The Caspian Gates

XXIX

This paradise turned out to be roughly circular. As such places went, it was rather smaller than Ballista had imagined, not much more than a couple of miles in diameter from wall to wall. But there, it was an Albanian paradise, not a Persian one. They rode apart from one another. The horses, thin legs skittering, were dark shapes moving at a fast trot through the verticals of the trees. The riders were taking care not to catch their long spears in the branches.

Ballista was worried at the time it was all taking. Four days had passed in the camp on the Caspian shore after the symbolic punishment of him and Maximus. It had taken two days to ride up here into the foothills. Another three days had elapsed while the paradise was prepared. It was now, he reckoned, just short of a month since Saurmag had welcomed the Alani through the Caspian Gates. If they still held out, Calgacus and the others had been besieged in Cumania for twenty-five days. If they still held out. The little fort was strong, very strong. They should have more than enough provisions, ready access to water. But anything could have happened: treachery was an ever-present danger. Ballista was far from complacent.

The bright coats of the beaters flared through the shadows of the trees. The hounds, leashed now, surged about their legs, snarling. The riders trotted up, swung down, passed the reins to attendants and hefted the stout spears with the broad blades and wide cross-pieces.

‘He is in there.’ The chief huntsman pointed to a thick, broad tangle of undergrowth on the banks of a stream. There was clear ground in front, the only obstructions the wide-spaced trunks of a stand of mature beech trees. Prince Narseh told the head of the beaters to take his men across the stream, wait for the command and then slip in the hounds all at once from that side. Narseh spoke in Persian. Ballista considered whether the Sassanid prince knew that he and Maximus understood. They had been careful not to speak the language since they arrived at the camp. It was important to keep close anything that might be of advantage.

‘We will take our stand here. Spread out among the trees, in the shape of the half-moon, we will cut off all ways of escape.’ Now Narseh spoke in Greek to those around him. He turned to Pythonissa. ‘ Kyria, it would be best if you were with the guards.’

‘I have done this before,’ she said.

‘I do not doubt it, Kyria. Did not Xenophon write that all men who have loved hunting have been good, and also those women who have been given this blessing? But think of the consequences for Suania should something happen to you.’

Pythonissa acknowledged this gracefully. With an attendant leading her horse, she walked a little way back to where twenty or so Sassanid clibanarii stood in a body, weapons ready. They moved to hem around her like a wall.

The faces of the hunting party were strained. Ballista did not doubt that his was the same. It was no small thing they were undertaking. Ballista thought of the famous hunt in Calydon, not of the hero Meleager or the huntress Atalanta but of Ancaios in the dirt, castrated and disembowelled.

‘Among my people, the Macedonians, it used to be that a youth could not recline at table among the men until he had taken a boar,’ Castricius said. All murmured their approval of this hard old custom. Ballista wondered if the Macedonians had used nets and caltrops. Certainly the Greek Xenophon did not seem to have imagined doing without them. To face the fury of the beast in the open, with just a spear, as they would now, was the sternest of tests, bordering on the foolhardy. Oddly, Ballista had always thought Castricius came from Nemausus in Gaul. He was sure he had heard him say it many times. Perhaps there was some reason behind the little man’s shifting patria – Ballista would have to ask him about it one day when they were on their own.

Narseh arranged the hunters. The prince himself took the middle. To his right went the two Albanians, King Cosis and his uncle the high-priest Zober, and two Romans, Castricius and Maximus. To the left were stationed Ballista and the three other Persians, the young commander Gondofarr, the mobad Manzik and the old general Tir-mihr.

The clear, sweet note of Narseh’s hunting horn echoed through the paradise. Beyond the thicket and the stream, out of sight, the hounds sang. Ballista gripped the cornel shaft of the spear – left hand in front of right, side on, crouching, left foot following left hand, feet no further apart than in wrestling. He waited, his neck soon aching from looking over his left shoulder. Sun dappled down through the beeches. The leaf mould was soft under his boots.

From the covert came furious barking, crashing – animals moving fast – a high yelp of pain. The shouts of the beaters: now, hounds, now. Ballista felt his sweat slick on the spear. Branches breaking, getting closer. The howling of the hounds ever louder. A half-seen movement, and then – straight in front of Ballista – the nearest bush exploded.

The boar stood in the sunlight. It was a mighty beast. Its head swung to either side, evil white tusks glinting. Oho, hounds, oho! Like Bacchic revellers, the handlers drove on the madness. Oho, hounds, oho! The hounds tumbled out. Teeth bared, eyes popping, they darted in, snapping at the legs and flanks of their quarry.

