Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

  Having predicted just these events won Ballista no commendation. Summoned before the new emperors, the northerner was brusquely ordered to take five thousand cavalry, ride west and defend Antioch. The Syrian Gates, the southern pass back over the Amanus range, must be held at all cost. Similarly, Seleuceia in Pieria, the port of Antioch, had to be defended in case the Persians commandeered ships along the Cilician coast.

  It had taken Ballista some effort and considerable patience to explain to the unmilitary father of the young emperors that, to hold ground, one needed infantry. Eventually he had been given permission to replace one thousand of the cavalry with mounted infantry. He was to requisition a thousand horses and mount on them any legionaries he could find from Legio IIII Scythica who admitted any hint of equine experience. His old companion Castricius was to accompany him.

  The journey had been hard. It was July, blazingly hot in Syria, so they had left at dusk. They had reined in after a couple of miles to check girths and tack. Then they had ridden on until nearly noon the next day. Some sixteen hours in the saddle, with just a brief halt every hour to drink and four longer ones to give their mounts some respite from the weight on their backs. They were eating up the ground, but it was tough on man and beast.

  Three days of this and they had reached the village of Gindaros. From there, still keeping to this regime, Castricius had taken half the force on towards Antioch and Seleuceia. Ballista had rested his men overnight in the village. He would need daylight for the last stretch of his march, crossing the swampy and roadless plain to the north of the Lake of Antioch.

  Now, finally, they were in an unprepossessing village called Pagrae at the foot of the Amanus range. Their blistering pace had had an effect. Of the two thousand cavalry, half bowmen, half spear-armed, some two hundred had dropped out. Unsurprisingly, things were much worse with the mounted legionaries. Only about three hundred of the complement of five hundred remained. Ballista wondered how many men Castricius would still have with him when he reached the coast. The centurion had faced another two days’ travel when he rode out of Gindaros. Still, Ballista had instructed him to gather any troops he could find in Antioch.

  It was early evening. The men were looking to their horses, settling in. They would spend at least some of the night here, gathering their strength. They would need it, but there would be no such luxury for Ballista.

  The village headman had provided information. It was about five miles to the narrows of the Syrian Gates, the road good but demanding. He had also recommended a guide; a wiry goatherd. Having asked for volunteers, Ballista had selected two scouts from the cavalry. On his instructions, the exploratores had discarded all armour and weapons except their sword belts, tied scarves around their heads and put on dark cloaks. They had bound their horses’ hooves to muffle the noise of their approach. Reluctantly swapping Pale Horse for a black gelding, Ballista had done the same.

  Having eaten, relieved himself and handed over command to one of the prefects of cavalry, a Syrian with the impeccably Roman name of Servius, Ballista could see no reason to delay. He gave the order. They rode out of the village and took the road up into the mountains.

  It was a dark night. The wind from the east was pushing black clouds across the stars. Possibly it would rain later, one of those sudden torrential summer thunderstorms. Initially the incline was gentle, the hills wide-spaced, but soon the slopes reared up and came close. Beside Ballista, the goatherd on his pony did not talk. The exploratores behind were quiet also. An owl hooted, and another replied. Once, something sent a scatter of stones rattling down the slope to their right. Apart from that, there was just the creak of leather and the deadened sound of the horses’ footfall.

  When the ascent became steep, Ballista spelled the horses, the men swinging down to walk for a time before getting back up. With the repetitive landscape and their fatigue, time soon lost meaning. There was nothing but the road and scrub-covered rocks all around.

  Possibly, this would all go well. Ballista would find the defile of the Syrian Gates empty. They could wait peacefully in the pass while one of the exploratores galloped back to tell Servius to rouse out the men and bring them up.

  Ballista regretted not writing a note for Castricius to give to Julia as he passed through Antioch. But it would have delayed the centurion, and he did not dare to entrust it to anyone else. The imperial spies were never more active than at a time of insurrection. Censorinus, the feared head of the frumentarii, had long been close to Macrianus the Lame. He would have his men prying into everything. Beyond a formal note saying that he was safe, Ballista had not written to Julia since his return, since the breaking of his oath.

