‘At the far end where it turns right, out of sight the path doubles back behind the hill,’ Haddudad said. ‘Place archers up on the right, hold the far end. It is a good killing ground, if we are not too outnumbered.’
As they rode up the defile Ballista retreated into himself, planning, making his dispositions. When they were about fifty paces from the end he stopped and issued his orders. ‘I will take Maximus, Calgacus and the girl with me up the hill. She is as good with a bow as a man. The Greek boy can come to hold our horses, and you,’ he pointed to one of the two the remaining civilian members of his staff, not the North African, ‘will come to relay my orders.’ He paused. He looked at Haddudad and Turpio. ‘That leaves you two and five men down on the path. Wait round the corner, out of sight, until you get my command, then charge down into the reptiles. Those of us above will ride down the slope to take them in the flank.’
Haddudad nodded. Turpio smiled sardonically. The others, tired, hollow eyed, just stared.
Ballista unfastened the black cloak he had been wearing to keep the sun off his armour. He dropped it to the ground. It landed with a puff of dust in the middle of the path. Then he untied poor Titus’ purse from his belt. He opened it. There were a lot of coins. A soldier’s life savings. He scattered them on the ground just beyond the cloak. As an afterthought he took off his helmet, the distinctive one with the bird of prey crest and tossed that down as well.
Haddudad grinned. ‘Cunning as a snake,’ he said.
‘Among your people that is probably a compliment,’ Ballista replied.
‘Not always,’ said the Arab.
Ballista raised his voice to reach them all. ‘Are you ready for war?’
‘Ready!’
Three times the call and response, but it was a tired, thin sound, almost lost in the hills.
Ballista waved them off to take up their positions.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
Ballista lay full length on the crest of the hill, an old grey-brown blanket over his shoulders. He had rubbed handfuls of the dun-coloured sand into his hair and over his face. Twenty arrows were planted point down in the ground by his head, looking like a clump of desert grass or camel thorn. Those with him were resting behind the brow of the hill.
If you stare at something long enough in bright sunshine it has a narcotic effect. The scene seems to shift and waver, inanimate objects start to move. Twice Ballista had tensed, thinking the moment had come, before realizing his eyes had deceived him. It was not long after noon. They had made good time. The Sassanids must have halted for a rest in the foothills, confident their prey could not escape them.
Ballista blinked the sweat out of his eyes and shifted slightly in the hollow his body had made in the stony ground. He very much doubted this was going to work - ten fighting men and the girl against at least fifty. Strangely he did not feel particularly frightened. He thought of his wife and son and felt an overwhelming sadness that he would not see them again. He imagined them wondering what had happened to him, the pain of never knowing.
A movement! At last! The Sassanid cavalry walked round into the defile and Ballista’s heart leaped. He saw what had been odd about their column - each Sassanid led two spare horses. That was how they had narrowed the distance so fast. Sixty horses but only twenty riders. The odds were no worse than two to one. And Allfather willing, he could improve on that.
The leading Sassanid pointed, called something over his shoulder, and trotted ahead. He reached the things lying in the track and dismounted. Struggling to keep a grip on the reins of his three horses he crouched down and picked them up.
Ballista grinned a savage grin. The others had not halted. Instead they trotted up and bunched behind the man on foot. Fools, thought Ballista, you deserve to die.
Shrugging off the blanket, Ballista grasped his bow and got to his feet. As he took an arrow and notched it he heard the others scrambling up to the crest. He drew the composite bow, feeling the string bite into his fingers and the tension mount in the wood, bone and sinew of its belly. Intent on their discoveries the Sassanids had not noticed him. He selected the man he took to be their leader. Aiming above the bright red trousers and below the yellow hat at the black-and-white striped tunic, he released. A few seconds later the man was pitched from his horse. Ballista heard the shouts of surprise and fear. He heard those with him release their bows. Another arrow automatically notched, he shot into the bunch of riders, aiming low, hoping if he did not get a rider he would hit a horse. Not looking to see where the arrows struck, he released four or five times more in quick succession into the group.
The floor of the defile was a picture of confusion, bodies of men and animals thrashing on the ground, loose horses plunging, crashing into those still under control. Ballista swung his aim to the untouched rear of the column. His first shot missed. His second took a riders’ horse in the flank. The beast reared, hurling the warrior backwards to the ground. The other two horses he had been leading bolted.
‘Haddudad, Turpio, now! Demetrius bring up the horses!’ Ballista yelled over his shoulder. He shot off some more arrows as the crunch and scatter of loose stones grew louder behind him. When the Greek boy appeared with his mount Ballista dropped the bow and vaulted into the saddle. Guiding with his thighs he set Pale Horse at the slope. From up here it looked far steeper than it had from below, an awkward surface of large slabs of ochre, grey and brown with patches of treacherous scree.
Ballista lent back against the rear horns of the saddle, dropping the reins, letting Pale Horse find its way down. He could hear the others following. Down and off to his right he saw the seven Roman riders, Haddudad and Turpio at their head, thunder into the defile.
As Ballista drew his sword Pale Horse stumbled. The long cavalry spatha nearly slipped from Ballista’s grip. Cursing mechanically he recovered it and slipped the leather thong tied to the hilt over his wrist. The riders with Haddudad had crashed into the head of the Sassanid column. They had bowled over or cut down three or four of the Easterners, but the lack of space and sheer weight of numbers had brought them to a halt. There were loose Persian horses everywhere. Clouds of dust billowed up the scarred cliff face opposite.
