by Ian Ross
‘Dominus,’ the scout commander said, ‘I advise against giving up any ground we currently hold. The Persians cannot be defeated in the field – Romulianus has shown that eloquently… But they’ll be moving very slowly, with elephants and a siege train. If we split up between a multitude of strongpoints and launch harassing attacks on their flanks, and on their supply lines, we can make it impossible for Shapur to advance further. Perhaps we can even hold him long enough for the imperial field army to arrive here…’
‘Under whose command?’ Egnatius broke in. ‘That could take months! Besides, only your own men are experienced in raiding and skirmishing like that, and you have fewer than a hundred – it’d be like flies attacking an elephant!’
‘Perhaps…’ Sabinus broke in. He was frowning, gazing into space; the two senior officers turned to him, waiting for him to speak. ‘Perhaps,’ he said again, ‘Nisibis is all Shapur wants?’
Egnatius immediately made a scoffing sound. Castus raised a hand for silence, then gestured for his son to continue.
‘We think he means to invade Syria,’ Sabinus went on, ‘as we meant to invade his territory, but maybe he doesn’t? Nisibis was the most important city mentioned in the treaty the Persians signed decades ago, the one they found so humiliating… Didn’t you once call it the bulwark of the east, Father? Shapur’s won a victory against Romulianus already. If he takes and holds Nisibis, he’s won the war, in effect.’
For a long while all the men were silent, pondering the idea. Castus saw Diogenes raise his eyebrows. He gestured for the secretary to speak. ‘It’s true,’ Diogenes said. ‘Nisibis would be a great prize for Persia. Shapur could not advance and leave such a strong fortification in his rear either. And he surely needs the supplies kept there, to provision his army. But if he takes it, we’d find it very difficult to drive him back out again.’
Castus rubbed a palm over his jaw. The faces of the men at the table, all of them looking to him for a decision, blurred. What if…? he thought. What if Shapur does not attack Nisibis? What if he bypasses it, or turns south, towards Circesium? What if this really is a feint attack? What if…? What if...? He scrubbed his scalp, then exhaled.
‘Yes,’ he said, with a decisive snap in his voice. ‘Yes, we go to Nisibis. Shapur needs to take it, and we can’t let it fall. Send riders west to Mucatra, telling him to push his troops on as fast as possible. The rest of us ride for Nisibis at dawn tomorrow. And may the gods send us wings!’
XVI
Mile after mile, Castus led the column at a furious pace, men and horses pushed to the limits of endurance. The long straight road took them east, through the hill country and out onto the Mesopotamian plains. They rested briefly at Constantia, a day after leaving Edessa, and again the following evening at Macharta, but after sunset they were back in the saddle and moving once more. The hooves raised a vast plume of dust, pale in the glow of the moon.
Shortly after midnight, Castus noticed the orange haze across the horizon to the south and east, and smelled the scent of burning on the night breeze. His grim mood lifted slightly; they were still ahead of the Persian advance, and Castus knew that neither landowners nor peasants would voluntarily burn their own unharvested crops. Clearly somebody had taken charge at Nisibis, and issued orders to deny the invaders any forage.
Two hours later, he heard the cries of combat from up ahead. The archers of the Armeniaci Sagittarii were riding at the van of the column, and as he spurred his horse forward he met a biarchus of the unit riding back to find him.
‘Deserters, magister!’ the biarchus reported, reining in his mount. ‘Looting the villages, we think. We charged them and they ran, but my boys shot a couple of them down as they fled.’
‘Good work,’ Castus told him. His throat was dry and harsh with dust. ‘But if you see any more, round them up and bring them in if you can.’ He needed all the men he could get, and could not be scrupulous about where he found them. He was still hoping that the bulk of Romulianus’s shattered force had retreated to Nisibis, rather than fanning out across the countryside to plunder the civilians.
They met the first groups of refugees soon afterwards, desperate bands of peasants and villagers who scattered at the noise of the approaching horsemen, then lined the verges crying out for protection and rescue as the cavalry rode past with their banners streaming. But Castus knew he could afford no delay now. As the eastern sky lightened, the bands of fugitives on the roads grew more frequent, and he could make out other groups straggling across the open country, all of them hurrying towards the sanctuary of Nisibis’s walls.
