‘Among other things,’ said Maximus.
When Demetrius tried to hand back the helmet, Ballista asked him to put it with the other things until it was needed. The young Greek went and placed the helmet on the carefully folded wolfskin next to the kyrios’s shield which, after some consideration, the young Greek had earlier put out of harm’s way in the corner of the tower.
From the front parapet, Ballista inspected the defences. The men waited quietly. Above their heads, the banners snapped in the breeze. Two towers to the south, where Turpio was stationed, flew the green vexillum of Cohors XX, the unit’s name picked out in gold, the image of its patron deity, a proud Palmyrene warrior god, shifting. On the southernmost tower was larhai’s battle standard, the red scorpion on a white background. Haddudad would be standing there. Ballista wondered if Iarhai himself would be present. Away two towers to the north was the red vexillum of the detachment of Legio IIII, on it the personifications of victory in blue, the eagle, the lion and the lettering all gold. The young patrician Acilius Glabrio would have taken his stand under that. Beyond that flew the yellow-on-blue four-petal flower of Anamu. Beyond that again, near the north-west corner of the defences, was the banner of Ogelos, a golden image of the goddess Artemis on a purple background. And, in the centre, above the main gate, the white draco of the Dux Ripae hissed and snapped. Here and there along the wall the air shimmered where the fires were heating the sand to a crackling, spitting heat.
The city of Arete was as ready as it could be to face this ultimate test. This wall had become the final frontier of the imperium, where West met East, where Romanitas, even humanitas itself faced Barbaricum. The irony that four of the six standards that floated over the wall of Arete could in no real sense be described as Roman was not lost on Ballista.
He looked out across the blasted plain at the Sassanid horde. It was the fourth hour of daylight. The easterners had taken a long time getting arrayed for battle. Was this reluctance? Had it proved hard for Shapur, his client kings and nobles to have their men stand once again in the dreadful battle line? Or was it calculation, the desire for everything to be right? Were they merely waiting for the sun to be pulled clear of the eastern horizon, out of their eyes as they gazed on the stark, lonely wall of Arete?
The Sassanids were ready now, a dark line which stretched across the plain. The trumpets and drums fell silent. Thousand upon thousand warriors waited in silence. The wind kicked up dust devils out on the plain. Then the drums thundered, the trumpets shrilled. The sun struck the golden ball which topped the great battle standard of the house of Sasan as it was carried across the front of the army. The Drafsh-i-Kavyan glinted, yellow, red and violet. Thin at first then filling, the chant of ‘Mazda, Mazda,’ came across the plain. The chant faltered and died, then a new one began, this one stronger: ‘Shapur, Shapur.’ His white horse kicking up the dust, the purple and white streamers flowing behind him, the King of Kings rode to the front of his army. He dismounted, climbed on to the high raised dais, settled himself on his golden throne and signalled that the battle should begin.
The trumpets struck a different note. The drums hit a different rhythm. A slight hesitation, and the Sassanid army moved forward. The screens were pulled aside and the ten remaining Sassanid artillery pieces spat missiles. Ballista nodded to Pudens, who raised the red flag. The twenty-five ballistae of the defenders answered. This phase of the day held few fears for Ballista. The odds in the artillery duel were heavily stacked in his favour.
As the Sassanid line began its long, long advance, Ballista called for his helmet and shield. Demetrius’s fingers fumbled with the chin strap. Ballista leant forward, kissed Demetrius on the cheek, hugged him and whispered in his ear, ‘We are all frightened.’
Armed, flanked by Maximus and Castricius, Ballista called the Persian boy Bagoas to his side to help identify the enemy.
When the Sassanid line crossed into extreme range of the defenders’ artillery, Ballista nodded again to Pudens, who raised and lowered the red flag twice. The artillery of Arete switched its aim from the eastern artillery to their plodding infantry. Wicked iron-tipped bolts and carefully rounded stones shot away, seeking to pierce or smash the Persian mantlets and kill and maim the men who huddled behind them. As the first missiles struck, the Sassanid line seemed to ripple like a field of wheat when the wind gets up.
