by Ian Ross
Sunlight burst from above as the cloud thinned briefly, and with a shock Castus saw a Persian directly ahead of him. A black horse decked in scale and silken tassels, the rider in full armour and masked helmet, blue plumes on his shoulders. The mask turned, and in the black eyeholes Castus almost thought he could see the glint of recognition. His blood slowed, then the heat of rage burst through him.
‘Zamasp!’ he yelled into the whirling dust, and kicked his horse forward.
Another rider cut in from the left, galloping hard and then dragging back on the reins. His horse veered, and Castus saw that it was Sabinus. His son had a sword in his hand, raised to strike at the Persian. For one frozen moment, the two of them appeared perfectly matched. A vision of glory.
Then Zamasp drove his horse forward again, smashing into Sabinus’s lighter mount. The Persian whirled his mace, and brought it swinging down. Castus cried out as Sabinus tried to parry the blow. He saw the sword in his son’s hand break, Sabinus rolling backwards and plunging from the saddle.
Castus’s horse stumbled beneath him. Pitching forward, he grabbed for the saddle horns. Too slow: his sweating palm slipped on the leather, and he felt himself sliding as the horse went down on its knees. Move, move! He kicked one leg out, trying to throw himself clear as the animal fell. The stony ground raced up towards him, and he managed to wrench his body around. Then he crashed down on his back with a solid punch that left him stunned.
Silence. Even his heart was stilled. When he opened his eyes he saw bright blue sky far ahead, through the wavering funnel of dust. He inhaled slowly, feeling the ache of his ribs as his chest filled. But his cuirass and helmet had protected him from the worst of the impact. He flexed his arms, moved his legs: no bones broken, as far as he could tell. His sword was gone, the wrist-cord snapped, and he could hear his horse scrambling upright and cantering away from him.
Just lie here, a voice seemed to say. Just lie here and wait for death.
Shadows passed across him. Hooves clattered near his head, and a galloping horse leaped over him.
Where was Zamasp? Where was Sabinus?
Sabinus. With a roar of effort, Castus lifted his head and upper body and rolled onto one side. Pain rushed through him. Scrabbling in the stony dust, he managed to get his knees under him and lever himself up. His helmet felt twisted on his head, the nasal bar digging into his cheek. Cursing, furious, he wrenched the laces loose, pulled off the helmet and threw it aside.
On his feet, legs braced, he stared around him. For a few long heartbeats he could see only dead and dying men sprawled on the ground, fallen horses kicking their legs, a slew of discarded weapons and shields. The battle seemed to have passed on, and left him alone. Distant figures galloped around him, shrouded by dust.
Then the dust cleared, and he saw Sabinus struggling to his feet, the stub of a broken sword still clasped in his hand, Zamasp turning his horse to charge down on the fallen man. The Persian had his mace raised, and the scale skirts flapped and clashed around the legs of his mount.
‘Zamasp!’ Castus screamed again. He lurched forward into a staggering run, spreading his arms, his empty hands. ‘Zamasp, you piss-drinking bastard! Here I am – come and kill me!’
The Persian twisted in the saddle, and his horse shied and turned. The silver mask looked back at Castus. The metal was formed in an uncanny likeness of his face: the beard and the heavy hooked moustaches. It almost appeared to be smiling. The black eyeholes glared.
‘No!’ Sabinus was shouting. ‘Father – no!’
But Zamasp was already spurring his powerful horse forward again, directing its charge towards Castus. And Castus was still running. He stooped, stumbling, and snatched a fallen cavalry spear from the ground. The oncoming horse and rider appeared larger than life, a huge statue of iron and gilded bronze driven into unnatural motion. For a brief instant, Castus had the unnerving sense that he had lived this moment before. This was death, he thought, bearing down on him… But if he died, then his son would die too. The battle would be lost.
Then all thought was gone.
Castus levelled the spear like a javelin. He took a last few running paces, then aimed the weapon directly at Zamasp’s armoured chest.
