*
The summons came the next day.
Assiduous in all their duties, the slave girls had washed the best tunics of the Romans. After some debate, the men decided it would appear too untrusting to attend the feast in armour. Weapons were another matter. Even in Rome, the favoured officers dined with the Emperor wearing their swords.
The pavilion of Naulobates was at the centre of the camp. As the weather was wintry, the feasting would be done inside.
There were no guards at the entrance, although a couple of slaves were present. The latter made no attempt to disarm the guests, but wordlessly pulled back the hangings instead.
Some thirty guests sprawled on rugs and cushions in a rough circle. The hum of conversation dropped, but did not cease, when the Romans entered.
*
Naulobates sat on a plain wooden chair at the back of the tent. He was dressed in a snow-white tunic and toga. His tunic had the broad purple stripe of a Roman senator, and he wore the boots that were the symbol of that order. Embedded in the ground behind him were twelve axes bound with rods: the fasces of a consul of Rome.
Valens led Prince Sasan and the others to stand in front of the King.
Everyone in the party placed their right palm to their forehead.
Naulobates studied each of them in turn without speaking.
The King had the high, pointed head and the red beard and tattoos of the Rosomoni. One of the slave girls lent to the Romans had been taken by the nomads out of a Greek city. Valens had assigned her to look after Prince Sasan. From her Valens had learnt that the ‘Red Ones’ had been the ruling clan of the Heruli until Naulobates had seized sole power. Even now wives were shared, children of Rosomoni women had their skulls bound.
Naulobates was a slight man, his hair and beard wispy. But his grey eyes shone with deep thoughts untrammelled by conventional morality or pity.
‘You.’ The King pointed at Iudex. ‘I have met before.’
For once Iudex was at a loss. ‘Perhaps, Lord, someone who has the misfortune to look like me. This is the first time that I have ventured onto the Steppe.’
‘You know a man called Mar Ammo.’ It was less a question than a statement.
‘Yes, My Lord. I knew him in Ctesiphon, a disciple of the prophet Mani.’
‘He wears the same clothes as you: the blue cloak and striped trousers.’
‘They are the apparel of the Elect.’
‘Mar Ammo was here a couple of years ago. He came to convert the Heruli.’
Iudex said nothing.
‘Mar Ammo is a true disciple. You are not. You have betrayed the teachings of your prophet. Thou shalt not kill, said Mani. Yet you are a man steeped in blood.’
Iudex accepted this as if a compliment. ‘Mani put my feet on the path to the Light. But I have walked further than Mani.’
Now there was tense silence in the tent.
Suddenly Naulobates beamed at Iudex. ‘You are a far better man than Mar Ammo or your former master. Thou shalt not kill – what nonsense.’
A low murmur of conversation began again. Valens had heard that the nomads showed little respect for their rulers.
‘Have you seen the divine twin of Mani, what he calls his zyzygos?’
‘I have, My Lord.’
‘So have I. Brachus, my tauma, hunted it through the other world. The zyzygos of Mani tried to hide. How it fled! But it was no use. Brachus followed, and Brachus caught him. For nine days and nights Brachus tried to enlighten him. Brachus did not spare himself; he reasoned with him, and beat him without mercy.’ Naulobates shook his head sadly. ‘Mani was right, the Kingdom of Light is in the north, and working the soil is for lesser men. Yet in his stubborn blindness he could not see that the Kingdom was already to be found here among the Heruli.’
Even Iudex seemed startled by this reworking of the teaching of Mani.
Naulobates smiled at Iudex. ‘Brachus saw your spirit-twin the other day, when it had left your body south of the Walls of Alexander. Your spirit-twin was searching for the Persian horsemen, and did not see Brachus. At once I knew you as a man after the heart of Naulobates, a pious man who does not flinch to kill.’
‘Thank you, My Lord.’
‘And then there is you.’ The hypnotic eyes of Naulobates fixed on Valens, then on something no one else could see beyond him. ‘My brother, Gallienus, sent me the ornaments of a consul. They were brought by your general Ballista. Now there is a man with a strong daemon. I made him my son-in-arms. I would rather he were here than you. But Ballista and I will meet again, in the empire. It will not go well for one of us.’ Naulobates stretched, like a man waking from a dream. ‘Still, you are here, Marcus Aelius Valens, and you bring me this sweet child of my enemies.’