The boar lunged. It gored a hound, tossing it high, paws over back. The hound landed in a heap. Its side was laid open, the blood bright on the fallen leaves. The others, hackles up, fell back a moment.

The beast’s piggy, malevolent little eyes locked on Ballista. Its humpback bristled. Faster than seemed possible, the boar accelerated. Ballista got lower in his stance, braced for the inevitable impact. Hooves drumming, the curved tusks, all bloodied, raced at him.

At the last second, the boar jinked to Ballista’s left. He tried to realign his spear. It took the boar in the shoulder. Not a clean blow. The blade was not embedded. The shaft was torn from Ballista’s grip. The spear spun away. Its momentum took the boar past. Ballista heard it scrabbling to turn, get at him. He threw himself full length. He dug in his fingers, the toes of his boots, pressed his face, all of him down, down into the soft forest floor. There was damp soil in his nostrils. His eyes were shut, waiting for the pain. There was shouting, as if from a great distance. The earth under him shifted. He smelt the evil, hot breath of the thing on his neck, smelt its hot blood. It drew back, seeking another angle to get its tusks under him, to prise him from the ground, to gore his soft flesh.

A shout – sharp, insistent – close at hand. Ballista felt the boar swing away. He risked a glance. He had grit in his eyes. The boar charged full on to the spear of young Gondofarr. The steel penetrated its mouth. The shock drove the young Persian back one pace, another. He dug in his heels, stayed big and strong. In its madness, the beast snapped its way up the shaft, driving the broad blade deeper down its own throat, deeper into its own vitals. Still, somehow, the young Persian denied its elemental force, held the frothing, murderous thing at bay. The boar reached the cross-piece and died.

Solicitous hands picked Ballista from the dirt, brushed him down. Are you all right? Did it get you? Ballista felt unsteady. He said he was fine. He did not say so, but he needed to piss. Gondofarr stood in front of him. Ballista bowed, blew a kiss from the tips of his fingers, thanked him, called him hero, in Persian. Gondofarr embraced Ballista – the scent of hot boar strong – spoke back to him in that language, called him framadar.

All nine hunters huddled together, slapping each other on the back. They were laughing, eyes bright with relief, good fellowship overflowing – closer than men after much drinking. The great beast – skewered by Gondofarr’s spear – lay at their feet: the irrefutable proof of their shared courage, their very manhood.

Manzik the mobad cut some hairs from the creature’s back, laid a few on its tusks, watched them shrivel in the heat. He tossed the rest into the air, said a prayer to Mazda.

Prince Narseh told his chief huntsman to butcher the beast, light a fire. Others should fetch bread, wine, other good things. They would feast here in the paradise. As men scurried to do his bidding, Narseh called for their mounts, asked Pythonissa to accompany them. They would ride, water the horses, divert themselves with conversation.

Downstream, they soon came to a pool. They sat around it in a circle, dropped their reins, let the horses drink. Gondofarr and Maximus produced flasks. They passed them from hand to hand with no ceremony. Ballista drank greedily, the need to piss forgotten.

‘There are many good things to hunting,’ said Narseh. ‘It conditions the body, toughens the soul – only a fool or an effeminate would think differently. An almost sly look came over his face: ‘And it can bring a certain privacy.’

Indeed, there were just the ten of them in sight or earshot.

‘When do we march?’ Ballista asked.

Narseh smiled, as if at the impetuousness of a younger relative, even though Ballista probably was some years the elder. ‘If one believes, as I myself do, Persia and Rome to be the twin lamps in the darkness of humanity, then it is a duty to act. It is as much against the interests of my father, the Mazda-worshipping divine Shapur, King of Kings, of Aryans and non-Aryans, of the race of the gods, son of the Mazda-worshipping Ardashir, as it is against those of Gallienus Augustus to tolerate the nomads south of the Caspian Gates. If they get a base in Suania or anywhere south of the Caucasus, the Alani will spread destruction far and wide. Those in Colchis whom the Romans claim owe them allegiance, and the loyal dependants of the King of Kings in Iberia and here in Albania will be just the first to suffer. In their lust for plunder, the bloodthirsty nomads will look to ride their ponies down through the Roman province of Cappadocia into Syria and west to the Aegean. In their savage ignorance, they might even have the temerity to try to encroach through the lands of the Cadusii and Mardi into the Aryan heartland ruled by my father.’