Before he could throw, Sabinus rushed in from the left and hurled the stub of his broken sword. The weapon spun once in the air, then struck the head of the charging horse. The animal screamed, flinging up its muzzle, and just as Castus brought his arm forward he saw a chink of blackness open between the armour of its neck and head. He lunged, hurling the spear, and the shaft quivered as it flew.
Zamasp reared back in the saddle as the iron head of the spear plunged straight through the gap in the horse armour, sinking deep into the animal’s throat. Castus threw himself to one side, and as he scrambled back upright he saw the charging horse collapsing forward in a spray of dust. The Persian commander had let his mace fall, flinging his arms out wildly, but as the saddle dropped beneath him he was hurled forward, the bindings that lashed him to the animal’s back tearing loose.
The armoured body appeared to vault in the air, over the neck of the falling horse. Castus pushed himself onward again, staggering. Zamasp was sprawled on his back, but already he was trying to stand.
With a slew of grit Castus slid to the ground beside the fallen Persian. He had no weapon, only his fists, the bulk of his body and his desperate fury. Throwing himself across the armoured body, he pinned the Persian down and grappled him, seizing his wrist with his left hand as the man aimed a punch at his head. Zamasp twisted violently, trying to roll Castus off him, trying to kick his legs and lever himself upright. But he was constrained by his armour, the stiff links of scale and mail, the crush of metal. Sucking in fast ragged breaths, Castus straddled the fallen man’s chest, pressing down on him with all his weight. The silver mask stared up at him, impassive, but Castus could see the Persian’s eyes inside the black sockets, hear the hissing from the mouth slot.
Zamasp thrashed his arms, his helmeted head jerking from side to side. He was fiercely strong; at any moment he would throw Castus off him. Swinging his fist, Castus punched at the side of the Persian’s helmet; he barely felt the skin of his knuckles split. He flung out his right arm, and his fingers closed around something on the ground. A rock, half the size of a man’s head. Seizing it, he lifted the rock and swung it up, then smashed it down onto the helmet crest.
A clang of metal, and Zamasp jolted and writhed. He was trying to get his arm free of Castus’s grip. Again Castus struck with the rock, beating it down onto the silver mask. He released Zamasp’s wrist and reared upright, lifting the rock with both hands above his head. Then, with all his strength, he slammed it down again.
A muffled cry from behind the mask, and Castus felt a jolt run through the Persian’s body. Again he raised the rock, with a furious gasp between his clenched teeth. Again he slammed it down, beating a dent into the polished silver of the mask. He had a sudden memory of his father’s forge; himself, as a child, beating hot metal on the anvil. He raised the rock a third time, and then a fourth, hammering it down in a steady relentless frenzy, until he saw the blood bursting from the mask’s eyeholes and the rents in the metal, and Zamasp lay still.
Castus let the gore-spattered rock fall from his grip and rolled sideways off the armoured body to sprawl in the dust. Sabinus took his arms, dragging him a short way clear and then kneeling beside him. He lifted him, bracing his head against one knee, and Castus could hear his son crying out for a water-carrier. His throat rasped, and he tasted blood as he tried to grin.
Other men were around them now, one of them carrying Castus’s draco standard on its tall pole, and a couple of troopers of his escort, guarding him with their shields. Castus gripped Sabinus tightly, too weak and dazed even to try to stand. Somebody handed him a flask, and he gulped back watered wine.
He was still lying like that when Egnatius found him. The cavalry tribune dropped to one knee beside him and pulled off his helmet. ‘Excellency!
’ he cried. ‘Should we signal the general advance?’
‘Advance?’ Castus asked, dazed. It hurt even to speak.
‘We drove the Persians back, excellency,’ Egnatius explained hurriedly. ‘We closed the gap in the line… The Saracens have hooked around on the right flank and taken their camp. The enemy are in full retreat! Should we make the signal?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Castus said, wide-eyed in bewilderment. He was dragging himself up, Sabinus supporting his shoulders. Together they struggled to their feet.
Away on the far horizon, beyond the dust and the massed lines of troops, smoke was rising. Trails of it, curling up into the hot blue sky from the direction of Prince Narses’ encampment. Leaning on his son’s shoulder, Castus heard the trumpets wailing, the cheers of the infantry as the lines tightened and began to move. All across the far slopes he could see horses and riders, fleeing the battle in confusion.
