Triumph in Dust

by Ian Ross

  Over the shields the long lances reared and struck, angling down to stab at heads and shoulders. And all the while the hammering blows of the swords and maces beat at the shield wall, a constant deafening assault. Castus saw the Romans trying to strike back, their weapons glancing off the Persian armour. Impervious, the cataphracts pushed forward, more like armoured automatons than men. The centurion of the Tenth fell, a Persian mace beating in the side of his helmet. Slowly the Roman ranks were fraying; the enemy were over the foundations of the broken wall now, and the line of shields bowed before them. Soon, Castus knew, it would surely break.

  Barbatio was shouting commands from behind him. Men turned, reaching, and Castus saw that they were passing new weapons forward from the rear. Mattocks and pickaxes: entrenching tools, taken from the workers on the inner wall. With a savage smile, he remembered the battle at Taurinum, years ago. They had used just such improvised weapons against the enemy clibanarii then. Now the troops in the second line had thrown down their spears and shields, the front rank tightening in a defensive cordon as the men behind them hewed over their heads at the armoured attackers. Iron clashed, the heavy tools breaking through the mail and scale of the cataphracts. With a slow steady grinding of metal and flesh, the tide began to turn.

  Something dropped through the dusty air, and Castus heard screams from beyond the fighting lines. He risked an upward glance and saw men on the broken ends of the ramparts on either side of the breach hurling down rocks, the ballistae shooting their bolts at a sharp angle into the closely packed enemy phalanx. The men at the rear of the Roman formation were beginning to cheer, hoarse and ragged yells, as they pressed forward once more. Castus saw one of the cataphracts stagger and fall, a man in the third line darting his spear forward between other men’s legs to stab the fallen Persian through the eyehole of his helmet.

  Another surge, the lines straightening, and Castus was shoved forward into the second rank. He managed to drag his sword free of its scabbard, levelling it to strike wherever he saw an opening. But the defenders’ brutal battering was driving the Persians back now; more and more of the cataphracts were struck down or stumbling. Stones were still dropping from the walls, smashing at their flanks. Castus almost tripped over a fallen body at his feet. A mailed figure appeared before him, and he stabbed out wildly with his long spatha. The blade clashed against the Persian’s shoulder, grating over the armour scales, and the cataphract flinched away from him. A moment later, a swinging pickaxe split the man’s helmet and mashed his skull.

  The curtain of dust parted, and Castus saw open space in front of the shield wall. Men hunched, shuffled, readied their weapons. Was it over? Impossible to tell whether they had won or not – but the lines still held.

  Then, through the gasp and heave of breath, came a strange trumpeting sound. Castus wiped his face with his free hand, staring forward over the rims of the shields. The sound came again, closer this time. And as the dust fell and the air cleared, he saw the huge shapes lumbering down the far riverbank and moving towards the breached wall.

  ‘Elephants!’ somebody cried. ‘They’re sending elephants!’

  Horror flowed through the Roman ranks like a racing tide. Now all could see the advancing threat: a trio of huge beasts, armoured with hides, their hooked tusks tipped with bronze, and each with an iron-plated fighting tower on its back. The retreating cataphracts were forming up along the near edge of the muddy riverbed, opening lanes to let the elephants through.

  ‘Merciful gods, we’ll never stand against that,’ a soldier gasped.

  Castus sensed the panic gathering around him, threatening to break into a wild rout. Fear kicked in his chest, and despite the overpowering heat he felt his blood turning icy in his body.

  ‘They’re only animals!’ he heard himself shouting. He shoved his way forward into the front rank. ‘We can drive them back! Archers, and anyone with javelins – aim for the eyes, aim for the drivers!’

  The lead elephant was crossing the riverbed now, planting its huge feet with slow care into the swamp of rutted mud. Castus could see the driver perched above its neck, armoured like a cataphract, goading it onwards. The light appeared grainy, although the dust had settled, and with a shock Castus realised that the sun was gone, and the day was dropping rapidly into night. They must have fought for over an hour already. How much longer could they stand?

