beating continued.
‘Enough.’ Vardan’s voice seemed to come from miles away. The kicking stopped.
Ballista lay, muscles twitching, stabs of pain flickering through him. Several men seized him. He was rolled face down. His limbs were stretched out. Hands hauled up his tunic, gripped the waist of his trousers.
‘Stop!’ A voice new to the room, Persian but distantly familiar.
‘This is nothing to do with you priests, Hormizd.’
‘The great god Mazda has willed that everything is the concern of his mobads.’ The voice was controlled but tight with emotion. ‘I am sure that neither you, Vardan, nor the King of Georgia would be so unrighteous as to deny that the caste of warriors must abase itself before that of priests.’
There was a charged silence that seemed to indicate unwilling acquiescence.
‘Even should you have been led so far astray by Ahriman the Evil One, it would be unwise for a vassal king or an officer in the service of the Lord Suren to ignore the will of the Mazda-worshipping King of Kings.’ The voice was growing in command, becoming mellifluous. ‘Shapur himself, may his name be praised, has commanded the prisoner called Ballista be brought before him at the first audience of the day, as soon as the pious King of Aryans and non-Aryans has performed the rites that greet the dawn. Now my servants will take charge of the prisoner. You may go.’
Ballista heard the men leave the room, their footfalls and mutterings dwindling down the corridor. Spitting out tiny bits of tooth, painfully, he turned over. A young man with an earnest face and a big beard was bending over him. Ballista ran his tongue over his split lips. Croakily, he spoke.
‘Greetings, Bagoas. It has been a long time.’
Ballista lay in the warm waters of the tepidarium. It had been agony getting in – the grazes had stung even sharper than the cuts – but now the water was supremely soothing. It was scented with carnations and cloves. Relishing the seclusion of the small private bath, Ballista checked his physical condition. His wrists, ankles and the soles of his feet were badly cut from the march. The rest of his body was covered in bruises and abrasions. He squinted into a small, highly polished metal mirror, which kept steaming up. His right eye was blackened, the left almost closed. His front teeth were broken; some at the back ached abominably. But apart from a stabbing pain in his left side when he moved – probably a cracked rib or two – he did not seem to have any broken bones. He was battered and exhausted yet, if a chance came, he could still run or fight.
A door opened and the young priest entered.
>
‘Thank you, Bagoas … sorry – Hormizd.’ The Persian youth smiled slightly in acknowledgement of the correction. ‘You know,’ Ballista continued, ‘when you first joined my familia in Delos, I thought you were lying when you said that was your original name.’
‘The idea had crossed my mind. I had no wish for anyone to know from what family I came before I was captured. Now the time of my servitude is something not spoken of at court. The divine King of Kings has declared that it should be as if it never occurred. It is as unmentionable as those traitors condemned to the Castle of Oblivion.’
‘Why did you save me?’
‘Such things are an abomination. When I was … with you, your men Maximus and Calgacus saved me from the same fate.’
‘Thank you. But you had already repaid the debt. Maximus told me that you sent our pursuers on the wrong path after the fall of Arete.’
Hormizd smiled, his even teeth very white behind his black beard. ‘One who seeks to be a virtuous man does not wait to incur a debt before doing good.’
‘I am sure. But now I am in your debt. Although it is hard to imagine how I could be in a position to repay you.’
‘One can never tell what great Mazda holds in store for a man,’ Hormizd said seriously. ‘Now, let me wash your hair. Talk is more free without servants.’
The young Persian knelt by the bath. His fingers worked carefully around the cuts on Ballista’s scalp as he cleaned the northerner’s long hair.
‘Tell me,’ said Ballista after a while, ‘why does Vardan hate me?’
‘For the loss of his jewelled hair-clip.’
‘What?’
‘The King of Kings gave it to him. After you tricked Vardan into letting you go outside Arete, it was taken back. I imagine that every time someone dresses Vardan’s hair, the hurt rankles.’
Warrior of Rome III Page 4
