by Ian Ross
‘It’s your house,’ Castus said. ‘I was just enjoying the peace, to be honest.’
‘Ah, yes. Peace.’
From the street below they heard the sound of laughter, a woman singing, the cry of a child.
‘Is it true what they say?’ Sohaemia asked. ‘Is the emperor really dead?’
Castus looked at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s true.’
‘I thank you for not pretending otherwise. Nobody likes to be treated as a fool.’ She drew closer, turning to face him. ‘So in whose name will you fight your battles?’ she asked.
‘In the name of Rome. As I’ve always done.’
‘So it doesn’t matter to you who sits on the throne? Your rulers are interchangeable? Their faces alter but their essence remains the same.’
‘It’s not a matter for discussion,’ Castus said with a twitch of annoyance. ‘Nisibis is part of the Roman Empire, and so I’ll defend it. That’s all the certainty I need.’
‘It must be nice to live in such a simple world!’ she said. But she was smiling, and Castus could only shrug. He remembered all too well the attraction he had felt for this woman at their last meeting. How long ago that seemed now. But the same feelings stirred in him now.
‘Do you think,’ she said, gesturing towards the city spread below them, ‘that all those people down there care for the Roman Empire, or who rules it? Rome is far away. They care about their own homes, their families, their livelihoods. Their city too. Does it matter to them whether Rome rules them, or Shapur?’
‘You husband seems eager enough to show his loyalty.’
Sohaemia laughed lightly. ‘Yes, doesn’t he? Vorodes is very proud of his Roman ancestry. Proud of his status too, and at the moment you’re the one who can guarantee it.’
‘And what of you? You don’t feel the same way?’
She frowned, considering. ‘My grandmother was first cousin to Zenobia of Palmyra,’ she said, ‘and I trace my family back to the royal house of the Nabataeans. With a lineage like that, empires can seem quite transient things.’
Sohaemia let her shawl drop, uncovering her hair, and Castus caught her scent on the warm evening breeze.
‘You promised me that your emperor’s war would not affect Nisibis,’ she said in a low voice. ‘And yet now your emperor is dead, and war threatens us all. Even my own son must take up arms.’ She moved a step closer to him. ‘Try not to kill too many of us in your battles, general.’
‘You think I’m some kind of monster?’ Castus asked with a grimace.
‘No. I think you’re a man who cares so deeply for honour and duty that you’d sacrifice yourself for them. All I ask is that you don’t drag the rest of us down with you.’
A light cough disturbed them, and Sohaemia stepped back, rearranging her shawl. Lycianus stood in the doorway of the dining pavilion.
‘Magister,’ he said. ‘You need to see this.’
*
Leaving the curator’s house, Castus climbed the slope and crossed the paved square to the Strategion at a jog. He was breathing heavily as he reached the steps and scaled them to the terrace. A group of other officers were already standing there, all of them gazing towards the southern horizon. Castus joined them, shading his eyes with his scarred left hand. He saw only the countryside stretching empty to the horizon, the sky still lit by the last of the sun.
‘There,’ Lycianus said, pointing.
Castus squinted, and for a moment more he could distinguish nothing. When he raised his eyes he saw the glowing blueness, the pale disc of the moon. But as he dropped his gaze he noticed, all along the horizon, a belt of deeper colour like a stain seeping upwards to pollute the sky. His blood stilled.
‘The mother of dust,’ he breathed.
Lycianus nodded grimly. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘They’ll be making camp for the night. Tomorrow we’ll see them.’
Along the line of the terrace wall, men raised their fingers to their lips and then to the heavens, muttering quiet prayers to the protecting gods. Castus just clenched his jaw and stared. At least now he knew that Shapur was marching on Nisibis. And the dust raised by his enormous army was rising to fill the sky and blot out the moon.
XVIII
They heard the drums first, roaring across the plain at dawn in a constant low pulse of sound. The dust had settled in the night, but now it boiled up from the horizon once more in a thick brown pall that seemed to roll steadily towards the city, cloaking the Persian advance.