  Swinging its tusks, the elephant raised its trunk and let out another trumpeting roar: almost mournful in the dying light, but again it sent a ripple of fear through the Roman lines. Come on, Castus thought, wanting to glance backwards. Come on – finish the inner wall – give the signal to retreat…

  A low stir of sound was rising from the Persians gathered at the side of the river. A hum and hiss of voices, muffled by the mail hoods of the cataphracts. The elephant paused, took another step forward, paused again. It was in the centre of the riverbed now, its feet sinking into the mud with every stride.

  Breathless, Castus watched the animal advance. The other two elephants were moving forward to follow the first, the towers on their backs swaying. Behind them Castus could see more beasts drawn up in the fading light, a score of them at least. Horsemen cantered around them, waving banners.

  When he glanced down again he saw that the lead elephant had come to a halt. It raised one leg from the mud, then set it down again. The driver was flogging at its head, trying to urge it forward, but the animal would not move.

  A yell from the Roman lines, gathering to a fierce cheer. There were arrows flying now, javelins and slingshot. None hit the elephant, but it stood in midstream, tossing its head, stumbling as it tried to shift backwards.

  Castus heard a shout from above him, and raised his head. A snapping sound, and he caught the brief flicker of a ballista bolt. The crew of Sudden Death let out a cry of triumph, and when Castus glanced back at the river he saw the elephant driver sagging to one side. Another snap from the ballista on the far side of the breach; the elephant groaned, heaving back onto its haunches in the deep mud. As it turned, Castus saw the black stub of a bolt jutting from behind its ear.

  The animal raised its trunk to the sky, its huge mouth yawning open. With a long loud moan and a shudder, its rear legs folded and it collapsed backwards into the mud of the riverbed, the tower crashing from its back. The Roman lines erupted in a wild roar of victory.

  On the far bank of the river, the other two elephants had come to a halt. Men were rushing forwards with fresh bales of reeds, more fascines to pack the mud and strengthen the crossing. At the base of the rubble ramp, the mass of Persian foot soldiers were forming up again, gathering for a renewed assault.

  Castus felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned sharply. Barbatio was right behind him, his face caked with matted dust and sweat.

  ‘The signal!’ the tribune hissed. ‘The wall’s complete!’

  ‘Fall back from the rear,’ Castus ordered. ‘From the rear – and stay in formation!’

  Snatching a glance forward, he saw the Persians already beginning their advance towards the breach. If the men holding it retreated too quickly, they would be cut down before they could reach safety. Castus could hear Barbatio shouting his orders, the centurions repeating them. He felt the ranks around him shudder. Discipline, he thought. Only Roman discipline could save them now.

  ‘Hold,’ he growled to the men around him. ‘Hold fast – do not run – hold the line steady!’

  He could sense the ranks behind him opening up, the men at the rear spilling away to either side. A shout went up from the mass of Persians at the base of the ramp; someone had noticed what was happening. With a savage cheer the horde of men began to surge forward, scrambling over the mounds of the dead.

  Castus stood with teeth clenched, hand tight on the grip of his sword. The shields were still firm around him, but they were only two ranks deep. Dust stirred behind him. Only a single rank remained.

  A heartbeat, then another. The attackers were almost upon them. He drew a breath,
then roared the command.

  ‘Go!’

  XXVI

  The shield wall broke, every man turning and running for the shelter of the inner rampart. Castus ran with them, his lungs heaving. Flames bloomed in the darkness, firing the clouds of dust with orange light, and the air tasted of smoke. The first wave of attackers would be delayed only momentarily by the heap of corpses along the line of broken wall foundations; Castus could almost feel them behind him as he ran. With every stride he expected the punch of a speartip against his spine. The ground was rutted and uneven; he stumbled, disorientated. His boot skidded out from beneath him and he fell forward, the sword slipping from his hand.

  ‘Father! Get up – get up and run!’