Automatically, Valens put a hand on Sasan’s shoulder.
‘Have no fear, Valens. My tauma has told me this boy will have the longest and strangest life. He will see things none in this tent can imagine – a new Earth, a new Heaven.’
There seemed no answer that could be appropriate.
‘Now enough of the future. Sit, eat and drink. You are welcome. By the end of this feast we will have more to celebrate.’
Andonnoballus gestured for the Romans to come and sit with him and the other three Heruli who had first met them.
Great piles of roast meats and flatbread were brought in. There were no vegetables. They ate off silver plates. Valens’s was worked with images of naked Greeks killing barbarians: more plunder from the empire, like the slave girl, or perhaps a diplomatic gift. He noted that Naulobates ate from a plain wooden platter.
‘Great power must be accompanied by great humility,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘In our winter camp by the Don we have cooks from Ionia, but this is a hunting camp. My father has brought wine from the Aegean for you. Our kumis is an acquired taste.’
Feeling it polite, Valens tried the fermented mares’ milk. He quickly acquired the taste. It was like a thin, sharp yoghurt with an aftertaste of bitter almonds. Soon his head was buzzing. The kumis was stronger than it seemed.
‘Wonder how the man in the tree is getting on?’ Valens said.
‘Oh, he will be fine,’ Uligagus said. ‘Aruth here hung in a cage for nine days.’
‘With no food and water?’
‘No, we are not savages,’ Artemidorus said. ‘He had three loaves and a jug of water.’
‘Why?’
‘I had led a charge when Naulobates had ordered no one to leave the battle line.’ Aruth had a fetching red snake tattooed on his forearm. ‘My three blood brothers chose to share my punishment.’
‘And you all survived?’
‘Of course, we are Heruli. And Naulobates also allowed them three loaves and a jug each.’
The hangings were thrown back, and a mud-spattered Herul entered. He said something in their language. Many of the tribesmen cheered. They slapped each other on the back, obviously delighted with the news.
Naulobates merely smiled contentedly.
When the uproar subsided, Naulobates looked at Valens and spoke in Greek. ‘I prophesied that before the feast was over we would have cause for celebration. The Sassanids have marched out from the Walls of Alexander.’
CHAPTER 34
The Steppe
THE SASSANID ARMY WAS STATIONARY and drawn up to the south across the plain. The brisk and chill north wind whipped the banners above their heads. Embroidered leopards and lions, serpents and dragons, fierce beasts and abstract designs invoking Mazda and other gods writhed and snapped.
Some three hundred paces away, although out of effective bowshot, every detail was revealed. The Persians were arrayed in three divisions. To spare their mounts, the horse archers on the flanks waited dismounted. All were lithe and slim men with long hair and beards, and wore loose tunics and baggy trousers. They were unencumbered except for their bows, and could leap onto the backs of their horses in a moment. Their quivers and long straight swords hung ready from their saddles. Like the nomads the
y faced, they wore no armour. Their numbers were difficult to judge, but Decimus told Valens that there were some eight thousand on each wing.
In the centre, under a huge banner bearing the emblem of a bear, stood the clibanarii: four thousand armoured Persian noblemen on huge armoured chargers. They were more cumbersome, so to avoid the danger of being taken by surprise, they waited mounted. Some were encased in steel, man and beast. With masks covering their faces, they could have been statues. Many wore bright surcoats over their armour: scarlet and green, yellow and blue silk, bearing the heraldic devices of their clans. The motifs were repeated on those whose horses were caparisoned. The mounts of others were protected by armour of green-blue horn or red leather. Although the majority had a bow case strapped to their saddles, these were shock cavalry. The proud clibanarii would rely on the tall lances in their hands. If the lances broke, they would draw the swords on their hips.