  The goatherd’s outstretched arm startled Ballista. Unnecessarily indicating silence, the man mimed that they should dismount. Having handed his reins to one of the exploratores, Ballista took stock. The mountain walls had come closer on either side. The road ran up straight for another hundred or so paces then turned to the right. The goatherd put his mouth to Ballista’s ear. He smelled rank, like one of his animals. The Syrian Gates were ahead, around the bend.

  Alone and on foot, Ballista set off. There was no cover beyond a few fallen rocks at the sides of the path. He walked on the balls of his feet, feeling for loose stones before he put his weight down. He stayed close to the right mountain wall. Moving inconspicuously at night was not a problem for him. Following the custom of his people, as a youth he had gone to learn warcraft in the tribe of his maternal uncle. He had been lucky his mother came from the Harii. They were feared night-fighters.

  When he reached the turning, Ballista remained motionless for a time, stilling his breathing, listening hard. Nothing. He sniffed the air. Nothing. He listened some more. When there was still nothing, he crouched down, carefully arranging his belt over his back so that his scabbard lay between his shoulderblades, the hilt of his sword just behind his head. Looking back the way he had come, he half noticed the dark shape of his companions. That was of no interest. When the shadow of one of the clouds came in from the east, he looked round the corner.

  The low, smouldering fire was unexpected: bright red in the night. Ballista did not look directly at it. Keeping his eyes on his hands and feet, he crawled to a fallen rock and lay behind it.

  Closing one eye to keep his night vision, Ballista studied the scene. The road ran about one hundred and fifty paces to the fire. It grew increasingly narrow. The rock walls were jagged; at the fire, no more than fifty paces apart.

  There was a campfire burning in the Syrian Gates. The wind was from the east. That was why Ballista had not smelled it. He could see the silhouette of what looked like a small cart. Other smaller, dark shapes indicated men by the fire. A group was spending the night there. But who were they? It could be an innocent caravan. But it could be a Sassanid war party.

  For a long time, Ballista lay silent, hoping to hear what language the men by the fire spoke. Now and then, he heard a murmur of conversation, but they were talking low, and the wind was against him. There was nothing for it: he would have to get closer.

  Waiting for the clouds, using the movement of their shadows, Ballista crawled nearer. It was slow, painful going. His hands were cut, knees grazed. The last twenty-five to thirty paces, there was no cover. Ballista stretched out behind a rock little bigger than his head. The cloud cover had increased, but every time it cleared he felt horribly exposed. Suddenly, from beyond the camp, a horse called. From behind him, clear on the freshening breeze, came an answering neigh from one of the Roman horses.

  There were voices from the fire now: ‘Did you hear that?’ ‘What?’ ‘Listen!’ They were Persians.

  Outlined by the glow, two men stood up.

  ‘We should go and look.’

  ‘Not me. Who knows what daemons lurk in these hills at night?’

  A third man spoke. His voice conveyed authority: he must be some form of officer. ‘If it was not misfortune enough to be sat on this bleak mountain missing all the pleasure the oth
ers are enjoying in Iskanderun – but to be stuck with a man who sees a Roman behind every rock, and another who fears devs everywhere. Sit down. Let the night pass quietly.’

  The men sat.

  If he had not been so well trained, Ballista would have sighed with relief.

  It was mid-morning the following day when Ballista returned to the Syrian Gates. Time plays tricks. His crawl back to the others had seemed to take for ever; the ride to Pagrae passed in moments. He had given orders and fallen into a heavy sleep for a couple of hours.

  The troops had been roused well before dawn. Having been tormented by mosquitoes, few complained.

  Ballista had called a consilium of officers, down to the rank of optio. He had made sure everyone knew the order of march and his tactical plan, such as it was. They were to explain it to the men under them and see that all had a good breakfast.

