Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

Maximus was watching Ballista. He had been for days, almost unsleeping. He had watched Ballista throughout – his silence during the night of frantic preparations for sailing, sitting alone at the prow of the ship for the two days it took them to cross to Seleuceia, disembarking at the smoking port, riding to Antioch, tearing through the streets to the house, finding the pool of dried blood on the mosaic just over the threshold, and by it the discarded miniature sword.

  Four days in which Ballista had eaten and drunk next to nothing, had not washed, shaved or slept. Four days in which Ballista had hardly spoken.

  Now, the stench of burning and corruption in his nostrils, Maximus watched his friend leaning against one of the columns by the door of the ransacked house, waiting for news. Any news.

  Withdrawn in his grief, Ballista had effectively relinquished command. The senatorial legate Ragonius Clarus was incapable. Some of the junior officers, Castricius and Rutilus to the fore, had taken charge. The troops had secured the walls, sent out patrols. Work parties were dealing with the bodies. Selected men were searching among them for Ballista’s wife and children. Calgacus and Demetrius were scouring the city for witnesses.

  Having sacked Antioch, the Persians had turned on the great city’s port of Seleuceia. Then they had left the city and ridden north, possibly to retrace their steps to the obscure, unguarded pass south of the Amanikai Gates by which they had come, possibly to take the small garrison of the Syrian Gates from behind. Macrianus the Younger had escaped the palace, hustled to safety by a unit of the Equites Singulares. He had been taken towards the army of his father and brother, now belatedly rushing north from Emesa. All of this Ballista neither knew nor cared about. Maximus did not care either.

  There was a rattle of hooves and Calgacus and Demetrius returned. On foot between them was an old, dishevelled man.

  ‘The custos. He was at the theatre with them.’ Calgacus pushed him forward.

  The old man started talking. ‘The kyria had sent me for sweets. For the boys. The reptiles came out of nowhere. It was chaos. I could not get back to them.’

  For a time Ballista looked at him, seemingly uncomprehending. Then he fished in the purse at his belt. He took out a coin and passed it over.

  The old man took it.

  ‘In your mouth.’ Ballista’s tone was flat.

  The custos did not move.

  ‘Put it in your mouth,’ Ballista said, ‘to pay the ferryman.’

  Ballista hefted the miniature sword.

  The old man fell to his knees. Pleading, he clasped Ballista’s thighs.

  ‘Too late.’ Ballista aimed the blow.

  Maximus caught Ballista’s arm. Quick as a flash, the Hibernian’s hand was knocked away. The tip of his friend’s blade was at Maximus’s throat.

  ‘Ballista, it is me. Killing the old man will not help.’

  The sword clattered to the ground. Ballista sank down. Both hands clawing in the soot and filth, he poured it over his head, fouled his face. Black ashes settled on his tunic.

  Maximus shoved the old man out of sight.

  Overpowered by loss, Ballista sprawled in the dirt. ‘A man who has killed his father is sewn in a sack … a dog, snake, monkey and cock for company … all drown together. What punishment for a man who by his perjury has killed his sons?’

  ‘Dominus,’ said Maximus, ‘this is not you.’

  ‘What punishment for him? Something worse? Nothing special? Just an old-style Roman death – tied to the stake and beaten to death?’

  Then Maximus, raising his voice at Ballista’s rambling, ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, stop! This is not you. This is fucking unseemly shit.’

  Ballista seemed surprised. He gazed at the sky. ‘Gentle breezes, a benign zephyr – most unseemly shit. No rain, wind, thunder and fire. Unseemly. The sky should fall, drench our temples, drown our priests, drown the Galloi, drown every cock.’ He made a sound a little like laughter. ‘Drown every monkey, snake and dog. Drown every man, woman and child. A second flood, with no boat for Deucalion and the good and deserving. Drown every god. Cut them down. Ragnarok – the death of gods and men. The sun swallowed by the wolf Skoll. The stars vanish from the sky.’

  Maximus bent to get the miniature sword.

  ‘Leave it!’ Ballista snatched it up.

  ‘Kyrios’ – Demetrius spoke quietly – ‘it is not your fault.’

