Narseh arranged the hunters. The prince himself took the middle. To his right went the two Albanians, King Cosis and his uncle the high-priest Zober, and two Romans, Castricius and Maximus. To the left were stationed Ballista and the three other Persians, the young commander Gondofarr, the mobad Manzik and the old general Tir-mihr.
The clear, sweet note of Narseh’s hunting horn echoed through the paradise. Beyond the thicket and the stream, out of sight, the hounds sang. Ballista gripped the cornel shaft of the spear – left hand in front of right, side on, crouching, left foot following left hand, feet no further apart than in wrestling. He waited, his neck soon aching from looking over his left shoulder. Sun dappled down through the beeches. The leaf mould was soft under his boots.
From the covert came furious barking, crashing – animals moving fast – a high yelp of pain. The shouts of the beaters: now, hounds, now. Ballista felt his sweat slick on the spear. Branches breaking, getting closer. The howling of the hounds ever louder. A half-seen movement, and then – straight in front of Ballista – the nearest bush exploded.
The boar stood in the sunlight. It was a mighty beast. Its head swung to either side, evil white tusks glinting. Oho, hounds, oho! Like Bacchic revellers, the handlers drove on the madness. Oho, hounds, oho! The hounds tumbled out. Teeth bared, eyes popping, they darted in, snapping at the legs and flanks of their quarry.
The boar lunged. It gored a hound, tossing it high, paws over back. The hound landed in a heap. Its side was laid open, the blood bright on the fallen leaves. The others, hackles up, fell back a moment.
The beast’s piggy, malevolent little eyes locked on Ballista. Its humpback bristled. Faster than seemed possible, the boar accelerated. Ballista got lower in his stance, braced for the inevitable impact. Hooves drumming, the curved tusks, all bloodied, raced at him.
At the last second, the boar jinked to Ballista’s left. He tried to realign his spear. It took the boar in the shoulder. Not a clean blow. The blade was not embedded. The shaft was torn from Ballista’s grip. The spear spun away. Its momentum took the boar past. Ballista heard it scrabbling to turn, get at him. He threw himself full length. He dug in his fingers, the toes of his boots, pressed his face, all of him down, down into the soft forest floor. There was damp soil in his nostrils. His eyes were shut, waiting for the pain. There was shouting, as if from a great distance. The earth under him shifted. He smelt the evil, hot breath of the thing on his neck, smelt its hot blood. It drew back, seeking another angle to get its tusks under him, to prise him from the ground, to gore his soft flesh.
A shout – sharp, insistent – close at hand. Ballista felt the boar swing away. He risked a glance. He had grit in his eyes. The boar charged full on to the spear of young Gondofarr. The steel penetrated its mouth. The shock drove the young Persian back one pace, another. He dug in his heels, stayed big and strong. In its madness, the beast snapped its way up the shaft, driving the broad blade deeper down its own throat, deeper into its own vitals. Still, somehow, the young Persian denied its elemental force, held the frothing, murderous thing at bay. The boar reached the cross-piece and died.
Solicitous hands picked Ballista from the dirt, brushed him down. Are you all right? Did it get you? Ballista felt unsteady. He said he was fine. He did not say so, but he needed to piss. Gondofarr stood in front of him. Ballista bowed, blew a kiss from the tips of his fingers, thanked him, called him hero, in Persian. Gondofarr embraced Ballista – the scent of hot boar strong – spoke back to him in that language, called him framadar.
All nine hunters huddled together, slapping each other on the back. They were laughing, eyes bright with relief, good fellowship overflowing – closer than men after much drinking. The great beast – skewered by Gondofarr’s spear – lay at their feet: the irrefutable proof of their shared courage, their very manhood.
Manzik the mobad cut some hairs from the creature’s back, laid a few on its tusks, watched them shrivel in the heat. He tossed the rest into the air, said a prayer to Mazda.
Prince Narseh told his chief huntsman to butcher the beast, light a fire. Others should fetch bread, wine, other good things. They would feast here in the paradise. As men scurried to do his bidding, Narseh called for their mounts, asked Pythonissa to accompany them. They would ride, water the horses, divert themselves with conversation.
