Fire in the East wor-1

by Harry Sidebottom

  'Romulus, where exactly are we?' Ballista worked hard at making his voice sound calm, possibly even slightly bored.

  'Just under twenty miles out of Arete, Dominus, just over twenty-five short of Castellum Arabum. The disused caravanserai is about three miles ahead.'

  'Is there any shelter up in the hills to the west – a fort or settlement, occupied or not?'

  'Only the village of Merrha to the north-west. It is occupied and walled, but the Sassanids are between us and it.' Romulus brightened. 'But we can go to the disused caravanserai. Its walls still stand, and we can reach it long before the Persians catch up with us.'

  'Yes, it is tempting. But I think that it is possibly the last thing we should do.' Ballista circled his arms, calling in the men from left and right. 'Romulus, which of the equites singulares here has the best mount?'

  Before the standard-bearer could answer, another cheekily cut in. 'No question about that, Dominus, me.' The man grinned. Demetrius whispered in Ballista's ear: 'Antigonus.'

  'Right, Antigonus, I want you to go and bring in the two scouts from out in front. Meet us back at the last grove of date palms we passed through, down by the river. We will wait for you there. If we are not there, the three of you are to make your own way either to Arete or Castellum Arabum. Save yourselves as best you can. There is not a moment to lose. I will explain when you return. Take care.'

  While Antigonus set off to the south at a gallop, the column retraced its steps to the north, also at a gallop. Once they were in the stand of trees, Ballista rattled out orders to put them in a new formation, his voice little above a fierce whisper. They were to form a wedge, an arrowhead. Ballista was to be the point, Maximus close to his right and half a length behind him, three equites singulares beyond and behind him. Romulus and the other four equites singulares were to comprise the left side of the formation. Demetrius and the Spanish scribe were to ride right behind Ballista, then the rest of the staff and the servants with the packhorses.

  Ballista quietly, and he hoped calmly, explained what he was about. The aim could not be simpler: they were to break through the group of Sassanids closest to the river. With luck, the Persians would be taken by surprise as they charged out of the shelter of the date palms. Again with luck, this group of Persians down by the river would at that moment be out of sight of the others up on the plateau, buying the Romans just a little time. Anyway, once through the nearest group, the Romans would ride flat out for Arete and safety. With yet more luck, the night would hide them from the pursuing enemy.

  It was growing dark among the date palms. The shadow of the cliff stretched out across the Euphrates. The temperature was dropping quickly. The wind worried at the palm fronds and tamarisks. The waters sucked at the banks. It was hard to hear anything clearly and difficult to see in the gathering gloom. Somewhere on the other side of the river a jackal barked.

  'How do you know we are in a trap?' Maximus whispered, his mouth very close to Ballista's ear. The northerner took his time replying, wondering how to put his suspicions into words.

  'The Sassanids between us and Arete are not acting like a normal scouting party looking for information. If that is what they were they would have chased the one of us they saw, chased him flat out – catch him and they could go home, out of danger. Instead they are moving south at a slow walk, strung out across the plain between the river and the hills. They have been sent on a flank march to catch any of us who escape from the main ambush. That line of dust in the sky to the south – it might just be the wind, but to me it looks all too like the sort of dust raised by a lot of cavalry moving fast.'

  The sound of a scatter of stones and the first of the Persian horsemen appeared. They rode out of the wadi and on to the floodplain, advancing in the gathering gloom. As the scout had said, they were light cavalry, horse archers. Dressed in tunic and trousers, they were unarmoured. One or two had metal helmets, but the majority were bareheaded or wore just a cloth cap or bandana. Each had a long cavalry sword on his left hip, some had a small round shield on their left arm. There seemed to be at least fifteen of them. If they had ridden in any particular order, it had been dissipated by the descent into the ravine. Now they rode in a loose group, three horses across and four or five deep. They came on at a walk, their horses stepping delicately.