  On all fours, Ballista scurried over the threshold like an animal. He crouched on the blood-stained mosaic of the deformed dwarf. The blade in his fist flickered this way and that.

  Maximus made to go to him. Calgacus’s hand held him back.

  Ballista’s voice came from a faraway place. ‘At Arete, my friend Iarhai told me his nightmare. Under the dark poplars he crosses the Styx, and there waiting for him on the fields of Tartarus by the ocean stream are the “kindly ones”, and behind them every person he had killed. An eternity of retribution.’

  He took a deep breath and turned from Greek to his native language. ‘Now I can cross the icy river Gjoll, pass the gates of Hel, come to Nastrond, the shore of corpses. A different destination, the same fate. The faces of the dead, all turned to me. So many – the newly dead, the green and rotting, those more bone than flesh, those I remember – Maximinus Thrax, Mamurra – those I have forgotten, but at the front my own dear boys.’

  Abruptly he reverted to Greek: mangled phrases of poetry. ‘Set on me those maidens with gory eyes and snaky hair, with their dog-faces and gorgon-eyes, those priestesses of the dead, goddesses of terror – spare my boys.’

  ‘That way madness lies,’ said Maximus. ‘Shun it. No more of that.’

  ‘Not for long.’ Ballista pulled the front of his tunic taut, slit it open. With his left hand he guided the point of the little sword to just the right place under his ribs.

  Maximus was measuring the distance when Calgacus crossed in front of him. The old Caledonian knelt by Ballista. He drew his sword.

  ‘That is my job.’

  From his knees, Ballista looked up dully.

  ‘My job,’ Calgacus repeated. He tapped his blade on the mosaic. ‘You remember. In your father’s hall, after the centurion came for you, it was one of the things your father told us. My final duty to you. Then myself.’

  Ballista lowered his own blade. No one relaxed.

  ‘Do it,’ Ballista said.

  Calgacus carried on tapping the metal on the little coloured stones.

  ‘Everything has been taken from you.’ Calgacus spoke quietly. ‘But before you go, you owe them one thing.’

  Ballista did not respond.

  ‘Vengeance. You are a killer, born, bred, trained. Now use it.’

  Ballista gave no reaction.

  ‘You have man-killing hands, a gift for death. Rest, eat, collect yourself – give them vengeance.’

  Ballista was still. Then, almost quicker than Maximus could follow, he struck. Once, twice, three times.

  The tesserae shattered. The hunchback dwarf was eyeless, its genitals mutilated.

  Calgacus nodded slowly.

  Again Ballista spoke in Greek verse, a different metre, this time perfect:

  ‘Done is done.

  Despite my anguish I will beat it down,

  the fury mounting inside me, down by force.

  But now I will go and meet that murderer head on,

  that Hector who destroyed the dearest life I know.

  For my own death, I’ll meet it freely – whenever Zeus

  And the other deathless gods would like to bring it on!’

  Calgacus stood at the prow of the trireme with Ballista. The sea was calm. The great warship lay on its oars. The sun had not yet burnt off the early morning mist. Around them, the rest of the fleet faded into the greyness. To the north, behind the mist, was the port of Soli.

  It was thirteen days since they had left Antioch, eleven since they had sailed from Seleuceia. Again they had tracked the enemy, around the Gulf of Issus and along the Hollows of Cilicia. The Sassanid force that h
ad raided Antioch had crossed the Syrian Gates, overwhelming its small garrison from the rear. Across the Amanus range they had reunited with their main body and together plundered the city of Rhosus. Then they had ridden through the devastated plain of Cilicia to the coastal city of Soli. This morning they would assault its walls. The Romans were well acquainted with their plans. Calgacus had been horrified at the ingenuity with which Ballista had tortured the Sassanid stragglers, appalled at the cold-eyed lack of emotion – or was it controlled pleasure? – with which he had finally despatched them.

  Calgacus cast a sly glance at Ballista. The boy was far from right. Ballista stood, unnaturally immobile, staring ahead into the mist. He had had one of the armourers make him a new helmet. The broad nasal covered most of his face, and on either side was a curled metal ram’s horn. Calgacus had not felt he could ask him why. No one had. Not even the bumptious Hibernian Maximus.

