Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘Soli today, Sebaste next; it is all the same to me,’ said Ballista. ‘Maybe we should all have a drink. Roxanne?’

  As the girl, sniffing once or twice, got up and busied herself, Maximus looked at the luxury all around in the inner sanctum of the King of Kings. It took him a while to realize why it bothered him. The only man he knew that had seen it before was old Turpio. And look how it had ended for him. Defying the fates, Maximus picked up a discarded necklace and hung it around his neck.

  The headland of Sebaste was low but solid in the dark night. The little boat rode the gentle swell. Ballista had commandeered the fishing smack from Soli. They had sailed down to Sebaste at last light and started their fishing. Ballista worked it with the old fisherman. They used a dragnet with floats here. The boat was square-rigged, nothing too different from the fishing boats of Ballista’s childhood.

  Maximus, Calgacus and two marines huddled in the bottom of the boat. Sounds can carry a long way over water at night, so they did not complain.

  Ballista had watched the Great Bear circle and pale. It had been a long night, but soon it would be over. He yawned, stretched and gazed up at the eastern sky. No sign of it lightening yet.

  It was the old man who first saw the signal. Tapping Ballista’s arm, he pointed to the shore. There it was. A solitary beacon to the east of Sebaste, on the road from Soli. The first part of Ballista’s plan had worked. The land forces, even though only an inadequate thousand men, were in position.

  Ballista unshuttered and hoisted the lantern. As the old man hurriedly pulled in his nets, Ballista scanned the dark sea to the south. Nothing. No sign that the second, crucial element of his plan was in place. He could not wait. There was no time.

  With the old man at the steering oar, Ballista brought the sail round. It was far too early for the morning breeze from the sea, but the hint of the prevailing westerly should bring them in to the beach west of Sebaste.

  As the low headland slid past to their right, the old man talked inaudibly to himself. Mastering an urge to look south, Ballista stared at the sky. Now there was a faint but definite pink tinge above the black outline of the town. Maximus started to get up. With a hand on his friend’s arm, Ballista indicated it was too soon.

  Sudden and clear a trumpet rang out from the town. Before its echo had faded, it was answered by others. Torches flared along the wall. Some of them were moving. One or two shouts floated across the water. The Sassanids were aware of the Roman troops to the east. So far so good – providing the dark-painted ships of the fleet, their oars muffled, were gliding in out of sight behind the fishing boat. Ballista did not think what would happen if it were not so. In many ways, he did not care. Soon there would be more blood for the ghosts.

  For those whom fate has cursed

  Music itself sings but one note –

  Unending miseries, torment and wrong!

  A word of warning from the old man, and he ran the boat up on to the beach.

  Ballista swung himself over the side. He landed knee-deep in the water. Maximus passed him his sword belt. Ballista buckled it on. Then he pulled the floppy cap from his belt. Scooping his long hair under it, he crammed it over his brows.

  Maximus was beside him, fiddling with his own eastern cap. Calgacus and the two marines jumped out of the boat. While they readied themselves, Ballista and Maximus pushed the boat off. The old man just waved as he unshipped the oars.

  Ballista pulled Isangrim’s little blade on his right hip an inch or two out of its sheath, snapped it back, drew the big sword on his left a little, pushed it back, touched the healing stone tied to the scabbard. He was glad Calgacus had retrieved his sword from the body of Garshasp. At moments like this, Ballista was painfully aware that, much of the time, he was not thinking clearly.

  My heart would burst,

  My sick head beats and burns,

  Till passion pleads to ease its pain.

  Ballista checked the others.

  ‘Time to go.’

  The sand crunched under their boots. The town wall was black off to the right. The west gate was hidden in shadow. It was, Ballista thought, a good job they had been here before and knew the layout. The noise from the town seemed to have faded.

  A couple of trees grew in front of the gate. The land smelled hot away from the sea. The heavy doors were shut. Ballista looked back at the sea. Was there a line of white – not a wave – out there?

  Ballista unsheathed his sword. With the pommel he beat loudly on the gate.