Downstream, they soon came to a pool. They sat around it in a circle, dropped their reins, let the horses drink. Gondofarr and Maximus produced flasks. They passed them from hand to hand with no ceremony. Ballista drank greedily, the need to piss forgotten.
‘There are many good things to hunting,’ said Narseh. ‘It conditions the body, toughens the soul – only a fool or an effeminate would think differently. An almost sly look came over his face: ‘And it can bring a certain privacy.’
Indeed, there were just the ten of them in sight or earshot.
‘When do we march?’ Ballista asked.
Narseh smiled, as if at the impetuousness of a younger relative, even though Ballista probably was some years the elder. ‘If one believes, as I myself do, Persia and Rome to be the twin lamps in the darkness of humanity, then it is a duty to act. It is as much against the interests of my father, the Mazda-worshipping divine Shapur, King of Kings, of Aryans and non-Aryans, of the race of the gods, son of the Mazda-worshipping Ardashir, as it is against those of Gallienus Augustus to tolerate the nomads south of the Caspian Gates. If they get a base in Suania or anywhere south of the Caucasus, the Alani will spread destruction far and wide. Those in Colchis whom the Romans claim owe them allegiance, and the loyal dependants of the King of Kings in Iberia and here in Albania will be just the first to suffer. In their lust for plunder, the bloodthirsty nomads will look to ride their ponies down through the Roman province of Cappadocia into Syria and west to the Aegean. In their savage ignorance, they might even have the temerity to try to encroach through the lands of the Cadusii and Mardi into the Aryan heartland ruled by my father.’
The Sassanid prince paused for a drink but clearly had not finished his speech. The others politely waited.
‘The framadar Ballista stresses the need for haste.’ The Persian word sat oddly amidst the Greek. ‘It precludes asking the advice of my father. On my own authority, I will lead the Persians to the Caspian Gates.’ Narseh turned to Cosis and Zober. ‘I take it that, faithful to your oaths, your Albanian warriors will march with us?’
Both the king and the high-priest assured him that they would support him to the extremity of their powers, if not beyond. ‘But’ – King Cosis cleared his throat – ‘what of Hamazasp? The Iberian king has always been untrustworthy. Will he ride with us? Will he even let us cross his territories?’
Ballista almost smiled. Of course the king of Iberia was untrustworthy, and few men alive had more reason than Ballista to hate him. Yet Cosis was the hereditary enemy of Hamazasp, and the attempt to do him down had been too transparent.
‘Hamazasp will do his duty,’ said Narseh. ‘No king of Iberia, no vassal king of any people, will bring down on himself the anger of the King of Kings. Velenus of the Cadusii will see to that.’ The rebel Velenus had been despatched to Shapur. Things did not look good for him. A punishment of exemplary cruelty was expected – no scourging of a cloak, lopping the ears off a hat, for him.
‘Let us turn to practicalities,’ Narseh said. ‘Speak your minds freely. Leave nothing unexpressed that we might later regret.’
‘We still have no real report of how many Alani have crossed the mountains, nor the numbers of Suani that have gone over to Saurmag,’ Tir-mihr said.
‘The majority of Suani will remain loyal to the memory of King Polemo and to his chosen heir Azo,’ said Pythonissa. ‘The members of the synedrion have never trusted Saurmag.’
Narseh dipped his head to Pythonissa but spoke to Tir-mihr. ‘In this case, numbers may matter less than in many operations. No one can fight a battle on a mountain. All engagements will be in the river valleys and passes. In an enclose
d space, a multitude of the enemy will count for less than our equipment, training and courage, Mazda willing.’
‘Then how many we march upcountry should be determined by two things,’ said Tir-mihr. ‘How many we can spare from the occupying army among the Cadusii and Mardi, and how much forage we think available in Suania.’
Ballista liked the old Persian general. Tir-mihr had the good sense born of long experience. He said what was needed straightforwardly, without elaboration.