The men around him were laughing, embracing each other in the joy of victory. Summoning the last ebb of his strength, Castus forced himself to stand upright, chin raised.
‘Now,’ Sabinus said. ‘Now we’ve won.’
‘Roma Victrix! Roma Victrix!’ the men of his escort were shouting, punching the air in exultation. Castus could only grit his teeth, as the tears coursed through the dust on his face. Yes, he thought. Yes, this is truly victory. Though he could barely believe it.
*
For hours the slaughter continued. The advancing infantry crushed any remaining knots of defiant Persians, while the cavalry swooped across the slopes cutting down the fugitives and herding thousands of prisoners before them. Most of the surviving cataphracts had fled west, into the ravines that dropped to the banks of the Tigris; many drowned in the river, dragged down by the weight of their armour.
But the battle had been truly won by Hind and her Tanukhid Saracens; after driving off the Lakhmids on the right flank they had formed up and ridden in a wide arc across the high ground to the east, falling on the lightly defended Persian camp in a screaming wave of destruction. Narses’ bodyguard had died fighting to a man, and the prince himself had been killed while he was trying to escape. Then the wild plundering had begun.
The remains of the camp were still burning now, a mass of embers on the hillside as the day fell into evening. Castus stared at them from the roof of the mud-brick house where he had spent the previous night. He sipped wine, and tried not to think too much about the violence the Saracens had wreaked on the Persian slaves and camp followers. Such things were part of war, and he had known them all his life. But there was nothing honourable or glorious about it. All victories bore their tide of wanton bloodshed.
Of the plunder taken from the enemy camp he had seen little. Hind had sent him the princely diadem and pearl-encrusted slippers taken from the body of the dead Narses, and a wooden chest inlaid with silver that her warriors had found in the Persian leader’s headquarters. It was filled with documents, rolled parchment and vellum scrolls, tightly packed. The Saracens had no use for such things, but they knew that Romans were strangely keen on them.
Now the chest stood open beside Diogenes, who sat on the low parapet of the rooftop with his legs crossed beneath him, picking through the contents.
‘Anything of worth?’ Castus asked him.
Diogenes frowned, holding one of the unrolled parchments close to his face and peering at it in the low evening light. He dropped it and took another.
‘They’re mostly written in court Persian,’ he said, ‘and I find the Pahlavi script rather hard to decipher. But as far as I can make out a lot of the documents are in verse. Apparently our Prince Narses was a poet. Although not, from the looks of things, a very good one.’
Castus grunted. ‘He should have spent more time learning to fight!’
‘Hm,’ Diogenes said. ‘I’ll see what I can discover from them. But I suspect our friend Hormisdas might be a better judge. We could give them to him, if we return to Antioch…’
If, Castus thought. A sour turbulence rose inside him. For so many days he had refused to think about what would happen next. He had concerned himself only with the battle ahead, bending his mind towards it utterly, erasing all other considerations. But now the battle was won, and he was still alive. Marcellina and Aeliana were still prisoners in Antioch, and Mucatra was still out to the west somewhere with his army, blocking his road home.
He might have beaten the Persians, but he was still a condemned traitor.
A cry from the street below him, and Castus gazed down from the rooftop to see Hind and a party of her Saracen horsemen cantering back through the village. She slowed as she saw him up on the rooftop, and raised her hands high, grinning.
‘Aurelios Kastos!’ she yelled. The men behind her let out whooping cries, brandishing their spears. Standing beside the low wall, Castus saluted them as they passed.
He envied them, he realised. For Hind and her people, there were no borders and no laws, beyond friendship and revenge. Their gods demanded nothing of them, and they owed nothing to any earthly ruler. There was only the open desert, the open sky. For them, victory was a pure thing, to be relished in freedom, without doubt or dismay.
But for him, the future held only confrontation.
