Calgacus saw Ballista duck clean under a horse. As he came up the other side, large coils of pinky-grey intestines slithered from the animal’s sliced belly. It tried to run, slipped on its own guts, went down.
Some god had to be holding his hands over Ballista. Calgacus watched him move with the grace of a dancer, untouched through the thundering chaos, sword flashing, quick as a snake. Men and horses were screaming. There was blood everywhere.
Calgacus took a blow on his shield, ducked, pushed forward. Over the hellish din, he could hear Ballista: ‘Nasu! Nasu!’
Some of the Sassanids were fighting; more were sawing on their reins, trying to turn, get free from the chaos.
‘Nasu! Nasu!’ – oddly it seemed that some of the Persians were taking up Ballista’s chant. ‘Nasu! Nasu!’ – they fought to get away from the huge, grim figure in the horned helmet.
Behind the tumult, pushing against the tide of retreating easterners, and astride the most splendid horse, a tall figure in purple and white, a high golden crown on his head. The King of Kings gesticulated. His mouth was open, shouting, but the words vanished into the uproar. Calgacus could see, near Shapur, the aged figure of the captive Roman emperor Valerian.
Ballista had been standing, hands down, a still centre in the eye of the storm. Now he recognized Shapur. He hurled his shield away and leapt forward, howling.
Shapur saw Ballista coming. The King of Kings drew his sword, kicked his mount forward.
A big Sassanid warrior put himself in front of the king. He swung at Ballista. The northerner ducked. The blade glanced off Ballista’s helmet.
Shapur’s nobles swarmed around their monarch. They grabbed his reins, turning his horse’s head. The beloved of Mazda roared orders. For once they were disobeyed. The nobles closed ranks, their gorgeous silks surrounding the king.
Try as he might, Calgacus could not get to Ballista. Horses, men, friend and foe got in the way. Maximus also was caught up in the melee.
Ballista’s sword sang – desperate to be past the big Persian warrior and at Shapur. In a berserk fury, Ballista hacked his sword deep into the back of the neck of the Persian’s horse. The steel edge cut through the armour, severing the ligament. As the horse went down, the warrior jumped free. He landed on his feet.
The great war standard of the house of Sasan was moving away. Shapur was being forcibly led to safety. Valerian was being dragged after him.
The big Persian warrior cut at Ballista’s left thigh. The northerner caught the blow on his blade, pirouetted like a dancer and sank his own sword into the man’s left shoulder. The warrior staggered. Dropping his sword, his right hand automatically went to the wound. He swayed in agony. He did not fall.
Overhead, Ballista brought his weapon down on to the man’s other shoulder. Metal buckled, and gave. The man sank to his knees. In a flurry of blows, Ballista finished him.
‘Nasu! Nasu!’ Ballista cried at the fluttering Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the Sassanids, and the retreating Persian king. They were gone too far. Like an animal savaging its prey, Ballista chopped again and again at the corpse at his feet.
Calgacus reached him. Ballista continued his gory work of mutilation. The Persian’s head was nearly severed, his reddish hair spread in the dirt.
‘Stop, boy,’ Calgacus said.
Ballista continued the butchery, dismembered the body.
‘Leave him. It is over.’
Ballista stopped. He looked down at the dead Persian.
‘Garshasp the Lion,’ Ballista said, and drove the tip of his blade into the man’s chest. He left it there, quivering.
Blood ran in every crevice of Ballista’s armour, clotted in the links of his mail coat. It dripped from his dented helmet, his unshaven face.
Ballista was in a place where Calgacus could not follow.
‘Nasu! Nasu!’ Ballista screamed at the sky.
Calgacus remembered: Nasu was the Persian daemon of death.
‘And this,’ Rutilus said to Ballista, ‘is the pavilion of the King of Kings.’
‘Kyrios,’ Demetrius interrupted, ‘Ragonius Clarus wishes to see you. He says it is most urgent – for the good of the Res Publica. He has been waiting for hours, since the Persians ran.’
Ballista did not look round. ‘Let him wait.’
No one was quite sure why the Persians had run. Despite their disarray, everyone had expected them to canter out of range, rally and charge again. Centurions and optiones had shouted themselves hoarse getting the legionaries back to the standards, getting the reinforcements into position. When the line was re-set – this time eight deep and with a comforting barrier of dead and injured horses in front – they had been surprised that the Persians were a distant smudge of dust. The only easterners left were dead or too maimed to hobble to safety. The latter were soon dead as well.