  Food was important. Ballista knew the Persians ate only a light breakfast but took lunch earlier than westerners. If his timing was right, his men would be well fed, the Sassanids hungry. It was not much of an advantage to build on. This was a battle that would be decided by the disciplina and sheer fighting quality of the Romans; above all, that of the legionaries.

  The march up had been glorious. In daylight, the Amanus range had revealed its beauty. The men had climbed upwards in the shadow of pine and wild olives, between banks of lavender and myrtle. In every shelf of soil, every crevice where a tree could thrust its roots, was a mass of vegetation. The view, looking backwards, at times took in the whole plain, with the lake of Antioch glittering in the centre and the valley of the Orontes off to the south.

  They had marched on foot, quickly, but with no attempt at concealment. There was no chance of surprising the Sassanids. A column of over two thousand armed men cannot but make a lot of noise, but their numbers would only be sufficient if the Persians had not had time to summon reinforcements.

  As they halted near the summit, the wind picked up. Big, dark stormclouds again rolled in from the east. Strong gusts tugged at Ballista as he made a final check that everything was in order.

  At the front were the saddlesore, aching legionaries; a block fifty wide and six deep, close-packed. Behind them were five hundred dismounted horse archers, in loose order. The rest, nine hundred spear-armed and four hundred bowmen, again all on foot, were stationed as a reserve a few hundred paces back, where the space was wider.

  ‘Remember, boys, they are just a bunch of easterners. They hate fighting on foot, and they get frightened close to the steel.’ Ballista had to bellow to compete with the wind. Even so, he was not sure how many even of the legionaries could hear him. ‘Get through the arrows and we will kill them. Remember they carry their wealth on their persons. But no looting until the order. Keep your places. Look after your brothers.’

  The legionaries clashed swords on shields.

  ‘Are you ready for war?’

  ‘Ready!’

  When the third response echoed from the rocks, Ballista took his place in the front rank. His right hand freed his dagger a little then snapped it back, drew his sword an inch or two then rammed it back, and finally touched the healing stone on the scabbard. His personal pre-battle drill done, he took up the borrowed oval shield, and told the bucinatores to sound the advance.

  As they trudged the last fifty paces to the turning, Ballista wondered how this would turn out. He had no idea how many Persians they were facing. The vital snatch of conversation he had overheard the night before suggested that the majority of the enemy force was down in the western plain, sacking Iskanderun, as the Persians seemed to call the town of Alexandria ad Issum. But, as he did not know how many easterners there were in total, it meant next to nothing. Again, he did not know what, if any, obstructions or defences they might have placed in the defile. All he had seen was a fire, a handful of men and a cart. It would all fall out as the gods willed it. One thing was certain. It would be unwise for a man who had broken an oath to the Persian king to let himself be taken prisoner. Ballista thought of the cell in Carrhae, thought of what had nearly happened there. No, he was not going to be taken alive.

  The men of Legio IIII Scythica jogged round the corner and into range of the eastern bows. They heard yelled Persian orders. The sky darkened.

  ‘Testudo!’ Ballista’s was not the only voice shouting. He crouched and held his shield out in front of him. The man behind slammed his shield down on the top edge of Ballista’s, covering the northerner’s head. The noise was repeated from behind as the shields of each rank in turn slammed home, overlapping like tiles on a roof.

  Seconds later came the arrows, thumping into wood, dinging off metal bosses, skittering off the road. Ballista felt the shield above him bang down on to his helmet as an arrow struck. Somewhere, a man screamed. Nearby, a man swore fluently. Another was praying.

  ‘Bind and advance.’

  Ballista grabbed the back of the mail shirt of the man to his right, gripped it in his fist. He felt his own tighten as the man to his left did the same. Half turned to the right, taking short steps, crabwise, the left foot always first, they advanced.

  ‘Left, left, left,’ they muttered, getting into rhythm, the momentum mounting.

  Another volley of arrows whistled down. More men screamed, cursed. More men were praying, calling out encouragement.

  ‘Only officers will speak! This is not a fucking symposium!’

