by Ian Ross
‘Saracens,’ Egnatius said, noticing Castus’s attention. ‘There’s quite a number of them settled in the area to the south of here.’
‘I thought the Saracens were nomads?’ Castus asked as they rode on.
‘Most of them are, strictly speaking,’ the tribune replied. ‘But some choose to settle inside our frontiers for parts of the year. The open desert’s their country, and they have little regard for borders.’
‘But they’re on our side?’
Egnatius shrugged, with a wry smile. ‘With them it’s hard to say! Many of their clans have pledged allegiance to the emperor, and we promote their chiefs to phylarchs in our service. But there’s another lot that fight for the Persians – often we suspect that the division between the two isn’t as strict as they might pretend!’
Castus glanced back warily at the riders they had just passed, who were already moving off in the other direction. ‘Not a people to trust, then?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Egnatius said. ‘Though some would. They’re thieves and brigands for the most part. They range like birds of prey over the entire desert, seizing whatever they can find. But they’re also the finest light cavalry on earth!’
‘Some would, you say?’
Egnatius nodded. ‘There’s an officer called Lycianus, for one. We’ll meet him at Nisibis with any luck. He commands a unit of Saracen irregulars, and swears by their honour. Speaks their language; knows most of their chiefs too. He’s a strange sort of man himself though. You’ll see soon enough!’
They stopped for the night at the village of Beseletha, a huddle of houses strung along the road, surrounded by orchards and melon beds.
‘You know, you really are taking Spartan virtue very seriously with your arrangements,’ Hormisdas said, lounging on a threadbare dining couch in the central chamber of the rough mansio. ‘When the Praetorian Prefect tours the provinces, he always takes with him a full Schola of mounted guardsmen, six carriages, the best cooks from the palace, together with a troupe of dancers and a full orchestra to provide music while he eats!’
Castus was not at all surprised. He doubted that Ablabius felt the luxuries were necessary, but the prefect clearly loved the outward appearance of authority. ‘You shouldn’t listen to music while you eat,’ he said. ‘Gives you indigestion.’
After their simple meal was concluded, he sat for an hour playing latrunculi with Egnatius. The grid of the board and the polished black and white glass playing pieces had a simple clarity that Castus enjoyed, and the strategic thinking focused his mind. Even so, it was frustrating that Egnatius beat him every time they played.
He sighed heavily as the tribune trapped his final piece between two of his own. ‘Another game?’ he asked as Egnatius cleared the board.
‘I’m for my bed, dominus,’ the tribune said, yawning as he stood up. ‘Besides,’ he said with a brief salute, ‘I prefer not to ask too much of fortune!’
Once the tribune had left, only Sabinus remained in the chamber; he was seated on the far couch, drying and polishing his sword and scabbard. Castus smiled; he too had always been sure to clean and maintain his equipment, instead of leaving the slaves to do it.
‘Play a round with me?’
His son glanced up, raising his eyebrows, then slipped the blade back into the scabbard. ‘I’d rather be excused, Father,’ he said. ‘There’s a rider leaving for Antioch at dawn, and I’d like to send a letter with him.’
‘Who are you writing to?’ Castus asked, more sharply than he had intended.
Sabinus was already on his feet. The slightest pause before he replied. ‘Just friends,’ he said, in a halting tone, and tried to smile. ‘I do have friends, you know!’
‘Of course,’ Castus said with an abrupt nod. He gave a gesture of dismissal, and Sabinus left the room.
Alone, Castus stared down at the empty grid of the game board. Five months, and he had still not established anything beyond a formal relationship with his son. Sabinus was determined, it seemed, to preserve the distinction of rank between them. Once, Castus thought, his son had been close to him. But now he was a man, and had his own life. He still wondered sometimes if Sabinus was embarrassed by his presence, even angered by it.
With a growl of displeasure, Castus set the pieces back on the board and began shifting them around, attempting to play against himself. A question came to him: who were these friends of his son’s in Antioch, and what was he telling them? At once he tried to suppress the thought, but already it was turning in his mind, spinning remorselessly into suspicion. No, he told himself, he could not allow himself to think like that. If he started to suspect even his own son… But he had noticed that Sabinus was devoted to Caesar Constantius, just as he had been devoted to Crispus as a boy. A terrible sour premonition rose in him. Who better to act as a spy than his own son, after all? He snatched up a handful of playing pieces and squeezed them in his fist, as if he could grind the glass to powder. He could not believe it. He must not.
