Blood and Steel

Chapter 35

The East

Carrhae,

Four Days after the Ides of March, AD238

‘What are the reptiles doing?’

Priscus did not like the look of this.

The Mobads had lit the fire at dawn. It was about four hundred paces out from the Nisibis Gate, at the very limit of the range of a ballista. They had hung a cauldron over the flames. They had fed the fire all morning. Whatever was in the cauldron would be white hot or boiling.

Yesterday, after the Persians had recovered the body of Geliman of Demavend, they had built a high tribunal in front of the royal pavilion, and placed a throne on top. It looked down on the fire, and three wooden crosses. Holes had been dug for the bases of these, but for now they lay flat on the earth.

Ard-a-shir! Ard-a-shir!

Five Mobads hoisted the Drafsh-i-Kavyan over the tribunal. The sun flashed off the jewels set in its crossbar, off the golden orb at its top.

Ard-a-shir! Ard-a-shir!

The King of Kings sat on the throne under the standard of his house.

Whatever the Sassanids were about to do, it was not part of the funeral rites for either Geliman killed the previous day or the Lord of Andegan the day before that. Priscus had been told the Persians merely exposed the corpses of their dead on a high place for the birds to tear and devour. Abgar Prince-in-waiting said sometimes they did not wait for the old, ill, or unloved to stop breathing. Abgar hated the Sassanids, perhaps even more than did Ma’na of Hatra. The Sassanids had killed the elder brother of Ma’na.

A-hura-mazda! A-hura-mazda!

A group of three roped prisoners were dragged forth from the Persian lines. They struggled and fought. Their guards beat them with the butts of their spears, the flats of their blades. The prisoners wore normal eastern clothing; loose tunics, baggy breeches. Their long hair was unbound, falling over their faces. One was very tall and thin.

‘Shalamallath,’ said Iarhai.

So the Synodiarch had not betrayed them. As good as his word, he had led his chosen two warriors through the darkness into the heart of the Persian camp. Blade in hand, murder in his heart, he had failed to kill the Persian King. Somehow they had been caught. Now they would pay the price.

‘A man of honour, a hard man of the desert, a noble enemy.’ Iarhai sounded moved. ‘He deserves better than this slave or Christian death.’

One by one the captives were forced down, tied to the crosses.

Priscus took note of that. Some crucified men could live for days, longer if bound not nailed to the cross. If cut down, they might survive. But after one night raid, the Sassanids would be more on guard.

Although ropes and labourers were ready, the crosses were not raised at once. Mobads busied themselves around the fire.

‘The cruelty of the vipers knows no limits,’ Abgar said.

With long tongs, a Mobad used a metal pot to scoop something from the cauldron. Walking with care, he went over to Shalamallath. Two other priests held the head of the caravan-guard, so he could not move at all. The pot tipped, liquid poured down onto his face. Shalamallath screamed.

‘Olive oil,’ Abgar said. ‘They have blinded him with boiling olive oil.’

The Mobad with the tongs moved on to the other prisoners. Men hauled on ropes, put their shoulders to the wood, and Shalamallath’s cross jerked upright. The other prisoners screamed.

‘We should try and finish them off with the ballistae,’ Abgar said.

Priscus thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘The range is very long, and it would tell the snakes that their theatre had disturbed us. They must suffer.’

Tears ran down Iarhai’s cheeks, his lips moved as he muttered. A prayer, a curse? Perhaps both. Priscus put a consoling hand on the shoulder of the young Synodiarch. Unfortunately, the King of Kings was still alive, but the dilemma of which caravan-guard would get the contract to provide mercenaries was solved. He gave Iarhai’s shoulder a squeeze. From the start, he had liked him better than the more loquacious Shalamallath.

‘Prefect, you promised an audience to a delegation from the Boule of Carrhae.’ The governor might be his brother, but Philip was always very correct.

Priscus nodded. ‘Let the fires on the walls be lit. Now, we will go to the citadel.’

