by Ian Ross
But, when Ephraim descended the wall once more, Castus noticed how many of the civilian defenders were staring at him with rapt attention, many raising their hands towards him, as if in prayer or salute. While the presbyter may have done little, he had lifted their spirits at least.
‘So,’ he said to Dorotheus, ‘while we wait for your god to do his work, let’s look to our defences.’
*
The assault came less than an hour later, as the first rays of the rising sun glared through the breach in the outer wall. Just after the sentry’s cry, the roar of the attackers broke the morning’s quiet. All along the inner ramparts, the defenders tensed, crouched at the parapets. Ballista crews cranked back their machines, the soldiers readied their javelins, and the civilians gripped their spears and clubs and muttered last quick prayers to a multitude of gods.
Archers came first, rushing in through the breach with big wicker shields held before them. They stormed forward in a solid mass, sheltering from the hail of the defenders’ missiles as they advanced, shooting from behind the shields. Stones dropped from the wall ramparts, and the onagers lobbed blazing baskets of pitch across the defending lines to fill the breach with fire.
Castus stood on the fighting step at the centre of the line, dressed in his cuirass and helmet, his standard-bearer at his side holding the purple draco banner. Around him were a picked band of infantry veterans, armoured legionaries who pelted the advancing Persians with darts and javelins. The first wave of the attack slowed and then halted, the archers crouching behind their grounded shields, surrounded by their own slain. But they were only the advance party, the skirmishing line. Already the dust was rising, billowing in through the breach in sunshot clouds, and the ground seemed to shake under the tread of giants.
Out of the glowing dust came the elephants, three of them walking abreast, with another three behind them. The enemy, Castus realised, must have used the hours of darkness to pack more fascines into the river mud and strengthen the crossing sufficiently to take the weight of the great fighting beasts. And the sight of them was spreading panic through the defenders.
High in the swaying towers on the elephants’ backs, archers and javelin men were shooting arrows and casting missiles. And all around them, flowing through the breach on either side of the elephants, came a mass of Persian foot soldiers carrying ladders.
‘Aim for the towers!’ Castus heard an officer shouting to the nearest ballista crew. ‘No – aim for the drivers!’ somebody else cried.
The defenders on the ramparts were quailing, crouching behind the parapets as if the sight of the elephants alone could cause destruction. The first three animals were already into the killing ground and advancing on the inner wall, stepping slow and heavy, swinging their tusks. Their legs were caked in mud, and the dust seethed around them as they moved.
Ballistae snapped all along the wall. Castus saw one tower struck, a Persian spearman topple. A cheer from his left: another elephant had been hit in the leg by a ballista bolt, and had halted. Raising its trunk, it let out an anguished trumpeting cry. Further to the left, the defenders on the inner rampart had mustered with long spears and pikes and were trying to drive an elephant back from their section of the defences. The animal roared, smashing at the spears with its trunk and tusks, as the men riding in the tower picked off the defenders with their bows.
And now the ladders were swinging up against the parapets, the first attacking infantry beginning to scale the rungs. It was a short climb, but the parapets above were packed with defenders, missiles raining down. Castus saw a woman stand up on the wall, wild-haired and screaming, raising a stone in both hands; she let it drop and the ladder below her smashed, the climbers tumbling. He could only stare; the scene before him had a dizzying quality, like a fevered dream of dust and smoke and noise.
Screams from his right; one of the elephants had lowered its head and charged at the wall, butting against the parapet and almost breaking through it. The defenders had scattered in panic, but already some of them were scrambling back, spears and mattocks in hand. As the huge beast heaved forward, they began stabbing and hacking at it. Several had flaming brands, and at the sight of the weaving fires the elephant reared back, bellowing.
Smoke laced the sky, and another of the burning pitch baskets, flung by a catapult, crashed down into the tower on an elephant’s back. The crew leaped clear, plunging to the ground wreathed in flame. The elephant that had been pushed back from the wall turned suddenly, trunk raised, and charged to one side, Persian ladder parties scattering before it. Not fast enough; the animal stormed straight through them. Castus saw two men crushed beneath the thundering feet, another caught by a swinging bronze-tipped tusk and almost torn in two.