**
Thunder the next morning, and the clouds pressed down like a black iron lid over the plain as the retinue rode onwards towards the city of Hierapolis. Castus had slept badly, racked by guilt and suspicion; he shrugged off Egnatius’s attempts at conversation, ignored the ongoing debates between Diogenes and Hormisdas, and rode in grim silence.
It was mid-afternoon, the thunder still growling and lightning flickering away across the drab desert to the south, when Castus saw the two scouts galloping back down the road towards the head of the column. He sat upright in the saddle; one of the men was holding the corner of his cloak bunched above his head. Enemy in sight.
‘Persians!’ the scout cried as he approached. ‘Persian cavalry – lots of them – up in the village ahead!’
‘Impossible!’ Egnatius said, but his hand was already on his sword hilt. Then the second scout confirmed the report of the first.
Castus made a calming gesture, but he felt the shock of the news chilling his blood. They were still fifteen miles from Hierapolis, well to the west of the Euphrates; the Persian frontier lay hundreds of miles away. Surely the scouts were mistaken?
Or perhaps not. Could it be, Castus wondered as the initial shock turned to dread, that the Persians had launched a surprise attack towards Antioch, and this was the vanguard of their force? Even a raiding party, if it had penetrated this far, was surely much stronger than the handful of troops in Castus’s retinue.
Fighting down a shudder, he unpinned his cloak and slung it over the saddle behind him, then took his helmet from its leather bag. ‘Close up,’ he said quietly. ‘No signals – but I need every man ready at my command.’
Egnatius saluted, and passed the orders back down the column. Castus glanced at Sabinus, and caught his grave nod. Then he shook the reins, nudged with his heels, and moved forward at a trot.
He could see the village on the horizon now. Just a low cluster of buildings beside the road, orchards around it and a line of cultivation that followed a stream bed. Then he saw the figures against the skyline: mounted men, fanning out to block the road. He heard the thumping of massed hooves as Egnatius’s men closed into a wedge formation. The line of riders up ahead remained motionless, merely watching as the Roman force approached.
‘Persians, sure enough,’ said Egnatius, moving up on Castus’s left. By now they could see the glint of the riders’ horse trappings, the bright embroidery beneath their dun-coloured riding coats. Some wore tall, silvered helmets. ‘But what are they doing here?’
Castus shook his head, frowning. There was something uncanny about the Persian riders; they appeared unconcerned, almost relaxed. A dozen spanned the road, with the same number again waiting to either side. At his command, Castus knew, the wedge of armoured horsemen behind him could blast straight through their thin cordon. He raised his hand, slowing his horse to a walk.
Hormisdas was riding right behind him. ‘I’d not think less of you if you stayed back,’ Castus told him.
‘There is n
o war between our peoples yet,’ the Persian replied. ‘Besides, you might need a translator!’
Little more than twenty long paces between them, and Castus drew his horse to a halt. From this distance, he could make out the weaponry of the Persians. No spears or lances, but every rider carried on his hip a long straight sword with a curving ornamental hilt and a bow cased on his saddle. And every man had the hilt of his sword tied to the scabbard with a red silk cord.
Egnatius rode forward a little further, the standard-bearer following him with the long purple tail of the draco flapping in the damp breeze.
‘Clear the road!’ the tribune cried. ‘Clear the road, in the name of his excellency Flavius Aurelius Castus, Magister Equitum per Orientem!’
As Egnatius spoke, Castus saw another rider coming from the direction of the village. A tall man on a high-stepping black horse; the Persians on the road parted as he turned a brisk circle and took up a position at their centre.
‘Magister,’ Hormisdas said in an urgent whisper, leaning from his saddle. ‘I recognise that man; he is a wuzurg, a great noble. Be careful. His name is Zamasp. He’s dangerous.’
