Blood and Steel

Chapter 28

The East

The Town of Carrhae,

Two Days after the Ides of March, AD238

Priscus, the governor of Mesopotamia, did not appreciate being summoned from his bed well before dawn. Especially not when his bed contained a fifteen-year-old he had bought only the day before. Blond curls, soft white skin, firm thighs and buttocks; everything a man could desire to ease the cares of office. A night of pleasure, and a morning of relaxation, some drinks and poetry, all had been snatched from him. He was tired, and that did not improve his temper.

The false alarms were endless. Once, the dust from a column of Persian cavalry proved on more careful inspection to have been raised by a herd of wild asses circling to frustrate a hungry lion. Usually the reasons were more prosaic: a loose horse in the night, the wandering herds of the tent-dwellers, a lone traveller taking his life in his hands on the highway. The Sassanid spy caught climbing into the town had been revealed under interrogation as a runaway slave apprehended trying to get out. But in the truceless war in the lands between the two rivers nothing could be left to chance.

Priscus must be getting old and slow. He had got up as soon as Sporakes had woken him. With the efficiency of long practice, the bodyguard had helped him arm. They had ridden straight here from the citadel. There had been no delay. Even so, his familia were waiting on the battlements of the Gate of Sin.

Health and great joy.

They were all present. His brother Philip, despite the early hour, was immaculate in Roman parade armour. His heavy-lined, serious face would have looked more at home on the Palatine or in the Forum than on the defences of this fly-blown, ill-omened Mesopotamian town. Philip stood with the other two Roman commanders, Julius Julianus and Porcius Aelianus. The Prefects of the two legions in the Province were long-serving officers of equestrian status. Priscus had appointed them to their commands five years previously, after their performances in the eastern war of the late Emperor Alexander.

Health and great joy.

Priscus turned to the three men from Edessa. The portly, bejewelled figure of Manu Bear-blinder was backed by his son Abgar Prince-in-waiting and his old friend Syrmus the Scythian.

Health and great joy.

Priscus greeted Ma’na son of Sanatruq. The young Prince of Hatra had come into the imperium as a hostage for the good behaviour of his father’s client kingdom, but had proved himself time and again over the years. The same was true of the Hatrene nobleman with him, Wa’el. Priscus trusted them both, as far as he trusted any man.

There were three other men on the roof at the edges of the torchlight: Arruntius, the commander of the auxiliary unit responsible for the gate and this sector of the walls, and Iarhai and Shalamallath, the caravan-protectors. There was no love lost between the latter two. Both Synodiarchs had come from the town of Arete to offer the services of their mercenaries. There was only enough money for one contract.

Priscus nodded to each in turn.

‘Anything?’ Priscus asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘Is the report credible?’

Arruntius stepped forward. ‘The scout has been reliable before.’

‘Then we wait.’

‘Drink this.’ Manu passed Priscus a cup of warmed, spiced wine. ‘Very restorative.’ He rolled his kohl-lined eyes. ‘It might be necessary, given your new purchase.’

‘That is most considerate.’

Manu laughed. Philip looked uncomfortable. There had always been something priggish about Priscus’ brother. It should have been the other way round. Even for these lands beyond the Euphrates, the Edessenes were notorious for the strictness of their moral code. A woman even suspected of fornication would be stoned to death. And the men, while happy to be named a thief or a murderer, would go for their knives at the merest hint that they enjoyed the natural pleasures offered by boys.

Manu started to sing softly.

There is a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach. Alas I can not swim.

Perhaps it was as well that the Emperor Caracalla had abolished the small kingdom of Edessa, incorporating its territories into the Roman province of Mesopotamia-Osrhoene. If he had inherited from his father, as King the morals of Manu Bear-blinder might not have squared with those of his subjects.

‘Put out the torches.’

It was dark until their eyes began to adjust. Then they could make out the bulk of the ballistae hidden under their covers, the stepped line of the machicolations, the flat, black expanse of the plain beyond. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east.

Priscus was tired. Cup in both hands, he leant his forearms on the parapet and gazed out. He was in his forty-ninth year, the great climactic. An Iatrosophist had told him that if he got past that, most probably he would make it to at least sixty-three. Sophists were just empty words and display. They were all charlatans, whether they claimed medical knowledge or not. Anyway it was more likely he would be killed long before then, either by the Persians, or by a knife-man sent by some Emperor.