By the time he had descended the stairs and swung up onto his horse, Priscus had dismissed the horror from his mind. Pragmatism was his great virtue. One problem at a time. The Sassanids had to attack. Ardashir could not ride away now he had killed two of his great lords, and a large number of the warriors sent to retrieve their bodies, now he had made an attempt on Ardashir’s own life, It was but fourteen years since the Persian had killed his predecessor Artabanus the Arsacid. In the eyes of many across the east, he was still no King of Kings, but a pretender. Only continued military success might keep him secure on the throne. A failed attack on the city of Hatra a few years ago had provoked a wave of unrest across the Sassanid empire.

Ardashir had to attack today or tomorrow, the day after at the latest. He had twenty-five thousand warriors with him, all mounted, and no supply train. It was early spring; neither the grass nor the crops were ready. They must move on before all the food and forage was consumed.

It was a pity Priscus had not been able to poison the wells. Something slow acting, painful and debilitating would have been best.

The Sassanids would have to try and storm the town. They had no siege engines, and neither the time nor expertise to assemble one. Yesterday they had built ladders, and felled trees to make primitive rams. They would die in droves beneath the walls and gates of the town.

As long as no Roman deserters tutored them, the Sassanids would never be better at siege warfare than the Parthians they had overthrown. Sophisticated poliorcetic endeavours would always remain beyond barbarians. It was one of the few certainties in life.

Priscus had not expected the arrival of Ardashir. Yet now the Sassanid was here, it was vital he be induced to make an attempt on the town. Of course, Priscus could not inflict a decisive defeat. There was nothing he could do to prevent Ardashir wheeling his cavalry and vanishing across the plain at any moment. But Priscus could bloody his nose; hold the town, slaughter thousands of his men, tarnish his image as a divinely favoured leader of men. When Ardashir had failed before Hatra, the much-vaunted love of Ahuramazda had been far from evident, and the eastern provinces of his empire had risen in revolt. The same could happen at Carrhae.

Ardashir had twenty-five thousand men, the defenders less than four and a half. Priscus had divided the walls into four commands. The north and north-west, from the Gate of Sin to beyond the Moon Gate, was held by the four hundred regular auxiliary infantry of 15th Arabum Cohort. With the same number, 2nd Eufratensis Cohort held the west and south-west, including the Euphrates Gate and the Mirage Postern. The latter named because, hidden in the corner of a tower, it was so hard to discern. The rest of the circuit was garrisoned by the thousand swords present under the eagle of the 1st Legion Parthica. They were assigned to two senior Centurions. The first was responsible for the Venus Gate and the Camp Postern in the south and south-east, the second the Nisibis and Lion Gates in the east and north-east. There were four ballistae in each section, and every command was supported by a hundred dismounted regular archers from the Equites Indigenae Sagittarii, and five hundred local levies.

There was no reserve beyond the hundred or so personal guards with the senior officers. These bucellarii, and their employers, would remain with Priscus on the citadel. It was a rigid, perimeter defence. It had no flexibility or depth. The walls of Carrhae doglegged, creating dead zones not covered by enfilading ballistae. It was very far from perfect, but it was the best Priscus could achieve with what he had to hand. Pragmatism, always pragmatism.

The cavalcade clattered into the open courtyard of the governor’s palace. There was a fine view out over the eastern walls and the plain beyond, today somewhat spoiled by the smoke from the Persian fires. Above, the roof-garden commanded the entire city.

Priscus handed his reins to a stable boy, and used a dismounting block.

‘They are waiting for you in the Basilica, Prefect.’

Greeks, Syrians, Arabs, however they thought of themselves, Priscus had little time for the provincials under his command. Untrustworthy, cowardly, and they talked far too much. At least those who pretended to be Greek tended to be less judgemental about the pleasures of the flesh.

There were three of them. Long bearded, each clad in himation and tunic, very Hellenic. They would not have looked out of place in the ancient Athens of Demosthenes. The image seemed apposite. Demosthenes, there was another one long on words, short on courage.

Trying to suppress his irritation, Priscus sat down. The joints of the governor’s ivory chair creaked under the weight of his armour. With a gesture, he indicated their spokesman should say what they had come to say.

‘We owe very great thanks to our noble Emperor Maximinus Augustus, and to his noble Caesar Maximus, for their manifold labours on our behalf — but it would not be right to admit any greater gratitude than that for sending down to us for governor such a man as yourself.’