  ‘Open the gate,’ he called in Persian. ‘Open the gate. The country is alive with Romans.’

  From inside came a babble of talk.

  ‘Open.’ Ballista beat on the gate again. ‘I am Vardan, son of Nashbad. I have an order from Shapur.’

  A bonneted head popped up over the battlements.

  ‘Open the gate now,’ roared Ballista. ‘The man who delays the command of the King of Kings will suffer.’

  The head disappeared.

  A few moments later there was a scraping sound – the gate opened.

  Ballista pushed past the first Persian. There were two more inside. He killed one with a thrust to the stomach, the second with a blow to the back of the neck. Maximus was sawing his blade into the throat of the first one. It had all taken about four seconds.

  ‘Calgacus, take the marines and get up on the wall walk. Maximus, you stay with me.’

  Ballista took stock. He had hoped there might be something, say a cart or some barrels, anything really, to wedge the gate open. There was nothing obvious. Still, it should not be for long.

  ‘Maximus, help me drag the bodies to block the gates.’

  No sooner had they finished than figures appeared in the street.

  ‘Shut the gate,’ a voice shouted.

  ‘We cannot – orders,’ Ballista replied in Persian.

  The men walked up. There were four of them.

  ‘Shut the gate, now.’

  Ballista waited until they were close then stabbed the leader in the guts. Maximus cut down another. The two remaining Sassanids went for their swords. Their yells were cut short before their blades were free of their scabbards.

  ‘They will be all over us now, like a cheap toga,’ Maximus grunted as he helped pull the fresh corpses to add to the obstruction in the gateway.

  ‘Not for long,’ said Ballista, searching through the dead for things of use. ‘You could have left with Demetrius.’

  ‘Yes, I could have.’

  The two men equipped themselves with small Persian shields, bows and arrows. Maximus added a helmet. Ballista did not. Better no helmet than an ill-fitting one that might slip down over your eyes, impede your movement. There was no time to take any armour.

  As Maximus ran up to the wall walk, his arms full of bows, quivers and shields for the others, Ballista studied the town. The sun was not up yet, but it was quite light. To the right was another gate leading to the peninsula. It was open. Through it could be seen a curved portico stretching along the south-west of the enclosed main harbour. Ahead the street ran straight, becoming the north-western dock of the harbour. Off to the left, the theatre rose above the exercise ground of the gymnasium.

  The streets were deserted. Down by the empty docks a cat stalked a pigeon. A confused noise came from the east, beyond the far walls. Inside the town all was deathly quiet. Sebaste had fallen twice, first to the Sassanid force that had gone on to Selinus, now to these easterners who had escaped west from the battle of Soli. Those inhabitants who had not fled or been killed would be hiding. It was not surprising there were no civilians, but it was wonderful there were no Persians. Ballista’s plan had worked. Seeing just a meagre thousand Roman soldiers advancing from the east, the Persians must have issued out to confront them.

  Maximus came back down the steps. He was blowing hard.

  ‘You are out of condition,’ Ballista muttered. ‘Your wind has gone.’

  Before Maximus could answer, an arrow whipped between them. Hunc
hed down, shields up, they stepped back into the shelter of the gateway. More arrows came from under the arch of the gate to the peninsula. They snicked off the stonework.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Maximus. ‘They did not all fall for it then. Fuck a vestal.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ Ballista replied. He peeked out from behind the gate then jerked his head back as three or four arrows sliced towards him. One missed his ear by an inch or so. ‘Fuck, indeed.’

  ‘Unless there are enough of them to rush us, we are safe enough here until the boys from the fleet come,’ Maximus said.

  There was the sound of running feet.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.

  Without a word, both men stepped out, drawing their bows. At least half a dozen Persians were coming. Ballista and Maximus released. They dropped the bows, drew their swords. Only one Persian had fallen. More were issuing from the peninsula.

  They heard the twang of bows above their heads. The arrows of Calgacus and the marines dropped another easterner. Not enough. The charge did not falter.