  Calgacus was worried – more than worried, he had an ill-defined sense of foreboding and, worse, a strong sense of guilt. Dissuading Ballista from suicide, Calgacus had not spoken the whole truth. Ballista had never been a born killer. Some men are, Maximus for one. Maybe Calgacus was himself. But not Ballista. He had been a gentle child, sensitive. Left to his own devices, he might have become a farmer, been happy tending his flocks, or maybe a bard; he had always spouted poetry. There had been no hope of that, not for the son of Isangrim, the warleader of the Angles, trained by his uncle among the fierce Harii then hauled off into the imperium. Ballista had been shaped into a killer but, until now, it had never come completely easily to him. Never before had Calgacus seen him torture and kill in cold blood – or at least never take pleasure in it. Calgacus was worried – to keep the boy alive he had pushed him further down the path.

  ‘There!’ Maximus was pointing. Out of the thinning mist a liburnian was racing out towards them. At its prow a marine was holding a red cloak above his head.

  Ballista came back from wherever he had been. He shouted, ‘Full ahead.’

  The rowing master gave the count. ‘One, two, three, strike.’ Almost as one, the oars bit the water. The trireme shivered like an animal waking then gathered way. By the third stroke, the ship was accelerating smoothly, the water running fast down her sides. All around, the fleet was getting underway.

  Under the enclosing helm, Ballista was speaking softly. Calgacus, next to him, had to strain his ears to catch the words. ‘Come what may come. What advantage in living? No fatherland, no house, no refuge.’ More gloomy Greek poetry. The boy was in a very bad way.

  Yet, bad way or no, Ballista could still set out a fine plan. The Persians had two main advantages: there were more of them, and they had horses. With luck, Ballista’s plan might negate both. When the Romans landed, most of the Persians would be committed to the assault on Soli’s walls. Under Rutilus, the ten little liburnians, just fifteen soldiers on each, would rush the camp. In their lazy superbia, the easterners had neglected to build a palisade or even set a proper guard. If they wanted their possessions, including their vast booty from Cilicia, the Persians would have to give up their superior mobility and fight hand to hand. The gods willing, many would have left their horses in the camp. The men with Ballista would form the initial line of battle just outside the camp. He had crammed fifty soldiers on to the decks of each of the triremes. These five hundred men, in only one rank, would have to hold until Castricius could get the four thousand or so reinforcements on the transport ships up in support. Even now the latter were wallowing behind, men labouring at enormous sweeps to propel the fat roundships to the shore.

  The mist was lifting fast. Through the last wisps, the shore came into view. Off to the left were the walls of Soli – ringed by a mass of tiny dark figures; just to the right, the huge, sprawling array of tents, pavilions and horse-lines that formed the camp. In the far distance rose the snow-capped Taurus mountains. It was a beautiful summer morning.

  Trumpets rang out from the Persians around the city, shrill cries of alarm carried across the water from the encampment. It would take time for the Persians to disengage from the assault and form up to face this new threat.

  With a shudder that threw men off their feet, the trireme grounded on the shelving beach. Boarding ladders splashed down.

  In a moment Ballista had descended the first one. Calgacus rushed to follow.

  As he leapt down, Calgacus lost his footing. He went down on his hands and knees into the shallow water. A boot caught him in the back. He came up spitting, blinking salt from his eyes. Ballista was away – pounding up the beach. Calgacus scrambled to his feet and ran after him.

  It was hard to run on the sand in full armour carrying a heavy shield. The muscles in Calgacus’s legs screamed, his chest burned. He was far too old for this shit. He ploughed on.

  Soon there was harder ground under his boots. Shutting out the pain, he closed his mind to everything but running.

  Ballista had stopped. Calgacus pulled up – doubled over, retching dry and painful. Ballista was looking around, arms waving the line into place. Maximus had taken station on Ballista’s right shoulder, the last man in the line. Demetrius, dressed for all the world as a soldier in a comedy, was at his left. Gently, Calgacus pulled Demetrius behind his kyrios and took his place. Every man in the line would have to stand firm. There was no point in letting the young Greek get himself or all of them killed. The new standard bearer, Gratius, was on Calgacus’s left.

