Take – cinch – tie.
As he worked, Valens looked over the mule’s back at the tombs of the necropolis. Among the sculpted reliefs were portraits of the dead: men and women in respectable clothes, children clutching toys and pets. Here and there were carvings of the eagles that the pious hoped might carry their souls to a better place. The paint was peeling from many of the reliefs and some of the burials had been looted. Their doors gaped open, the interiors looming black in the sunshine.
This was an inauspicious place to begin the dangerous journey into Mesopotamia. Although the towns between the two rivers – the Euphrates and the Tigris – had changed hands more than once, for now they were held by the Romans. But the same could scarcely be said of the country between those walled settlements. It was rumoured to be a hard place, the landscape parched and unforgiving. Its inhabitants were lawless and cruel: bandits, nomadic tent-dwellers and Persian raiders. The gods alone knew what they would find in the mountains beyond.
To set out to travel hundreds of miles into enemy territory, to rescue a child from a well-guarded fortress, let alone to aim to escape across the wastes of the unknown Steppe, was madness. And those undertaking the desperate venture were not united. Yesterday had made it evident that Clemens the armourer loathed the easterners in the party. Today had revealed that Hairan despised Zabda the thief. And Severus mistrusted all those under his command, and had nothing but contempt for Valens himself. If he had still believed that the gods cared for humanity, Valens would have prayed.
CHAPTER 6
Mesopotamia
BY THE TIME THEY LEFT CARRHAE, the fifth day out from the Euphrates, the caravan had settled into a routine. Severus was an experienced cavalry officer. They took the first couple of miles at an easy walk, then halted for a quarter of an hour, adjusted the packs on the mules, let the horses have some water, checked their feet and tightened their girths. After that they alternated between a trot and a walk to avoid the muscles of the animals becoming fatigued by the same gait. They would rest for a few moments on the hour, longer at midday. Decimus would go down the line, testing the cinching on the mules and making sure that none of the saddles had slipped. Too far forward was easier on the rider, but bad for the mount.
They had come down through Batnae. Until they reached the plain of Carrhae, the road had run through bare ochre hills. They had met a few other caravans, and from time to time passed a black-tented Arab encampment. The tent-dwellers were half naked, their animals and children thin. The adults had watched the riders, silent and grave-eyed, too proud or apathetic to beg.
Although they had encountered no danger, the riders proceeded cautiously. While their armour and helmets were stowed with the baggage, each man had a sword on his hip, and a bow case and quiver, as well as a small round shield, slung from the horns of his saddle.
Severus had set the order of march. On the first day, Valens had suggested putting out scouts. Severus had overruled him. They were armed merchants, not a cavalry patrol. Even so, the officer ordered Hairan, who knew the country, to ride a couple of hundred paces ahead. Often the man of Hatra was out of sight in the hills, hidden by the lie of the land. Severus himself rode at the head of the column with Iudex, Aulus and Quintus. The four spare horses came next, led by Zabda. Behind him the ten mules, roped together, plodded along in single file after the bell-mare. Narses went with the mule train, under the eye of Decimus. At the rear, eating the dust kicked up by the hooves, were Valens and Clemens the armourer.
To begin with, Clemens had made it obvious that he was disinclined to speak. But, with the passing days, he had become a little less reserved.
‘What do you have against the easterners?’ Valens asked, passing over a skin of watered wine.
Clemens took a swig, and handed back the drink without answering.
‘They are soldiers of Rome, no different from us,’ Valens added.
Clemens frowned. His face was square, as if carved out of a block of stone. Lined and weather-beaten, it could have been the bust of some stern Roman senator from the days of the old republic.
‘Surely you do not really think they would betray us?’ Valens persisted.
‘They are not to be trusted.’ Clemens wiped his small, stubborn mouth. ‘I served out here, in Syria Palestina with the Sixth Legion, the Ironclad.’
‘But Narses and the others have taken the military oath,’ Valens said.