Castus was back on the terrace of the Strategion. He had been there since first light, sitting beneath an awning with his staff officers. Now, as the sun climbed the eastern sky, the vanguard of the Persian force came into view. Figures of men and horses seemed to form out of the haze, the heads of marching columns, banners hanging above them, their armour blazing.
‘They’re building a bridge of boats, about a mile downstream,’ Egnatius said, shading his eyes from the morning glare.
Castus squinted, wishing his own sight was sharper. He could see that the main enemy force was massing to the south-east of the city, on the higher ground beyond the river. But there were other columns away to the west, cavalry crossing the low marshy ground and moving up to encircle the city from the far side. The noise of the drums came and went, cut through by the high screaming of trumpets.
‘Look, there,’ Egnatius said, pointing. ‘Elephants. Scores of them!’
At first Castus could not make them out in the haze of sunshot dust. Then the haze shifted and he saw the hulking grey shapes: vast beasts moving slowly, carrying fighting towers and canopied howdahs on their backs. He felt a tremor of dread in his gut. He had seen elephants before, many years ago, but never as many of them.
‘Do you remember Eumolpius?’ Diogenes asked. The old secretary was sitting on a stool in the shade.
‘Of course,’ Castus said. Eumolpius had been his orderly and armour-bearer; he had died during the naval battle of the Hellespont, more than a dozen years before.
‘He always wanted to see an elephant, as I recall,’ Diogenes said. ‘A shame he never did! Perhaps he would have liked to be here now, eh?’
Castus gave a dry laugh. ‘I doubt many men alive have seen an array like this one.’
Except for the rapidly moving light cavalry on the flanks, the main Persian force advanced at a lumbering speed. Shapur was taking his time over the deployment. But that too was intentional, Castus realised. The Persian king was making a show of strength, trying to intimidate them. All around the walls of Nisibis men stood on the ramparts and stared at the massive force assembling before the city. There were plenty of civilians among them, serving in the newly mustered militia; others had climbed up onto the tops of the houses, and the roof of the temple near the Singara Gate. They would take word of the formidable enemy numbers back to their families. Soon all would know that they were surrounded by an unbeatable foe.
‘The Dirafsh-i-Kaviyan,’ Lycianus said, joining Castus on the terrace and pointing. Sure enough, Castus could make out the Persian royal standard flying above the centre of the main force. Just as Hormisdas had said, it was clearly visible even from this distance, the gold and gemstones glittering in the sunlight. Below it, Castus guessed, would be the king himself, although he could see nothing except massed ranks of cavalry.
‘Over to the left of the standard – you see the elephants with the tall towers?’ Lycianus asked. ‘That must be the royal harem. The Persian kings don’t travel anywhere without their women!’
Castus wished he had Hormisdas with him now, to point out the other units of the royal army and give some assessment of their relative worth. But the sun was beginning to hurt his eyes, and his face felt raw and creased from squinting so long. After a while, the vast Persian array seemed to blur into a slow dark tide that filled the plain and the high ground to either side of the city, steadily expanding to encompass it on both flanks.
All morning the deployment continued, the men on the walls of Nisibis remaining
at their posts as the sun rose to its zenith and the air became so hot it almost hurt to breathe. Now and again troops of enemy cavalry rode closer to the defences, but none came within range of arrows or artillery. By mid afternoon the dust had settled, and the Persian force was revealed in all its strength. Nisibis was completely surrounded.
‘Food, dominus,’ Vallio said, appearing at his side. The slaves behind him carried jars of wine and platters of bread and meat. ‘You need it.’
Castus acknowledged him with a grunt. He had eaten nothing that day, but the food just tasted like grit in his mouth and he could hardly swallow. The wine, well diluted, eased the tightness of his throat at least.
‘Report from the north gate, dominus,’ said the Protector Iovinus. ‘The sentries say the enemy have thrown a trestle bridge across the river a mile or so upstream, just above the ravine.’
‘So they can circle us at will!’ Egnatius said grimly.