  The Sassanids were getting close. Even in the gloom Ballista could make out their long hair, the glitter of their dark eyes. They were getting too close. Any moment now one of them would see the immobile forms waiting in the deeper shadow of the palm grove. Ballista could feel his heart beating as he sucked in air to fill his lungs.

  'Now! Charge! Charge!' he yelled, kicking his heels into Pale Horse's flanks. There was a second's pause as the gelding gathered his quarters and then they were crashing through the reeds which fringed the grove and hurtling towards the Persians. There were exclamations of surprise, shouts of warning. The enemy tugged swords from scabbards. Their horses had come to a halt, some wheeling pointlessly. Ballista aimed at a point between two of the leading Sassanids. As he shot between them the northerner directed a vicious cut at the head of the Persian on his right. The man blocked the blow. The shock jarred Ballista's arm.

  There was virtually no gap between the next two Sassanids in front of the northerner. He jabbed his heels into Pale Horse and set him at them. The gelding's left shoulder crashed into the withers of the Persian horse to the left. It staggered back. A gap opened, but the impact had robbed Pale Horse of all momentum. Ballista kicked furiously. His mount responded, leaping forward. To his right he saw Maximus's blade topple first one then another Persian out of the saddle.

  They were nearly through; just one line of Persians still ahead. Maximus was no longer right on his shoulder. Ballista drew his spatha back over his left shoulder and aimed a mighty downward cut at the Sassanid to his right. Somehow the man blocked it with his shield. Ballista wrenched his blade free of the splintered wood and cut horizontally over Pale Horse's ears at the man on his left. This time he felt the blade bite home. There were no more enemy in front.

  The force of the blow smashed Ballista's head forward. His nose crunched into Pale Horse's neck and blood poured from it. It was broken. He could feel more blood running down the back of his neck. Instinctively he twisted round to the right, bringing his spatha up in an attempt to parry the next blow he knew would come, the blow meant to finish him.

  There was the Sassanid, sword arm raised. The bastard smiled – and looked down, clutching his side, staring stupidly at the sword wound.

  Ballista waved his thanks to the Spaniard and kicked on. The scribe grinned back and flourished his sword – then the look on his face changed to shock. His horse disappeared from beneath him. He seemed to hang for a moment, then he went down into the tumbling, sliding mass of his own horse and under the hooves of the following Roman and Sassanid mounts alike.

  There would be time for pity or guilt later. Ballista could not have stopped Pale Horse in any case. They rushed on, up the wadi, up its steep bank. As they emerged on to the plateau it grew much lighter. Up here the sun had not quite set. Without looking to see who was still with him, Ballista set the pace at a hell-for-leather gallop. He angled away from the road towards the north-west. It was vital that they pass inland of the next ravine.

  The northerner looked over his left shoulder. There was the next group of Persians, about twenty of them. They had turned and were now riding hard to cut Ballista and his men off. Their long shadows flickered over the plain. The other groups of Persians had also turned, but they could not possibly reach the ravine in time; for now they were of no concern.

  Ballista heard Maximus shout something. He ignored him; he needed to think. Despite the growing ache in his head, his mind was clear. He was calculating the distances and the angles. He saw it all as if watching from a great height: the fixed point of the head of the ravine, the two moving bodies of horsemen converging on it. He leant forward in the saddle, pushing Pale Horse for just that last bit
of effort, that last pace or two of extra speed.

  Ballista and his men made it with a little bit to spare. They skidded round the mouth of the ravine with the Persians still fifty paces away. They pushed on, but some of the urgency seemed to have gone out of the pursuit. Soon they were a couple of hundred paces ahead. Ballista slackened the pace. It was now twilight. There was something that had to be done. He did not want to do it, but it could not be deferred. He looked round to see who had fallen.

  Maximus was there. Demetrius was there. Romulus was there, and four equites singulares, one scribe, both messengers and three servants, the latter commendably still leading their packhorses. The butcher's bill could have been higher – three soldiers, one Spanish scribe and two servants. It could yet mount higher, much higher.

  The moon was up, but the strong south wind was pushing tattered clouds across its face.