Clemens leant out from the saddle and spat. ‘Narses is a renegade. The Persian has betrayed his own people. He would not hesitate to do the same to us.’
‘Zabda?’
‘You should know, the Palmyrene is a thief. If that madman Iudex had not intervened, most likely he would have killed you. Palmyra is a desert shithole. Without Persian trade, it would not exist. Zabda’s countrymen serve in the armies of the King of Kings, hold office in the cities he rules.’
‘Hairan seems sound.’
Clemens snorted. ‘An exile from a destroyed city, a mercenary who sells his sword to the highest bidder, no family and no home to keep him loyal. Dresses like a Persian, speaks Persian, look at him.’
Ahead, through the dust of the caravan, Valens could see Hairan where the plain once again reached the hills. The bright colours of his loose tunic and wide trousers shimmered in the heat.
Clemens turned away, bringing the conversation to an end.
Like the mules, they followed the tinkling bell into the hills. The high country was bunched and cut by ravines. The surface of the track was white and powdery. It raised a fine grit, which worked its way into eyes, mouth and nose. The path twisted and dipped, crossed and recrossed dry watercourses. Naked slopes rose on all sides, shutting off the view. When they crested a rise, and the vista opened up, it revealed nothing but miles of yellowish-brown rock, turning pinkish in the distance with the heat of the afternoon.
When the sun was halfway down the cloudless sky, Valens began to think that it would soon be time to make camp. He was hot and tired. With fatigue the column had become stretched out. It was difficult to estimate how far they had travelled – about ten miles from Carrhae to the hills, after that possibly another fifteen along the track. Given the circuitous course of the latter, they would not have covered half so far towards the east.
Clemens was muttering under his breath. The armourer had given up swatting at the flies and was gazing around at the slopes. Perhaps he too was wondering how long before they would halt, was looking forward to a rest, and something to eat. It occurred to Valens that Clemens was no longer young.
‘How long have you been with the standards?’
Clemens did not look at Valens. ‘Twenty-four years.’
‘What will you do when you are discharged?’
‘I had intended to buy a small farm with my retirement bonus next year. Somewhere quiet, like Calabria or Apulia. Take my family out of the city.’
‘You had intended?’
Clemens glanced at Valens. ‘I do not think we will return from this mission.’
‘We will do our duty.’
‘Dulce et decorum est . . . I am not so sure it is sweet and fitting to die for your country.’ A strong but unreadable emotion burned behind Clemens’s eyes. ‘You are right, we will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
They rode on in an awkward silence. Clemens returned to studying the surrounding hills. One persistent fly buzzed incessantly into Valens’s face.
‘Look!’
Clemens reined in, and pointed.
Valens’s eyes followed the outstretched arm, ahead and to the left.
A shadow moving down an incline. No, there were no clouds. Not a shadow. Men on horses, moving fast. There must be twenty or more. They were aiming for the head of the column. A fold in the ground prevented Severus and the others seeing their approach.
‘With me!’ Clemens booted his horse forward.
Caught unaware, Valens gathered his reins and pressed his mount to follow.
; They overtook Decimus and the baggage train.
Hardly slackening his pace, Clemens shouted, ‘Raiders! Circle the mules, tether the led horses inside. You three, stay and guard them.’
Narses and Zabda sat looking around for the threat. Decimus bellowed at them, and, long accustomed to obey, they sprang into activity.
‘Valens, you follow me,’ Clemens said.
The horsemen burst over the crest, not thirty paces from their target.
Although taken by surprise, Severus and his three companions did not hesitate, but turned their mounts and reached for their weapons. Without time to draw their bows, they went for their swords.
As the attackers thundered down, they hurled a volley of javelins. A Roman horse went down. Valens saw its rider jump clear. In an instant the two sides met, and the space was transformed into the wheeling confusion of a cavalry skirmish.
