King of Kings

XI

Maximus stepped out of the dark shadow of the tent. The moon was big and bright — but often it is easy to follow a man without him being aware of it. A lot depends on the environment. An army camp is a good place: rows of tents, horse lines, piles of forage; at any hour, men wandering, some of them drunk. More depends on the followed man not thinking about being followed.

They were down near the river by now. The baggage boats, moored three deep, clanked together as the current tugged at them. Up ahead at the palisade, Maximus heard a sentry call the watchword — disciplina — then came the response — gloria. He waited for a short time, then followed. The call, disciplina; the response, gloria; and he was outside.

Outside, it was all different. Quiet and empty. The great plain ran away moon-washed and open for two or three miles until it met the twinkling lights of the Persian campfires. To Maximus' right was the river, its waters black and oily. Along the riverbank the undergrowth had been cut back for about fifty paces from the palisade. After that was a stand of trees, poplars with reeds fringing the waterline. The bright moonlight made the shadow under the trees very black.

Maximus walked quietly to the trees. He stopped just inside the gloom, letting his eyes adjust. He stilled his breathing. At first it was very quiet, but then he started to hear the normal night noises, the rustles and squeaks that marked the life and death of some small animals. Slowly, watching where he put his feet, watching for signs of the man, he moved deeper into the wood. He had gone no distance when he saw him — down by the water, motionless, sitting with his back to the trunk of a tree. Stepping ever so softly, Maximus began to circle around him, to put himself between the Sassanid camp and the man.

'Stop prancing about and come and sit down,' said Ballista.

Maximus jumped slightly then looked all around once, very carefully, and did as he was asked. He felt more than slightly foolish.

They sat in silence for a time, seeing the river flow past, hearing the whispering of the reeds.

'I have been thinking, sure, what would be sending the renowned Dux Ripae wandering alone in the dead of the night?' Maximus kept his eyes on the river. 'Certain, it would be another nocturnal visitation by the late and completely unlamented emperor Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus Thrax.'

Maximus watched his dominus and friend stifle a move to look around, to check that no one was listening. Apart from Ballista, only three people — his wife Julia, his body servant Calgacus, and Maximus himself — knew that from time to time the Dux Ripae suffered the terrifying appearance in his sleeping quarters of the long-dead emperor known and hated as Maximinus the Thracian — the emperor who died long ago because a sixteen-year-old Ballista, having taken the sacramentum, the military oath to protect him, had instead assassinated him in his tent.

'No, thank the gods below, I have not seen that big bastard since the night before the fall of Arete.'

They sat quiet again. Maximus was sure his friend was thinking back to that summer day all those years ago before the walls of Aquileia, thinking about the mutineers falling on the dead emperor, desecrating the corpse, denying it burial so that the daemon of Maximinus Thrax was condemned to walk the earth for ever in eternal misery, to walk the earth haunting the man who had killed him. Wordlessly, the Hibernian took a piece of air-dried beef from a pouch on his belt and passed it over. Ballista took it and began to chew.

'It could have gone worse yesterday.' Maximus received no reply, but continued anyway. 'Admittedly, your man Glabrio got about fifty of his own men killed and your Equites Singulares lost nearly as many rescuing the stupid bastard, but it could have been a lot worse. And it is good that Niger's wound is not serious — your young aristocrat might not have been able to even start his foolishness if the very first arrow had not taken the commander of Equites I Parthi in the arm.' He passed over some more dried beef and smiled. 'It was a fine stroke ordering officers to give up their spare horses to remount those troopers who had been dismounted — fine indeed.'

'Mmm,' grunted Ballista.

'And our young patrician has behaved well enough today. All day the reptiles were at it — galloping up like madmen, letting fly a few arrows, and running off again, and never a move from our handsome young nobleman.'

'Do you think he hired the assassin?' Ballista asked.

'Ah, but I doubt it. More likely would be one of the Macrianus boys, or even those Borani, who think so highly of you.' Actually, Maximus thought it quite probably was Acilius Glabrio but, like many in the army, he mistrusted what would happen if things came to a head between the big northerner and the Roman aristocrat.