Panic can spread through an army in seconds. Certainly some credit had to go to an opportune sally into the Persian rear from the town. This had been led by the eirenarch of Soli – a man called Perilaus. Demetrius thought, if ever in the history of mankind, let alone of the imperium, there was a case of a brigand turned estate guard, it was Perilaus. He had to be either a close ally of Trebellianus or, more likely, one of his deadliest enemies.
Yet Demetrius knew Perilaus was not the real reason for the Persian rout. Demetrius had been there. He had stood in the battle line. True, that was all he had done – stand in the battle line. When Ballista, Calgacus and the others had run forward, Demetrius had taken just a couple of steps after them. He had his sword out. His intentions were good. But there had seemed no way into the maelstrom of horses and men. Everywhere flailing, falling horses, terrible, sharp weapons. Demetrius had not fought, but he had seen and he had heard everything that mattered: Ballista, miraculously unscathed, sword swinging, screaming from under his helmet – ‘Nasu, Nasu.’ Demetrius had witnessed the fear of the daemon of death spread through the Sassanid warriors. He had seen Shapur, the proud King of Kings, hustled away.
If ever a man had won a battle single-handed, it was Ballista today. But had Ballista been alone? Demetrius seriously thought that his beloved kyrios had been possessed – Nasu, the daemon of death.
Demetrius followed the others into the cool, purple shade of the royal tent. A long corridor later, they emerged into a cavernous room. Wherever they looked were bowls, pitchers, tubs and caskets, all exquisitely worked. The chamber itself breathed a marvellous scent of incense and spices. Couches and tables were laid for a banquet. At the far end was an ornate throne. Before it was a low altar on which burned a sacred Zoroastrian flame.
Ballista spoke, to no one in particular. ‘This, it seems, is what it is to be a king.’
The northerner, his face still largely hidden under the blood-spattered helmet, looked around. He picked up a big pitcher of wine, took a drink. Then he carried it to the altar. Slowly he poured the wine over it. A cloud of steam rose as the sacred fire hissed and died.
This was too much for Demetrius. ‘When a man who takes a city includes in the general destruction temples of the high gods …’
A laugh came from under Ballista’s grim helmet. He finished the quotation from Euripides: ‘He is a fool; his destruction follows him close.’ Ballista laughed again, strangely carefree. ‘I know it all too well, boy.’
At the sacrilege, two eunuchs, who had been hovering quietly behind the throne, started wailing.
Ballista went over to them. His hand went to his sword. It was not there. He had left it embedded in the corpse of Garshasp. Ballista drew Isangrim’s miniature sword from his other hip. He killed both the eunuchs.
‘Never cared for their sort in the north.’
From behind the hangings at the rear of the room came a terrible high keening.
Rutilus smiled. If, like Demetrius, he had been shocked by the killing, he had recovered quickly. ‘To the victor the spoils.’ He whisked back the curtain. The wailing redoubled.
‘Heaven on earth,’
said Maximus. ‘Sure, a man could die happy.’
Wherever they looked now were girls. Tall, short; thin, rounded; dark and blond. All beautiful.
‘The concubines of the King of Kings,’ said Rutilus, having to raise his voice. ‘About four hundred of them. At least one for every day of the year.’
Calgacus joined Maximus, crowding behind Rutilus and Ballista. Demetrius hung back. All five men were silent.
The noise dropped to some stifled sobs. The girls got down and performed proskynesis to the tall, red-haired man.
Rutilus laughed and pointed to Ballista. Hurriedly, the girls realigned themselves.
‘It makes no difference,’ said Ballista. ‘Give them to the troops. Then kill them.’
Some must have understood Greek. The wailing redoubled.
‘Kyrios’ – Demetrius had to shout – ‘this is not you. This is wrong.’
Ballista did not respond.
‘Kyrios’ – Demetrius pushed in front of him – ‘you cannot kill defenceless women. They are slaves. They did not kill the kyria or your boys.’
