Triumph in Dust

by Ian Ross

  Dust exploded around them, Sabinus and two mounted troopers plunging between Castus and his assailants. Slumping in the saddle, Castus saw his son hack at the Persian officer, a single blow almost cleaving the man’s shoulder. He raised himself, hissing a breath through his teeth, and the pain punched up into his chest.

  ‘Father, are you wounded?’ Sabinus cried, seizing the bridle of his horse.

  ‘No,’ Castus managed to say. ‘No – just bruised, I think… let’s go!’

  He could barely feel his arms as he recovered and sheathed his sword. No idea of direction, or any real notion of his surroundings. Castus concentrated on staying upright, remaining in the saddle and keeping close behind his son.

  They rode onwards, with the stormclouds rolling dark plumes all around them. Lycianus appeared with two of his men, and reported that the enemy attack had been driven off. ‘They’re still out there, dominus, hanging on our flank,’ he said. ‘But with their commander down I don’t know if they’ll risk another attack.’

  ‘How far to the fort?’ Castus said through his teeth.

  ‘We could see it by now if the air was clearer!’

  Slowing the pace, they took time to regroup. Six riderless horses, and another three men missing. It could have been worse. Forming up, they rode onwards with Lycianus in the lead. Another fifty paces, then a hundred. Then, quite suddenly, they rode clear of the dust and into clean bright air and sunlight. The storm still towered at their backs, but up ahead of them was Praesidium Qatna, a foursquare mud-brick fort with towers at each corner, surrounded by a straggling village and patchwork of fields along the riverbank beyond.

  Castus wanted to sob in gratitude. Instead he ordered the trumpets sounded and the standards raised.

  Moments later, the gates were open and the ragged column was riding through the arch and into the central courtyard of the fort. Castus slid down from the saddle, took a waterskin and sluiced the dust and sweat from his scalp and face. Then he stood with teeth clenched, arms raised, as Vallio cut away the straps of his cuirass and prised the dented metal plates off his body. He shouted in pain as he lowered his arms again, then felt the relief flooding through him.

  The courtyard was packed with men and animals, camels milling and shaking dust, troopers unsaddling and rubbing down their sweating horses, others attending to the wounded and the bodies of the dead. Castus sat on the broad coping of the well while the slaves hauled up more skins of water. His whole torso felt bruised, his spine and chest aching fiercely. But he was shaken too, weak inside with the sensation of delayed shock and fear. That should not have happened. He was supreme commander of the Roman army in the east, by the emperor’s command, and he had almost thrown his life away in some chaotic desert skirmish. A swell of nausea rose in him and he swallowed it down, then drank water to hide his nervous discomfort.

  ‘You’re the Magister Equitum?’ said a dark-skinned man with curly greying hair, shoving his way through the throng. He appeared dubious of Castus’s identity.

  ‘I am,’ Castus told him, squinting. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Flavius Philippus, excellency,’ the officer replied, and saluted. ‘Praepositus commanding the garrison detachment of the Twelfth Palestinian Cohort.’

  ‘What are the enemy doing, praepositus?’

  ‘Not much,’ Philippus replied. ‘My sentries reckon there’s between one and two hundred of them out there, but they’ve mostly retreated to the east now. We’re more than strong enough to fight off any attempt they might make on the walls.’

  ‘Have they come in that sort of number before?’

  ‘Never!’ the officer said, wide-eyed. ‘I’ve been here five years, and all we’ve seen is occasional raiding parties, bandits and the like. The sarakenoi have never attacked us – they flee from our patrols.’

  Castus stood up with a grunt of effort. The praepositus led him up the steps to the rampart, Castus leaning heavily on Sabinus’s shoulder as he climbed. On the walkway above the main gate, they peered out across the desert to the east. The dust storm was passing now, the air clearing in its wake, and the enemy horsemen were disappearing with it. A few still lingered at the margins of the plain, lit strangely by the sun against the dark sky, but soon all had vanished below the horizon.

  ‘Think they’ll be back?’ Sabinus asked.