‘Very flattering,’ Priscus interrupted, ‘and I am as fond of rhetoric as the next soldier. But time is pressing. We are expecting a Persian attack.’

The orator rubbed his hands together. ‘As you say, Prefect, as you say.’ Brevity obviously did not come naturally.

‘What do you want?’

‘As you rightly have identified, Prefect, the Persians seem decided upon an attack. Even if it is repulsed, many citizens in the levies will die. And, despite your foresight and courage, despite the excellence of your strategies, the gods of war are fickle.’

‘I have been in combat before,’ Priscus said. ‘I am aware a battle can have more than the one, desired result.’

‘Quite so, Prefect. No one could not bow to your knowledge of the Dancing Field of Ares.’

‘Good, now we have established my bona fides on the Dancing Floor, why did you ask for an audience?’ Priscus remembered someone advising him to recite the Greek alphabet as a method of controlling his temper.

‘No one should doubt the loyalty of my family to Rome.’ These Greeks, like all easterners, favoured an oblique approach. ‘My ancestor was none other than Hieronymos son of Nikomachos, the hero who risked his own life to offer succour and advice to young Publius Crassus, after Crassus the father had been trapped by the Parthian hordes. Like my antecedent, I offer loyal and prudent advice to the representative of the great majesty of Rome.’

Priscus briefly entertained the pleasant fantasy of having Sporakes drag the speaker outside and hurl him off the eastern terrace. It was a long way down, he was unlikely to survive.

‘So I ask, is peace not preferable to war? Safety and security to danger and uncertainty? Is it necessary to face the Persians in arms? Can another way be found?’

‘What other way?’ Priscus made no effort to keep the asperity out of his voice. ‘Tell me now, and tell me in few words.’

‘Of course, Prefect, of course.’ The orator bowed. ‘My fellow members of the Boule represent the noblest families of Carrhae …’

‘In few words.’

‘We have agreed that, inspired by the love we have for our fellow citizens, and with great personal sacrifice, our philanthropia motivates us to raise a substantial sum of money with which to purchase peace and the safety of our beloved Polis. Barbarians such as Ardashir are motivated by nothing other than greed.’

‘No.’

‘All authorities agree their avarice …’

‘No, we will not talk to Ardashir.’

‘But, Prefect, if you opened negotiations …’

‘He has just blinded one of my most beloved officers, burnt out his eyes and crucified him with two of his men.’

‘All barbarians love money.’

‘Would you like me to send you to discuss cupidity with the King of Kings?’

‘Prefect, it would be better-’

‘It was a rhetorical question.’ Priscus touched the hilt of his sword. ‘Now stop talking, and get out.’ To Hades with counting from alpha to omega. Let the Graeculus take offense. ‘The money you have so generously offered will be collected after the siege to help pay for your defence in future. Your patriotism and courage do you credit. Now, get out.’

When the delegation had left, Priscus called for food for all in the consilium, and for their bucellarii down in the courtyard. It was not yet noon, but he was hungry. Remembering the boiling oil, he was about to order something cold, but told himself to be a man and eat whatever arrived.

Philip was looking as if he had something to say.

‘Yes?’

‘As your legate, I would have advised you not to offend their dignitas.’

Priscus laughed. ‘They are Greeks. They do not have dignitas.’

‘All peoples have their pride,’ Philip said.

‘What does it matter? There is nothing they can do, except pay the money they offered.’

Philip had a very disapproving air.

‘Perhaps they might compose an unpleasant poem about me, scribble some offensive graffiti.’

Philip did not laugh with the other members of the consilium.

The curtains were pulled back, but not to admit servants bearing food.

A young, nervous tribune entered and saluted.

Priscus struggled for the youth’s name. Censorinus? No, that was the name of his father’s friend. Caerellius, that was it.

‘Prefect, the Sassanids are moving?’

‘Which way?’

Caerellius looked blank for a moment. ‘Towards the city, Prefect. They have ladders and rams. They are going to attack.’

‘Before lunch,’ Manu said. ‘Our men will be hungry.’

Priscus thought that was worth remembering. If it was planned, Ardashir was no fool. Any slight advantage that could be wrung out of the enemy might be telling.

‘We will go up and see.’