‘We will ride with two thousand clibanarii and three thousand light horse,’ said Narseh. ‘It will leave our cousin Sasan Farrak enough to keep the tribes to the south-west of the Caspian from any further rebellion. It is the haymaking season; the kyria Pythonissa assures me that the high valleys of Suania can feed many more horses than that.’ He addressed himself to the Albanians. ‘A contribution of another one thousand allied horse – half with heavy armour – would be welcome.’
Cosis and Zober made haste to pledge their men.
‘It would be an honour if the king himself led his men,’ suggested Narseh.
Cosis said the honour would be all his. Ballista realized that the Albanians would be as much hostages as a military asset – a position he knew all too well.
‘Good,’ said Narseh. ‘We will gather another thousand riders from Hamazasp on the march.’
The Sassanid’s horse raised its head from the water, tossed it. Narseh waved the flies from its eyes, quieted it. ‘One thing still concerns me. While I accept the need for speed, urged by both the framadar Ballista and the kyria Pythonissa, is it wise to go into the Caucasus with cavalry alone?’
Ballista knew it was time for him to justify the gamble he was asking them to make. ‘ Kyrios, infantry usually are essential for hill fighting – to hold ground, to guard the heights flanking the column. But, as the kyria says, the tribesmen will not be united against us. The Alani, like the Persians, prefer to fight on horseback. They and Saurmag are pinned to the fort of Cumania. The pretender has to take Azo, and the Alani have to ensure the pass back to the steppes. They will have to meet us in open battle before the Caspian Gates.’ Ballista tried to sound like Tir-mihr, sagacious and certain. He hoped he was not leading them all to disaster.
Narseh laughed, his teeth very white behind the blue-black beard. ‘I hope you are right, Framadar. I hope your desire to rescue your friends has not clouded your judgement.’ He was no fool, this handsome young prince. ‘We Persians remember what happened when the Achaemenid Cyrus went against the nomad Massagetae. Their barbarian queen used the King of King’s skull as a drinking cup.’
XXX
It was a tradition among the Persians not to begin a march until after sunrise. It was not, as the Greeks held, a result of sloth, but down to the demands of religion. After the necessary dawn sacrifice, with the day already well advanced, the signal was given by trumpet from the tent of Prince Narseh.
It was four days after the hunt in the paradise that they finally set out. Despite his eagerness to get to his familia in Suania, Ballista was not unhappy at the delay. Certainly, the first day had been a godsend. The problem had been another Persian tradition. Something they had decided on drunk had to be discussed again sober to see if it still seemed a good idea – and vice versa. They had ridden back from the pool and eaten roast boar. Then, with the servants dismissed and a ring of particularly trusted clibanarii posted, they had started to drink and talked it through again. They had drunk a great deal. Pythonissa had left early – which, given nine very drunk men, had been a good thing. They had drunk through until the stars paled above the treetops. The next day, Ballista had been unable to get out of bed. He was good for nothing, except perhaps one thing. Pythonissa had visited him. While it lasted, sex gave a hungover man an unfounded sense of well being. Afterwards, of course, he felt far worse. Even on the subsequent two days, Ballista had felt washed out. He was sure he could drink less than when he was younger.
Narseh had been busy while Ballista moped about. The Sassanid prince had made great efforts to circumvent yet another Persian custom. Eastern armies – and those of the house of Sasan were no exception – liked to take their comforts with them. Huge meteor trails of wagons and carts, slaves and concubines; all manner of camp followers streamed in their wake. The length of the column was much increased, its rate of march and cohesion drastically reduced. The civilians got in the way of the warriors, and were very given to panic. To venture into the mountains thus encumbered was to invite disaster.
Issued by the authorized general and a son of the Mazda-worshipping divine King of Kings, the word of Narseh was not to be ignored. But his ukase was unpopular. Each clibanarius was to be accompanied by just one servant. Every ten light horsemen could have one servant. The hierarchical nature of Sassanid society was further reflected. Each commander of a hundred might have five servants; each commander of a thousand, ten. The prince himself – appearances had to be kept up in the sight of foreigners – would travel with one hundred. All servants were to ride. It did not have to be a horse – a donkey, mule or camel would do – but there were to be no wheeled vehicles at all. Cosis was instructed that the same regulations were to apply to his Albanians.