They sat in silence some more. The smell of mud and decaying reeds was strong down by the water.

At length it was Maximus who spoke again. 'The letters — it must be something in the letters that is preying on your mind.' Early that afternoon, just as the army had begun to erect its marching camp, a small despatch boat had pulled in from Zeugma in the north. There had been no letters for Maximus, there never were — the few who might have wanted to send word to him could not write. With no pang of jealousy, the Hibernian had watched Ballista take charge of two bundles of post, one sealed with an eagle in imperial purple, the other with an Eros winding a piece of artillery.

'No,' replied Ballista. 'I have no objection to carrying out the instructions of Valerian Augustus, Pius, Felix, Pontifex Maximus, and ordering everyone in the army to sacrifice to the natural gods.' He held up a hand and cut off Maximus before he could speak. 'Of course,' continued Ballista, 'it is aimed at the Christians. Anyone who will not sacrifice is to be sent off to some unpleasant designated place of internal exile, and if when there they continue to hold assemblies or enter the places known as cemeteries, they are to be executed. Now who except the followers of the crucified god call a necropolis a cemetery?'

'That is not what I meant. I was…' Again Maximus was cut off.

'I doubt we have many Christians with us here in the army. What little I know about them suggests that military life would not be to their taste. Worshipping the standards every morning and all the other official sacrifices, to Queen Juno a cow, to the Divine Hadrian an Ox and all that — I believe a hard-line Christian could not be persuaded to do any of it. And there is the pacifism — their god has told them never to kill.'

'Bollocks, that cannot be true.'

'Well, I listened to one of them in Antioch — he was holding forth in that street known as the Jawbone, they seem to be thick as flies round there — and that seemed to be what he was on about, Thou shalt not kill.'

'Thou shalt not kill, my arse. That is a recipe for a religion with no future.' Maximus was glad Ballista was talking, even if quite deliberately avoiding what was bothering him.

'Even so, I think I will delay implementing the order until it is over with the Sassanid reptiles, one way or another. You never know, if directly ordered to sacrifice to the natural gods, some closet Christian soldiers might suddenly rediscover their principles. Have you noticed how it is with men who are given to bothering the gods — their principles come and go? And what about the arrogance of the bloody Romans? Their gods are just the natural ones.'

'It has to be said, they are a lot closer to the sort of gods you and I worshipped when we were young, a bloody sight closer than a criminal on a cross,' said Maximus.

'Well, Woden the Allfather did let himself hang on a tree in agony for nine days.'

'Actually, I was really talking about the other letter. The one from your wife.'

Ballista grinned, his teeth white in the gloom, but said nothing.

'Everything all right at home? The boy is all right?'

'Isangrim is fine.'

'And the domina?'

'She is fine too.'

'Gods below, man, you are not thinking there is another man's mule kicking in your stall?'

Ballista laughed quietly. 'A lovely turn of phrase, but no, it is not what I was thinking.'

For a time they sat in silence again, now a more companionable, a somewhat happier silence.

It was Ballista who spoke first this time. 'It is nothing specific. I suppose I just miss them. But then, when I start missing them, wanting to be with them, I start worrying where it is I want to be with them — in the villa in Sicily or back north in the halls of my people.'

'I do not pretend to understand. You have a marble home on a beautiful island under the southern sun, and you want to go back to living in a glorified mud hut in a bleak northern forest.' Maximus shook his head in mock sadness. 'The world is full of girls and women, all shapes and sizes, almost all of them willing, some ever so grateful, and the few reluctant ones just needing to be shown what they are missing, and you stick to just the one.'

From somewhere Maximus produced a flask. He drank and passed it over.

'It is not natural, and it is not good for you. But you will probably have the better time than me.'

Ballista, drinking, made a doubting noise.

'What do I have? Apart from the fighting, just the two things. One makes me feel like dying in the mornings and the other is finished in a quarter of an hour.'

Ballista laughed. 'A quarter of an hour?'

'I have got better.'