An hour before sunrise, the city itself appeared, dark on the far horizon, and as Castus rode up to the head of the column he saw the towers and the pediments of the temples outlined against the pale glow of dawn. The road led straight to the whitewashed arches of the western gate, but as they rode between the towering masonry tombs that lined the approaches to the city, Castus swung the column away to the right, along the narrower track that followed the line of the wall down to the postern gates of the military camp. He had no idea what the situation in the city might be, and leading a thousand horsemen through the streets could be perilous.
‘Egnatius,’ he cried as the gates in the outer wall opened before him, ‘I need a troop of your Armigeri as escort – I’m going straight to the Strategion. Find barracks and stables for the rest, and send all senior officers to report to me at the sixth hour.’
He paused outside the principia of the castrum only long enough to gulp down a flask of water. Then, without dismounting, he led his retinue on through the camp and out the far gate into the main avenue of the city. Turning to the left, they rode up the slope towards the citadel mount. In the morning light, Castus could see the colonnades on either side packed with refugees, huddled with whatever meagre possessions they had managed to bring with them from the villages and outlying towns.
The crowd in the street grew thicker as he rode into the oval agora between the theatre and the Bouleuterion. The sun was up now, illuminating the façade of the Church of the Saviour and the broad steps that climbed to its doors. Both the steps and the open space at their foot were covered with people, city-dwellers and refugees together, all of them gazing up at the lone figure who stood, arms stretched wide, in the sunlight before the gate of the church atrium. Castus recognised the ragged man at once.
‘Brothers and sisters in Christ,’ the bishop cried, ‘I say to you now, do not put your hopes in earthly weaponry, but in the power of prayer, the power of faith!’ Iacob appeared as wretched as ever, and his voice was a thin creak, but it carried powerfully across the plaza. ‘Fall upon your knees, brethren, and pray to the Lord our God for your salvation! For was it not God who in the testament sent the flaming chariots to the aid of Elisha, when the city of Dothan was beset by the ravening foe?’
Iacob paused, catching sight of Castus and his mounted retinue, the purple draco banner hanging above them. He raised his arm again, pointing with one withered finger. Castus reined in his horse and leaned onto the saddle horns as the congregation turned to peer anxiously at him.
‘Put no trust in the agent of evil!’ the bishop yelled. ‘Put no faith in the worshipper of devils and the companions of persecutors! Turn away from him, brethren… Cast him from your hearts! For he brings only death to this city, both of the body and of the soul!’
With a snort of disdain, Castus spurred his horse forward again, cantering through the fringes of the crowd as the bishop’s congregation scattered before him. On the far side of the agora he tugged at the reins and rode on up the broad stepped street that climbed the northern slope of the citadel mount. The hooves of the horses clashed on the marble paving, loud in the morning calm.
Reaching the open area before the Strategion, Castus halted and eased himself down from the saddle with a deep groan. His legs felt weak as they took his weight, and he paused, braced against the heaving flank of his horse. Sabinus dismounted beside him, and led a party of troopers t
o the Strategion portico, where the slaves were already gathering, staring in bemusement.
‘Not a journey I hope to make again in a hurry!’ Diogenes said, clambering down from the saddle with considerable effort.
Castus frowned. ‘Let’s hope we both make it again soon enough, in the opposite direction.’
Inside the building, slaves and attendants fussed around him. But Castus needed no guide to lead him to Romulianus. He could hear the strangled gasps and cries of pain as he circled the palm courtyard. The Dux Mesopotamiae was lying on a couch in one of the airier side chambers, the sheets beneath him soaked yellow with sweat and spattered with bloodstains. His chest and belly were bound with linen bandages, and his face was grey and corded with pain. Castus guessed that the wounded man must have been awakened by the noise of his arrival.
‘Excellency!’ one of the surgeons kneeling beside the couch exclaimed. ‘My apologies, but the dux is in no condition to speak to you now!’