Ballista rode off with Maximus and Castricius to a spur of the foothills to watch the army come down into the plains. It was a warm morning; going to be a hot day. The horses stamped, swished their tails as the flies got at them. Ballista wondered whether to question Castricius about his newly claimed Macedonian ethnicity. A sophist he had once heard had claimed that we reinvent ourselves with every action, if not every thought. But publicly changing from a Gaul to a Macedonian seemed somewhat excessive.
A swarm of light horse came out from the tree line. The bowmen swooped across the grassland, wheeling this way and that out of sheer high spirits. With their bright tunics and turbans, the colourful saddlecloths of their mounts, they resembled a migration of exotic, fierce birds. Ballista estimated their number – about five hundred. It was odd watching them in amity. He remembered seeing their like on the march down to Circesium, and the fear they had induced.
Two more distinct bodies of light cavalry emerged, the numbers of each about the same as the previous division. The newcomers cantered off to right and left to flank the march. They may be deep in allied territory, but Ballista approved that Narseh was taking all precautions. He suspected the hand of the dependable Tir-mihr.
Narseh led out the main body. Above him floated a great lilac banner with an abstract design picked out in silver. The mobad Manzik carried the prince’s sacred flame, boxed for travel. Ballista was unsure about these Zoroastrian symbols. He thought each Bahram fire was lit from another; forming, as it were, an extended family.
Behind Narseh, the clibanarii rode five abreast: big men on big horses, splendid in silk and steel, bristling with lances, hung about with bow cases, maces, long swords. The column was four hundred deep – a sight both beautiful and terrible.
The baggage train was next. Ballista could see Tir-mihr and young Gondofarr spurring up and down its length, trying to chivvy it into some order. Given Narseh’s instructions, it should consist of less than three and a half thousand mounted men. It was impossible to be sure, but there seemed more. Yet many would drop out before the mountains, and at least there were no wheeled carriages.
After the camp followers came the remaining five hundred Sassanid light cavalry, with Cosis and his Albanians bringing up the rear. For the first morning of a march, it was none too bad. Ballista had seen a lot worse. He remembered old Valerian’s army straggling along by the Euphrates up towards Samosata.
‘These Zoroastrians, you have to say, have a far better afterlife than your Greeks and Romans,’ Maximus said. ‘Lots and lots of virgins.’
‘I thought that was Manichaeans,’ said Castricius.
‘Maybe them too. Either way, it is a fucking sight better than all that fluttering and squeaking in the dark like a bat. It is no wonder your Greeks will hardly fight at all.’
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‘And the Romans?’ Ballista asked.
‘Nowadays, they prefer to let the likes of us do it – just proves my point,’ Maximus said.
‘I am sure it is Manichaeans,’ said Castricius.
‘But you do not know,’ said Maximus. ‘Hippothous now, he would know.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Castricius. ‘Like most Greeks, he only knows about Greek things.’
‘But he knows a fuck of a lot about physi-’
‘Physiognomy,’ said Ballista.
‘Exactly,’ said Maximus. ‘He could take one look at Castricius here, read that pointy little face and see straight into his soul – and what a horrible sight it would be.’
‘And then he could tell us why he has started pretending to be Macedonian,’ said Ballista.
‘It is a long story,’ said Castricius.
‘Are you going to tell us?’ Ballista asked.
‘Not now, no,’ Castricius said.
‘I am not sure I would want an eternity of virgins,’ said Maximus. ‘Me, I often like a woman with a bit of experience. And all the virgins are ever so willing. What about a bit of reluctance? Rip her clothes off, throw her on the bed.’
‘Stop it,’ said Ballista.
‘I am just thinking, with no concubines among the baggage, those servants are going to get very sore arses. You know what these easterners are like – obsessed with sex.’
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