By the time the easterners passed the stretch of white-painted wall marking 200 paces from the town wall and came into the effective range of the defenders’ artillery, their line had begun to fragment. Gaps had started to open between units. The gaudy banners under which marched the Sakas, Indians and Arabs, the men of King Hamazasp of Georgia and the warriors who followed the Lord Karen were falling behind. They still came on, but more slowly than the men under the banners of the scions of Shapur’s family: Prince Sasan the hunter, Prince Valash, the Joy of Shapur, Queen Dinak of Mesene, Ardashir, King of Adiabene. The standard of the Lord Suren was still well to the front. In the forefront on the road which led to the Palmyrene Gate were the Immortals led by Peroz of the Long Sword, and the Jan-avasper, led by the Roman deserter Mariades.
‘Shame, shame on those who dawdle,’ muttered Bagoas. ‘Truly they are margazan. They will be tormented in hell for eternity.’
‘Quiet, boy,’ hissed Maximus.
Ballista was lost in his own thoughts. The mere presence of the two guard units in the first wave of the attack was a double-edged weapon. It showed how furiously Shapur intended the attack to be pressed home. But, on the other hand, it showed that there were no reserves. If the first wave failed, there would not be another. ‘So be it,’ Ballista said under his breath.
When the leading Persian units were 150 paces from the wall, the red flag was raised and lowered three times and the archers among the defenders bent and released their bows. This time the Sassanids made no attempt to hold their shooting until they were just fifty paces from the town. As soon as Roman arrows struck, the Persians replied. The sky was darkened with their arrows. But Ballista noted with satisfaction that each Persian shot just when the mood took him: there were no disciplined volleys, and much of the shooting was very wild.
The Persian line was becoming ever more fragmented, the gaps between the units bigger. Now the men of the Lord Suren and those of Queen Dinak were falling behind - as were those of Mariades: ‘Those who sacrifice themselves’ were belying their name. Out in the plain, those who had already fallen behind were nearly stationary. Ballista watched a brightly clad horseman hectoring the Georgians. Bagoas confirmed that it was Hamazasp, their king. He had lost his son at the start of the siege. He had more reason than most to want revenge.
Ballista then saw something he had never seen on any field of battle. A line of men was deployed behind the Georgian warriors. They were wielding whips. A warrior turned to run. He was literally whipped back into position. Ballista looked at the other groups of warriors. Behind every one, even those still in the fore, was a line of men with whips. There was even one behind the Immortals. For the first time that day Ballista felt his confidence soar. He smiled.
Without warning, the warriors of Ardashir King of Adiabene hurled aside their mantlets and surged forward towards the wall. Ballista laughed for joy. This was not a charge born of courage or even bravado but of fear. Goaded and stung beyond endurance, the warriors of Ardashir just wanted to get it over one way or another. Throwing aside order and even their own protection, they ran forward. It was a classic flight to the front.
At an instant, the missiles of the defenders were concentrated on them. Hunched forward, stumbling as they carried their siege ladders, the Sassanids ran into the storm of iron and bronze. Men were falling. Ladders were dropped. More men were falling.
The first three ladders reached the wall. Up they swung, bouncing against the parapet. A simple rustic pitchfork pushed one ladder sideways. It fell, men jumping clear. A bronze cauldron appeared over another ladder and tipped white-hot sand down on those not quick enough to
get away. The warriors around the foot of the third ladder looked at each other, then turned and ran.
The panic spread like fire on a Mediterranean hillside in high summer. Where before there had been an army, distinct units of warriors, now the plain was covered by an indiscriminate mass of running men, each with no thought but to save his skin, get away from the missiles which flashed towards him from the grim stone wall. The defenders did not spare them. Without any need for orders, they shot and shot again at the defenceless backs of their fleeing foes.
Along the battlements men laughed and roared. Competing chants broke out: ‘Ball-is-ta, Ball-is-ta’ - ‘Rom-a, Rom-a’ - ‘Ni-ke, Ni-ke’. Some howled like wolves. The killing went on.
Ballista looked out across the plain. On the golden throne, high on the dais, Shapur sat immobile. Behind the King of Kings the great grey humps of his elephants stood impassive.