From the roof-garden three columns of Sassanid troops were spread out like the toys of a rich child. All were mounted. Two were already drawn up in place, about four hundred paces from the walls. The first was in the north-east, a great crescent running from the Nisibis Gate to the Gate of Sin. The second near overlapped it, stretching from just south of the former gate, past the Camp Postern to the Venus Gate. The final body was cantering around to the Euphrates and Moon Gates.

With the dust and the distance, numbers were hard to discern. Once, in the imperial mint in Antioch, Priscus had been shown an ingenious arrangement of lenses, which made very small objects, like the writing on tiny coins, appear larger. Why had no one invented a similar device that made distant things appear closer?

Not all the Sassanid warriors had left their camp. Each of the columns seemed roughly the same size. Priscus studied one drawn up in the south-east. Six, perhaps seven thousand horsemen. As he watched, they dismounted. One in three remained, holding the horses. The others jostled into line.

On each of the three sections of walls that would be assaulted the defenders would be outnumbered by four or five to one. The odds were not good. Experts usually reckoned a fortified place would fall to three to one. But the men on the battlements of Carrhae were well prepared, the walls were sound, the Sassanids had no siege materials beyond ladders and rams. Like always in battle — on the Dancing Floor of Ares, as the pretentious Greek had it — everything would turn on morale. If the local levies fought like men, most might live through today.

The Sassanid horde to the north-east was shifting, wavering like tall grass in the wind. Even at this distance, the Drafsh-i-Kavyan was clearly visible. Where the war standard of Sasan went, the King of Kings was to be found. The great white stallion ridden by his son Shapur was easier to see. The royal party was riding along the front line, no doubt being cheered by those about to die.

Sporakes and other bucellarii escorted the slaves with the food onto the roof. Meat and onions on skewers, dripping with oil and fat. Priscus took some bread. Be a man, just eat.

The sound of distant war horns and drums drifted up to the citadel. The Sassanid columns moved forward. Here and there were eddies, where, unseen from high above, artillery bolts tore through their ranks.

Priscus chewed on some lamb. It was good. He was hungry.

Clouds of arrows blew this way and that across the battlements, like showers of rain in a crosswind. Minute figures of men pitched from the wallwalks or dropped motionless to the dusty earth outside. All oddly quiet and removed.

A deity looking down from Olympus could not have been more detached. Men fighting and dying in near silence. It was fascinating, but somehow of limited relevance.

The Persians to the south-east were hanging back, reluctant to close with the wall, enfiladed as it was by four ballistae. There was something god-like about the way the bolts struck; inhumanly fast and powerful, brushing men aside, punching through their armour, nailing them together.

Priscus took a drink, dismissed that part of the town from his mind.

Between the Gate of Sin and the Lion Gate, ladders reared against the wall. Legionaries wielded pitchforks to push them sideways and down. In two places they were not quick enough. Bright robed figures swarmed over the parapet. Steel flashed in the sun. Tight knots of men struggled. Individuals toppled back, to be dashed to ruin on the cobbles of the street below.

‘Fuck the reptiles up the arse.’

Abgar’s obscenities drew Priscus’ attention to the north-western defences. Above the Euphrates Gate the town wall ran to the left for about a hundred paces, before snaking back to the right. After some three hundred more paces, it turned sharp right again, to head towards the Moon Gate. Its strange configuration left those three hundred paces uncovered by any shooting from the gates. Sure enough, the Sassanids already had three small, tight-packed groups of warriors on that section of wallwalk.

Two clear threats: north-east and north-west. Either could spell the end of the town. One hundred bucellarii. No time for discussion or careful deliberation.

‘Julianus, take Manu and Iarhai and their men. Get to the north-east wall.’

No time for ceremonial salutes.

‘Sporakes and my guard, Ma’na and Wa’el, the men of Hatra, with me.’

The horses were waiting. They thundered and slewed down from the acropolis. At the foot of the hill, all sight of the wall was lost behind houses. They plunged into the maze of narrow alleys. The sounds of their own hooves and rattling equipment, the roars and screams of battle, dinned back from the close, blank walls.

They skidded to a halt in the street below the wall. The fighting seethed above them. Priscus threw a leg over the horn of his saddle, dropped to the ground.