Castus gave the prince a curt nod, not turning his head. His eye was drawn first to the newcomer’s mount. He knew little about horses, but this was certainly the most magnificent animal he had ever seen, glossy black and powerfully muscled, like an equine statue come to vivid life. The bridle and trappings were adorned with gold ornaments and blue silk tassels. Compared to the Persian nobleman’s horse, Castus’s own solid gelding resembled a draught animal.
But the rider was almost as impressive. Zamasp sat straight in the saddle, not even touching the reins but controlling his mount with the pressure of his knees. He wore a long coat of deep blue silk worked all over with silver embroidery, with the glint of scale armour showing beneath. His hair flowed in black ringlets over his shoulders, his beard was cut square and his broad heavy moustaches were curled up into points like the tusks of a boar. Black kohl rimmed his deep-set unblinking eyes. But he glanced only briefly at Castus.
‘You have a piece of filth attached to you, Roman,’ he said in fluent Greek, gesturing towards Hormisdas. ‘You should shake it off, then wash thoroughly.’
Castus heard Hormisdas growl deep in his throat, but the prince made no answer. Zamasp’s finger brushed lightly at the silk cord tying his scabbard; Castus did not doubt that he could free his weapon quicker than sneezing if he wanted to. The black horse tossed its mane and stamped the dirt, then circled once more.
‘You heard the tribune, Persian,’ Castus said. ‘Dismount your men and get off the road, or we’ll ride you down.’
From the corner of his eye he could see Sabinus moving up to cover his left. The troopers of the Equites Armigeri had formed a line behind him. Somewhere in the distance the thunder rolled again.
‘I think not,’ Zamasp said. His horse tossed its head and pawed the road. ‘We are the escort of his excellency Vezhan Gushnasp, emissary of His Majesty Shapur, King of Kings, to the court of your emperor. Under the terms of the treaty between Rome and Iran-Shahr, we are entitled to accompany him, to protect against brigands and other such… inconveniences.’
‘There are no brigands here!’ Egnatius called. ‘And you should have Roman troops escorting you!’
‘Alas!’ Zamasp said, spreading his palms. ‘Our Roman escort was slow and lazy. We were obliged to leave them on the riverbank.’
Castus nudged his horse forward a few more steps. He noticed the Persian shift in his saddle, his hand straying closer to his sword once more.
‘You’ve got an envoy with you?’ Castus growled. ‘Where is he?’
‘If you wish to prostrate yourselves before his excellency Vezhan Gushnasp, my men would be honoured to conduct you to him.’
‘I don’t put my face in the dirt for anyone,’ Castus replied. ‘Bring him out here, or I’ll consider you raiders, or spies.’
Zamasp leaned back in his saddle. His hooked moustaches twitched. He moved his hand away from his sword, fingers spread. ‘As escorts to the envoy,’ he said, ‘we have diplomatic status. Also, as you see, our weapons are tied. We come… in peace.’ He said the word with a smile, as if he considered it a joke.
‘You’re no threat to us, Persian. We outnumber you two to one.’
‘And one of my Aswaran is worth five of your troopers. So?’
‘You have a strange idea of diplomacy.’
Zamasp laughed suddenly, appearing genuinely amused. Then he sat forward in the saddle and peered at Castus.
‘So this is the great general that the emperor of Rome sends to confront us?’ the Persian said. ‘What is your name again? Festus...? Crestus?’
Castus breathed in, careful not to show his anger, then walked his horse forward a few more steps. He could feel the big gelding growing restive, the horse’s heavy muscles flexing.
‘I confess I’m disappointed,’ Zamasp went on. ‘I was expecting a more formidable figure. Instead I see an old man with the face of a peasant, who speaks Greek like a rather stupid schoolboy. Is this really the best that Rome can do?’
‘Enough of your abuse, Persian!’ Sabinus cried, riding forward to join Castus. His hand was on the hilt of his sword.
Instinctively, Castus reached out and took his arm. ‘Stay back,’ he said quietly.
But Zamasp had caught the gesture. His smile grew broader. ‘You have a hot-headed young friend there, general,’ he said. ‘A handsome one too. I see you’re keen on him! So it’s true what they say about you Romans and your fancies?’