XXXII
On the open plain to the east of Nisibis, two armies faced each other. A thousand strides of parched ground lay between their camps; at the midpoint, two parties of horsemen approached and drew to a halt. Both of them carried trailing draco standards, limp in the motionless air. Far off to either side, the soldiers at their fortifications watched the meeting, and tried to guess what was passing between those distant figures, hazy in the afternoon heat and inaudible above the constant death rattle of the cicadas.
‘Respect,’ Castus spat. ‘He dares to use that fucking word?’
‘Respect and dignity,’ the officer facing him said. He was a handsome strong-jawed man, and his burnished cuirass gleamed in the sun. ‘As I say, you’ll be treated with the respect and dignity due to your former position – if you lay down your arms, give up your command and surrender yourself to his excellency Valerius Mucatra.’
‘And where is he, this Mucatra?’ Castus growled. ‘If he respects me so much, why doesn’t he come out here and talk to me? The Thracian bastard’s hiding in his tent, I expect, too ashamed to show his face!’
The officer was trying to appear dignified himself, but he had a sour pinched expression, as if he had tasted something unpleasant. Castus knew him; he was one of the men that he had dismissed from military command the previous summer. Perhaps, he thought, this very officer had been one of those who had sent men to try and murder him in his chambers. Now Mucatra had reinstated the man, and sent him out here to deliver his messages.
‘Surrender yourself,’ the officer went on, ignoring Castus’s comment, ‘and you will be conducted back to Antioch, to face trial before the proper authorities.’
‘On what charge?’
The officer widened his eyes just slightly, his nostrils flaring. Clearly he had not expected to have to explain further. ‘On… on a charge of treason against the emperor!’ he stammered. ‘There is evidence against you – written evidence.’
‘Fabricated evidence!’ Egnatius called from away to Castus’s right. Sabinus sat calmly in the saddle on the opposite side, with Iovinus and the standard-bearer
‘You have until dawn tomorrow,’ the officer snapped, then pulled his reins to turn his horse, signalling his escort to follow him.
‘Or what?’ Castus said.
But the man gave no answer as he turned and rode away towards the lines of his army.
‘They’re serious, do you think?’ Egnatius asked.
‘We have to assume they are,’ Castus told him.
His anger was fading to a grim sense of despair. He barely heard the trumpets as he passed back through his own lines, or noticed the salutes of his officers. He rode with his head straight and his jaw set, only dismounting when he reached his command enclosure.
Pacing through the circuit of guards, he entered his tent. His hands felt unsteady, and Vallio had to help him unpin his cloak and unbuckle the straps of his cuirass. Freed of their weight, he sank down onto a stool and braced his elbows against his knees. There was food on the table, cold meat and fruit, but he did not feel at all hungry. There was wine too, and he poured himself a cup and drained it in three long swallows. Perhaps, he thought, things would make more sense if he got drunk?
Already he had delayed as long as could. Seven days had passed since the battle, and he had marched his troops back westwards in easy stages, pausing at intervals to send out scouts and gain information. But now Mucatra had intercepted him, and he could evade this decision no longer.
Twelve thousand Roman soldiers were under his command, allowing for casualties; there were Hind’s three thousand Saracens too, camped in the groves and abandoned villages to the south. How far would they back him now? Castus had led them to victory, and they had been in good spirits during the march back west. But he knew what victorious soldiers wanted: cheering crowds and acclaim, rewards and trophies. A safe return to their homes and their families. After war must come the blessings of peace. Instead, he had led them into a new confrontation, this time with their own comrades.
No, he thought, that must never happen. He had seen enough bloodshed during the civil wars. Enough of Romans killing other Romans. Even if Mucatra sent troops into his camp to seize him, Castus would never order his own men to resist. No soldier would die fighting in his name.
And if he tried to fight, if he even tried to flee, word would get back to Antioch, and Marcellina and his daughter would pay the price for his actions.
With an anguished groan he stood up, gripping his head with both hands. It was impossible. He could trust no one now; a handful of his officers perhaps, but there would be few in the camp who did not know of the allegations against him. The rumours of treason they had heard weeks before, confirmed now. Even the guards that protected his own quarters could not be trusted. There was no way out.