  Sabinus caught him by the shoulder, hauling him to his feet. Castus threw himself forward as he ran. Then the inner wall was in front of him, rearing out of the smoky darkness, higher than his head. The men on the parapet had let down a ladder; Castus saw soldiers scrambling upwards, but he jumped and seized a projecting timber, dragging himself up. Sabinus grabbed him from below, lifting him, and a multitude of hands pulled him in across the parapet. Sabinus was the last man on the ladder, and two men dragged it up after him.

  Dazed and gasping, Castus subsided onto the fighting step behind the parapet. Vallio was there, pouring water over his face, and Castus grabbed the flask and sucked from it. The water was hot and tasted of dirt, but he gulped it down.

  Already he could hear the noise of fighting. Vallio was trying to get him to remain seated, but he pushed the orderly away and crawled upwards until he could look out over the parapet.

  He had ordered two shorter ramparts constructed on either side of the breach, connected to the surviving sections of wall. Together they formed a rough box, two hundred paces wide and half as deep. And as the Persian attackers swarmed through the breach, they found themselves advancing into a killing ground.

  Fires burned amid the rubble heaps, illuminating the invading men. The parapet of the three-sided fortification was packed with defenders, soldiers and civilians together; as they saw the attackers stumbling into the firelight they raised a vast bellow of defiance. Arrows and javelins whipped from the parapets, slingshot, even flung stones. Castus saw the leading ranks of the Persian wave cropped down at once under the hail of missiles. Up on the battlements of the outer wall, archers and ballista crews had turned to aim down into the killing ground, picking off the attackers as their advance faltered and died.

  Another wave came through the breach. Armoured men, dismounted cataphracts, their armour gleaming in the light of the fires. This time they got further, almost up to the inner line of defences. Stones fell on them in volleys, and the ballistae shot, cranked back, and shot again. With no way of scaling the inner walls, the cataphracts were trapped; one by one they died, or fell back in retreat. Castus saw the last one of them, tall plumes nodding from his helmet, his scale cuirass bristling with arrows. He strode forward, mace raised. Then a ballista bolt, shot from the rampart at close range, struck him in the chest and punched through his armour. He swayed, then toppled over into one of the fires.

  The brief hush was filled with the cries of the wounded and dying. Then cheers burst from the defenders on the parapets, and the first swells of a Christian hymn.

  Castus was grinning as he sank down to sit with his back to the piled stones.

  *

  He woke to a cool grey light, and the sourness of straw bedding. For a few moments he lay in blissful calm, then the aches ran through his body, jolting him into wakefulness. He sat up, cursing.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘A good few hours,’ Diogenes said. They were in the portico of the old baths near the Gate of the Sun. Castus was glad that he had managed to struggle out of his armour before he dropped onto the mattress.

  ‘You needed it,’ Diogenes went on. ‘But don’t worry – Vallio here would have woken you if anything happened!’

  The orderly was slumped against the wall, head back, snoring quietly.

  ‘What about you?’ Castus grunted, rubbing his face. ‘You never sleep?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been training myself to do without it,’ Diogenes said. He was sitting on the ground, his legs crossed beneath him. ‘A simple technique. Relaxation of the body, while retaining full consciousness. I learned it from one of the gymnosophists in the market district. I could teach you, perhaps, although this probably isn’t the time…’

  ‘It certainly isn’t,’ Castus muttered, clambering to his feet. He found a flask of water nearby, drank, and then washed his face and scalp. Slightly refreshed, he stamped his feet to get the blood back into his legs before striding from the portico.

  The sun was not yet up, and the morning twilight was smoky and dim. Fires were still smouldering in the killing ground, and along the ramparts people were slumped in fatigued torpor, some of them sleeping while others stared, grey-faced, over the rough parapet. Castus climbed up onto the fighting step and gazed out towards the breach.

  The bodies of the enemy slain were still lying where they had fallen the evening before, bristling with arrows, flies circling around them. Castus saw the dead piled thickly around the breach, a vast mound of them along the line of the previous day’s fighting. The bodies of the Roman soldiers had already been removed, he noticed. High on the city wall the sentries were clearly visible against the pale sky. A staff tribune approached and made his report; they had lost over a hundred men in the battle, most of them trained soldiers. Gunthia had held off a minor attack on the southern breach before sunset, but there had been no further assaults in the night.