‘No,’ said Ballista, ‘I killed my sons. I took an oath. Like Jason, I broke it. Like Jason, the gods took the lives of the oath-breaker’s darling sons. Soon they will take mine.’
‘Kyrios,’ said Demetrius, ‘your mind is wandering, confused by grief. Medea lied. Jason took no oath. Your oath was taken under duress. It has no meaning.’
Ballista took off his helmet. His hair was matted, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood. He gazed far away, lost in thought.
‘When Medea accused Jason of perjury, he did not deny it. In my case there is no woman, no lie. I took the oath. Of my own free will.’ Again he seemed far away. ‘Free will,’ he murmured.
Suddenly Ballista snapped out of it. ‘Rutilus, go and tell Ragonius Clarus I will see him soon. Wait for my order.’
If Rutilus was surprised, he hid it. He saluted and left.
When he had gone, Ballista started to talk fast. ‘I am perjured three times over. I broke the sacramentum I took to Maximinus Thrax, and the one to Valerian. I broke the terrible oath to Shapur. One more broken oath makes no difference. I never really intended to keep the one to Macrianus’s sons – value their safety above everything, indeed.’ Ballista’s voice had something of its old tone. ‘Demetrius, pass me your writing things.’
Busily, Ballista dashed off a few lines. He handed the stylus and block back to Demetrius. He pulled the ring with his seal off his finger and gave that to Demetrius as well.
Confused, the young Greek gazed at the seal – Cupid winding a siege engine.
‘Go to the ships, find the Concordia; her trierarch Priscus owes me a favour from long ago – you may remember him. That is an order for him to transport you to the west. Go to Gallienus. The ring should get you an audience. Tell him how things stand in the east. Tell him I would never have served the pretenders if their father had not held my family hostage.’
Ballista swung round to Maximus and Calgacus. ‘You two, find a sack or something. Fill it with gold for the boy.’
As the other two rummaged around, Demetrius tried to find words. ‘Kyrios, if I can go, so can you. We all can.’
Ballista shook his head.
‘Kyrios, as your family are … now they are gone, Macrianus has no hold over you.’
Ballista smiled ruefully. ‘I am what the Romans call devotus, dedicated to the infernal powers, to death. I will stay here – take what vengeance I can on the Sassanids, before the gods strike me down.’
Demetrius was crying. ‘Kyrios – Calgacus, Maximus, you love these men. Let them come with me.’
Ballista looked at Calgacus.
The old Caledonian stopped stuffing precious trinkets into a pillowcase. ‘I swore an oath to your father, the northern oath. If you fall on a battlefield, I will not leave it. I did outside Edessa, to protect your boys. I will not do so again. Fuck that.’
‘Maximus?’
‘I take it you have forgotten you saved my life in Africa all those years ago and me somehow never getting round to returning the favour.’ The Hibernian grinned. ‘And sure, you are a strange man – trying to tear me from all these lovely girls.’
Ballista took the bundle of booty from Calgacus and gave it to Demetrius. He hugged the boy, kissed him on the forehead. ‘Go now. And do not worry, the men must have the girls, but they will not be killed.’
Tears streaming down his face, Demetrius embraced the other two. He stopped at the curtain, looking back.
‘Go now.’
Demetrius left.
‘What now?’ Maximus asked.
‘Now who is the strange one?’ said Ballista. ‘All these girls. Pick a couple for yourselves, more if you want, and take the rest out to the troops.’
Maximus, using his best Persian, ordered the terrified concubines to get moving.
‘Wait,’ said Ballista. He also spoke in Persian to the girls. ‘Which of you is the favourite of the King of Kings?’
None of them answered, but several pairs of eyes slid to one tall, statuesque girl.
‘You stay. The rest out.’ Ballista turned to Maximus and Calgacus. ‘And do not come back until I call you.’
Back in the tent, Maximus was looking at the girl. No one else was. Ragonius Clarus, Rutilus and Calgacus were all looking at Ballista, and he was looking at the drink in his hand.
The girl, huddled on the floor by the throne, was crying, painful, dry sobs. Gods below, she is a concubine. What had the fucker done to her? Unpleasant thoughts crept up on Maximus. So much for Ballista’s ridiculous superstition of fidelity – fuck another woman and get a theta after his name on the military roll next time in combat. Julia was dead. But it was not that. The fool was putting up one finger to the gods. It was the same as putting out the fire on the altar – fuck you, come and get me.