Both men laughed. Ballista passed the flask back and said they had better get some sleep. They got to their feet and walked back under the big moon. Already, as the army snaked out of camp, Ballista could sense the coming heat of the day. Today would decide things one way or another. Ballista's mission was to raise the Sassanid siege of Circesium. Today, barring disaster, Ballista would reach Circesium. If he entered the town, the Sassanids would go away. Yet that was not enough. As soon as Ballista and his army left, the Sassanids would return and place Circesium under siege again. He had to defeat the easterners in battle. But it was difficult for an infantry-based army such as Ballista's to force a cavalry horde into battle. He had to trap them in unfavourable terrain. The only place where that might happen was before the walls of Circesium itself. The town was sited on a promontory at the junction of the Euphrates and a river called the Chaboras. The Euphrates ran north-west to south-east. The Chaboras flowed into it from the north-east. With his rear protected by the Euphrates and his right resting on the outskirts of Circesium; one all-or-nothing charge might catch the Persian cavalry in the narrow triangle of land leading up to the banks of the Chaboras.

Everything depended on timing and disciplina. Charge too soon and all the Sassanids would escape, galloping away to the north-east. If Ballista's men did not all charge as one, most of the Sassanids would escape, streaming away through the gaps between the Roman units. One united all-or-nothing charge before the walls of Circesium.

It was the best that Ballista could come up with, but he knew it was not much of a plan. And for it to have any chance of working, the army had to reach Circesium in one piece. Any break in the line, any premature charge, would be fatal. And the line was painfully thin. After the near-disaster with Acilius Glabrio, he had reinforced both the front and rear of his column with five hundred legionaries of Legio IIII Scythica. It had left only a thousand legionaries of Legio III Felix guarding the left flank. And the line was becoming ever thinner. Casualties had mounted steadily.

It was the fifteenth day of March, the ides. How could any country be so hot in the springtime? He looked at the sky. There was no breeze down on the plain but, up there, high up there, clouds moved away to the north. He watched them retreating. Big, heavy clouds, full of rain. They could have made all the difference today: a sudden downpour dampening the bowstrings of the Persians, forcing them to give up their hit-and-run tactics and fight with spear and sword at close quarters, forcing them into his hands. He had prayed to the high god of his people — Allfather, Grey Beard, Wand-Bearer, Fulfiller of Desire. Woden-born though he was, the Allfather had ignored him. The rainclouds had swept on to the north. Behind them, the sky was an empty blue. Ballista shrugged. What could one expect of a god who started wars just because the fever was in his blood and he was bored?

A roll of drums brought Ballista's attention back to earth. The Sassanids were confident. Last night, for the first time, they had encamped barely a mile away. This morning, they had been up and about earlier than usual. While the dew still held the sand together, before the choking clouds of dust rose, they had come up from the south, spread out like a triumphal procession. The great line of clibanarii had taken station out in the desert to the east, spear tips flashing, standards glinting in the rising sun. Ballista had estimated the line about a thousand riders long and at least two deep: at least two thousand clibanarii. As was their way, the light horse archers had swooped and circled across the plain. It made their numbers hard to judge — maybe somewhere between five and ten thousand, maybe more. An army of between seven and twelve thousand riders, maybe more, maybe a lot more. It made little odds. Ballista had to bring them to battle today, had to get them to close quarters in the confined space before Circesium, and then sow panic in their ranks.

So far there was no sign that Pan or any other god had put fear in the hearts of the Sassanids. They looked and sounded confident. The horse archers had swept around the Roman army, enclosing it on every side except the west, where the river ran. Not far out of slingshot, they taunted the Romans, caracoling their horses, calling out insults. Now and then an individual would spur forward yelling a challenge. When no one stepped out to take it up, the Sassanid would make his mount rear, spin it round on its hind legs, and vanish back into the seething mass of horsemen.

The noise of the easterners rose up like a wall around the Roman marching column — drums, trumpets, cymbals, the yells of men and the neighing of horses. Some lines of Homer drifted into Ballista's mind. The Trojans came with cries and the din of war like wildfowl When the hoarse cries of cranes sweep on against the sky. As Ballista had ordered, the Romans trudged on in silence. It was not that he dismissed the value of noise. Only a fool who had not stood in hot battle would do that. Often you could judge the outcome before a weapon was cast by the volume and quality of the shouting. But his men were outnumbered. There was no point in getting into a contest you could not win. Sometimes an ominous, disciplined silence can also unsettle and demoralize.

