King of Kings

by Unknown

  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?