Blood and Steel

Chapter 31

The East

Carrhae,

Three Days after the Ides of March, AD238

Even in the dark before dawn the black shape of the eastern hills could be seen between the purple of the sky and the purple of the plain. All night Priscus and his consilium had watched from the battlements of the Nisibis Gate. At first a ring of white lights had marked where campfires and torches burnt. They clustered thickly where the pavilion of the King of Kings had been pitched, about five hundred paces down the road. The men on the gate had waited for the outcry, for the shadows flitting across the lights, the shouts of horror. Nothing. Through the long hours, as the fires burnt low, and the stars shone brighter, there was no alarm. Hope all gone, they remained at their post as the stars wheeled and dimmed.

‘The Mazda-worshipping Ardashir will come,’ Manu said.

It was best to talk of what might happen, not to speak of the failure of their first plan, the bitter disappointment of either loss or betrayal. It was best not to wonder what had happened to Shalamallath and his men.

‘Divine Ardashir, King of Aryans and non-Aryans, of the race of the gods, son of King Papak, of the house of Sasan; the very pretentions of his titles impel him to come.’

‘Race of the gods, my arse,’ Abgar snorted, interrupting his father. ‘Illegitimate by-blow of a wandering mercenary, raised by a shoemaker, he murdered his own brother, killed his rightful overlord, threw the infant son of his King from the arch at Ctesiphon.’

‘Traitor and murderer he may be, but his own hubris will deliver him to us,’ Priscus said, then quickly adding, ‘Of course, only if the gods are willing.’

Sporakes and some of the other guards brought baskets of food up onto the fighting top. In silence, the members of the council sat, leaning against the parapet, drinking watered wine, eating warm flat bread and hard-boiled eggs.

Rather than dwell on what had gone wrong, Priscus reviewed the defences of Carrhae. There were many things that he had not had time to have his men do: dig pits with concealed stakes or flammable oil on the approaches, forge caltrops to strew under the feet of the enemy, construct cranes to swing boulders over the walls and release onto their heads. Circumstances forbade other measures, such as poisoning the wells and burning the surrounding villages and farms. The inhabitants would still have to live here afterwards, those who were not dead or enslaved.

Yet, over the winter, since the fall of Nisibis, much had been achieved. Stockpiled along the wall-walks were containers of oil and sand; close by the fires were laid ready to heat them. Leaning against the battlements were pitchforks to push away siege ladders, axes to cut the ropes of grapnels, stones and pieces of broken statuary to drop. And there were more men to wield them. Two thousand locals had been conscripted, equipped, and, as far as possible, trained throughout the short daylight hours of winter. Above all, there were the new ballistae. Sixteen of them, two atop each gate, with crews seconded from the legions. Range markers of white painted stones stretched away down each road, at intervals of fifty paces.

The same had been done at the other strategic towns that secured control of Mesopotamia, at Singara, Resaina, and Edessa. All this while creating the nucleus of a mobile army. Just four-and-a-half thousand so far, but it was a start. The fledgling force was posted at Batnae in the west of the province. To guard the crossings of the Euphrates, Priscus had announced. Or, as anyone with any intelligence must realize, to withdraw over the river, when the rest of the province fell.

Everything had cost a great deal. Nothing had been forthcoming from the imperial treasury. All was earmarked for Maximinus’ northern wars. Priscus had borrowed large sums from Manu. When the Bear-blinder would ask for a favour, and what form it would take, remained to be seen. It would be nothing trivial, Manu had been raised as the heir to a throne.

The plan of Carrhae itself was a rough circle bounded by a dry ditch backed by a rampart with a mud-brick wall on top. The wall, crenellated, with square towers at intervals, was pierced by six gates and two posterns. The circuit, measuring more than four thousand paces, was too long to defend easily. The irregularity of its layout meant not all lines of potential attack could be enfiladed. The citadel in the centre of the southern half of the city, and the legionary camp in the extreme south-east offered defensive strongpoints, but there were not enough troops to man them as well as the outer wall.

The light was gathering. Soon the sun would be up. The Sassanid camp was stirring. The smell of the dried dung from their fires drifted across. There were a great many of them.

Priscus had not been greatly cheered by considering the defences of Carrhae. The thought of the messenger chained beneath the governor’s palace worried him further. He had still told no one. There was no point, not when they were about to fight for their lives. Let everyone concentrate on that. But what, in the names of all the gods, had possessed the Gordiani? Both father and son were voluptuaries, but neither was stupid. Yes, Maximinus was a tyrant, his rule a disaster. Either or both the Gordiani would make a better Emperor than a blood-thirsty, half-barbarian Thracian with an obsession for fighting unwinnable wars in the North. But to start a revolt in Africa of all places?

And yet? Maximinus was hated. Rich and poor alike, Romans and provincials, everyone hated him. Everyone except the soldiers of his northern army: they were said to still love him. It was because he had doubled the troops’ pay, and because he was with them, not some other army. They alone could not keep him on the throne. The reign could not last long. Priscus had flirted with revolt before, back in Samosata, when his friend Serenianus was alive and commanded the two legions in Cappadocia. New men on the throne could end the futile campaigns beyond Rhine and Danube, could turn their attentions to Ardashir and the East. Prompt adherence to a new regime would bring rewards. But declaration for failed pretenders brought nothing but death.