… Achaea's armies Came on strong in silence, breathing combat-fury, Hearts ablaze to defend each other to the death. Ballista's mouth was dry, gritty. He took the water flask that hung on a horn of his saddle, unstoppered it, rinsed his mouth, spat then drank. He replaced the flask and, without conscious thought, ran through his pre-battle ritual: pull the dagger on his right hip half out of its scabbard and snap it back, do the same with the sword hanging on his left, finally touch the healing stone tied to scabbard of the sword.

The dust was rising high and straight in the still morning air, hiding the clibanarii. But they were there, somewhere beyond the horse archers, waiting for their chance, waiting for the moment of disorder, the gap in the line, the ill-considered charge. The noise of the light cavalry was swelling to a crescendo.

'Steady, boys, here they come.'

A high, ululating cry echoed through the Persian ranks. Allfather, they sounded confident. As one, the horse archers kicked their boots into the flanks of their mounts. They gathered pace quickly, eager to cross the short killing ground where the Roman slings and foot bows outranged them. Ballista heard Roman trumpets sound. Slings whirred, bows twanged. Some Persians went down, but the vast majority raced on at a breakneck gallop. At little more than a hundred paces, they drew and released. Eastern arrows sliced into the Roman column. The sounds of the incoming missiles echoed all around Ballista. Arrows thudded into the hard-packed ground, thumped into wooden shields, clanged off metal armour, and here and there came the awful knife-into-cabbage sound of metal penetrating flesh. Men were screaming. Ballista jerked his head back as an arrow flashed by his face. At about twenty paces, the Sassanids spun round and raced away, still plying their bows over their horses' quarters.

In moments they were gone out of range. They left a few crumpled bodies, their dark blood staining their bright clothes, draining away into the sand. Ballista watched a horse struggle to its feet. One of its front legs broken, it limped after the Persians. He looked around the Roman column. It was responding well. The legionaries were closing ranks. The light infantry ran around gathering spent missiles. Camp followers helped the wounded to the baggage train. The dead were left where they had fallen. If they were lucky, their contubernales, their mess-mates, would put a coin in their mouths, close their eyes, sprinkle a little soil on them. It was not what one would hope for, but it was better than nothing.

Out of range again, the Sassanids resumed their jeering and boasting. The first test of the day was passed. But it would be a brief respite. The easterners would come again within half an hour. Ballista idly wondered how many such attacks the column had weathered. It was the ides of March, the fifteenth day of the month. Six days counting inclusively, as everyone did, since Acilius Glabrio's nearly ruinous charge. Six days of marching under a hot sun with the spirits of death hovering close at hand. Six days with wave after wave of attacks. As a heavy surf assaults some roaring coast Piling breaker on breaker whipped by the West Wind

… And in come more shouldering crests, arching up and breaking Against some rocky spit, exploding salt foam to the skies — So wave on wave they came… 'Here they come again,' called Maximus.

With a thunder of hooves, the Persian light horse surged forward. Their shadows flickered out far in front of them. The sun was still quite low. Allfather, it can only be the second hour of the day, thought Ballista. Again the storm of arrows burst over the Roman column. Again the inhuman noise, as wicked steel and bronze filled the air. Acting on instinct, Ballista caught an arrow on his shield, the impact jarring up his arm. He saw an arrowhead dink off Maximus' helmet. He looked around to check Calgacus and Demetrius were safe. He tried to smile reassuringly at the tense-faced Greek boy. With no warning, Albinus was in front of him.

'You had better come to the front of the column.'

Ballista nodded and waved for his immediate entourage to follow. As they cantered up between the columns of infantry and cavalry, Ballista wondered what could be important enough to make the commander of Equites III Palmirenorum seek him out himself. The pressure was always greater on the rear of the column than the front. So, every day, Ballista rotated the units at the two stations. In both places Albinus had shown himself calm and capable. Ballista had a far from good feeling about this.