  'Are you all right? You look terrible,' Maximus called.

  'Never better.' Ballista replied sourly. 'Like a slave at Saturnalia.'

  'Do you think they will give up?' Demetrius asked, trying but failing to keep the desperate wishful thinking out of his voice.

  'No.' It was Maximus who firmly crushed his hopes. 'They are settling in for the long haul. They intend to run us down during the night.'

  As the Hibernian spoke, a series of twinkling lights appeared strung out between the river and the hills.

  'Do we still have a lantern?' Having been assured by one of the servants that they still had two, Ballista ordered one of them to be lit. The order was obeyed amid unvoiced horror. Bright golden light spilled out around them.

  'I do not want to appear stupid, but does not your lamp make it just a bit easier for your Persians to follow us?' Maximus asked.

  'Oh yes, and that is just what I want.' Ballista asked a servant to tie the lantern securely to the saddle of one of the packhorses. They rode on in silence for a time, travelling no faster than an easy canter. The clouds were building up, the moon ever more obscured. Now it was pitch dark outside the pool of lantern light.

  'Romulus, you know where the village of Merrha lies?'

  'Yes, Dominus. Off in the hills to the north-west, not far now, four miles maybe.'

  'I want you to lead the packhorse with the lantern in that direction. When you think that you have gone far enough or the Sassanids are getting too close, set the packhorse running free and ride for Arete.'

  The standard-bearer smiled enigmatically. 'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' He spoke ruefully. He took the horse's leading rein and set off diagonally across the dark plain.

  'Now we ride flat out again.'

  In complete silence the small group rode hard. Off to their left, the light of Romulus's lantern bobbed across the plain towards the just distinguishable darker mass of the hills. Beaded across the wide plain were the lights of the Sassanids. Soon they altered course and surged after the lone Roman lantern. Ballista and his remaining twelve men rode north into the darkness to safety.

  Not one was looking back when the line of Sassanid lights converged on the solitary lantern making vainly for the hills.

  They were found by the patrol just after dawn; Turpio was working Cohors XX hard these days: the first patrols set out early, always in the dark. When Ballista and his party were found they were still a couple of miles from town, and in a bad way. Horses and men were completely exhausted. The flanks of the horses were covered in a white foam of sweat, their nostrils wide, mouths hanging open. The men were ashen-faced, almost insensible with fatigue. Apart from a servant more dead than alive who was slung over a packhorse, they were walking, stumbling along by their mounts. The Dux Ripae looked terrible, his face masked in dried blood, staggering, hanging on to the near-side pommel of his horse's saddle.

  Before they reached Arete the Dux called a halt. He washed as much as he could of the blood from his face. He put on a hooded cloak borrowed from one of the troopers. He climbed back on to his horse and pulled the cloak up to hide his injuries. He rode into town with a straight back.

  After the battered cavalcade had passed through the Palmyrene Gate the telones looked at the boukolos with an air of smug vindication.

  'Calpurnia mutters… There is truth in poetry, boy – looks like that old centurion knew a thing or two: the ides of March did not do our barbarian Dux any good.'

  'And knowing poetry didn't do your fucking centurion much good either; he still had his bollocks cut off,' replied the boukolos. 'Now this is what I call an omen: first time our commander meets the Persians they nearly kill him. Bloody bad omen that.'

  From this first conversation discussions of the events at Castellum Arabum spread out across the town of Arete.

  An hour or so after their return, Ballista, Maximus and Demetrius were lying in the tepidarium of the private baths attached to the palace of the DuxRipae. The doctor had come and gone. He had put a couple of stitches in a gash on Maximus's thigh and five or six in the scalp wound on the back of Ballista's head. Demetrius had come through untouched.

  They were lying in silence, dog-tired, aching. Ballista's head throbbed.

  'No one to blame but yourself… your own fucking fault,' Calgacus grumbled as he brought in some food and drink. Ballista noted that now the Caledonian felt firee to express his opinions before Maximus and Demetrius.