  Castus frowned, leaning forward onto the wall. If he put his weight on his hands, his bruised spine didn’t ache so badly. ‘Not for a while, and perhaps not at all,’ he said. ‘From here down to Circesium we’ll be following the Chaboras. No more open desert until we’re on the far side of the Euphrates.’

  He muttered a quick prayer, and touched his brow. With the luck of the gods, he thought, the riders that had ambushed them would not keep up their attack now their leader was dead.

  ‘Thanks for getting between me and that Persian,’ he said to Sabinus. ‘I think he had me there.’

  ‘I couldn’t see what was happening,’ his son said with a diffident shrug, staring at the desert. ‘I just acted on instinct…’

  Castus cuffed his shoulder. ‘You saved my life,’ he growled quietly. ‘Now accept my thanks.’

  Sabinus gave a taut smile. Clearing his throat, Castus looked to the east once more. He remembered what Lycianus had said to him at dawn, and knew now that it must be true. Only the chance of killing or capturing him had led the desert tribes, usually so cautious, to attack such a strong target. The Persian officer leading them must have received good intelligence of his movements. A spy, or an informer, Castus thought. At least now he knew that he had been betrayed.

  And from now on he would be ready for anything.

  XII

  Forty days later, eighty miles west of the Euphrates, Castus sat on a low dais in the shade of an awning, waiting for the barbarians.

  He had already been waiting for some time. At Circesium he had delayed for ten days, and at Palmyra for ten more, and for all that time Lycianus was sending his scouts and messengers out into the surrounding wilderness to make contact with the chiefs and minor kings of the Tanukhids and their allies, summoning them all to the assembly. Now, finally, the day had come.

  Out beyond the margins of the camp, beyond the troops of Legion I Illyricorum waiting in formation in the boiling sun, and the scrubby fringes of the palm groves that surrounded the oasis to the south, the open plain was a scene of activity. Castus could see what looked like vast numbers of camels and horses, herds of goats and figures on foot, all of them milling in the shimmering distance. Far away, towards the sand dunes that lined the horizon, dark tents were going up as the various tribal retinues made camp. And approaching, slowly and steadily from the wavering heat of mid-afternoon, came the chiefs and kings themselves.

  ‘Why do we have to go through this charade with these brigands?’ Sabinus asked. He was standing just behind Castus’s stool, dressed in his cuirass with his helmet under his arm. ‘Why not just send them their orders? They’re supposed to be our allies.’

  ‘That’s not the way the tribes do things,’ Lycianus told him, standing on Castus’s opposite side. ‘They have their treaties with us, but those treaties are made with individuals, not states. Your father here is a representative of the emperor, so commands their respect. A messenger could never do that.’

  ‘And why do we need the respect of barbarians?’ Sabinus asked quietly.

  ‘We don’t,’ Castus said tersely. ‘But we need them to do what we want and keep our southern flank secure. And for that, it helps if they respect us.’

  ‘Otherwise they could just melt away into the desert,’ Lycianus said. ‘Or even change sides, who knows?’

  Yes, Castus thought, the Saracens could well do that. But he needed their compliance; they were the last piece of the strategic plan that he needed to assemble. The ides of May had come and gone; now everything else was prepared. The troops in the field army camps around Antioch were ready to march, the frontier commanders knew their orders and had contributed their detachments
; the flotillas of supply barges were already congregating at Barbalissos and Soura on the Euphrates.

  And, only the day before, Castus had received notification that the emperor had finally set off for the east himself. Constantine would be in Antioch by the end of the month, ready to take command and lead the invasion of Persia. And at that point Castus’s task would be done. He had received a letter from Marcellina as well, telling him that she had just reached Antioch. The thought of laying down his command and returning to civilian life was bittersweet, but he was coming to relish it. Sitting here in his full regalia, the red general’s cloak around his shoulders, his repaired cuirass gleaming, surrounded by bodyguards and officers and the awesome symbolic might of Roman power, he longed more than ever for the easy comforts of home.