  The Sassanids were on them. At the last moment, Ballista sidestepped the first one. Too close to use his sword, he stuck his arm out. The straight-arm tackle caught the Persian under the chin. The man’s legs shot out from under him. He crashed on to his back, armour clattering on the roadway.

  The next Sassanid thrust towards Ballista’s middle. The northerner blocked it with his blade, forcing his enemy’s weapon wide. He kicked the man’s kneecap. Howling, the Sassanid doubled up. Ballista jumped back.

  For a moment, the men on the ground impeded the others. To Ballista’s left, out of his vision, steel was ringing. Maximus was not down yet.

  Two Persians came for Ballista. They stepped carefully, swords ready. They knew what they were about. There were more behind them.

  There was no berserk madness upon Ballista this morning, no battle calm. Instead, nothing but cold, sinking fear. His devotion to death had left him. This could only end one way.

  The Sassanids struck. Ballista parried one blow, took the other on his shield. The light buckler splintered. One Sassanid aimed high, the other scythed his blade low at Ballista’s shins. Somehow the northerner ducked one blade, got the shield in the way of the second. A big chunk flew out of the light shield. It was useless. Ballista threw the thing into the face of the opponent to his left. He thrust at the easterner to his right. The man stepped back out of range.

  The Sassanids pressed forward. Shieldless, Ballista relied on his years of training, the memory in his muscle. He acted without conscious thought. His blade weaved fast. Sparks flew. But he could not keep them out for long. Blow by blow, step by step, he was driven back.

  Ballista’s right heel felt the wall behind him. Nowhere to go. Time nearly up. He was half aware of other easterners jostling behind his opponents. If there was an afterlife – Valhalla, whatever – he would soon be with his boys.

  The Persians closed for the kill. One jabbed at his face, one his groin. Ballista chopped down at the lower blade. Instinctively, eyes shut, he jerked his head to one side. Splinters of limestone cut his cheek. There was a sharp pain in his left thigh.

  The momentum of the Sassanids had driven them against Ballista. He could smell their sweat, the spicy food on their breath.

  The one to his left gasped. His body twisted, fell back. Without thought, Ballista rammed the fingers of his left hand into the other’s face, clawing at his eyes. The man swayed back, then reeled. Calgacus’s ugly face appeared. The Caledonian drove his blade into the Persian’s chest.

  Pandemonium. The Sassanids were running back the way they had come. Ballista looked wildly around. There was Maximus. Allfather, Death-blinder, Deep Hood, they were alive. More figures were crowding into the gateway from outside.

  Ballista caught his breath. The cut to his leg stung, but it looked superficial. All around, Romans were finishing off the Sassanids on the ground.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ballista said.

  ‘Hercules’ big hairy arse, I thought it was too late that time. I thought you were fucked.’ Calgacus smiled a horrible smile.

  ‘Me too.’ Ballista laughed. He had to pull himself together. The job was not yet half done.

  ‘You’ – Ballista pointed at an optio – ‘take the first thirty marines through the gate. Follow the Sassanids. Secure the gate to the citadel. If you can, work through and clear the peninsula.’

  The optio shouted. The marines jostled and pushed. More were crowding in from outside.

  Ballista stepped out from the gate to the more open space in the street. He had to take charge. This could easily degenerate into chaos.

  ‘Everyone but the detailed marines, stay where you are.’ Some of the confusion stilled.

  ‘Officers, to me,’ Ballista shouted. ‘Where the fuck is Rutilus?’

  ‘Here, Dominus.’ The tall redhead calmly stepped out of the throng.

  Ragonius Clarus had insisted Ballista have Rutilus as his second-in-command. It was the emperors’ explicit wish. Ballista had not wanted him, but there was no denying he was a competent officer.

  ‘Rutilus, you know the plan. Take the main body of marines straight down this road past the docks. Seize the gate at the far end. Draw your men up in line outside – two deep, open order.’

  With a minimum of fuss, Rutilus got on with it. The marines, nearly three hundred and fifty of them, began to rattle past.