When they reached the front of the column, Ballista peered out for a few seconds from behind his shield. He saw nothing unexpected: incoming arrows, Persians, dust. He ducked back then looked again. This time he saw it: Sassanids on foot, plying bows and slings.

'Bugger, infantry.'

Behind him he heard Demetrius ask Maximus why it mattered.

'It means there are a lot more of the bastards than we thought.' The Hibernian's voice was resigned. 'This is not a cavalry raiding force but a full-scale fucking army.'

I have to nip this in the bud, thought Ballista. Don't think, just act. He repeated the mantra to himself a couple of times then, putting his shield aside, braving the missiles his standard attracted, he raised himself in the saddle and called out to the nearest men. 'A few reptiles without horses — who gives a fuck? Everyone knows they have the hearts of sheep. They do not have the bollocks to fight on foot. And their big, baggy trousers mean they cannot run. All the more for us to kill at Circesium. Remember: every one of them carries all his wealth sewn in his belt — rich cowards who cannot run!'

A thin cheer rippled away down the front line.

The arrow storm faltered and died as they rode back down the column. With Demetrius inconspicuously prompting him, Ballista called out to men by name as they passed. Already dust powdered the legs of the infantry white, like men on a threshing floor.

At the rear of the column they found Acilius Glabrio and Niger under the red standard of the Equites I Parthi. The young patrician had a nasty-looking gash on his cheek. They all saluted each other.

'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready, next time, you must let me lead the men out, just a short, controlled charge to drive the goat-eyed bastards away,' Acilius Glabrio said in one breath.

'No, we hold the line until Circesium.'

Unexpectedly, Niger joined in. 'The cavalry commander is right. The men will not take much more. The infantry are having to walk backwards, trying to defend themselves as they do. My cavalry are losing horses and men and have no way of striking back. No men can take that for ever.'

'No, I know it is hard, but it is not far to Circesium now. Then we will all charge as one. If we charge too soon, if we do not all charge together, we have no chance of smashing them and we risk disaster.' The northerner looked at their unconvinced faces. 'I know it is torture, but not for long.' Then, again, using the saddle horns, he raised himself up and called out to the soldiers. 'The reptiles are only brave at a distance. Not far to Circesium now, and then you can kill to your hearts' content.' He paused. There was a less than convincing cheer. 'Remember: they are all as rich as Croesus. They carry all their gold in their belts, hidden in their clothes, maybe stuffed up their arses, for all we know. There will not be a poor man in our camp tonight.' This time the cheer was somewhat louder.

Ballista turned his horse. He looked steadily first at Acilius Glabrio, then Niger. 'Hold the line until my command: six blasts on the trumpet. Hold the line until Circesium.'

By the time Ballista and his entourage reached their station with the Equites Singulares in the centre of the cavalry column, the Persians had struck again. Now the dust hung so thick that you could not see further than a shepherd could throw a stick. The arrows scythed out of the murk before the horsemen could be seen. Again the air was full of horrible, inhuman sounds.

In the middle of the maelstrom Turpio calmly rode up to Ballista. As Turpio saluted, a gold bangle on his wrist flashed. It was his proudest possession. He had taken it in a daring night raid on the Persian camp outside Arete, taken it from the hastily vacated bed of Shapur, the Sassanid King of Kings himself.

Ballista and Turpio leant from their horses to embrace.

'How goes it with the baggage train?'

'Rather quieter than with you,' Turpio replied. 'But rather less well than it was going. There are marshes fringing the Euphrates here. They are getting wider. It is making it harder to ferry the wounded out to the boats. I am running out of porters and animals on shore to carry them and the supplies.'

Ballista looked over and stopped. He had grown so used to the dust and noise all around wherever he looked that it was a shock to be able to see all the way down to the water, across the river and to the sandy bluff opposite. It was, he noticed, a beautiful day, quiet and sunny. From this distance, the boats looked serene, bobbing on the turquoise waters.