  A blast of trumpets broke into his thoughts. The troops lining the approaches tightened their ranks, spears glittering and standards raised, as the rather shambolic array of camel riders covered the last distance to the ring of tents and pavilions. The eight chiefs dismounted, slaves brought dishes of water for them to wash their hands, and then the Saracens were conducted through the cordon of guards and into the shaded area beneath the awning where Castus sat waiting for them. Each of them bowed deeply as he stepped onto the matting, then they settled themselves before him, sitting cross-legged. Their followers and attendants clustered behind them, fanning the flies away from them with palm-frond whisks.

  ‘Someone’s missing,’ Lycianus whispered, leaning closer. ‘Could we wait a little longer?’

  Castus shrugged, irritated already by the lengthy delays, the gathering heat, the protracted solemnity of the occasion. Slaves were moving around the half-circle, offering cups of fresh water – the desert Arabs, Lycianus had explained, did not drink wine.

  These Saracens of the Tanukhid tribes appeared far wilder than the men under Lycianus’s command. Wilder too, Castus thought, than the Lakhmid Arabs who had attacked him in the desert east of the Chaboras. While some of the chiefs wore tunics of Roman pattern, most of their followers wore only a pair of rough blankets, one around the waist and the other thrown across the shoulders. Their exposed skin was burned dark by the sun, and their hair was long and either matted into ropes or bound with a simple headband. They carried broad straight swords of hammered iron, long lances and bundles of javelins. Some of them appeared to be wearing Roman-pattern army boots, which they took off as they entered the shade. But Castus was drawn most to their faces; they were lean, raw-boned and hawkish, and each had a look of ferocious pride and disdain.

  But there was something else in their attitude, and it took Castus a while to spot it. Several of them would not meet his eyes, and all appeared guarded and evasive.

  ‘We’ve waited long enough,’ Castus said, swatting a fly from his face. The troops waiting outside would need to seek shelter from the sun very soon. ‘Welcome them, in the name of the emperor, and tell them what we require of them.’

  Lycianus took a step forward. But before he could speak, the sound of voices came from the bright dusty sunlight outside. Castus sat up, squinting into the glare.

  Another camel was approaching, a group of Arab riders on light ponies escorting it. The newcomers moved through the cordon of soldiers, the camel advancing almost to the edge of the tent enclosure. The chiefs beneath the awning had shuffled on their haunches, turning to face the new arrival.

  Mounted high on the camel was a young woman in a saffron-coloured linen tunic. The animal sank to its knees, and the woman stepped down from the tall saddle, her attendants rushing to assist her. Castus watched her as she walked towards the shelter of the awning. She was in her early twenties, he guessed, and her round face had a rather hard expression, belied by her very large kohl-rimmed eyes. Her black hair was braided and piled on top of her head, and she wore a heavy gold ring around her neck with a large medallion; Castus could just make out the portraits of the emperors, and a Christian symbol.

  ‘Who’s she?’ he said from the corner of his mouth.

  Lycianus let out a slow breath. ‘Her name is Hind,’ he said.

  The woman walked into the centre of the half-circle of seated chiefs. They shuffled aside, making space for her, and one of her attendants brought a folding stool for her to sit on, facing Castus. The woman had not smiled; she appeared not to have blinked.

  ‘She’s another of their chiefs?’ Castus asked in a whisper.

  ‘She’s the widow of Imru al-Qays,’ Lycianus said, leaning closer. ‘Their last king… I haven’t seen her for years.’

  By the tone of his voice, Castus guessed that it was not a happy reunion.

  And now he saw the attendants bringing another figure into the shade of the awning, a boy of about seven or eight years old, dressed like his mother. This, he guessed, would be the posthumous son of Imru al-Qays. The sole surviving heir to the King of the Tanukhids. Several of the chiefs muttered what sounded like greetings, although Castus could hear the hostility in their voices.

  ‘This isn’t good,’ Lycianus said, beneath his breath.

  Castus frowned a question at him – Lycianus had not mentioned this woman Hind to him before – but now the assembly of chiefs had fallen silent and turned to face him. The woman in the centre was sitting very straight, hands folded in her lap and her head tipped back, gazing at Castus with a frank and disconcerting directness.