‘I can see that,’ Castus said quietly, gazing down at Romulianus. The wounded man opened his eyes briefly, and a flicker of recognition hardened his gaze. Then another spasm of pain racked his body and he turned his head away, gasping through his teeth.
‘They brought him in six days ago, excellency,’ the steward said in a low voice. ‘He has wounds in his abdomen and his flank, his liver is pierced and infection has set in. The surgeons have done all they could…’
Castus nodded curtly. Anyone could see that Romulianus was dying. He had a day, perhaps two more at best. Looking at him now, Castus could feel little anger for the man. Romulianus had led thousands of Roman soldiers out into the desert to be smashed into the dust at Zagurae. He had done it against orders, and against all sense. But he had paid the highest price for his folly.
‘Give him whatever he needs,’ he told the steward, turning away. ‘And keep him quiet if you can. Where’s the governor?’
‘The praeses Gidnadius left as soon as news of the battle came in, dominus,’ the steward said with an embarrassed sigh. ‘He claimed he was going to Amida to raise more troops.’
Castus choked back a bitter laugh. He had expected little of Gidnadius, but such open cowardice was hard to swallow.
The morning was already getting hot, but the dim interior chambers of the Strategion still trapped a little of the night’s cool beneath their heavy vaulted ceilings. Now he was at his destination, Castus felt the fatigue of his journey washing through him, his mind blurring as his muscles ached and burned. But he forced himself to climb the steps to the roof terrace, praying that he would see no hostile army arrayed across the southern horizon.
His prayers were answered. The blue distance of the plain shimmered with heat, but the sky was empty of dust trails and he could see no roving horsemen out beyond the scorched brown fields that lined the Mygdonius. Breathing his thanks, Castus stumbled back down the steps and across the smaller courtyard into the chamber he had used during his previous visit. Vallio was already there, cajoling the slaves as they set out the bedding and brought food and drink.
Castus flung his cloak aside and slumped heavily onto the couch, drinking a cup of watered wine as Vallio pulled off his boots. His head was spinning with weariness, and he eased himself down to lie on his back. A moment later, with not another thought, he was asleep.
*
Snapping awake again, he lay blinking in confusion, still feeling the couch beneath him rolling with the motions of the saddle. He was barely aware of having slept at all, but once the turmoil in his mind had stilled he felt slightly refreshed. Distant trumpet calls came from the direction of the castrum. Sitting up, yawning massively, he called for Vallio.
‘What hour is it?’
‘Approaching the sixth, dominus,’ his orderly said. ‘The officers are here and waiting, but I thought it best not to wake you.’
Glancing at Vallio, Castus saw that the man was flagging. While he had slept for three solid hours, he realised with a twinge of guilt, his staff had been hard at work.
‘Get some rest,’ he told the orderly as he stood up and stretched his arms.
The surviving officers of the Mesopotamian army were waiting in the main audience hall. Castus was shocked to see how few of them there were. A handful of senior centurions and drillmasters, and a bare half-dozen unit commanders. Several bore the scars of battle, and a couple had bandaged limbs. Those that were unwounded stared at the floor, shame-faced.
‘Claudius Oribasius,’ Castus declared as he seated himself on a folding stool before them. The heavy-featured prefect of Legion I Parthica straightened up, staring at the far wall above Castus’s head.
‘Excellency!’
‘Your commanding officer is on the edge of death,’ Castus told him. No surprise there; all of them could hear the anguished cries and gasps of pain through the archway to the palm courtyard. ‘Your legion has been driven from the field of battle in disarray, and from what I hear it’s been more than decimated. And yet, you stand before me without a wound upon your body. Explain yourself!’
‘Excellency,’ Oribasius said again, through a gulp. ‘Dux Romulianus placed me in command of the camp. I… When I saw the rout developing I ordered a retreat. It seemed better to conserve as much of my own force as possible.’
Castus glared at him, tight-jawed. He could see the flickering expressions of the other officers, and could read them fluently. But the messenger at Edessa had already told him much of what had happened during the battle.