If he had been twenty years younger, he would still have been tired. After three years of relentless fighting, anyone would be tired. There had been isolated raids in the two years after Alexander had left the East, but it was news of the Emperor’s death that had unleashed the true fury of the Sassanids. Since then the campaigning had been unremitting; few pitched battles, but three long years of unexpected descents, feints, surprise attacks and ambushes. So far, only the major town of Nisibis had been lost. Yet it was a war Priscus knew that his understrength Roman forces could not win. One serious defeat would lead to disaster, the loss of the whole of Mesopotamia, and the opening of the way to the West. Any number of victories meant nothing; the Sassanids could always put another army in the field.

There was a great irony to Priscus defending the eastern borderlands. He had been born out here, in an obscure village called Shahba on the desolate, sandy borders between the provinces of Syria Phoenice and Arabia. Growing up, he had more often spoken Aramaic than Greek or Latin. Unlike his brother, he had no sentimental attachment to the place, none whatsoever. Priscus had worked long and hard to rise in the imperial service, to get away from places like Shahba, get away from the dust and flies, the small-minded, choking censoriousness.

Priscus had a family in Rome. His house on the Caelian was modest, but his son was in the imperial school on the Palatine. The morals of Rome were easy and congenial. His wife was Italian, and seemed unshocked, perhaps relieved, that he had desires outside the marriage bed. He had last seen them in Antioch, three years ago. The boy must be coming up to twelve. Somehow Priscus must see him in the next two years, before he took the toga virilis.

‘There.’

Priscus followed the pointing arm towards the north-west.

Against the deep purple sky, a thick column of black cloud could be half-seen, some miles away, in the direction of the Temple of Nikal, the bride of Sin.

‘They are burning the sanctuary of the Moon Goddess.’ There was hatred in young Abgar’s tone. ‘The Persians have the eyes of goats and the hearts of vipers. They fuck their sisters, their daughters, even their mothers. Disgusting and cruel, they kill their brothers and sons, throw their elderly out to be eaten by the dogs. May Nikal and Sin strike them all dead.’

His father interrupted the diatribe. ‘When I was their captive, there was a man called Kirder, a priest, one of those they call a Mobad. He was much about the royal court, always whispering in the ear of the Prince Shapur, trying to get near King Ardashir himself. His talk ever was of overthrowing the temples of foreign daemons, founding sacred fires to their god Mazda among the unbelievers.’

There was silence for a time, as the sky grew lighter, and the smoke more evident.

‘They come at a bad time,’ Shalamallath said. ‘In the Spring the shepherds drive their flocks back to the settlements. Many will fall into the hands of the reptiles. There will be hunger if the Persians stay. The beans and pulses must be sown, soon the grain harvested, or the poor will starve.’

It was a pertinent comment. The Synodiarch was very tall and thin to the point of desiccation. Perhaps all those years of guarding camel caravans across the sands of the desert had dried him out. However he had come by his physique, Priscus thought that he was no fool.

The sun lifted clear of the distant hills. Most of the easterners blew it a kiss, performed reverence to the risen god. Priscus did not move.

The Sassanid horde was coming down from the north, dividing into two to encircle the town. Priscus could tell that they were all mounted, but not yet make out any individuals. It meant that the heads of the columns were somewhere between thirteen hundred and a thousand paces distant. Not so far that he could not judge that they rode in great numbers.

‘They have no infantry or siege train, perhaps they will burn everything outside the walls, and move on.’ Shalamallath was keen to show his astuteness. Iarhai evidently was a man of fewer words.

Priscus was not reassured by the reasoning of Shalamallath. Ladders and mantlets could be quickly constructed out of materials plundered from suburban buildings and groves. By his own estimate, there were at least twenty thousand horsemen. Romans who said the Persians would not fight on foot were fools. There were more than enough to attempt a storm of the town.

Shalamallath and Iarhai had come to Carrhae looking for war, and it had found them. Priscus thought of the man in the cellars. He had not come seeking war. His ship driven by storms, the horses under him ridden until they foundered, he had raced halfway across the world to deliver a message. No one ever had crossed the imperium quicker. Instead of a reward, he had been loaded with chains, and thrown in a cell, where he was watched by a mute gaoler.