  ‘As before,’ Castus said to Lycianus with weary patience. ‘Greetings, in the name of Constantine Augustus and the Caesar Constantius, and give them the speech…’

  He and his officers, together with the Dux Phoenicis who commanded the troops in the province, had agreed the wording the day before. The Saracen leaders would be told of the forthcoming war between the Emperor of Rome and the Persians, and asked to renew the treaties, the symmachia, agreed by their forefathers. The speech took quite some time, the fluid vowels of the Arabic language blending into one another.

  Castus sat still, barely listening as he studied the faces of the chiefs. Some nodded; others appeared wary. But the woman, Hind, sat upright and unmoving. The boy sitting beside her fidgeted. There was an impressive assurance in her attitude, Castus thought, all the more striking as she was the only woman in an assembly of men. He had a sudden memory from long ago. Another barbarian woman he had known, whose presence had been as commanding. Cunomagla had been a chieftainess of the Picts in northern Britain, and Castus remembered her well. She too had had a young son, and desired to rule in his name. Apprehension stirred in his gut, mingling with fascination. This woman Hind was not as impressive in appearance as Cunomagla had been. And set beside Marcellina, or even the wife of the curator of Nisibis, she could almost have appeared plain. But there was a bold fervour in her unblinking stare, the way she tipped back her head and confronted Castus and his officers.

  Lycianus finished his speech, and Castus gestured for the gifts to be presented. Fine swords, forged in Damascus of Roman cavalry pattern – one for each of the chiefs. The soldier presenting them hesitated before Hind, glancing back at Castus, who nodded. One for her as well.

  ‘Is it usual for the Saracens to be led by women?’ he asked Lycianus in a whisper.

  ‘Sometimes,’ the scout commander replied, speaking equally quietly. ‘But this one’s very young, and inexperienced. Some of the other chiefs don’t trust her. They don’t care for her religion either.’

  Castus snorted a quick laugh. ‘I’m with them on that,’ he said.

  One by one the chiefs raised their right hand and recited what Castus took to be their names and an oath of allegiance. Now only Hind remained. She raised her hand.

  ‘I am Hind bint Amr al-Hawari, wife of Imru al-Qays, mother of Nu’man, King of all the Tanukh,’ she said in heavily accented Greek. Her voice was high and nasal, rather harsh, but she spoke clearly. ‘It gives me great joy to swear friendship with Rome. My people too are joyful. Soon we will behold the blessed face of the Holy Emperor Constantine and his son! Joyfully we will spill the blood of Rome’s en
emies!’

  Castus blinked, nonplussed. ‘You speak Greek very well, kyria,’ he said.

  ‘Yes! It was taught to me by the most holy Pamfilos, our bishop, who was carried to heaven by Almighty God.’ She raised her hand, one long finger pointing at the sky. ‘We give praise to Great Jesus that soon a new bishop will be sent to us by the Most Blessed Emperor!’

  Castus cleared his throat, trying to hide his surprise. A couple of the other Saracen chiefs were mumbling what sounded like complaints. One raised his hand towards Hind, crying out something and then gesturing towards Castus.

  ‘They don’t like her speaking in Greek, I take it?’ Castus asked Lycianus, switching into Latin.

  ‘They think she’s trying to set herself above them.’

  ‘Enough!’ Castus commanded, raising a palm. The chiefs fell silent. The shadow of a smile crossed Hind’s face.

  He had been intending to end the assembly at that point – already he was longing for the mosquito-haunted cool of evening – but before he could speak again Castus saw one of the Saracens setting a silver bowl on the matting. An attendant poured liquid into the bowl from a greasy-looking goatskin bag.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Fermented camel’s milk, dominus,’ the Dux Phoenicis said, leaning closer and pulling a sour face. ‘The Saracens drink it to seal their alliances.’

  ‘I can drink it for you, if you like,’ Lycianus added.

  ‘No,’ Castus said. He had delegated enough authority to the scout commander already. ‘Bring it here.’

  The chiefs nodded their appreciation as Castus took the brimming bowl. It was decorated with scenes of cavorting nymphs – a previous diplomatic gift, he wondered, or a raider’s plunder? – but the liquid inside was thick and yellow-white, scummed with floating globules of fat. It smelled atrocious.