A hard choice had to be made, and with little delay. But one thing at a time. Defend this town. Live through this siege. Time enough afterwards. Priscus prided himself on a cold, hard pragmatism.

Maz-da! Maz-da!

The sun crested the distant hills, and the Sassanids, bellies to the ground like snakes, hailed the daily epiphany.

‘Here comes Ardashir.’

The King of Kings was mounted on the same black stallion. He was wearing the same gilded helmet fashioned like an eagle. Long streamers of purple cloth fluttered from his armour. His son Shapur rode on his right hand, another son, Ardeshir of Abrenak, was on his left. Behind them flew the battle standard of the house of Sasan. It was carried by five Mobads. The Sassanids claimed it had been embroidered by some deity before the dawn of time. After the Drafsh-i-Kavyan came a dozen noblemen, among them Dehin Varaz, Garshasp the Lion, Zik Zabrigan, and Geliman of Demavend.

After the shooting of the Lord of Andegan, Priscus had doubted that the Persian monarch would come. But Manu had assured him Ardashir had no choice. At the start of any siege, the King of Kings had to ride close to the walls. It showed his contempt for the weapons of the besieged, and encouraged his warriors. Not to do so, would reveal the King a coward, and the Sassanids would not follow such a man into battle, would not bow down and grovel in the dirt before his boots.

‘It is best if his charger paws the ground, and calls out.’

Priscus went over to the ballistarii, who waited by their two shrouded charges. Under the covers, the slides were already wound back, the torsion springs tight. Priscus gave the men the watchwords: Decus et Tutamen.

Honour and Shield, they replied.

‘On my words, remove the tarpaulins. May the gods guide your aim.’

‘A coin for a shave, Prefect?’

Priscus smiled. ‘Kill the reptile, and I will shower you with gold.’

Ardashir, or one with him, would shoot a ceremonial arrow over the walls. Some archers could send an arrow great distances with incredible accuracy. Both Syrmus the Scythian and Manu could in their youth. The latter had saved the late King Abgar on the hunting field; two arrows, one into each eye of the charging beast. Since then he had been known as Bear-blinder. Men like that could do amazing feats, but for most bowmen to be sure of clearing the walls, they needed to be within a hundred and fifty paces.

Priscus had done everything that he could to prevent the news of his new ballistae being spread abroad. He prayed he had done enough. The next few moments would tell.

The wind was rising in the east. It whipped the dust raised by the hooves of their horses in front of the Persians.

The cavalcade passed the first whitewashed stones; four hundred paces, extreme range.

‘Come on, you goat-eyed cocksuckers.’

No one took any notice of the obscenities mouthed by Abgar the Prince-in-waiting. No one, not even Abgar, took their eyes off the horsemen.

Three hundred and fifty paces.

‘Arses like cisterns …’

Three hundred.

‘Fuck your mothers …’

Two hundred and fifty.

‘Silence in the ranks,’ Priscus said.

Two hundred.

‘Decus et Tutamen!’

Priscus and his concilium ducked or scrambled to the sides as the ballistarii hauled the covers off the catapults. The well-oiled bearings made hardly a sound. The senior artillerymen aimed.

Click-slide-thump. Two bolts accelerated away with superhuman force.

The Sassanids saw the missiles. They sawed on their reins. There was no time. One bolt transfixed the mount of the Prince of Abrenak. The horse collapsed, and young Ardashir pitched over its neck. The other sliced a hand’s breadth past the head of the King of Kings. It punched through the chest of Geliman of Demavend, knocked him from his horse, impaled him in the ground.

Clack, clack went the metallic ring of the ratchets as the machines were rearmed. Faster and faster; clack, clack, clack.

Chaos down on the road. Horses milling. Riders shouting.

The sliders locked back, ready to shoot.

Ardashir had wheeled his horse, was spurring back the way he had come. A cloud of dust puffed up from the riders surrounding him.

The ballistarii placed new bolts in the grooves.

Garshasp the Lion was pulling the unhorsed Prince up behind him.

‘Decus et Tutamen!’

A lone horseman was galloping flat out towards the gate — Shapur.

Click-slide-thump. Again, two iron-tipped shadows sped away. They vanished into the haze of the retreating King’s retinue.

Shapur spun his horse around, drew his bow, and put an arrow in the wind.

Clack, clack. The noise of the ratchets was oddly inconsequential. Priscus followed the flight of the arrow. It arced high, then seemed to be coming down straight at him.

Shapur was riding hard back down towards the camp.

The arrow appeared to gain speed as it got nearer.

Priscus forced himself not to flinch.

The arrow shrieked by, and vanished behind into the town.

The road outside was empty, except for Geliman, the Lord of Demavend, pinned to the ground like an insect.