westerners. If his timing was right, his men would be well fed, the Sassanids hungry. It was not much of an advantage to build on. This was a battle that would be decided by the disciplina and sheer fighting quality of the Romans; above all, that of the legionaries.
The march up had been glorious. In daylight, the Amanus range had revealed its beauty. The men had climbed upwards in the shadow of pine and wild olives, between banks of lavender and myrtle. In every shelf of soil, every crevice where a tree could thrust its roots, was a mass of vegetation. The view, looking backwards, at times took in the whole plain, with the lake of Antioch glittering in the centre and the valley of the Orontes off to the south.
They had marched on foot, quickly, but with no attempt at concealment. There was no chance of surprising the Sassanids. A column of over two thousand armed men cannot but make a lot of noise, but their numbers would only be sufficient if the Persians had not had time to summon reinforcements.
As they halted near the summit, the wind picked up. Big, dark stormclouds again rolled in from the east. Strong gusts tugged at Ballista as he made a final check that everything was in order.
At the front were the saddlesore, aching legionaries; a block fifty wide and six deep, close-packed. Behind them were five hundred dismounted horse archers, in loose order. The rest, nine hundred spear-armed and four hundred bowmen, again all on foot, were stationed as a reserve a few hundred paces back, where the space was wider.
'Remember, boys, they are just a bunch of easterners. They hate fighting on foot, and they get frightened close to the steel.' Ballista had to bellow to compete with the wind. Even so, he was not sure how many even of the legionaries could hear him. 'Get through the arrows and we will kill them. Remember they carry their wealth on their persons. But no looting until the order. Keep your places. Look after your brothers.'
The legionaries clashed swords on shields.
'Are you ready for war?'
'Ready!'
When the third response echoed from the rocks, Ballista took his place in the front rank. His right hand freed his dagger a little then snapped it back, drew his sword an inch or two then rammed it back, and finally touched the healing stone on the scabbard. His personal pre-battle drill done, he took up the borrowed oval shield, and told the bucinatores to sound the advance.
As they trudged the last fifty paces to the turning, Ballista wondered how this would turn out. He had no idea how many Persians they were facing. The vital snatch of conversation he had overheard the night before suggested that the majority of the enemy force was down in the western plain, sacking Iskanderun, as the Persians seemed to call the town of Alexandria ad Issum. But, as he did not know how many easterners there were in total, it meant next to nothing. Again, he did not know what, if any, obstructions or defences they might have placed in the defile. All he had seen was a fire, a handful of men and a cart. It would all fall out as the gods willed it. One thing was certain. It would be unwise for a man who had broken an oath to the Persian king to let himself be taken prisoner. Ballista thought of the cell in Carrhae, thought of what had nearly happened there. No, he was not going to be taken alive.
The men of Legio IIII Scythica jogged round the corner and into range of the eastern bows. They heard yelled Persian orders. The sky darkened.
'Testudo!' Ballista's was not the only voice shouting. He crouched and held his shield out in front of him. The man behind slammed his shield down on the top edge of Ballista's, covering the northerner's head. The noise was repeated from behind as the shields of each rank in turn slammed home, overlapping like tiles on a roof.
Seconds later came the arrows, thumping into wood, dinging off metal bosses, skittering off the road. Ballista felt the shield above him bang down on to his helmet as an arrow struck. Somewhere, a man screamed. Nearby, a man swore fluently. Another was praying.
'Bind and advance.'
Ballista grabbed the back of the mail shirt of the man to his right, gripped it in his fist. He felt his own tighten as the man to his left did the same. Half turned to the right, taking short steps, crabwise, the left foot always first, they advanced.
'Left, left, left,' they muttered, getting into rhythm, the momentum mounting.
Another volley of arrows whistled down. More men screamed, cursed. More men were praying, calling out encouragement.
'Only officers will speak! This is not a fucking symposium!'
It was hot and close in the testudo; a strong smell of sweat and unwashed men. Ballista peeked out of the gap between the top of his shield and the overlapping one to the right. The air was full of missiles. A line of men. Incongruous in the centre, a four-wheeled cart. A long way to go. At least a hundred paces.
The arrows fell like rain. The Persians were shooting at will.
A cheer spread through the testudo. The Roman bowmen were round the corner. They were shooting back. Now the Sassanids could try the bitter luck of war.
Above all the noise — the impact of arrows, the hard breathing, the rattle of equipment, the intermittent howls of pain — there was a rumble of thunder.
Ballista risked another look around his shield. Getting there: about sixty paces to go. But something struck him as odd. There were fewer missiles in the air. A commotion in the centre of the Sassanid line. Warriors pushing the cart forward.
'Halt!'
Surprised, but obedient to orders, the legionaries bumped into each other as they came to a sudden stop.
The easterners had let go of the cart. It was beginning to gather speed down the incline.
'Legio IIII, lie down. Cover yourselves with your shields. Pass the word back to the archers to stay on their feet and spread out.'
In a confused, uncertain scramble, the men around Ballista got to the ground.
'Face down. Shields over your backs.'
Ballista had no time to explain or check that his instructions were carried out. The cart was moving faster. He dropped down, nose an inch or so from the road, grit under his elbows, shield braced above his head.
The terrible rumbling and squealing grew louder as cart and the inevitable collision drew near. The trick had worked for Alexander the Great. Arrian's Anabasis, Ballista thought. That was where he had read about it.
There was an awful sound of splintering wood, agonized screams. A moment's silence, then a sickening crash.
'On your feet. Close ranks.'
Alexander's ploy had not worked so well for Ballista. At the front, men were down where the wheels had hit them. The cart must have been airborne for a time. But it had not cleared the unit. There was a mangled mess of broken bodies and shattered woodwork where it had landed, towards the rear. The sound of low sobbing could be heard.
'On your feet! Close ranks.' The legionaries, eyes wild with shock, were slow to move. 'Close ranks!' Ballista took stock as the men shuffled to obey. The incoming arrows had dropped away as the Persians watched. Still about sixty paces to go: further than he would have liked. But the legionaries were in no state to reform the testudo. It had to be now.
'Ready for war?' Ballista roared at the darkening sky.
'Ready!' Each time, the routine response was bolder, more angry. After the third, Ballista ordered the charge.
As they set off, swords drawn, the arrow storm recommenced.
The road was steep here. Within a few paces, Ballista felt the muscles in his legs complain. His chest began to burn as he dragged in air. Another peal of thunder.
Splinters flew hideously close to Ballista's eyes. He felt a sharp stab of pain, blood hot on his cheek. The wicked barbed point was near his face. An arrow had punched half through his shield. He snapped the shaft. Kept moving.
The Sassanid now facing Ballista was coming forward. He was a big man, scale-armoured, eyes hidden by his helmet. The long sword blade hissed through the air as the easterner aimed a mighty two-handed overhead blow. Ballista punched upwards with the boss of his shield. The impact almost forced Ballista to his knees. Instinctively,