‘Dominus,’ Calgacus was using his courtly voice, ‘the Legatus et Vir Clarissimus, Gaius Ragonius Clarus, accompanied by the Praefectus et Vir Egregius, Marcus Aurelius Rutilus.’
Ballista looked up with no evident interest.
Unfortunately for Ragonius Clarus, he had just caught sight of the two slaughtered eunuchs at the rear of the room. He stared open-mouthed, horrified, like Demetrius after the killing.
Maximus hoped the young Greek would be on his way by now. It would all be fine. The trierarch Priscus of the Concordia had been promoted to that position five years ago by Ballista. The ship’s home port was Ravenna. Its crew were westerners. They would be glad to go home.
So Demetrius’s journey should be fine, but his arrival was another matter. How exactly would the emperor Gallienus respond to what the pretty-boy Greek had to say to him? Dominus, I am the accensus to the traitor Ballista, and thus privy to all his secrets. He is very sorry he left your father to rot in Persia and that he is now leading the armies of your sworn enemies. He was forced into it. Now his family are dead, he has no intention of returning to the fold but intends to kill Persians until he is dropped by a stray arrow.
And then there was the Maximinus Thrax problem. Most of, if not all, the other twelve conspirators were dead. They had all had good reason to keep quiet. Ballista had told only four people of his role in killing that emperor. There was Maximus himself and Calgacus; the other two, Julia and Turpio, were dead. Recently, in his ravings, Ballista had spoken of it twice in front of Demetrius. Unlike the others, the boy had not been sworn to secrecy. He would not want to tell, but he was not tough. Even his pleasures were womanish. Under pressure, he would talk. It was not that Gallienus was likely to have any fondness for the memory of the long-dead tyrant, but a track record of killing emperors was unlikely to endear anyone to the man on the throne of the Caesars. It would seem a nasty precedent.
‘You wanted to see me.’ Ballista spoke conversationally, apparently unaware of the oddity of the scene: a northern barbarian in a stained tunic sitting on the throne of the King of Kings, bits of armour scattered around, a sobbing, half-nak
ed girl, and two dead eunuchs in a pool of blood.
‘Indeed.’ Clarus tried to rally himself. ‘Yes, indeed.’ He cleared his throat, as if about to address the senate or recite a poem.
Well, well, thought Maximus, you are scared of my boy. And so you fucking should be, especially as he is now.
Clarus produced an ivory and gold codicil. He glanced at Rutilus for reassurance. The big red-headed officer nodded.
Shame, thought Maximus, I rather liked you, Ginger. But you are obviously a cunt like the rest of Macrianus’s boys.
‘Marcus Clodius Ballista,’ intoned Clarus, ‘I give you joy of your victory.’
Ballista took a drink.
‘In recognition of your success,’ Clarus ploughed on, ‘our noble emperors show you the great honour of appointing you joint Praetorian Prefect with Maeonius Astyanax. Henceforth your status is raised from Vir Perfectissimus to that of Vir Eminentissimus.’
Ballista raised his glass almost mockingly.
‘With your new dignitas come new mandata.’ Clarus seemed about to pass the codicil to Ballista then thought better of it. ‘Some three thousand of the Sassanids have fled west towards Sebaste. You are to take the entire fleet and a thousand infantry and prevent these reptiles effecting a union with the Sassanid force which we understand is returning via the hills from Selinus in the west.’
Ballista made no comment.
‘The emperors have shown me the honour,’ Clarus continued, ‘of appointing me to your old post of Prefect of Cavalry. I am to assume command of the remaining troops here at Soli. Once joined by five thousand cavalry making their way from Syria, I am to march north after the bulk of Shapur’s horde. While the enemy still has some nine thousand horsemen, the gods willing, Demosthenes will hold the Cilician Gates against them, and I will bring them to battle on the plains south of the Taurus mountains.’
Oh fucking great, thought Maximus. Clarus gets an equivalent force to fight Shapur, while we get just a thousand men and a few marines to take on three thousand reptiles at Sebaste, maybe six thousand if the ones from Selinus join with them before we do. Fucking great. Just as well Ballista has decided he is devotus.
Warrior of Rome III Page 17