When the surviving Sassanids were out of range, all at once, as when a ship goes aground, any discipline vanished. Skins and jars of alcohol appeared as if by magic. Men tipped back their heads, gulping down the wine or local beer.
Maximus passed Ballista a jug of beer. The northerner found that his mouth was full of dust. He rinsed some of the thin, sour beer round and spat over the wall. The liquid landed on a Sassanid corpse. He felt disgusted. He drank some of the beer.
‘I wonder how many of the fuckers we have killed - thousands, tens of thousands since they came here.’ Castricius had his own jar of wine. Some of it was running down his chin.
Ballista did not know or care about the numbers of enemy dead. He felt very tired. ‘Castricius, I want the sentries doubled tonight.’
The centurion looked taken aback but quickly recovered. ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ He saluted and, still holding his wine jar, went off to give the necessary orders.
Ballista’s progress along the wall was slow. Every man wanted to shake his hand, thump him on the back, praise him. First he walked south. Two towers from the gate under the green banner of Cohors XX he thanked and praised Turpio. The ex-centurion’s face carried a look of unalloyed pleasure. He took off his helmet, his hair flattened by sweat. He and Ballista embraced, Turpio’s face bristly against that of Ballista. At the southernmost tower Haddudad stood under the red scorpion of Iarhai. The mercenary captain explained that the Strategos Iarhai had been indisposed. Ballista said it was no matter when the noble Iarhai had such a captain as Haddudad. The northerner looked round. He could see no sign of Bathshiba. Quite surprisingly, it seemed that she had heeded his orders to avoid the wall and the fighting line. There was a knot of Iarhai’s mercenaries in one corner of the tower. Momentarily Ballista wondered if they were concealing her. Then he pushed the idea away.
The walk back to the north was even slower. The copious amounts of alcohol that were being consumed had transformed the defences into the sort of Bacchanalian orgy usually discreetly veiled by secrecy and the darkness of night. Soldiers leant drunkenly on the parapet. They lay in groups on the slope of the internal earth bank. They passed skins and jugs of wine and beer from hand to hand. They roared out jokes and obscenities. The prostitutes were out in force. With no shame one girl was on her hands and knees; her short tunic turned up, she accommodated one soldier from behind, another in her mouth. Another girl was on her back, naked. The soldier who was thrusting vigorously between her legs was raised up on his braced arms to let two of his colleagues get to her face. As they knelt she turned her head from side to side, taking first one then the other in her mouth. Three or four more soldiers stood around drinking, waiting their turn. Ballista noted she was blond, big breasts, very large dark-brown nipples. He felt a sharp stab of lust. Allfather, but he could do with a woman.
Two towers north of the Palmyrene Gate the red vexillum of the detachment of Legio IIII flew. When Ballista climbed to the fighting platform on the roof, he found Acilius Glabrio sitting on a stool drinking wine. A good-looking slave boy was holding a parasol over his head. Another was fanning him. He was holding court over his soldiers, talking to them and praising them in the manner of a patrician, affable but always letting them remain aware of a certain distance. The young nobleman made no hurry to rise and greet his superior officer.
‘Dux Ripae, I give you joy of your victory,’ he said when eventually he was on his feet. ‘A wondrous result, especially given all the things against you.’
‘Thank you, Tribunus Laticlavius.’ Ballista ignored the ambiguous implications the other had opened up. ‘A lion’s share of the victory must go to you and your legionaries of Legio IIII Scythica.’ The northerner’s words brought a cheer from the legionaries present. Acilius Glabrio did not look pleased. He took another long drink of wine.
‘Some idiot of a messenger came here. The fool claimed to come from you. I knew it was nonsense. He said you had ordered the sentries doubled tonight. I told him in no uncertain terms that our Dux would not have issued such a ridiculous order. I sent him on his way.’ Acilius Glabrio took another long drink. He looked flushed.
‘I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding’ - Ballista tried to keep his voice neutral - ‘the messenger was from me. I have ordered the sentries doubled for tonight.’