The narrow expanse of ground between the city wall and the inner defences was a surging mass of men and animals. All around, on the ramparts, a mob of people screaming and flailing. Like a beast show in the amphitheatre, Castus thought. An arrow jarred off the wall and flicked up against his shoulder, and he barely felt it.
The ladders had been thrown down, and the Persian attackers were mostly huddled against the base of the walls, more terrified of the maddened elephants than of the defenders above them. Two more of the animals had turned to charge wildly through the ranks of their own side. The drivers lolled on their necks, dead but still held upright, and the tower on the back of one of the crazed animals had caught fire and was blazing fiercely. As Castus watched, the elephant threw itself down and rolled over, crushing the burning wreckage.
But another of the beasts was still slamming at the wall, and the parapet had almost collapsed before it. The four men in the tower on the animal’s back were pelting arrows down at the defenders, one of them leaning out with a lance to stab at anyone trying to get close.
A pair of figures appeared on the parapet, soldiers stripped to their tunics, swords in hand. Silently they leaped down into the milling dust; Castus saw them dash beneath the elephant’s belly and begin hacking at the thick leather girth strap that secured the tower. The elephant took a stride backwards, knocking one of the soldiers down and crushing him. Another figure leaped from the wall; with a shock, Castus noticed that it was Barnaeus, the curator’s son.
Now the Persians had seen what was happening. The second soldier dropped, a spear striking him in the back. Barnaeus alone remained, the youth standing upright beneath the elephant, legs braced, sawing with both hands at the girth strap. The tower gave a sudden lurch, the weakened strap parting beneath it, then slid and toppled from the elephant’s back. A mighty yell went up from the defenders.
‘Get him!’ Castus roared, but his voice was lost in the noise. He felt half strangled, the blood surging in his neck. In his mind, it was Sabinus he was seeing. ‘Somebody get down there and rescue the boy!’
The elephant, freed of the tower’s weight, had swayed backwards and lurched away to one side. The wreckage of the tower, still secured by chains and ropes, dragged after it. One of the Persians who had fallen from the top was hauled along too, trapped in the wreck, but there was no sign of the curator’s son.
Helpless, Castus could only watch as the elephant stumbled back from the wall, bellowing in anguish. A couple of men jumped down from the parapet, and Castus saw them struggling in the dust. But the cheers along the wall had redoubled; three of the elephants were down, dead or immobilised, and the other three had somehow found their way back to the breach and were pushing back out through it, away from the tormenting darts and the fires. In the bowl of smoke and dust the enemy were falling back, abandoning their ladders and retreating behind their wicker shields.
‘He’s dead,’ somebody said. Castus blinked at the man; it was Nicagoras, the Greek doctor. ‘Barnaeus is dead. They found his body. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Tell his mother,’ Castus managed to say. Then his throat clenched, and he shut his eyes tight against the sting of tears.
Try not to kill too many of us in your battles, general.
There were further attacks, all through the day. Again and again the Persians rushed the breach, screaming men with faces blanched by fear as they saw the death that awaited them. Arrows showered, the artillery along the ramparts shot and shot again, and the waves of attackers fell like wheat before the sickle. By late afternoon the killing ground within the circuit of walls was choked with the bodies of the slain, dead men lying so thick that they covered the rutted dust like bloodied sea wrack left by the tide. Among them, the vast carcasses of the dead elephants rose like islands.
The Persians sent two more of the great beasts into the breach at noon, but the animals would not advance far. Castus saw one of them halt beside another fallen elephant, and brush its trunk along the flank of the dead animal. Then it let out a long mournful groan and began to back away. He felt sorry for the creature; despite their fearsome appearance, the elephants had more care for their own survival than the men that fought beside them. They remained only long enough for the archers and ballistae to pick off the drivers that goaded them, then they retreated.