‘You fled the field, Oribasius,’ he growled. ‘And rode clear with your mounted troops, leaving your own men to die trying to defend their fortifications. Is that not so?’
Colour rose to the prefect’s face. He opened his mouth, stammered something, then visibly regained control of himself. ‘I take full responsibility,’ he said in an ashen voice. ‘As the senior surviving officer, all blame falls to me, I know.’
‘Luckily for you,’ Castus told him, ‘I have insufficient men left to be vindictive. Let’s hope you can redeem yourself pretty soon, eh?’
Oribasius almost gasped with relief.
One by one, the other officers stepped forward and gave their reports. Castus knew them all from his previous visit, and was grieved to see that most of the better men had died during the battle. The only surviving tribune he rated highly was the commander of the numerus of Gothic auxilia. Flavius Gunthia was a big man, his heavy beard shot with grey. The barbarian troops he commanded had mostly been taken captive after the battle of Chrysopolis over a dozen years before, and had been serving out on the eastern frontier ever since. Gunthia had kept them together during the rout, and had fought a running battle with the enemy vanguard as he retreated towards Nisibis.
‘I lost near a hundred of my men, magister,’ the tribune said with sombre pride. ‘But we killed twice as many of the Persian bastards!’
Diogenes had been compiling the numbers of the troops remaining in the city, and those who had escaped the rout at Zagurae. Now he passed the tablet to Castus, who ran his eye over the columns of figures. Legio I Parthica – 762 / Legio VI Parthica – 343 / Numerus Gothorum – 498 / Ala I Nova Diocletiana – 167… The further he read, the smaller the numbers became.
His heart ached.
‘Together with the mounted troops I brought with me,’ he said quietly, ‘we have a little over three thousand men. The enemy, at our best current estimate, has… around thirty times as many.’
For a moment his eyes glazed, a sense of terrible futility clouding his mind. He drew a long breath, flexing his shoulders. ‘Several of you,’ he said, ‘have failed in your duties as soldiers, and as commanders. But I’m prepared to forget those faults. The coming days will be a trial for us all. I’m relying on you to remember your sacred oaths to the emperor, and to do your duty in full.’
He stood up, gestured towards the imperial shrine at the rear of the hall and then raised his arm. He had no idea whether news of Constantine’s death had reached Nisibis yet. Perhaps it was still
a rumour, but when the assembled officers straightened to attention, all of them shouted the salute with gusto.
‘… and at every command we will be ready!’
Only when the last of them had departed did Castus slump back onto his stool, kneading at his brow with his knuckles. A slave brought him wine and he sipped, barely tasting it.
‘We need more men,’ he muttered to himself. ‘We’d never even hold the circuit of the walls as it is.’
‘Might it be possible to conscript some of the civilian population?’ Diogenes asked. ‘They’d surely be willing to defend their own city.’
Castus nodded. ‘We’ll have to,’ he said. ‘But I need to speak to their chief men first…’
‘If you’ll forgive me, I took the liberty of summoning them here already, while you were asleep,’ Diogenes replied.
‘You did?’ Castus said, raising his eyebrow. When, he wondered, did Diogenes rest? The secretary was older than he was, but despite an increasingly desiccated look Diogenes still appeared remarkably brisk. The three-legged dog lay sprawled at his feet, tongue lolling.
The dignitaries of Nisibis arrived an hour later, just after Castus had finished his midday meal of bread and cheese. Lycianus had sent his Saracens out on patrol, but neither they nor the sentries on the rooftops had yet sighted the enemy. Even so, the crowd of civilians filing into the audience hall had the look of men besieged. Twenty of the principal councilman of the city Boule, together with the chief priests, all of them led by the curator Vorodes and his colleague, Dorotheus the Defensor Civitatis. Only the Christian bishop, Iacob, had failed to attend.
Castus stood before them, his thumbs hooked in his belt. The walls of the chamber were lined with troopers of the Equites Armigeri, all in burnished armour. The assembled civilians were dressed in their finest garments, but they appeared suitably cowed.