  Calgacus looked out to sea. The transports were still some way out. Snaking down to the waves, just five hundred men of Legio IIII Scythica would have to face the anger of the Persian horde, and face it alone for some time.

  ‘Here they come.’

  The first Persians were closing, a cloud of mounted archers. Through the dust they raised, Calgacus could see a solid mass of armoured cavalry forming up. The gods had not been willing: all the easterners in sight were on horseback.

  About fifty paces away, the leading Persians wheeled their mounts, loosed their bows.

  The legionaries tucked their chins into their chests, hunkering down behind their big shields. Arrows thumped into leather and wood, sliced past.

  ‘Ignore them – they are nothing,’ Ballista roared.

  ‘Girls’ spindles,’ a legionary shouted. ‘Come here, darlings, and I will give you a good fucking.’

  Soldiers laughed. Calgacus grinned sourly. Something Ballista had once said floated at the edges of his thoughts. Is this what it was to be a man? True male grace under pressure?

  Calgacus leant back, looked at the shore. The transports were nearly there. He squinted round his shield at the enemy. The archers were withdrawing. The Sassanid knights, the dreaded clibanarii, were ready. The pitifully thin line with Ballista would somehow have to survive one charge.

  A thunder of drums. The heavy cavalry walked forward. A dark phalanx, impossible to see how deep.

  Hercules’ hairy arse, this was not going to be pleasant.

  When the Persians’ individual armour – mail, plate, gaudy surcoats, steel visors – could be made out, at about five hundred paces, they moved to a trot. The banners above their heads – lilac, red, yellow – were bright in the sun.

  Trumpets rang out from the clibanarii. They began to canter. Now the banners jerked this way and that. The horses seemed to rock back and forth as they exerted themselves under the weight of man and metal.

  They came on. Calgacus looked at the sea. The Roman reinforcements were splashing ashore. Too late for the initial shock. But enough of that. ‘Eyes front, hold the line,’ he found himself shouting.

  Horribly quickly, the Persians came on. The noise was like a wave crashing on a shingle beach, louder and louder.

  ‘Stand for your brothers. Hold the line.’ Legionaries called encouragement to themselves and their contubernales. Many prayed to their favoured deities: ‘Let me live, great god, and I will give …’

  Calgacus drew his sword, thrust it out beyond his shield. He dug his heels in the ground.
The very air seemed to be shaking.

  Gratius, next to Calgacus, was trembling. Out of the corner of his eye, Calgacus saw the urine run on Gratius’s legs. It happened. And not just to cowards. The man was still in place.

  The Sassanids came on – a wall of steel, inhuman, filling the world with their coming. Wicked spear points gleamed.

  One hundred paces, seventy, fifty – dear gods, let this be over – thirty – they will scatter us like chaff. Calgacus ground his teeth.

  About the distance a boy could throw a stone, the first horses refused the immobile wall of shields, digging in their feet, swerving, colliding. Men fought to stay in the saddle, sliding up their horses’ necks. Losing their grip, some riders crashed, tumbling to the ground, lost under the hooves.

  Ten paces from the Roman line, a confusion of stationary horses. Milling, backing, heads tossing, stamping, they bumped and bored into each other.

  ‘Charge!’ Ballista was running forward. He was yelling something. It sounded like, ‘Nasu! Nasu!’

  Ballista’s long sword arced. It smashed into a horse’s rear leg just above the hock. Tendons severed, the animal collapsed backwards, throwing its rider. Two quick steps and, almost casually, Ballista finished the man on the ground. The northerner’s blade swung again, this time slicing off a horse’s muzzle. Blood sprayed. Maddened by pain, the animal leapt forward. It crashed into another. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.

  A Sassanid thrust at Ballista. Sidestepping, Ballista punched the tip of his weapon through the beast’s armour and deep into its chest. It stood for a moment, pink froth at its nostrils, chest heaving, suffocating. It too went down, its rider tumbling in front of Calgacus. Chop – immediately the Persian’s helmet cracked under Calgacus’s blade.

  Ballista was gone, into the mass of the enemy. Neither Calgacus or Maximus could keep up with him. Fucking fool, thought Calgacus. Never get in the midst of panicking horses. You will get trodden, knocked down, crushed, trampled.