But now there was a disturbance in the ranks of the enemy force arrayed to the south. Castus saw it, and stood up. The royal standard appeared above the heads of troops, and he could hear the noise of cheering; not like the tumult of a Roman army shouting out their acclamations, but more of a slow gathering chant.
‘The king,’ Lycianus said.
At first Castus could make out only a solid block of horsemen riding clear of the enemy lines, the standard flying above them. Then, as they got within a few hundred paces of the wall, they turned to the right and spread out. Both vanguard and rearguard were made up of heavy armoured lancers, cataphracts on scale-clad mounts, horses and men glittering with silver and gold, tall plumes and bright silk tassels. Their long lances weaved above them as they rode.
Between the two bodies of cataphracts was another group, men in bright costumes, some in armour. Court officials, Castus guessed, ministers, commanders and bodyguards. And at the heart of the retinue rode another figure, dressed entirely in purple, with a black beard and a bulbous white hat. At this distance, Castus found it hard to make him out, but he knew at once who the rider must be. Shapur, King of Kings and ruler of the Persian Empire.
‘I want a closer look,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
At the western end of the citadel mount, a cluster of old towers and buttresses stood directly above the city wall. It was a short walk from the Strategion, along an alley and through a gate, then down a narrow stone stairway that opened onto the ramparts. Followed by his officers and standard-bearer, Castus turned to the right at the bottom of the steps and paced northwards towards the Singara Gate. The Persian royal retinue had just doubled the far corner of the city wall and were negotiating the marshy ground to the south-west, still keeping just out of range of the defending artillery.
All along the ramparts, soldiers stood in the embrasures, craning outward to watch the king and his party. Castus paused and glanced back. As Shapur rode along the front line of his besieging troops, they appeared to form tighter ranks in his wake, shields raised in a solid wall. The sound of their cries rolled in great waves across the plain. ‘SHA-PUR! SHA-PUR! SHAH-AN-SHAH! PE-ROZ!’
But while the sight of the encircling army had filled the men on the walls with dread, the sight of the enemy king roused them to fury. As Shapur approached, the Roman defenders responded with jeers and cries of their own.
‘Bastard!’ yelled one grizzled legionary of the Sixth Parthica. ‘Go and wash your face in piss!’
‘Goat-fucker!’ another shouted. ‘Bugger off back to your perfume shop!’
Raucous laughter broke the spell of fear. Slowly a ragged chant was building along the wall, countering the roar of the Persians.
‘RO-MA VIC-TRIX! RO-MA VIC-TRIX!’
Then, as Castus jogged up the steps to the summit of the gate tower, the chant changed.
‘CONSTANTINE! CONSTANTINE!’
A shudder ran down his spine as he heard the dead man’s name. Either they don’t know, or they don’t care… But he grinned nonetheless. He had heard that same name chanted on battlefields all across the empire. It meant one thing – victory.
‘Constantine!’ he shouted, hoarse but loud, raising his fist. ‘Constantine lives and reigns!’
Cheering erupted around him, then the rattling clamour of blades on shield rims, spear-butts hammering the rampart paving, the stamping of hobnailed boots.
Shapur had paused as he reached the cluster of tower-tombs along the Edessa road, and seemed to be studying the fortifications. If he heard the noise, or noticed Castus’s draco banner flying over the gate, he gave no sign of it. He appeared entirely unconcerned by the bellowing of the defenders. Castus saw the king turn to one of his attendants, make a comment or give an order, then turn his horse and ride onward.
Then he noticed the man riding directly behind the king. Immediately he recognised the powerful jet-black stallion, the rich dark blue coat and the distinctive curving moustaches. Impossible to be sure, but the man appeared to be staring back at Castus.
‘Zamasp,’ he said under his breath, remembering the name. ‘I hoped never to see you again…’
The king moved onwards, leaving the serried ranks of his troops formed up behind him. In the simmering mid-afternoon sun the Persians stood immobile, their banners raised. Shapur and his party had dwindled into the distance, and soon Castus could make out only the dust they left behind them as they turned around the northern walls of the city. The king would make a complete circuit, he guessed. A gesture of ownership over the city and all within in. Anger beat in his chest, but the brief exultant rage had lifted his spirits. The men on the ramparts had subsided into silence once more.