Clemens was about four lengths in front. Valens saw the veteran readying his sword and shield. Fool that he was, Valens had not thought to do that himself. He dropped the reins on the neck of his horse, and fumbled to free the laces that tied his shield to a horn of his saddle. The motion of the galloping horse, and his nerves, made his fingers clumsy. At last the knot came undone. Gods below, he nearly dropped the thing. Now they were almost upon the fight. Desperately, he yanked out his sword.
The enemy were circling around the outnumbered Romans. They stabbed down at the figure on foot. It was Severus. The officer twisted this way and that, defending himself.
The attackers saw the two riders coming and drew back. Clemens charged into the gap. Valens urged his mount behind. They clattered to a halt on either side of Severus.
For a moment they were the calm in the eye of the storm. The sounds of the others fighting came as if from a great distance.
‘Good of you to join us,’ Severus said.
The respite was temporary. Two riders surged at Valens. The leading one thrust from Valens’s left with a javelin. Valens deflected it with his shield. The second swung a long cavalry blade at his right leg. Somehow Valens got his own sword in the way. The screech of steel sliding down steel. Training took over, and Valens rolled his wrist, forcing the attacker’s weapon wide.
The assailants backed their horses. Fierce, bearded faces above stained tunics. The wicked glint of sunlight on the weapons in their hands. One had a number tattooed on his arm.
Wild eyed, the raiders looked at each other, communicating without words. Next time they would attack together.
Valens was not going to wait passively, like some sacrificial animal. He kicked his heels into the ribs of his mount. The chestnut was no trained warhorse. It shied and crabbed sideways as it leapt forward. Off balance, Valens braced himself against the horns of his saddle. Again the javelin jabbed from his left. He ducked forward, nose down in the mane of his horse. His assailant’s momentum pressed them close together. Valens punched upwards with his shield. He did not make contact, but the man jerked back. A half-seen movement to the right. Valens dragged his sword up to block the attack. Too slow, the blade was within his guard. Valens winced from the impending impact, but the blow never landed. Instead, the raider reeled in the saddle. From the ground Severus struck again, a controlled slash that cut the man’s thigh open to the bone.
Valens hauled himself upright. There was no chance to thank Severus. The javelin man stabbed at his face. This time Valens leant back. The tip of the javelin sliced by in front of his nose. Again they were wedged together, too close for Valens to use his sword. He swung wildly with the edge of his shield. The wooden boards smacked into the man’s temple. Dazed, he swayed, almost losing his seat.
A grunt of pain from the right. Valens twisted around. Instead of a threat, he saw Severus. The officer was staggering, blood dark on the back of his tunic.
A pounding of hooves. Two more riders were coming to support the man on Valens’s nearside.
Getting the chestnut balanced, Valens prepared to face them. Odds of three to one. It could only end one way. To Hades with dulce et decorum est. Valens prepared to sell his life dearly.
As if summoned by a god, the bald, domed head of Iudex appeared next to him, the lined face of Clemens on the other side.
‘Ferrata!’ Clemens shouted. Ironclad, the war cry of his old legion.
At the sound, the raiders seemed to lose heart. A slight hesitation, then they spun their mounts and raced away.
Valens drooped in the saddle. He was panting, running with sweat. His limbs felt like lead.
‘The commander is down!’
Valens did not know who shouted. He saw Severus, face in the dirt, not moving. Sheathing his unbloodied weapon, he slung a leg over the horns of his saddle. He staggered as he hit the ground, dropped the shield. Weary beyond belief, he tottered to his leader.
Gently, he turned Severus over. The officer’s eyes looked into his. Kneeling, Valens cradled the mortally injured man.
Severus was trying to speak.
Valens bent close.
The words never came.
With a gasp, Severus breathed his last.
CHAPTER 7
Mesopotamia
‘WE MUST GO BACK.’
Valens had been in command for less than twenty-four fours, and now he faced a mutiny.
