‘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.
Chapter 36
Africa
The Plain before Carthage,
Five Days after the Ides of March, AD238
Disheartening was too mild an adjective, Gordian thought, as he rode with his father, inspecting the army and the new recruits.
The regular troops were drawn up to the right, facing the levies, to inspire confidence in the latter. There was nothing much wrong with these regulars, except lack of numbers. The cavalry were particularly short-handed. Together the Horse Guards and speculatores only had just over two hundred in the saddle. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have them on parade.
There were five units of professional infantry. The Cohort of the 3rd Legion were accoutred for war, shield covers removed to display their Pegasus emblem. Gordian had been reminded that the majority of recruits for the legion were drawn from Africa Proconsularis. They should fight harder to defend their homeland, and possibly the bulk of the legionaries with Capelianus might be more inclined to desert, if the battle turned against them.
The 13th Urban Cohort looked the part, yet it had to be kept in mind that their usual duties involved overseeing the docks and controlling crowds at the spectacles, rather than campaigning. The recently raised Praetorians were smartly turned out, and although their previous training in the youth organizations of the Iuvenes was minimal, no body of men were more closely bound to the Gordiani. Next to the Praetorians stood the new unit, grandiosely named the 1st Legion Gordiana Pius Fidelis. It numbered about four hundred, and consisted of veterans recalled to the standards, and stationarii. The latter, soldiers detached from their units, and for some reason or other present in Carthage, were likely to be better at finding easy billets than at fighting in pitched battle. The hastily painted insignia on their mismatched shields were all too visible signs that these men had not served together before. At the end of the line were the auxiliaries of the 1st Flavian Cohort, who had arrived from Utica, tired and footsore, earlier that morning. Of the other auxiliary Cohorts in the Province all but one were on the distant southern frontier. Only the 15th Emesenes would reach Carthage in time, and the army of Capelianus would be close behind them. Gordian thought it best not to mention this when he addressed the levies.
The imperial cavalcade halted at the tribunal. Gordian took his father’s arm, and they ascended the steps. The senior Emperor made a short speech, stressing duty, courage, discipline. A fresh southerly b
reeze made his words hard to hear.
Gordian ran his eyes over the recruits. The three hundred or so mounted men were not unpleasing. They were local landowners and their well-equipped retainers, accustomed to the hardships and near military manoeuvres of hunting. The eight thousand men on foot were another story. The majority unarmed except for a knife, butcher’s cleaver or pitchfork, this was nothing but a mob from the backstreets of the city. No doubt they could riot, but there would be no more than five or six days to train them to stand in the line in open battle.
His father finished, to no great discernible enthusiasm, and it was time for Gordian to speak.
‘Quirites! Julius Caesar with that one word transformed a mutinous legion from soldiers to civilians. Today we do the opposite. Milites! When you take the oath, no longer shall you be citizens, but soldiers!’
Some at the front grinned and waved whatever weapons they carried. Most were silent, and appeared apprehensive.
‘Do not let your lack of training distress you. You are Romans! The children of the wolf! Ausonian beasts! Your forefathers conquered the world. You are feared from the Atlantic to the Tigris. The battlefield is your birthright. It is in your blood. Cincinnatus was summoned from the plough, and he saved the state. You will save the Res Publica!’
Simple rhetoric, but a number cheered.
‘Do not be concerned at your lack of arms. The gods themselves offer the weapons stored in their temples. Throughout the city, blacksmiths forge swords and spears, carpenters make shields. When you march out, you will be as well equipped as any Praetorian.’
A blatant lie, but that did not matter.
‘Give no thought to any lack of experience. Four hundred gladiators have been granted their freedom. These heroes of the arena, skilled fighters all, will stand in the front rank between you and the enemy.’
The audience seemed somewhat encouraged. Fools, Gordian thought. A gladiator was no soldier. But the general idea should be developed.
‘You are not alone. Look at the thousands of regular troops in their serried ranks opposite. These veterans will be at your side.’
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