‘Reckon he’ll do anything more today?’ Egnatius asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Castus said. ‘But we’ll keep the men at their posts for now. Best get some rest while we can.’
*
The night was hot and airless, and Castus slept only fitfully, starting awake at the whine of mosquitoes in the darkness of his bedchamber. A bright spear of moonlight came from the slot window, and from somewhere outside he could hear one of the sentries singing a mournful eastern-sounding lament.
It had been a long day, made all the more maddening by the enforced passivity. The Persians had maintained their display of encirclement all through the hours of the afternoon and evening, only returning to their camps around the perimeter of the city at nightfall. Castus knew they would be keeping strong piquets on all the roads and strongpoints, and maintaining patrols through the night, but he doubted they would make any attempt on the walls in darkness. Even so, his every nerve felt strung tight, and he could not still the thumping of his heart.
Whenever he closed his eyes he saw again the distant figure of Zamasp. He guessed the Persian officer must have been rewarded with promotion after his trip to Constantinople. He was clearly one of the king’s most senior commanders now: chief of the royal bodyguard, perhaps. He remembered the man’s mocking words when last they had met, on the rainy road to Hierapolis.
A high whine close to his ear, and Castus lashed out at the invisible insect. With a groan of frustration he tugged the sweat-dampened blanket over his head, trying to force himself back into sleep. The sentry’s song had ended now, replaced by the rasping pulse of crickets.
Then another sound reached him. Distant voices, a shout, and the noise of running footsteps. Castus sat up, throwing aside the blanket. For a few moments he heard nothing, then the sounds came again, more insistent now. Growling low in his throat, he swung himself out of bed and pulled on his tunic.
Outside in the vestibule, Vallio and the two other slaves were stumbling up from their pallets in confusion. Castus strode through the far door into the moonlit inner courtyard. The sound of shouting had grown to a tumult, but still too distant to make out. A figure appeared, running in panic and stopping himself: Metrophanes, the plump numerarius.
‘What’s happening?’ Castus demanded.
‘Dominus!’ Metrophanes replied. ‘It’s the Persians! They’re… inside the city!’
‘Gods!’ Castus felt a surge of almost sickening anguish rise through him. For two heartbeats he just stood, braced in the doorway. How had this happened? How had he failed so soon?
‘Vallio!’ he shouted. ‘Boots and kit – now!’
But the orderly was already scrabbling about in the darkened bedchamber, bringing Castus his boots and belt, his sword and armour. Cursing in frustration, Castus pulled them on and stood while Vallio tied the laces. He tugged the padded linen arming vest over his tunic, and was already striding across the courtyard as he threw the sword baldric over his shoulder. Vallio was following him, holding his cuirass and helmet.
‘Leave them!’ Castus cried. He needed to move fast; armour would only slow him down.
Torchlight met him as he jogged from the front doors of the Strategion. Lycianus was in the square outside with three of his Saracen scouts, all of them mounted. Egnatius was there too, and a groom was saddling Castus’s horse.
‘The alarm came from the Edessa Gate, dominus,’ Lycianus said, his voice grim and clipped. ‘We don’t know what’s happening yet, but some are saying the gates were opened and hundreds of enemy troops have already entered…’
‘Treachery!’ cried Egnatius. In the flaring torchlight every man’s face was distorted into a savage mask.
As soon as he was mounted, Castus led them off. Egnatius had a handful of his troopers behind him; a few more soldiers followed on foot. Castus could hear the screams clearly now, the shouts of panic coming from the streets below. The news was ripping through the city, rousing the sleepers in the porticoes and the sentries at their watchfires.
‘We need to avoid the central avenue,’ Egnatius called. ‘Too many people!’
Castus agreed. The last thing he wanted was to get caught in a mob of panicking civilians. As they rode down from the citadel mount, he turned his horse to the left, taking the narrower street that led behind the Bouleuterion and the Tychaeion precinct, northwards towards the Edessa Gate.