At first things had not gone too badly. Although Severus was dead, no one else was even wounded. Apart from the officer’s horse, none of the animals had been lost or harmed. The baggage was secure. After the ambush, Valens had sent pickets out in all directions. Beyond some hoof prints, there was no further sign of the raiders. Before long, Hairan was spotted cantering back from the east. Scouting ahead, the Hatrene had been unaware of the fight. He had found a good site to camp. A wadi, sheltered from the wind, just off the track, no more than a mile ahead. Best of all, it was tucked out of sight.
They had retrieved their war gear from the mule train, put on their helmets and armour. Despite the heat and the discomfort, from now on they would travel ready for combat. The corpse of Severus was tied face down across one of the spare horses.
The campsite was everything that Hairan had claimed. They saw to the horses and mules, before burying their commanding officer in a hollow a short distance away. They had worked in relays. The labour was hard, the ground stony. Sharp splinters flew when they struck with their picks, the vibrations jarred their arms. Everyone except Narses had taken their turn. The Persian claimed it was against his religion. Valens had laboured with the rest. In the end, having gouged out only a shallow trench, they piled a cairn of rocks over the grave to prevent wild animals digging up the body. Valens had put a coin in the mouth of the dead man – Severus would be able to pay the ferryman. They did not want his shade walking the Earth. Denied Hades, the unhappy dead haunted the living.
It was dark when they had finally laid Severus to rest and muttered the perfunctory ritual. Dis Manibus. To the Gods Below.
Too tired to light a fire, they had sat and eaten cold rations – hard tack and bacon – and drunk sour wine. No one had complained when Valens drew up the rostra of sentries. There were about eight hours of darkness left. Two men would stand guard, one on the lip of the wadi on either side. Each pair would be relieved after two hours. Three men would be on duty in the final session before dawn. Valens took the first watch with Iudex.
After the heat of the day, the temperature dropped fast in the hills at night. Valens was cold, clammy with the sweat from the digging. He had sat, swaddled in his cloak. He had removed his helmet, the better to listen, when a chill breeze blew. He would have liked to pull his hood over his head, but that would have cut down his hearing.
Slowly the vault of stars had wheeled across the sky. The myriad points of distant light made him feel small and alone. Severus was dead. Valens was in command. The weight of responsibility oppressed him. If the gods had been kind he would not have been here . . . But the gods were far away, as distant and uncaring as the stars.
From time to time, the cold and
his aching legs and back had forced him to get up and move about. He stepped carefully, his senses alert, probing the darkness. It was quiet. Occasionally a mule had stamped or a horse whickered. A desert fox barked somewhere out in the desolation. There was little to see. If you stared too long at the surrounding slopes, you saw things that were not there. The men and animals were hidden down in the gloom of the depression. On the far bank, the bald head of Iudex gleamed in the light of the stars. The giant man sat motionless, as if lost in meditation.
At long last, a clatter of rocks slipping from under boots climbing the side of the wadi told the watchers that their duty was at an end. Before turning in, Valens had walked the horse lines. The animals had watched him. He paused to stroke their soft muzzles, savour their warm, sweet breath. If you put your face very close to that of a horse, breathe into its nostrils, it will relax and trust you. There was a comfort in animals that was lacking in other men.
Wearily, Valens had struggled out of his armour. It was near impossible to sleep in mail. He tugged off his boots. Using his saddle blanket as a pillow, he had wrapped himself in his cloak, checked his sword was to hand, and fallen asleep.
The trouble started in the morning.
The men must have been talking while Valens still slept.
Aulus, the quartermaster, was their spokesman.
‘We must go back.’
Quintus, the navigator, nodded in agreement.
The others stood in a rough semicircle. Their expressions were impossible to read.
‘We have our orders.’ Valens wished he was wearing armour, or even his sword. He felt foolish and vulnerable barefoot, in just an unbelted tunic, with a piece of half-chewed bacon in his hand.
‘Severus is dead,’ Aulus said.
‘A great loss,’ Valens said, ‘but he was only one man.’
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