Priscus had not let the messenger speak to anyone else, had told no one the content of his letter. Instead the governor of Mesopotamia had gone to the agora and bought an expensive new pleasure-slave. A man needed to consider some very important things in his own time, on his own. Priscus detested summoning his consilium unless he was fully prepared, had turned the issues over in his own mind. Of course, now that council might never meet. The Sassanids might kill them all and the man in the cell before the staggering news the latter carried could become known or discussed. That would be one less thing for Priscus to worry about.

‘The King of Kings,’ Manu said.

The Sassanids had halted a little under five hundred paces from the walls. The sunlight glinted off their weapons and armour. Priscus could see bright hues of their costumes and horse trappings, the lighter-coloured spots of their faces. Banners flew above their heads. One was larger than all the others; an enormous rectangle, shimmering yellow, red and violet. It hung from a crossbar topped with a golden orb. It had to be the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the royal battle flag of the house of Sasan.

‘Which rider is Ardashir?’ In none of the battles had Priscus yet faced the King of Kings.

‘The one with the golden helmet in the shape of an eagle.’ His time in captivity had made Manu an expert on the Persians.

‘The huge man on the white horse?’

‘No, that is his son, Shapur, his helmet resembles a ram. The King of Kings rides next to him on the black.’

‘Can you tell the others from their banners?’

‘I see the insignia of two other sons of the King of Kings, Ardashir, King of Abrenak, and Ardashir, King of Kerman. There are many great barons — Dehin Varaz, Sasan of house Suren, Sasan Lord of Andegan, Peroz of house Karen, Geliman of Demavend — and many from the court — Manzik Mard Head of Scribes, Papak Master of Ceremonies, Chilrak the Judge, Vardan of the Stables — many others. We should be honoured to have such distinguished visitors.’

‘What will they do now?’

‘They will sacrifice a ram, then a nobleman will ride to the gate and call on you to surrender.’

‘And when we do not?’

‘They will try to kill us all.’

‘Thank you. Let me think.’

The members of the consilium respected his wish. Along the walls on both sides, Roman soldiers jeered at the Persians. The sun was warm on Priscus’ right cheek. His eyes followed the foreign priests about their ceremony. Before they had finished, he had made up his mind.

‘Manu, Syrmus, I am not minded to let the one who approaches the gate return from his task.’

‘He will not come very close,’ Manu said.

Priscus smiled. ‘Are the Bear-blinder and the Scythian no longer artists with their chosen weapon?’

‘Bardaisan of Edessa was the artist,’ Manu said, ‘we were his acolytes.’

‘Use the ballista to be sure of the range,’ Syrmus said.

‘No,’ Priscus said. ‘I do not want them to know about our new ballistae just yet. It must be down to the skill of you two. Choose a position, and conceal yourselves. Wait for my order. I will shout the name of your old master.’

‘As you command, My Lord.’ For the first time, Manu spoke not in Greek but Syriac, as he took his leave.

Waiting, Priscus tried not to think about the prisoner in the cellar, and all that his presence implied.

‘Rider coming.’

‘Which one is it?’

‘Sasan, Lord of Andegan.’ Ma’na Prince of Hatra knew the Sassanids almost as well as Manu.

The nobleman rode a magnificent Nisean stallion. A chestnut, it had to stand at least sixteen hands tall. He was no closer than a hundred paces when he reined in his horse. It shook its head, pawed the ground.

The Persian took off his helmet, the better to be heard.

‘Who commands here?’

Priscus climbed up onto the parapet, bracing himself with a hand on a merlon.

‘I am Gaius Julius Priscus, governor of the province of Mesopotamia-Osrhoene. I command here.’

The Persian seemed unsurprised. ‘The King of Kings Ardashir bids me tell you to heat the water and prepare his food. He would eat and bathe in his town of Carrhae tonight.’

‘Bardaisan!’ Priscus shouted. ‘Bardaisan!’

Along the wall, off to the left, Manu and Syrmus rose up, drew and shot in one fluid movement. The first arrow took the Persian in the shoulder, the second full in the chest. The Nisean stallion wheeled, and the dying man crashed to the ground.

A roar of outrage came from the Persian ranks.

‘Well,’ Priscus said, ‘Andegan needs a new lord.’