  It was hot and close in the testudo; a strong smell of sweat and unwashed men. Ballista peeked out of the gap between the top of his shield and the overlapping one to the right. The air was full of missiles. A line of men. Incongruous in the centre, a four-wheeled cart. A long way to go. At least a hundred paces.

  The arrows fell like rain. The Persians were shooting at will.

  A cheer spread through the testudo. The Roman bowmen were round the corner. They were shooting back. Now the Sassanids could try the bitter luck of war.

  Above all the noise – the impact of arrows, the hard breathing, the rattle of equipment, the intermittent howls of pain – there was a rumble of thunder.

  Ballista risked another look around his shield. Getting there: about sixty paces to go. But something struck him as odd. There were fewer missiles in the air. A commotion in the centre of the Sassanid line. Warriors pushing the cart forward.

  ‘Halt!’

  Surprised, but obedient to orders, the legionaries bumped into each other as they came to a sudden stop.

  The easterners had let go of the cart. It was beginning to gather speed down the incline.

  ‘Legio IIII, lie down. Cover yourselves with your shields. Pass the word back to the archers to stay on their feet and spread out.’

  In a confused, uncertain scramble, the men around Ballista got to the ground.

  ‘Face down. Shields over your backs.’

  Ballista had no time to explain or check that his instructions were carried out. The cart was moving faster. He dropped down, nose an inch or so from the road, grit under his elbows, shield braced above his head.

  The terrible rumbling and squealing grew louder as cart and the inevitable collision drew near. The trick had worked for Alexander the Great. Arrian’s Anabasis, Ballista thought. That was where he had read about it.

  There was an awful sound of splintering wood, agonized screams. A moment’s silence, then a sickening crash.

  ‘On your feet. Close ranks.’

  Alexander’s ploy had not worked so well for Ballista. At the front, men were down where the wheels had hit them. The cart must have been airborne for a time. But it had not cleared the unit. There was a mangled mess of broken bodies and shattered woodwork where it had landed, towards the rear. The sound of low sobbing could be heard.

  ‘On your feet! Close ranks.’ The legionaries, eyes wild with shock, were slow to move. ‘Close ranks!’ Ballista took stock as the men shuffled to obey. The incoming arrows had dropped away as the Persians watched. Still about sixty paces to go: further than he would have liked. But
the legionaries were in no state to reform the testudo. It had to be now.

  ‘Ready for war?’ Ballista roared at the darkening sky.

  ‘Ready!’ Each time, the routine response was bolder, more angry. After the third, Ballista ordered the charge.

  As they set off, swords drawn, the arrow storm recommenced.

  The road was steep here. Within a few paces, Ballista felt the muscles in his legs complain. His chest began to burn as he dragged in air. Another peal of thunder.

  Splinters flew hideously close to Ballista’s eyes. He felt a sharp stab of pain, blood hot on his cheek. The wicked barbed point was near his face. An arrow had punched half through his shield. He snapped the shaft. Kept moving.

  The Sassanid now facing Ballista was coming forward. He was a big man, scale-armoured, eyes hidden by his helmet. The long sword blade hissed through the air as the easterner aimed a mighty two-handed overhead blow. Ballista punched upwards with the boss of his shield. The impact almost forced Ballista to his knees. Instinctively, he drove upwards, thrusting his sword. The point slipped off the armour. The two men were locked together. Ballista cracked the pommel of his sword on to the back of the Sassanid’s helmet. The man grunted.

  There was a deafening crack of thunder.

  In the press of bodies, neither of the men could wield their blades. The Sassanid tried to bite Ballista’s face. Horrified, the northerner twisted back. The man’s beard scratched his cheek. Ballista dropped his sword. Its wrist strap dug into his flesh, the weight hard on his arm. He grabbed the plume on the Sassanid’s helmet; dragged his head back with a convulsive lunge, and Ballista headbutted his opponent. The metal ridge of the northerner’s helmet connected with the bridge of the man’s nose. Both their faces were running in blood. The crush of bodies pressed further.