and no Sassanid nobleman had yet taken it on himself to impose a routine.
Turpio mastered his breathing and called softly. 'First Century, form testudo.' He waited for the shuffling to subside and a dense knot of overlapping shields to form. 'Second Century to me.' More shuffling, then silence. 'Antoninus Prior, make the signal to the Dux.' The centurion merely grunted, and three legionaries detached themselves from the*testudo. There was a brief flurry of activity and three lanterns hung in a row, their blue- leaded lights winking their message back across the plain.
Turpio turned to the column of the second century drawn up close behind him. 'Swords and torches to hand, boys.' Turpio looked at the Sassanid camp and at the royal tent looming up massive in its centre. He spoke to the centurion beside him. 'Ready, Antoninus Posterior? Then let's go and decapitate the reptile.'
Ballista had been waiting to see the signal. How he had been waiting. When the two centuries had set off down the road they had looked horribly exposed, surely visible for miles. But soon they had become an indistinct moving blur then vanished into the dark. Time's arrow had gone into reverse. Ballista prayed that he had not sent them all to their deaths. The noises of the two waiting turmae of cavalry had floated up to him on the roof of the gatehouse; the jingle of a bridle, the stamp of a hoof, a horse coughing abrupt and loud.
The three blue lights appeared. Ballista's heart leapt. So far so good. Demetrius whispered the name of the senior decurion in his ear. Ballista leant over the battlements. 'Paulinus, time to go. Good luck.'
Seventy-two horsemen in two columns, the turmae of Paulinus and Apollonius, clattered out into the night one after another, quickly picking up speed. They also vanished into the moonless night.
Time dragged.
Allfather, Deep Hood, Raider, Spear-Thruster, Death-Blinder, do not let me have sent them all to their deaths. Do not let them be killed in the darkness out there Like Romulus. Yet so far the plan was going well. To avert the evil eye, Ballista started to clench his fist, thumb between index and forefinger. If this carried on he would end up as superstitious as Demetrius. He completed the gesture anyway.
The plan was straightforward. Having overwhelmed the picket on the road, one century of legionaries was to remain there to cover the retreat, while the other century aimed for the jugular, rushing into the enemy camp, aiming to cut their way into the very tent of the King of Kings. To help them by spreading maximum confusion, the two turmae of cavalry were to fan out left and right and ride between the picket lines and the Sassanid camp proper shooting fire arrows at everything in sight. The turma heading south, that of Paulinus, was to make its escape by descending into the southern ravine and riding all the way to the wicket gate by the Euphrates. If any Persians were foolish enough to follow them down into the ravine, so much the worse for them. Hundreds of paces of bad going exposed to missiles from the walls of Arete would deal with them. The other turma, that of Apollonius, had a trickier task. It was to ride north for a short way then turn about and form up on the road back to town to aid the century which was to cover the retreat.
The plan had seemed so straightforward in the meeting of the consilium. Ballista was praying that it would not all become terribly confused and fall apart in the terrifying reality of a dark night.
Time continued to drag. Just when Ballista was beginning to wonder how much longer the hiatus could possibly last, someone needlessly called out – There! There! – and was promptly shushed. Lights could be seen moving in the heart of the Sassanid camp. The first fragmented sounds of alarm drifted back to the town of Arete. Turpio and the legionaries were about the real work of the night, just seventy men challenging the beast in its lair.
Now things were speeding up. Time's arrow had resumed its course. Events came tumbling one after another. Ballista could see yellow flames winking into life as the troopers of the turmae kindled their torches from the picket fire directly ahead. Then two strings of torches could be seen moving fast away from the centre of the Persian camp, one north, one south. The first fire arrows were arcing through the sky. Like a beast angered at being disturbed from sleep, a great roaring came from the Sassanid camp. The noise rolled across the plain to those on the high walls and towers of Arete.