  'Those notices you keep posting up in the agora: "the Dux Ripae will be virtually on his own riding down to some fly-blown piece of shite in the middle of nowhere; why not send a message to the Sassanids so they can ambush him?" Never listen… just like your bloody father.'

  'You are right,' Ballista said tiredly. 'There will not be any more notices, no more advance warning of what we are going to do.'

  'Surely it could just be chance, bad luck? Their patrol just happened to be there and we just happened to run into them. Surely there does not have to be a traitor?' Demetrius's tone could not be mistaken. He desperately wanted one of them to say he was right, it was unlikely to happen again.

  'No, I am afraid not,' said Ballista. 'They knew we were coming. That dust cloud in the south was the main force. It was intended to take us as we camped at the disused caravanserai. We were behind schedule. We were never meant to see the ones we ran into. They were just a screen to catch any of us who managed to escape the massacre.'

  'So,' said Maximus, 'you see the virtue in sloth – a good long meridiatio saved our lives.'

  Four hours after the Dux Ripae rode through the Palmyrene Gate the frumentarii were in their favourite bar in the south-east of the city.

  'Left him to die like a dog in the shand.' The emotion was not counterfeit; the North African was packed full of anger.

  'Yes,' said the one from the Subura. He kept his voice neutral. He was sorry for the Spaniard, Sertorius as he had dubbed him, but what else could the Dux Ripae have done – stop and get the whole party killed?

  'Like a dog… hope the poor bashtard was dead before they got to him.'

  'Yes,' repeated the one from the Subura. The North African's Punic accent was becoming stronger, the volume louder and, although the bar was almost empty, the Roman did not want attention drawn to them.

  'I will fix that bashtard barbarian… write a report that will fix him, write such a report on him, the bashtard. I just wish I could be there when the princeps peregrinorum hands the report to the emperor – see the look on Valerian's face when he hears how his barbarian boy has fucked up – the fucking bashtard.'

  'Are you sure that is a good idea?'

  'Godsh below it is… fix that bashtard good and proper.'

  The Persian rug which curtained off the inner room was drawn back. Mamurra walked through and over to the table of the frumentarii. He leant down, bringing his great slab of a face close to them.

  'My condolences on the loss of your colleague.' He spoke softly, and walked on without waiting for a reply. The two frumentarii looked at each other in some consternation. How long had the praefectus fabrum been ther
e? What had he heard? And was there something in the way he had pronounced 'colleague' that implied more than the Spaniard being a fellow member of the staff of the Dux Ripae?

  Seven days after the events at Castellum Arabum Antigonus rode in on a donkey led by a peasant. He told the telones and boukolos to fuck off, made himself known to the centurion from Legio [III in charge at the Palmyrene Gate and, within half an hour, he was in the palace. Sitting in the private apartments of the Dux Ripae, food and drink to hand, he told his story.

  Yes, Antigonus had found the two troopers on point duty. The Sassanids had been questioning them, the poor bastards, as he rode past. Oddly, no one had pursued him. There was a line of Persian cavalry coming up from the south, a lot of them. Antigonus had turned his horse loose – excellent horse it was too – hidden most of his kit in a ravine and swum out to an island in the Euphrates. He told them proudly that he was a Batavian from the Rhine. The whole world knew that the Batavians were great swimmers. As everyone in the party of the Dux had taken the standard three days' rations with them, he had sat on his island for two days. He had not seen a Persian after the first day. Then he had swum ashore, picked up as much of his kit as he could carry and walked south to Castellum Arabum. It had not been pretty. Eighteen heads were mounted over the gate and on the walls. The other two dromedarii might have escaped but, more likely, they had been taken for further questioning.

  'Anyway,' Antigonus continued, 'I found a peasant who, out of the kindness of his heart, offered to let me have his donkey and bring me home to Arete.' In response to a sharp look from Ballista he hurried on. 'No, no, he is fine. In fact, he is waiting in the first courtyard for the huge reward I said the Dux Ripae would pay him.' Ballista nodded to Demetrius, who nodded back to say he would deal with it.