Although taken by surprise and now leaderless the Sassanids were experienced warriors. They were not ready to run. A Roman trooper with Haddudad toppled from the saddle. An arrow whistled past Ballista. Another landed in front of him, snapping and ricocheting away. Everything hung in the balance.
As Ballista neared the bottom the closest two Sassanids stuffed their bows back into their cases and tugged their swords free. They were at a standstill. Ballista was moving fast. He wanted to use that. At the last moment he swerved Pale Horse at the warrior to his right. The brave little gelding did not flinch and crashed shoulder to shoulder into the Persian horse. The impact threw Ballista forward in the saddle. But the enemy horse was set back virtually on its quarters, its rider clinging to its mane to keep his seat. Recovering his balance in a moment, Ballista brought his sword across Pale Horse’s neck in a fierce downward cut. The Sassanids were light cavalry; few of them wore armour. The blade bit deep into the man’s shoulder.
Retrieving his sword, Ballista urged Pale Horse to cut round the rear of the injured Sassanid’s mount to get at the other one. Before he could complete the manoeuvre a third Easterner lunged at him from the right. Ballista caught the blade on his own, rolled his wrist to force the Persian’s weapon wide and riposted with an underhand cut at the man’s face. The Sassanid swayed back. As Ballista’s blade sliced harmlessly through the air he felt a searing pain in his left bicep.
Now he was caught between the two Sassanids. With no shield, not even a cloak to guard his left side, Ballista had to try to parry the attacks of both with his sword. He twisted and turned like a baited bear when the dogs close in, steel rang on steel and sparks flew. A hammer-like blow from the right hit Ballista in the ribcage. The Persian’s lunge had broken one o
r two of the mail rings on his coat, forcing the jagged ends into his flesh. But the armour had kept out the point of the blade.
Despite the pain Ballista forced himself upright and swung a horizontal cut not at the man on his right but at his horse’s head. It missed but the animal skittered sideways. Painfully sucking air into his lungs Ballista swivelled in the saddle, blocked a blow from his left and lashed out with his boot, kicking the Sassanid’s mount in the belly. It too gave ground. He had bought himself a few seconds reprieve.
Ballista looked up. There was nowhere to go. In front of Pale Horse were four or five loose horses, milling, blocking the way. Again the fierce dark faces closed in. Again Ballista twisted and turned like a cornered animal. But he was getting slower. His left arm throbbed. His damaged ribs were agony as he moved. It hurt like hell to draw breath.
Just when it seemed that it could only end one way, Maximus appeared. A deft cut, almost faster than the eye could follow, there was a spray of blood and the warrior on Ballista’s left toppled from the saddle. No time for thanks, Maximus spurred on and Ballista turned all his attention to his remaining adversary.
After a time, as if by mutual consent Ballista and his opponent backed their horses a pace or two. Panting heavily, each waited for the other to make the next move. The din of combat echoed back from the rocky slopes and the dust rose up like chaff from a thrashing floor. Around Ballista and the Persian the hot battle roared, but their perceptions had narrowed to a space little bigger than the reach of their swords. Ballista’s left arm was stiff, almost useless. Every breath he took seared his chest He noted another rider in eastern dress looming up in the murk behind his assailant. Ballista recognized him.
‘Anamu, you traitor!’
The long, thin face of the man from Arete turned towards Ballista. The wide spaced eyes showed no surprise. ‘It is not my fault,’ the man shouted in Greek. ‘They have my family. I had to guide them after you.’
Seeing Ballista’s distraction, the Sassanid surged forward. Instinct and the memory in his muscles let Ballista flick the blade aside.
Anamu tipped his head back and shouted, loud in Persian, ‘Every man for himself! Run! Save yourselves!’ He kicked his horse. It gathered itself and set off. Over his shoulder he called to Ballista again in Greek, ‘Not my fault.’
The Sassanid facing Ballista backed his horse again, four, five steps, then hauled on the reins, jerked the beast round and followed Anamu. Suddenly the air was full of high eastern cries. The rattle of hooves echoed round the Horns of Ammon. As one, the Persians desperately sought to disengage and spur their way to safety. The fight was over.
Ballista watched the Sassanid cavalry disappear down the defile. His own men were already busy, throwing themselves off their mounts, slitting the throats of the wounded Easterners, stripping them, searching for the wealth they were rumoured to always carry.
‘Leave one alive’, Ballista shouted. But it was too late.
Haddudad and Turpio arrived and calmly announced the butcher’s bill; two troopers dead, two men wounded, including Turpio himself who had an ugly gash on his left thigh. Ballista thanked them and all three climbed stiffly to the ground.
Ballista checked over Pale Horse: a graze on the left shoulder, a small nick on the right flank, but otherwise the gelding seemed unharmed. Calgacus appeared with water and strips of clean cloth. He started to bandage Ballista’s arm, swearing volubly as his patient kept moving to stroke his mount.
Bathshiba cantered up. Ballista had forgotten all about the girl. She jumped off her horse, ran to Haddudad and threw her arms round his neck. Ballista looked away. Something shining on the ground caught his eye. It was the helmet he had discarded earlier. He went over and picked it up. It was buckled. A horse’s hoof had trodden on it. The bird of prey crest was bent, twisted out of shape, but it could be repaired.
Fire in the East Page 46