Castus clenched his back teeth. He could sense the bristling anger of the men behind him. The Persian must know that his goad was biting; he appeared to be enjoying himself. But Castus could see the tension in his man’s body, his hard steady eyes; he was ready for combat at any moment. The big gelding blew angrily and tossed his head as Castus walked him forward again. The two battle-trained horses eyed each other, heads pressed back and chests out.
‘Summon your envoy here now,’ Castus said. ‘I’ll talk to him, not to his bodyguard.’
A scream came from the field to the left of the road. Castus glanced quickly: running figures, a galloping horse. Some of the slaves from the baggage train must have gone to collect water at the stream and met the Persians there. He glanced back, and caught the movement of Zamasp’s hand unlashing the cord from his scabbard. With a kick of his heels, he pushed the gelding forward.
Zamasp grabbed for his reins as his horse shied. Too slow; Castus’s gelding had lashed his head forward, biting at the black animal’s neck. The Persian swept his sword free, fury creasing his face as his mount reared and spun, dancing on its hind legs. At once every rider behind him had snatched the bow from his case and nocked an arrow; every trooper of the Equites Armigeri had his spear raised.
‘Peace!’ a voice shouted in Greek, then in Persian. ‘Put down your weapons, I beg you!’
From the direction of the village a figure was approaching fast, mounted on a grey pony. The envoy, Castus guessed; the man was still wearing a sleeping tunic under his cloak.
Zamasp walked his horse backwards, retying the cord on his weapon. Castus glared at him, then slipped the spatha back into his scabbard and turned to the approaching envoy. A slave was running behind the newcomer, carrying a palm branch on a pole.
‘Magister,’ the envoy said, bowing his head and spreading his hands as he joined Castus. ‘I apologise for any misunderstanding! The hazarbed Zamasp sought to give no offence.’
Zamasp said nothing. Clearly, Castus thought, whatever the supposed difference in status, the military commander was the dominant one here. A couple of the Persian riders had dismounted and were attending to the wound on the neck of their leader’s horse. Zamasp sat in the saddle, arms folded; the horse pawed the ground, looking almost insulted.
‘We’ve heard nothing about any Persian embassy crossing our frontier,’ Castus said, frowning at Vezhan Gushnasp. ‘You claim you left your Roman gu
ards at the river – why?’
‘An unfortunate delay, magister,’ the envoy said in faultless Latin, regaining his composure now the threat of immediate violence had receded. ‘We are waiting here for our escort to catch up with us, in fact.’
Castus noticed Zamasp’s disdainful shrug. Clearly the Persians had intended to ride all the way to Antioch unescorted, and demonstrate the laxity of the Roman defences. He scowled, fighting down his anger, and looked back at the column behind him: he was unwilling to detach any of Egnatius’s men to watch over the Persians, and did not doubt that Zamasp would find a way to lose them if he did. But he could at least send a rider to warn the commander of the next Roman garrison.
‘And I cannot understand,’ the envoy went on, ‘why you were not informed of our presence! As you know, I visited the Augustus Constantine in the summer of last year. My king, His Mazda-worshipping Majesty Shapur, is eager that I should speak with your emperor again, and attempt once more to dissuade him from the reckless course of war.’
‘Reckless?’ Castus said, and snorted a laugh. He had heard in Antioch about the last Persian visit to Constantinople. More likely, he thought, King Shapur was just playing for time. And some of his nobles were less inclined to wait for the commencement of hostilities.
‘Your emperor wants to try his strength against us, as everyone knows,’ Zamasp broke in. The envoy shot him a warning glance, but the Persian commander ignored it. ‘You are lucky that the King of Kings is a lover of peace. Others among us are not.’
‘So many people talking about peace these days,’ Castus said quietly, shaking his head. The black-rimmed eyes glared back at him. To either side, the two groups of armed riders waited in formation, watching each other.
‘Remove your men from the road,’ Castus said, turning to the envoy. ‘You will remain here in this village until I send a replacement guard to you from Hierapolis. My garrison commanders will be instructed to treat you as hostile invaders if you go any further west without a proper escort.’