The Sassanid prince paused for a drink but clearly had not finished his speech. The others politely waited.

‘The framadar Ballista stresses the need for haste.’ The Persian word sat oddly amidst the Greek. ‘It precludes asking the advice of my father. On my own authority, I will lead the Persians to the Caspian Gates.’ Narseh turned to Cosis and Zober. ‘I take it that, faithful to your oaths, your Albanian warriors will march with us?’

Both the king and the high-priest assured him that they would support him to the extremity of their powers, if not beyond. ‘But’ – King Cosis cleared his throat – ‘what of Hamazasp? The Iberian king has always been untrustworthy. Will he ride with us? Will he even let us cross his territories?’

Ballista almost smiled. Of course the king of Iberia was untrustworthy, and few men alive had more reason than Ballista to hate him. Yet Cosis was the hereditary enemy of Hamazasp, and the attempt to do him down had been too transparent.

‘Hamazasp will do his duty,’ said Narseh. ‘No king of Iberia, no vassal king of any people, will bring down on himself the anger of the King of Kings. Velenus of the Cadusii will see to that.’ The rebel Velenus had been despatched to Shapur. Things did not look good for him. A punishment of exemplary cruelty was expected – no scourging of a cloak, lopping the ears off a hat, for him.

‘Let us turn to practicalities,’ Narseh said. ‘Speak your minds freely. Leave nothing unexpressed that we might later regret.’

‘We still have no real report of how many Alani have crossed the mountains, nor the numbers of Suani that have gone over to Saurmag,’ Tir-mihr said.

‘The majority of Suani will remain loyal to the memory of King Polemo and to his chosen heir Azo,’ said Pythonissa. ‘The members of the synedrion have never trusted Saurmag.’

Narseh dipped his head to Pythonissa but spoke to Tir-mihr. ‘In this case, numbers may matter less than in many operations. No one can fight a battle on a mountain. All engagements will be in the river valleys and passes. In an enclosed space, a multitude of the enemy will count for less than our equipment, training and courage, Mazda willing.’

‘Then how many we march upcountry should be determined by two things,’ said Tir-mihr. ‘How many we can spare from the occupying army among the Cadusii and Mardi, and how much forage we think available in Suania.’

Ballista liked the old Persian general. Tir-mihr had the good sense born of long experience. He said what was needed straightforwardly, without elaboration.

‘We will ride with two thousand clibanarii and three thousand light horse,’ said Narseh. ‘It will leave our cousin Sasan Farrak enough to keep the tribes to the south-west of the Caspian from any further rebellion. It is the haymaking season; the kyria Pythonissa assures me that the high valleys of Suania can feed many more horses than that.’ He addressed himself to the Albanians. ‘A contribution of another one thousand allied horse – half with heavy armour – would be welcome.’

Cosis and Zober made haste to pledge their men.

‘It would be an honour if the king himself led his men,’ suggested Narseh.

Cosis said the honour would be all his. Ballista realized that the Albanians would be as much hostages as a military asset – a position he knew all too well.

‘Good,’ said Narseh. ‘We will gather another thousand riders from Hamazasp on the march.’

The Sassanid’s horse raised its head from the water, tossed it. Narseh waved the flies from its eyes, quieted it. ‘One thing still concerns me. While I accept the need for speed, urged by both the framadar Ballista and the kyria Pythonissa, is it wise to go into the Caucasus with cavalry alone?’

Ballista knew it was time for him to justify the gamble he was asking them to make. ‘ Kyrios, infantry usually are essential for hill fighting – to hold ground, to guard the heights flanking the column. But, as the kyria says, the tribesmen will not be united against us. The Alani, like the Persians, prefer to fight on horseback. They and Saurmag are pinned to the fort of Cumania. The pretender has to take Azo, and the Alani have to ensure the pass back to the steppes. They will have to meet us in open battle before the Caspian Gates.’ Ballista tried to sound like Tir-mihr, sagacious and certain. He hoped he was not leading them all to disaster.

Narseh laughed, his teeth very white behind the blue-black beard. ‘I hope you are right, Framadar. I hope your desire to rescue your friends has not clouded your judgement.’ He was no fool, this handsome young prince. ‘We Persians remember what happened when the Achaemenid Cyrus went against the nomad Massagetae. Their barbarian queen used the King of King’s skull as a drinking cup.’