More and more lights – red, yellow, white – flickered into life as fire arrows, thrown torches and kicked-over lamps set fire to tents, soft bedding, stacked fodder, piled-up provisions, jars of oil. Shapes flitted across the fires, gone too quickly to tell what they were. The noise, like that of a great forest fire, bounced back and forth around the plain. Above the general background rose sharp screams, human and animal, and the strident call of trumpets attempting to restore some order to the Persian horde.
As Ballista watched, the string of lights heading south winked out one by one. This should be a good sign – Paulinus's troopers jettisoning the last of their torches and riding hell for leather through the darkness for safety. But, of course, it could be bad- the Sassanids surging around them, cutting them down. Even if it were good, the turma was far from home safe. Riding flat out on a moonless night, would they find the entrance to the ravine? It had been an easy enough descent for Ballista and four others at a comfortable pace on a bright, sunlit day, but they had dismounted. It might be a very different proposition for nervous men on panting, labouring horses in the pitch dark.
By the time Ballista looked to the north the chain of lights that marked Apollonius's turma had also vanished. Hauled from their horses by blades and hands or riding unmolested to their rendez-vous, there was no way of telling.
Allfather, The Wakeful, The Wanderer, The Crier of the Gods, what is happening? What of Turpio?
Roaring. Head far back, roaring, laughing. Turpio had seldom felt so happy. It was not the killing, not that he had any objection to killing: it was the sheer ease of it all. The first thing they had come to in the camp was the horse line of a unit. It had been the work of moments to cut the tethers, slap the horses with the flat of their blades and send them stampeding ahead into the camp. Consternation spread rapidly as the animals thundered through the tightly packed tents, overturning cooking pots, bringing down small tents. A Persian head appeared from one. A swing of Turpio's spatha and the head fell back bloodied.
Yelling at his men to keep together, Turpio pounded through the Sassanid camp. Once, a guy rope caught his foot and he went sprawling on his face. The metal-studded sole of the boot of one of his own men stamped into his back before strong arms dragged him to his feet and they were off again. Pounding through the camp, trying always to keep the looming royal tent in sight. Isolated Persians, individuals or- small groups, popped into view. They ran or fell where they stood. There was no organized opposition.
In what seemed no time they were there. Several large standards hung limply from tall poles. Half a dozen guards, their gilded armour glinting in the light of the fires, made a stand in front of the huge purple tent. Leaving some of the legionaries to deal with them, Turpio ran a few yards to one side and used his blade to slice through the side of the tent. He emerged into what appeared to be a corridor. Rather than follow it, he cut through the inner wall. Now he was in an empty dining room. Some of the remains of the evening meal had not been cleared away. Turpio swept up a drinking flagon and tucked it safely in his belt.
'No time for looting,' he bellowed and, swinging his spatha, tore through the next wall. This time he emerged into pandemonium – high-pitched screams, female voices. He swung round, knees bent, sword at the ready, seeking out any threat, trying to make sense of the sweet-smelling, soft-lit room.
'Fuck me, it's the King's harem,' said a legionary.
Women and girls wherever one looked. Dozens of beautiful girls. Dark, blond. Clad in silk, kohl round their eyes, cowering in corners, behind pieces of soft furniture, they called out in Persian. Turpio could not tell if they were calling for help or begging to be spared.
'I must be dead and in the Elysian fields,' said a legionary.
Looking round, Turpio spotted an ornate doorway. A fat eunuch dithered indecisively in front of it. Turpio kicked him out of the way. Shouting for the legionaries to follow him, he dived through the opening.
The room was nearly dark. It was empty. There was a smell of balsam, a smell of sex. Turpio went over to the wide, rumpled bed. He put his hand on the sheets. They were warm. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, we were thatfucking close.
A small movement caught the corner of Turpio's eye. In a flash, he whirled his sword out. The girl was in the corner of the room, trying to hide behind a sheet. Her eyes were very wide. She was naked. Turpio smiled, then realized it might not be altogether reassuring.
Tyche! A few moments earlier and everything would have been different. Turpio noticed a gold bangle on the bed. Without thought he picked it up and slid it on his wrist. Tyche.
His reflective mood was shattered when a legionary barrelled through the door. 'The bastards are coming for us, Dominus.'