'If it comes to it, abandon the supplies. If we win today, we can take all we want, and if we do not…' Ballista shrugged.

Turpio nodded. 'I am not going to ask for them, but I could do with some more of your Equites Singulares. The twenty you seconded to me are becoming overwhelmed by the number of malingerers trying to hide among the wounded and get out to the boats — the light infantry mainly, but some legionaries and cavalrymen too.'

'Do your best. As I keep saying, not long now.'

Turpio saluted and rode away. Ballista watched him go down to the riverbank. The dust raised by his horse streamed away to the north. Good, thought Ballista, the wind is getting down to the plain. Hopefully it will be strong enough to blow away some of this shit, and then we will be able to see what the fuck is going on.

The ides of March. An ill-omened day for Romans — the day Julius Caesar was assassinated. A day of bad memories for Ballista — a year ago, he had first encountered the Sassanids: they had ambushed him, chased him, and a big blond Batavian with the ridiculously Roman name of Romulus had paid with his life for the escape of Ballista and the others. Not a good day for a battle. But there was no choice.

Another wave of arrows swept through the Roman ranks. Ballista had not even noticed the previous attack end. At least now the wind was getting up you could see the bastards shooting at you. A slingshot clunked off the armour on Pale Horse's shoulder. Ballista pulled him out of line and circled him. He did not seem to be lame. The slingshot meant there were Sassanid infantry all around the army now. Was this the third or fourth attack of the morning? Ballista was not sure. His mind wandered. The ides of March. Julius Caesar was killed, stabbed to death in the senate house by fellow senators, by men he had pardoned, men whose careers he had advanced, men he had thought of as friends. But they could not be his friends, precisely because they and he were senators and he had advanced or even pardoned them. The dignitas of a Roman senator did not allow another senator to advance, let alone pardon him. Caesar himself had said his dignitas meant more to him than life itself. Times may have changed under the autocratic rule of the emperors, but dignitas still lay at the heart of a senator's being. Dignitas could still be a reason to kill. And whose wounded dignitas drove them to try and have me killed, Ballista thought sourly. That of Acilius Glabrio, a dead brother to avenge, the stain of obeying the man who abandoned him to wipe out? Or that of the sons of Macrianus the Lame? Quietus, who he had punched in the balls? Or Macrianus the Younger, who had been shown up in failing to help his brother? Macrianus himself? The Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae was not often called a cunt to his face in the courtyard of the emperor's palace. Maybe more to the point, he was not a man who liked to be crossed when he had decided who should have a command on the Euphrates against the Persians. Perhaps it was nothing to do with the Romans at all. Perhaps it was something altogether simpler, something Ballista understood better: perhaps it was a straightforward northern bloodfeud between him and the Borani?

For some time, Ballista's eyes had been resting on the black smudge in the sky to the south beyond the head of the column. Now, with a hollow feeling inside, he began to realize what it might be. Without signalling to his entourage, he kicked his heels into his mount's flanks and set off towards the front of the army. He was only slightly aware of the sound of hooves behind him. His attention was focused on the blackness in the sky.

Infantry to the left, cavalry to the right, soldiers of his army flashed past. Some called out. He did not answer. Their voices vanished behind him. Missiles shot from left to right across the front of his face. He galloped on, almost oblivious, his thoughts concentrated on the black marks against the brilliant blue of the sky.

Arriving at the front of the column, Ballista skidded Pale Horse to a halt. He gazed out over the heads of the infantry. He vaguely noticed his followers pulling up in a clump behind him, Albinus trotting up next to him. The wind was getting up. It was shredding the curtain of dust — blowing it straight at the Romans. Ballista wiped his streaming eyes. He could see the Sassanids, horse and foot, about fifty paces away, shouting, edging closer. Squinting, he could see beyond them the road, running straight and dark through the desert. And, about two hundred paces away, he could see the first tombs of the necropolis on either side of the road and, spreading wide on either side of them, suburban gardens and orchards. And there, no more than four hundred paces off, were the walls: tall, crenellated, mud-brick, the same colour as the desert. Beyond the walls was the city of Circesium, but he could not see it. The billowing black smoke was getting in the way. The city was burning.