Finally, as the sun began to set, a glitter of metal showed in the corpse-piled gap of the breach. Men in armour – a solid wedge of them advancing on foot, climbed in over the foundations of the old wall and the mound of the slain. Shield-bearers went before them, holding a cordon just inside the killing ground. The low sun lit the armoured men, turning their mail and scale to rippling gold.
Castus could see the banner at the centre of the wedge. Then, beneath it, he picked out the figure of the commander himself. Zamasp stood tall, flanked by his bodyguards, all of them encased in gleaming metal. But they did not advance; instead they held their position in the breach, their faces masked by silvered iron and bronze.
All along the ramparts the defenders readied themselves for a renewed assault. The sea of fallen bodies between the walls rippled and heaved, the wounded and dying groaning and crying out for mercy, and the flies swarmed.
Castus moved to the parapet, standing directly beneath his own draco standard. He knew that Zamasp could surely see him. Chin raised, jaw jutting, he stared back at the Persian commander across the killing ground.
Zamasp turned his head to one side, then to the other. He raised his hand, a mace gripped in his fist. He let the mace fall, then turned and strode back through the breach. The formation of men that had accompanied him retreated too, keeping formation, facing to the front. The glitter of their armour faded into the twilight.
‘Nisibis!’ one of the cavalry troopers beside Castus cried, raising his spear. ‘Bulwark of the east!’
The cheer burst along the wall, a thousand voices raised in triumph as the defenders saw the last Persians retreating.
Castus was swaying on his feet, still staring at the milling dust where the Persian commander had stood to survey the carnage. All around him now was the jubilation of the defenders: men were hugging women, soldiers and civilians raising their arms as they cheered. He tried to force a smile, but the muscles of his face felt frozen. Redness in his eyes, a dead weight in his soul. He turned away from the rampart, away from the vast slaughter.
Behind the wall there were more people, cheering and shouting, some of them chanting in praise to their gods. But amid the celebration Castus heard one voice, keening in grief. He saw the knot of figures: the woman and those who surrounded her, supporting her.
‘He died a hero, kyria!’ a man was saying. ‘He died to protect us!’
Then the figures parted, and Castus saw Sohaemia gazing up at him, her face glazed with tears. As she caught sight of him her eyes widened, and she let out a long gasping cry.
‘Curse you!’ she yelled, raising a finger to point at him. ‘You brought this war here! You killed my son! Curse you!’
Dumbstruck, Castus raised his hand, as if he could ward off her rage and pain. Her words struck into his heart. A moment later, those that surrounded Sohaemia had bundled her away.
Castus stood, rooted by dread. He felt old, haggard, and the air was suddenly too thick to breathe. ‘Where’s Sabinus?’ he managed to croak. ‘Where’s my son? Where’s Sabinus?’
‘I saw him, dominus,’ one of the staff officers said. ‘A few hours ago, during the last attack. I saw him fighting…’
‘Where is he?’ Castus roared. He took a step, and felt his eyes blurring.
‘Brother,’ Egnatius said, taking by the arm. ‘You need to sit down…’
Castus lifted his arm to shove the man away, and pain burst through him. He gasped, teeth clenched, his heart crushed in his chest.
Then his legs went from under him and he fell to the gritty stones. Voices around him, shouting. He tried to draw a breath, and could not.
Blackness closed over him, and he felt himself plunging down through deep water.
Part 4
XXVII
Antioch, August AD 337
From the topmost tier of the theatre, the area set aside for the wives of senior officials, Marcellina gazed down through the balustrade at a seething mass of humanity. The curving ranks of seats that dropped vertiginously below her to the orchestra pit were packed with people, most of them dressed in gaudy colours. The piping notes of a water organ competed with the rushing roar of mingled voices. Leaning forward on the marble bench, Marcellina tried to still the nervous tension in her body.