‘No horse holders, hobble the horses instead.’ It would take a moment longer than just turning them loose, but he had no intention of being trapped here on foot.

Still the three groups of Sassanids on the battlements, a dozen or more warriors in each. Stairs to the left, the barred door of a tower to the right. Arruntius and some of his auxiliaries were at the head of the stairs.

‘Ma’na and Wa’el, you and your Hatrenes stay down here. The bucellarii with me.’

He waited while the men sorted themselves out.

‘With Arruntius, we will clear the wallwalk from the left, drive the reptiles against the tower. Ma’na, you and Wa’el, have your archers keep pace with us, shoot the easterners as we reach them.’

He turned towards the steps.

‘Prefect.’ It was Sporakes. ‘Your helmet.’

Gods below, in the heat of the moment, he had forgotten the thing. With fumbling fingers, he pulled it over his head, tied the laces under his chin. Finally, he retrieved his shield from one of the rear horns of his saddle. His warhorse was well trained. It stood quiet amid the uproar and confusion.

Sporakes and the bucellarii had used his delay to get up the stairs, and join with the auxiliaries huddled there. Priscus ran up after them. Wedged himself into the second line.

The rampart was wide enough for five fighting men abreast. Bucellarii and auxiliaries combined came to about thirty-five swords. A minuscule phalanx seven deep. In the confined space it might be enough. Huge battles can turn on such tiny factors.

Hunched over, they edged forward.

An arrow from outside the walls whistled past Priscus’ face.

They had to stamp out the barbarian toe-holds before thousands of others joined them.

The first Sassanids were in a huddle, five paces beyond Sporakes and Arruntius. They were lobstered in plate and chain armour. These were clibanarii, the noble knights of Ahuramazda. Inhuman, only their kohl-lined eyes showed through animal masks, veils of mail. Streamers of silk fluttered.

A flight of arrows chinked off the metal-clad easterners.

Sporakes’ shoulders were heaving, readying himself for the fight.

Another squall of arrows. One penetrated into the leg of a clibanarius. He was hauled to the rear.

‘Come on,’ Priscus shouted. ‘You want to live forever?’

Arruntius and Sporakes launched themselves forward. Priscus was close behind Arruntius, but not so close as to impede him.

The ringing of steel, stamp of boots, panting breath. Priscus shifted and moved over the shoulders of Arruntius, eyeing any opening. None came. Sporakes went down, clutching an arm. Wounded, not dead. Another bucelarrius stepped over him. Without warning, the fight turned to butchery. The last Sassanids were hacked, almost dismembered despite their fine armour, as they fought each other to get back on their ladder.

A bucellarius went to push down the ladder. An arrow took him in the throat. The others crouched down below the parapet. Arrows whickered above their heads, pinging off the merlons. Priscus forced himself to his feet. Under his boots the bricks were slippery with blood. Sometimes cold pragmatism demands heroics. He stood, seized the top rung of the ladder. Arrows shrieked past. One clanged off his shoulder guard. He heaved the ladder sideways. It shifted, caught, then came free and toppled.

‘Two more nests of snakes, then we are saved.’ He had ducked down again.

Priscus was shoulder to shoulder with Arruntius. Together they counted out loud — alpha, beta, gamma — and charged the Persians.

The easterner opposite Priscus was quick and experienced. His dark-lined eyes followed the Roman’s darting blade. Priscus redoubled his attacks, cutting and thrusting, first high then low. There had to be a way through.

Arruntius reeled across into Priscus’ sword arm. The equestrian’s thigh was open to the bone. In his agony, he clung to Priscus. The Sassanid thrust. Impeded, Priscus failed to get his shield across. The eastern sword scraped into the mail guarding his ribs. Links snapped, jagged iron driven into his flesh. He heaved Arruntius up, and forced him over the side. The officer’s arms clawed at the air as he plummeted down to the street. Unencumbered, Priscus dropped to one knee, chopped the Sassanid’s legs out from under him.

The bucellarii and auxiliaries surged past him. In every fight, there was an instant when the momentum tipped inevitably. Some of the Sassanids left on the wall fought to the death. It made little difference. They died with the others. The assault had failed.