‘But why?’ Acilius Glabrio laughed. ‘The battle is done and over. We have won. They have lost. It is over.’ He looked round for moral support from his legionaries. Some nodded. More avoided his eye. They looked down at the ground, unwilling to be drawn into the escalating tension between these two senior officers.
‘Yes, we have won today. But there are huge numbers of Sassanid warriors still out there. Shapur will now be desperate. He will know that we will celebrate hard. It would be an ideal time for him to strike, when we have let our guard down because we think we are safe.’ Ballista could hear the anger creeping into his own voice. He was thinking angry thoughts: You may be a good officer, but do not push me too far, you perfumed and crimped little fucker.
‘Pshhah.’ Acilius Glabrio made a noise of dismissal and gestured with his wine cup. Some of the wine slopped over the edge. ‘There is nothing whatsoever to fear. Shapur could never force them to attack again tonight.’ Acilius Glabrio was swaying slightly. ‘I see no reason to stop my boys having a good time.’ He smiled round at his men. A few smiled back. Noticing that he was not receiving unanimous support, the young nobleman scowled.
‘Tribunus Laticlavius, you will order your men to double the sentries tonight.’ No one could now mistake the anger in the big northerner’s voice.
‘I will not.’ Acilius Glabrio glared defiance.
‘You are disobeying the direct order of your superior officer.’
‘No,’ Acilius Glabrio spat, ‘I am ignoring the ludicrous whim of a jumped-up hairy barbarian who should have stayed in the squalor of his native hut somewhere in the woods.’
There was a deep silence on the fighting platform. From beyond the tower came the sounds of revelry.
‘Acilius Glabrio, you are removed from command. You will disarm yourself. Go to your home and place yourself under house arrest. You will report to the palace of the Dux Ripae tomorrow at the fourth hour of daylight to face court-martial.’
Ballista sought out a centurion. ‘Seleucus, you will inform the Senior Centurion Antoninus Prior that he is to assume command of the detachment of Legio IIII here in Arete. He is to ensure that enough of his men remain sober to double the sentries tonight. And tell him that I want a blue lantern prepared on every tower. They are to be lit at the first sign of any enemy activity.’
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ There was no emotion in the centurion’s words.
Acilius Glabrio looked round. No one caught his eye. Realizing that what he had said was irrevocable, he raised his chin and assumed a pose of nobility wrongly arraigned. He put down the wine cup, undid his sword belt, pulled the cross belt over his head and let it fall to the floor. Looking neither right nor left, he walked to the stairs.
After a moment’s indecision his two slave boys scampered after him.
XVII
‘Nobody knows what the late evening may have in store,’ Bathshiba said. She was laughing. Her eyes were very black.
How the hell did you get in here? Ballista was thinking. Obviously Demetrius was not near by. The young Greek disliked Bathshiba. He would have done all that he could to keep her away from his kyrios.But Maximus and Calgacus were definitely in the living quarters, through which she would have had to pass to reach the terrace of the palace. Ballista had no doubts about what had been in their minds when they let her through.
She walked across the terrace towards him. She was dressed as one of her father’s mercenaries, but the tunic and trousers, the boots, the sword on her hip, did little to conceal that she was a woman. Ballista found himself watching the movement of her breasts, the roll of her hips. She stopped in front of him, just out of reach. Ballista felt a hollowness in his chest.
‘Does your father know you are here?’ As he spoke the words sounded ridiculous to Ballista.
Bathshiba laughed. ‘He is part of the reason that I am here. But no, he does not know that I am here.’
‘You did not cross town alone?’ Ballista thought of what he had seen as he walked to the palace. By now, hours later, the whole town would resemble a wild Dionysian orgy. The celebrating soldiers would have no more trouble than Ballista in seeing through Bathshiba’s disguise. Many among them would have fewer qualms than the northerner in stripping that disguise from her. Ballista did not doubt that she could use the sword on her hip, but against a gang it would do her little good. Her resistance, the edge of danger, would only increase their pleasure in taking her.
‘No. I’m not a fool. There are two well-armed men waiting in the great courtyard. By now they will be drinking in the guardroom.’
‘And is one of them again your father’s faithful captain Haddudad with his sharp sword?’
Fire in the East Page 39