Today was the twentieth birthday of Constantius Augustus, and the city of Antioch was consumed with festivities. The citizens might have seen little of their new emperor – many of them were unsure whether he was their new emperor at all; Constantius himself had still not returned to the east, and few knew where he might be – but to a casual observer their customary appetite for games and shows appeared undiminished even in these troubled times.
Or so things seemed, Marcellina thought to herself. Behind the façade of apparent levity and celebration, the city was in a ferment. The abrupt removal from office of Flavius Ablabius towards the end of June, and the unusual promotion of Domitius Dracilianus to the post of Praetorian Prefect, the chief magistracy of the eastern provinces, had left a dangerous uncertainty at the heart of power. News that a vast Persian horde was laying siege to Nisibis, and that the Roman field army of the east, rather than opposing them, had been withdrawn to their old camp outside Antioch, had sent shocks through the already volatile population. They had little fellow feeling for the citizens of distant Mesopotamia, but if Nisibis fell only the Euphrates would stand between the Persians and their own province, their own city. The Sassanid kings had sacked Antioch before; they could easily do so again. And Dracilianus and his military commanders appeared paralysed before that threat. In the parching midsummer heat, Antioch felt like dry tinder waiting for a flame.
But, even so, today the city appeared in festive mood. There had been chariot races in the circus earlier, and now some of the crowds that had attended the races had thronged to the great theatre below the slopes of Mount Silpius for the evening performance. Red awnings projecting above the seats cut the low glare of the sun, but lamps were already glowing in the great ornamental façade of pillars, pediments and statues that rose above the stage.
Every few moments, Marcellina glanced towards the canopied podium to one side of the seating area: the imperial tribunal, where the emperor or presiding magistrate would sit. The podium was ringed by guards – the archers and clubmen who served as the city watch, and a group of Scholae from the palace – but the chair beneath the canopy remained unoccupied. Would Dracilianus show his face?
A figure caught Marcellina’s eye, a drably dressed man moving between the seats of the slaves and humiliores directly below her. For a heartbeat the man looked up, and seemed to wink. He appeared entirely anonymous, but she recognised him at once. Then he was gone.
The man had come to her house two nights previously, slipping in past the sentries at the door, dressed as a slave. For many weeks now, ever since the sudden fall of Prefect Ablabius, Marcellina, her daughter and their household had been ke
pt under guard, discouraged if not overtly forbidden to leave the palace quarter. She had not spoken to Dracilianus in person – he refused to meet with her – but he had communicated that the measures were for her own protection. Marcellina was not fooled. Her repeated requests for an audience with the new Acting Praetorian Prefect had been turned down. Why was he keeping her and Aeliana as virtual prisoners? No doubt, she thought, it was connected with Castus’s military command. She knew that he was surely at Nisibis, under Persian siege, and prayed daily for his deliverance. But no news came, the guards remained at her door, and in the long hot days of summer she had felt herself driven close to madness.
‘His name’s Europas, domina,’ Pharnax had told her, the evening before the anonymous-looking man came to the house. ‘Or that’s what he calls himself, anyway. But he’s an actor, so who can say… That’s all we need to know about him.’
Marcellina had grown up in the countryside of northern Britain, and aside from a few years spent at Treveris she had lived most of her life in a rural environment. The society of cities was alien to her, and she understood little of how they worked. But Pharnax had explained it to her; cities, the scarred ex-gladiator had told her, had their own sort of government, alongside the officials and the magistrates. A secret government, of the people. The chariot-racing factions and the actors’ guilds ran things on the streets of Antioch; they controlled the allegiances of the city’s masses.
And this man who called himself Europas was one of them. He was a man, so Pharnax believed, who could make things happen.
Scanning the crowd in the theatre, Marcellina tried to pick him out again, but he had vanished into the throng. The first of the performances was already beginning, a selection of popular pantomime excerpts, and the crowd stilled and quietened. Marcellina could not spare any attention for the masked dancer’s gesturings, the music or the keening voices of the chorus. Where was Dracilianus? He had to be here. Everything depended on his presence.