the southern pass back over the Amanus range, must be held at all cost. Similarly, Seleuceia in Pieria, the port of Antioch, had to be defended in case the Persians commandeered ships along the Cilician coast.
It had taken Ballista some effort and considerable patience to explain to the unmilitary father of the young emperors that, to hold ground, one needed infantry. Eventually he had been given permission to replace one thousand of the cavalry with mounted infantry. He was to requisition a thousand horses and mount on them any legionaries he could find from Legio IIII Scythica who admitted any hint of equine experience. His old companion Castricius was to accompany him.
The journey had been hard. It was July, blazingly hot in Syria, so they had left at dusk. They had reined in after a couple of miles to check girths and tack. Then they had ridden on until nearly noon the next day. Some sixteen hours in the saddle, with just a brief halt every hour to drink and four longer ones to give their mounts some respite from the weight on their backs. They were eating up the ground, but it was tough on man and beast.
Three days of this and they had reached the village of Gindaros. From there, still keeping to this regime, Castricius had taken half the force on towards Antioch and Seleuceia. Ballista had rested his men overnight in the village. He would need daylight for the last stretch of his march, crossing the swampy and roadless plain to the north of the Lake of Antioch.
Now, finally, they were in an unprepossessing village called Pagrae at the foot of the Amanus range. Their blistering pace had had an effect. Of the two thousand cavalry, half bowmen, half spear-armed, some two hundred had dropped out. Unsurprisingly, things were much worse with the mounted legionaries. Only about three hundred of the complement of five hundred remained. Ballista wondered how many men Castricius would still have with him when he reached the coast. The centurion had faced another two days' travel when he rode out of Gindaros. Still, Ballista had instructed him to gather any troops he could find in Antioch.
It was early evening. The men were looking to their horses, settling in. They would spend at least some of the night here, gathering their strength. They would need it, but there would be no such luxury for Ballista.
The village headman had provided information. It was about five miles to the narrows of the Syrian Gates, the road good but demanding. He had also recommended a guide; a wiry goatherd. Having asked for volunteers, Ballista had selected two scouts from the cavalry. On his instructions, the exploratores had discarded all armour and weapons except their sword belts, tied scarves around their heads and put on dark cloaks. They had bound their horses' hooves to muffle the noise of their approach. Reluctantly swapping Pale Horse for a black gelding, Ballista had done the same.
Having eaten, relieved himself and handed over command to one of the prefects of cavalry, a Syrian with the impeccably Roman name of Servius, Ballista could see no reason to delay. He gave the order. They rode out of the village and took the road up into the mountains.
It was a dark night. The wind from the east was pushing black clouds across the stars. Possibly it would rain later, one of those sudden torrential summer thunderstorms. Initially the incline was gentle, the hills wide-spaced, but soon the slopes reared up and came close. Beside Ballista, the goatherd on his pony did not talk. The exploratores behind were quiet also. An owl hooted, and another replied. Once, something sent a scatter of stones rattling down the slope to their right. Apart from that, there was just the creak of leather and the deadened sound of the horses' footfall.
When the ascent became steep, Ballista spelled the horses, the men swinging down to walk for a time before getting back up. With the repetitive landscape and their fatigue, time soon lost meaning. There was nothing but the road and scrub-covered rocks all around.
Possibly, this would all go well. Ballista would find the defile of the Syrian Gates empty. They could wait peacefully in the pass while one of the exploratores galloped back to tell Servius to rouse out the men and bring them up.
Ballista regretted not writing a note for Castricius to give to Julia as he passed through Antioch. But it would have delayed the centurion, and he did not dare to entrust it to anyone else. The imperial spies were never more active than at a time of insurrection. Censorinus, the feared head of the frumentarii, had long been close to Macrianus the Lame. He would have his men prying into everything. Beyond a formal note saying that he was safe, Ballista had not written to Julia since his return, since the breaking of his oath.
The goatherd's outstretched arm startled Ballista. Unnecessarily indicating silence, the man mimed that they should dismount. Having handed his reins to one of the exploratores, Ballista took stock. The mountain walls had come closer on either side. The road ran up straight for another hundred or so paces then turned to the right. The goatherd put his mouth to Ballista's ear. He smelled rank, like one of his animals. The Syrian Gates were ahead, around the bend.
Alone and on foot, Ballista set off. There was no cover beyond a few fallen rocks at the sides of the path. He walked on the balls of his feet, feeling for loose stones before he put his weight down. He stayed close to the right mountain wall. Moving inconspicuously at night was not a problem for him. Following the custom of his people, as a youth he had gone to learn warcraft in the tribe of his maternal uncle. He had been lucky his mother came from the Harii. They were feared night-fighters.
When he reached the turning, Ballista remained motionless for a time, stilling his breathing, listening hard. Nothing. He sniffed the air. Nothing. He listened some more. When there was still nothing, he crouched down, carefully arranging his belt over his back so that his scabbard lay between his shoulderblades, the hilt of his sword just behind his head. Looking back the way he had come, he half noticed the dark shape of his companions. That was of no interest. When the shadow of one of the clouds came in from the east, he looked round the corner.
The low, smouldering fire was unexpected: bright red in the night. Ballista did not look directly at it. Keeping his eyes on his hands and feet, he crawled to a fallen rock and lay behind it.
Closing one eye to keep his night vision, Ballista studied the scene. The road ran about one hundred and fifty paces to the fire. It grew increasingly narrow. The rock walls were jagged; at the fire, no more than fifty paces apart.
There was a campfire burning in the Syrian Gates. The wind was from the east. That was why Ballista had not smelled it. He could see the silhouette of what looked like a small cart. Other smaller, dark shapes indicated men by the fire. A group was spending the night there. But who were they? It could be an innocent caravan. But it could be a Sassanid war party.
For a long time, Ballista lay silent, hoping to hear what language the men by the fire spoke. Now and then, he heard a murmur of conversation, but they were talking low, and the wind was against him. There was nothing for it: he would have to get closer.
Waiting for the clouds, using the movement of their shadows, Ballista crawled nearer. It was slow, painful going. His hands were cut, knees grazed. The last twenty-five to thirty paces, there was no cover. Ballista stretched out behind a rock little bigger than his head. The cloud cover had increased, but every time it cleared he felt horribly exposed. Suddenly, from beyond the camp, a horse called. From behind him, clear on the freshening breeze, came an answering neigh from one of the Roman horses.
There were voices from the fire now: 'Did you hear that?' 'What?' 'Listen!' They were Persians.
Outlined by the glow, two men stood up.
'We should go and look.'
'Not me. Who knows what daemons lurk in these hills at night?'
A third man spoke. His voice conveyed authority: he must be some form of officer. 'If it was not misfortune enough to be sat on this bleak mountain missing all the pleasure the others are enjoying in Iskanderun — but to be stuck with a man who sees a Roman behind every rock, and another who fears devs everywhere. Sit down. Let the night pass quietly.'
The men sat.
If he had not been so well trained, Ballista would have sighed with relief. It was mid-morning the following day when Ballista returned to the Syrian Gates. Time plays tricks. His crawl back to the others had seemed to take for ever; the ride to Pagrae passed in moments. He had given orders and fallen into a heavy sleep for a couple of hours.
The troops had been roused well before dawn. Having been tormented by mosquitoes, few complained.
Ballista had called a consilium of officers, down to the rank of optio. He had made sure everyone knew the order of march and his tactical plan, such as it was. They were to explain it to the men under them and see that all had a good breakfast.
Food was important. Ballista knew the Persians ate only a light breakfast but took lunch earlier than