Last night, Naulobates had held an impromptu council at the feast. Valens had been surprised at the freedom of speech allowed. Against the obvious wishes of Naulobates, an older warrior called Pharas had argued that they should not fight. They had everything they wanted. The hunting had been good, and Prince Sasan was in their hands. The Emperor Gallienus would pay much gold for the boy. Was it not promised in the letter from the Praetorian Prefect Volusianus? They should break camp, saddle up, and ride away into the vastness of the Steppe.
A few pointed heads nodded at the words of Pharas. But the majority shouted against them. This was cowardice. Had the old man lost his balls? It was time he climbed the funeral pyre. How dare these Sassanids trespass into the realm of the Heruli? They would make the grass run red with Persian blood.
Pharas was not cowed. The Persians would not follow far. If they did, then the Heruli would turn on them. But even if they defeated the Sassanids, that would not force a passage through the Walls of Alexander. They still could not plunder the rich lands beyond.
Fuelled by much kumis, many diners abused Pharas. Too old to satisfy a woman, he should ask a friend to cut his throat. His wife would be glad to hang herself by his ashes. If he wanted a long peaceful life, he should go and live in some Greek city – one the Heruli would not visit! Fuck off, you aged coward!
Naulobates had had a servant beat a drum for silence. When he spoke, his high, thin voice was heard by all.
‘We are not Persians who grovel before a despot. We are not Romans who hold their tongues before a dictator. We are free Heruli. Pharas has spoken his mind. Others have unveiled their thoughts. I am the elected war leader. I have listened, and now I will decide.’ Naulobates paused, his eyes suddenly unfocused, perhaps hearing voices others could not make out. ‘We will meet the Sassanids four miles south of the river. I will lead the centre, Andonnoballus the left, Artemidorus the right. My blood brothers Aruth, Uligagus and Pharas will ride by my side. As an honour, our Roman guests can join my band.’
There had been no choice for Valens. If they had refused to fight, the Heruli would have deemed them cowards. The future was not promising for those so regarded in the camp of Naulobates. If they remained in their tents, and the Heruli lost, the Persians would kill them anyway. It had been best to accept with an air of gratitude.
Valens stood, holding his horse’s bridle, with the other five survivors of his mission. At least even the Heruli had deemed the boy Sasan too young to fight. He remained safe in their tent. The Greek slave girl could look after him. Unless the Persians won, in which case his fate was uncertain. If he was not killed when the camp was sacked, presumably he would return as a prisoner to the Castle of Silence.
Valens regarded the standard with the bear and the massed ranks of the Persians. He had enlisted in the army to see battle. Now it was imminent, he was not so sure. A great part of him wished he was back in the tent with Prince Sasan. A distant war is a glorious thing.
To go to war like a nomad was unsettling. Naulobates had told them not to wear armour. Dressed in the quilted jacket of a tribesman, Valens felt naked. They had been offered Heruli ponies, but these were bad-tempered beasts, intractable to those who did not know them. They had brought their own horses. Narses was mounted on his black Nisean stallion. In the light of what was to come, Valens hoped they had not made a fatal mistake.
Taller than the nomads, Valens looked up and down their lines.
There were just over three thousand light horsemen to the east with Andonnoballus. These were warriors from subject tribes. The Eutes had followed the Heruli all the way from the Northern Ocean. The wife-sharing Agathyrsi were more recent adherents. The blue tattoos of the latter made a contrast to those of their overlords.
The same number of riders waited on the right wing under Artemidorus. All those from here to the west were Heruli.
Each flank was outnumbered by more than two to one.
The odds were not so bad in the centre, under the standards of Naulobates. Those with the war leader almost matched their opponents. The majority here were Rosomoni. Their elongated skulls, dyed hair and tattoos, pronounced the Red Ones the elite warriors of the tribe. Also among the throng were their bravest slaves. To prove their valour, the latter were not allowed a shield. Otherwise they were equipped like their owners: bow and long sword, fur or quilted jacket. No matter the courage of masters and slaves, they and their small ponies could never withstand a charge from the terrible clibanarii on their huge horses.