  Now that he could see the defenders better, Castus was amazed by their variety. Most of those who had laboured on building the wall had stayed to defend it; soldiers and civilians held the rampart side by side, women and even children among them. Pacing slowly along the line of the wall, stepping over sleeping figures, Castus saw Aurelia Sohaemia standing with a knot of defenders. He did not recognise her at first; she had a scarf tied around her head, partially covering her face, and she was holding a spear.

  ‘You were with us last night?’ he asked her.

  ‘For a time, yes,’ she replied in a bitter tone. ‘It seems none of us can avoid your war now.’

  ‘I don’t see your husband.’

  ‘My husband’s nerves are not good. He has never been an active man. Now he has gone to the temple of Baal Shamin, to offer prayers to the god.’

  ‘But you’re made of stronger stuff, I suppose.’

  She gave him a tired smile. There were dark patches beneath her eyes. ‘What choice do I have?’ she said, gripping the spear tightly in her hands. ‘I am here, and my son too. Do not ask too much of us, strategos.’

  Castus could only nod, then walk onwards. Every few paces he peered out across the killing ground, towards the breached wall and the glow of the eastern sky. Another attack would come that day, and none could doubt it.

  ‘Excellency,’ a voice said, and he turned. Ephraim was waiting on the step of the rampart, his long white tunic grubby with dust and smuts. Castus inclined his head in greeting.

  ‘I have just come from the church,’ the presbyter said, solemn as always. ‘The Blessed Iacob continues to raise his prayers to the Almighty. As you know, he has vowed not to leave the sacred precinct, but he has given me permission… that is, I must ask your permission…’ He paused, apparently uncertain how to proceed.

  ‘What do you want?’ Castus demanded. He guessed the priest desired some kind of public worship or ritual, but he had little time for religious niceties now.

  ‘The Blessed Iacob has entrusted me with a holy imprecation against the devil-worshipping Persian foe!’ Ephraim declared. ‘I am to pronounce it from the walls, but I need your permission to ascend to the battlements.’

  ‘A holy what?’ Castus said, frowning heavily.

  ‘A curse, he means,’ another voice said. It was Dorotheus, the magistrate. ‘The bishop wishes
to send a curse against the enemy, and the presbyter Ephraim is to deliver it for him.’

  ‘He is?’ Castus said, baffled. He had no idea such things were possible. Nor did he know if they were effective, although he remembered the stories of Iacob’s curses. A tremor of unease ran through him, and he tightened his shoulders. ‘Can’t hurt, I suppose,’ he muttered. ‘Hurt us, I mean. Well – off you go!’

  Perhaps, he thought as the presbyter stalked away towards the steps, the strange ritual might strengthen the flagging morale of the Christian defenders. He was curious too, despite himself. Dorotheus had a small group of other civilians with him, and together they watched as the presbyter climbed to the ramparts of the city wall and stood silhouetted against the dawn sky.

  Ephraim raised his arms and threw back his head. For a long time he remained like that, as if he were daring some Persian archer to take a shot at him. Then he began to cry out, a long stream of words that carried over the walls and drifted eerily through the stillness. It was in Syriac, of course, and Castus understood none of it.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ he asked Dorotheus. He was still nervous – magic always had that effect on him.

  ‘The Blessed Ephraim,’ Dorotheus said, ‘is calling down God’s wrath upon the impious Persians. He says… as the impious ones turned the river against the walls of Nisibis, so God will turn all nature against them… The sun will burn them and the dust choke them… Even the smallest creatures of the air will plague them and strike at them… Now he calls upon the angels to witness his words…’

  Castus cleared his throat, frowning deeply. The sun and dust were affecting both sides, and while a plague of flies and mosquitoes would certainly be irritating, it could surely be endured. He shrugged, wishing that the priest had perhaps cursed King Shapur to a sudden death, or sent some virulent disease against the enemy.