  The trierarch elevated to Ballista’s deputy for the next part of the plan appeared. What was his name? Ballista was about to ask Demetrius, then he remembered the boy had gone. He hoped he was all right.

  ‘Trierarch, are your men ready?’

  The trierarch shrugged. ‘As ready as they will ever be.’

  Ballista had armed around a thousand rowers with a mixture of captured Persian weapons and antique arms from the temples of Soli. The trierarch, like all his kind a long-service centurion, had little but contempt for his men’s fighting abilities. Unfortunately enough, Ballista thought he was probably right. Still, if it all worked, they might not actually have to fight.

  The last of the marines passed.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Ballista. With Maximus, Calgacus and the trierarch flanking him and Gratius carrying his personal white draco behind, Ballista set off.

  At first they followed the retreating backs of the marines. Then Ballista led them into a sideroad to the left. Now he quickened the pace to a jog.

  It was hard going. The street twisted, twice turning back on itself. Past the theatre it began to climb steeply. Ballista’s wounded leg hurt. It was getting harder to get his breath.

  About five hundred yards of this, and they reached the north-eastern gate out on to the main road to Soli. The whole way, they had not seen a single Persian.

  Emerging from under the archway, Ballista realized the sun was up. Still low, it cast long shadows but illuminated the scene. The yellow-green slopes of the mountain rose to the left. The sparkling sea lay to the right. And between, about half a mile ahead, the battle.

  Perfectly to plan, Castricius had arrayed his thousand infantry from the necropolis on the lower slopes to fill the four hundred or so yards down to the shore.

  The Persians, their backs to Ballista, wheeled in front of Castricius’s position. Arrows flew, but the rough going and the innumerable tombs badly hindered their evolutions.

  Away to Ballista’s right, Rutilus’s marines were already mainly in line.

  Ballista roared orders, waved and gesticulated. The ragtag mob of armed rowers started off to link with the marines.

  The Persians had seen the threat to their rear. Officers, bright figures in silk flashing steel, rode here and there, regrouping the horsemen. They knew they were in a trap. It remained to be seen if they would realize how weak one side of the trap was.

  Ballista looked at his men. Rutilus’s marines, in reasonable order, filled about half the space. In the other half the rowers, although clumped up, were in some approximation of a line.

 
‘Signal the advance. Slow walk. Keep together.’

  The line shuffled forward. From the start, some of the rowers were hanging back. Their part of the line bowed.

  Ahead, Sassanid banners waved, trumpets called. The Persians – there must still be nearly three thousand of them, formed into a deep phalanx.

  Allfather, Grey Beard, Fulfiller of Desire. The Persians were facing Castricius’s men. The deep boom of a Sassanid war drum sounded. The horsemen accelerated away from Ballista. They charged Castricius’s line.

  Through the fresh dust, Ballista could not see clearly what was happening. A roar like a thousand trees being felled at once echoed back from the mountain slopes.

  Most of the Sassanids had come to a halt. But in one place they still moved forward. From the flanks, others began to funnel after them.

  All the horsemen stopped. The gap that had opened in Castricius’s line must have clogged with men and horses. It would not have taken much – maybe just one horse going down in the rough terrain.

  Panic gripped the Sassanids. Like animals before a forest fire, individuals darted this way and that, seeking an unattainable safety. Some must have broken through. But for those left, there was no way out. What remained was not fighting but slaughter.

  Ballista sat with his back to the tomb. He was in the shade and facing the mountains, away from the killing field. The Sassanid custom of carrying much of their wealth on their person probably put an edge on the Romans despoiling the enemy corpses, but they would have done it anyway.

  The battle won, Ballista had ordered Rutilus to keep a couple of hundred marines in hand to secure the town and Castricius to hold back about the same number of legionaries on the road. That the Sassanids who had escaped would rally and launch a surprise attack was highly unlikely. The liburnian galleys had tracked them up the coast. About three miles to the north-east, the Sassanids had turned off inland. But better safe than sorry.