A veteran had once told Valens that all pitched battles on an open field happen by mutual consent. Like a festival or a chorus in the theatre, they had their rhythms and pauses. This morning Valens saw the truth of the statement. It was three hours since dawn. Both sides had watched each other for the last hour. Neither had moved. The Persians had sacrificed a kid. The omens could not have been good. They brought out a second, then a third, before they were satisfied.
Now a Sassanid nobleman rode out alone from the centre of their line. His armour and that of his horse was chased with gold, and shone like a flame in the autumn sunshine. A low murmur of admiration, or perhaps greed, ran through the Heruli.
Perfectly calmly, the Persian reined in some thirty paces in front of Naulobates.
‘Gondofarr, Satrap of Hyrkania, by the grace of the Mazda-beloved Shapur, King of Kings, bids me tell you to heat the water and prepare his food. He would bathe and eat in your camp tonight.’
Naulobates nudged his pony forward. ‘There is no need. Gondofarr will never wash or taste food again. Tonight I will drink my kumis from his skull. Tomorrow his scalp will hang from my bridle, and his skin decorate my gorytus.’
The Sassanid drew his bow.
Naulobates made no move to defend himself. None of the Heruli moved to protect him.
The Persian selected a long cane arrow from his quiver. With slow deliberation, he nocked it, raised the bow, and drew the string to his ear.
Valens watched, frozen with incomprehension.
The Sassanid aimed at Naulobates’s chest. No fur jacket would deflect the missile.
The King watched the archer.
The Persian lifted the bow to the skies, and loosed. The arrow flew high over the Heruli hoard.
‘We have fought the Sassanids before,’ Aruth said. ‘It is their way. Now we will show them ours.’
As the nobleman cantered back towards the bear standard of the Satrap of Hyrkania, the lines of the Heruli parted. Two tribesmen trotted their ponies out. Behind and between them stumbled a naked man. He had the malformed skull and red-inked skin of one of the Rosomoni. A rope was tied around each of his wrists. The end of one rope was secured to the horns of the pony on the left, the other the one on the right. The riders kicked on to a canter. The naked man was jerked off his feet. For a time they dragged him about between the two armies. Valens winced as the ground tore the man’s flesh.
‘Spare him no sympathy,’ Aruth said. ‘In the hunt we drove a boar from its lair. That man dropped his spear. He endangered the brothers around him. Already his suffering brings the favour of
the gods.’
Naulobates uttered a thin, high command.
The riders moved to a gallop, then peeled off right and left. The ropes snapped taut. The momentum of the ponies was halted. The riders whipped them on. With a horrible wet rending sound, one of the prisoner’s arms was torn from its socket, and ripped away from his torso.
The horsemen cut the ropes, left the severed limb and the man bleeding his life away.
Naulobates turned to Valens. His grey eyes were untroubled. ‘Good weather for the fight.’
Valens looked at the heavens. A bank of dark clouds were coming down from the north. ‘Will the rain not dampen your bowstrings?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Naulobates beamed. ‘But that is nothing. The gods draw close. On the Steppe there is nothing better than to fight under a storm, while the sky above your enemies is clear. There is no doubt we will be victorious.’
Valens wished he shared the confidence of the Heruli king.
Trumpets sounded along the Persian lines. The Sassanid light horse jumped into their saddles. At a walk, the whole host began to advance.
Naulobates threw back his head, and made an unearthly sound.
Yip-yip-yip. The weird war cry was taken up by all the Heruli.
As one, the nomads mounted. Valens and the other Romans scrambled onto their horses.
The nomads milled for a moment. Every eye was fixed on the standard above Naulobates. The King gave an order, and the banner with the running wolf inclined towards the Sassanids. Yip-yipping, the Heruli raced forward in no order a civilised soldier could discern.
Valens rode just behind Naulobates and his blood brothers.
When the distance between the armies had narrowed to about a hundred paces, bowstrings thrummed. Both sides loosed at the same time. The sky was so full of shafts that Valens saw some collide in the air. Then the first missiles began to fall, and all his attention was focused on dodging and guarding himself with his shield. The Romans had been given small, round nomad shields, which strapped to their arms. Valens wished he was wielding a big Roman cavalry shield. But that had to be held in the left hand, and made it difficult to use a bow.
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