The city had fallen. Circesium, just like Arete, had fallen to the Sassanids. Ballista had failed again. They will have a field day in the consilium, was Ballista's first thought. Led by Acilius Glabrio, they would close in for the kill: negligence and sloth — how long wasted in unnecessary training upriver? — if not something worse — what do the reports of the frumentarii say?

'Fuck, oh fuck,' said Maximus.

The flow of lively obscenity put an end to Ballista's unhappy imaginings. What was the point of worrying about what people might say some time in the future when he had to find a way to stop them all dying here and now?

Ballista looked south. Not much more than a hundred and fifty paces to the first of the tombs, gardens and orchards. As soon as the head of the column reached there, he would order the charge — the walls, ditches, close-packed trees, and huts of the market gardens would shield the right wing of the army. Any sooner would mean throwing away the chance to trap the enemy, might even bring catastrophe. Just a few more moments of torment. Not long now.

A huge, swelling roar rolled up the line of the Roman march. Ballista could make out hundreds, thousands, of voices chanting, 'Ready, Ready, Ready.' He could not hear who was shouting out the formulaic question — 'Are you ready for war?' — but he could guess. His heart sank. There was a great, rattling thunder as the soldiers beat their weapons on their shields.

Calling Maximus over and leaning on his shoulder, Ballista precariously stood on his saddle. He looked back to the north and saw what he expected to see. With the red signum fluttering above them, the two hundred or so remaining troopers of the Equites Primi Catafractarii Parthi were charging out to the east against the enemy. They were riding knee to knee in a tight-packed wedge. At their head was an elegant figure in scarlet and gold. Too soon, you fool, Ballista cursed, too soon. Most of the reptiles will escape. He watched for a few moments. The Sassanids turned to flee. Some were too slow. In their confidence, they had come too close. The first Sassanids, both horse and foot, were bowled over by the heavily mailed Roman cavalry, disappearing beneath the pounding hooves.

Ballista clambered down into the saddle. Thanks to Gaius Acilius Glabrio, the Romans were charging too soon, not all charging as one. Somehow Ballista had to try to retrieve the position. He rapped out a string of orders: Infantry, open ranks! Cavalry, prepare to charge! Light infantry to follow! Legionaries will then close ranks and remain halted! Aurelian commands until my return! Ballista signalled to the trumpeter. Six blasts rang out. The men roared. It was the moment for which everyone had been waiting, six long days of waiting. The die was cast.

'Albinus, I will ride with you.' Ballista then raised his voice. 'Equites Tertii Catafractarii Palmirenorum, good hunting.' The two hundred and fifty or so troopers made their way carefully between the ranks of infantry and re-formed beyond them. Ballista trotted a few paces forward to form the apex of the wedge, Maximus on his right, Albinus on his left, Calgacus just behind, his white draco and the unit's green signum following, hopefully Demetrius tucked in somewhere ostensibly safe towards the back.

Another roar drew Ballista's attention to the left. Mucapor at their head, the main body of the Equites Singulares was charging. It was a small, armoured wedge, not many more than a hundred horsemen, but the Sassanids were running from them. All along the line, the easterners were running. Damn, thought Ballista, it is all too soon, all fragmented, most of the bastards will escape.

Ballista put Pale Horse into a trot, rising gently to a canter. There were one hundred paces of bare desert to the backs of the nearest Sassanids. Time to take charge, thought Ballista, it is all or nothing now. He pushed on into a flat-out gallop. The distance between the horsemen and the running Persian foot soldiers closed quickly. Ballista unsheathed his long cavalry sword. He fixed his eyes on the point between the green-clad shoulder-blades of a running easterner. He held the sword out straight. At the last second, a glimpse of terrified, dark eyes, and the man hurled himself to the ground. The charge ran over him.

They were through the infantry. Ahead were the backs of the cavalry. Ballista angled the charge towards the right. The horsemen there were moving more slowly, were milling about. Ballista could feel himself starting to grin like an idiot. His plan might yet work. Despite Acilius Glabrio, it might yet work. The Persian cavalry in front of him realized the Romans were coming. The easterners began to push, to jostle each other. They came to blows. They were at a standstill, literally fighting to get to the lip of the bank, to have a chance to scramble down the steep banks of the Chaboras.

A clibanarius at the back of the mob sawed on the reins to bring his horse round to face Ballista. The horse's nostrils were wide, its mouth bloody. The man's surcoat was a delicate violet, covered in abstract swirls. His face was hidden behind a mail hanging. Even the eyes, in deep shade, could not be seen. The man must have thrown away his lance. He was tugging his sword out. Ballista aimed a vicious back-handed cut over Pale Horse's ears. Steel rang and sparks flew as the clibanarius parried the blow with his own blade. As his gelding drew level, Ballista reached out and with his left hand grabbed the mail aventail covering the Persian's face. It slipped up, blinding the warrior. The momentum of Pale Horse dragged the Persian half out of his saddle. Ballista smashed the pommel of his sword down into the hidden face of his opponent. There was a sickening sound like the carcass of a chicken breaking. Ballista pushed the man over the far side of his horse to the ground.

Another Persian came at Ballista from his left, heavy sword swinging down in a mighty overhand chop. The northerner took the blow on his shield. Splinters flew, and he heard the linden boards crack. Blindly, he thrust out under the damaged shield. The point of his sword slid off the Sassanid's armour. The press of horses and men crushed Ballista and his opponent together, too close to effectively use their swords. The Persian's left hand shot up, his mail-clad fingers clawing at Ballista's face, searching for his eyes. Swaying back, hot blood on his cheek, Ballista dropped his sword, feeling its weight tug at the wrist strap. He grabbed a streamer floating from the easterner's helmet. He yanked hard. The man began to topple backwards. Then the streamer tore. The Sassanid grinned savagely as he regained his balance. Their horses moved a little apart. Ballista punched the metal boss of his broken shield into the man's face. The man grunted with pain. He swayed in the saddle. Flicking the hilt of his sword back into his grasp, Ballista swung with his right fist. The Sassanid jerked his head aside. Ballista felt a scrunch of bones as at least one of his knuckles shattered on the steel of the man's helmet. A stab of white-hot agony shot up his arm. Bellowing with pain, Ballista smashed the edge of his shield across the easterner's face. The jagged wood sliced through flesh. Screaming, the man doubled up, his hands flying to his lacerated face. Bright blood matted his black beard. Ballista chopped the blade of his sword down into the back of the man's neck, one, two, three times. Ignoring the sharp bursts of pain from his broken hand, he finished the job.

The Sassanids were no cowards, but they had been caught unprepared, trapped between the impetus of the Romans and the steep slope down to the river. Panic spreads through an army like fire across a Mediterranean hillside in high summer. Soon the only Persians left on the stricken field were dead or helpless and soon to die. Ballista kept the Equites Tertii Catafractarii Palmirenorum close in hand. He did not let any of them descend the banks of the Chaboras, although after a time he let some dismount to throw rocks down into the tangled mass of horses and riders struggling in the stream. Any recruits in the ranks now knew that a river running red with blood was not just a literary conceit.

Here in the south where the Chaboras had impeded their flight, the slaughter of the Sassanids had been prodigious. Some easterners had also died in the north, those who had been too close to avoid the charge of Acilius Glabrio and Equites Primi Catafractarii Parthi. In the centre, all the Persian horsemen had got away into the desert to the east. Mucapor and the Equites Singulares had merely run down some poor infantrymen. Yet Ballista's plan had worked. Although Acilius Glabrio's premature charge had let the majority of the Sassanid army escape, it mattered little. The easterners were scattered, their morale was broken.

As Ballista slid from the saddle to relieve the weight on Pale Horse's back, a wave of depression broke over him. What did it signify? He had beaten this army. The Sassanids would send another. And another after that. This was a religious war. The easterners would not stop until they had lit the Bahram fires, the sacred fires of Mazda, throughout the whole world. A black thought struck Ballista — even if he defeated Shapur himself, even if he killed or captured the King of Kings, the eternal war between east and west would continue.