plain were isolated Roman troopers. Sassanid light cavalry will fight hand to hand if the odds are well in their favour. One after another, the isolated Roman cavalrymen were dragged down, overwhelmed by sheer numbers as the trap closed. In a matter of moments the main body of Acilius Glabrio's men was surrounded. Arrows were flying at them from all directions.
Leave the bastard there. A small voice spoke in Ballista's mind. The bastard hired someone to kill you. Leave the bastard to die. It is his own fault.
Mucapor approached, saluted, and waited for orders.
But leave the bastard and you leave the rest of them to die…
Ballista returned the salute. 'Mucapor, you will take the right-hand hundred men of the bodyguard, and I will lead the left. We will advance separately, driving the Sassanid horse archers before us until we are on either side and just beyond where, as you can see, the Legate Acilius Glabrio has got his men trapped. Then, while the remnants of Equites I Parthi run back to the army, we will conduct a controlled withdrawal, one line withdrawing through the other so that there are always some troopers facing the enemy.' Ballista paused for questions. There were none. 'The river should help guard your right flank.' As it occurred to him, the general issued orders for Sandario to try to protect the left flank with his slingers.
Ballista indicated where the unit was to be divided. He and Mucapor trotted off in opposite directions to take up their positions in the centre and just in advance of their men. Once in position, Ballista wasted no time making the signal to advance.
They advanced slowly, a walk at first, never rising to more than the gentlest of canters. Ballista gave some of his attention to dressing the line of his men – it was vital they kept together – and some to the Persian horse archers ahead. But much, much more of his mind was directed to piercing the cloud of dust that hung over the plain. Somewhere behind that thick, swirling, red-brown cloud were the Sassanid clibanarii, the terrible heavy cavalry that could sweep over the tiny forces of his own cavalry in a matter of moments.
This is madness, thought Ballista. I am risking the whole army on the off chance of saving a couple of hundred men and a man who probably paid an assassin to kill me.
As was only natural, the Persian light horse withdrew before these new forces of Roman heavy cavalry. A few feinted towards them, loosed off an arrow or two, but then were gone. As Ballista made the signal to halt, he saw the surviving troopers of Acilius Glabrio's unit streaming towards the army. Some of them were on foot, discarding their weapons and armour as they ran. He could not see if the young patrician was still with them.
Ballista waited a few moments. The Persians were rallying just out of bowshot. He ordered the retreat to begin. The front line of the men with him turned to the right, passed through the line behind them, cantered for about fifty paces, then turned again and pulled up once more, facing the enemy. Then the other line turned and repeated the procedure. So it went, Ballista and his immediate entourage remaining always with the line nearest the enemy.
It seemed no time at all before the horse archers were back, snapping round the heels of Ballista's men, shooting innumerable arrows from but a few yards. Despite their heavy armour, men and horses of the Equites Singulares were being wounded, were falling. A rider crashed into Pale Horse. Ballista turned to curse him, then realized with a lurch that there was no point. The man was dead, held on his mount by the horns of his saddle. Two arrows protruded from his face. As the horse carried him away, the shafts seemed to dance in a grotesque parody of a set of Pan pipes.
Ballista looked back at the Roman army – still some three hundred paces away. They were going to be a very long three hundred paces. Then he looked south towards the Persians. For a moment, the dust cloud parted – and there was the sight that the northerner least wanted to see. Glinting and flashing in the sunlight, coming on like an army of living statues was a solid line of Sassanid heavy cavalry, the clibanarii.
The dust cloud covered them again. How far away had they been? Ballista was unsure. He had made out details of their surcoats. They must be within at least five hundred paces, probably much closer. This ordered retreat was not going to work. The clibanarii would overrun them before they reached the army and then, with no organized force at the front of the Roman columns, they would overrun the whole army.
Ballista gestured wildly for a messenger to attend him. 'Ride to the Legate Aurelian, who is with the infantry column. Ride as fast as ever you can. Tell him I want him to bring five hundred legionaries around to the front of the army. I want them set out in five blocks of one hundred. Enough space for our cavalry to pass between each block. As soon as my men have passed, he must have them ready for the rear ranks to come round to form an unbroken line. They must be ready to lock shields, ready to repel a cavalry charge. Got that? Good, now go.'
The messenger disappeared to the north, and Ballista's world slowed to an agonizing snail's pace. At his signal, the rank of cavalry nearest to the enemy turned and followed him as he cantered away. The Sassanids surged after them, yelling, howling. Their arrows, loosed at almost point-blank range, hissed at the riders' backs, at the horses' hind quarters. So many arrows, some had to find an unprotected spot or even punch clean through armour. Men and horses were screaming, falling, writhing in the dust. The Romans rode through their second line, and the Sassanids pulled back a little.
Ballista looked at the Roman army. There was no sign yet of Aurelian's legionaries. He looked at the Sassanids. There was nothing to see except the myriad wheeling horse archers and the plumes of dust – no further sign of the dreaded clibanarii.
Again Ballista made the signal, and the line of cavalry nearest to the enemy turned and cantered away. Again the Sassanids swept forwards. Again the arrows flew, and men and beasts felt the sharp stab of pain and fell. There was a nightmarish quality to these awful repetitions, to this painfully slow flight from a terrifying menace you could not see but knew was coming.
An arrow punched into Ballista's shield. Its feathers were dyed scarlet. In fact, he was surprised to see, there were four arrows embedded in his shield. The earlier clarity of his battle-calm had slipped away, leaving him as if in a trance. He pulled himself together and looked at the army. At last. There they were. He could make out Aurelian's legionaries. They were about two hundred paces away, jogging across the front of the army.
Ballista turned to regard the Sassanids. There was nothing to see but horse archers and dust. He made the signal, and the front rank of the Equites Singulares followed him away. And something had changed. Arrows were still falling, but not so many and not released from so close. Ballista swivelled in the saddle. Still nothing in sight but horse archers and dust. Almost casually, he fended off an arrow with his shield. All the eastern riders were galloping away from the Euphrates, away to the east. Already there were none down by the riverbank. Absently, Ballista noted the little galleys out on the river, saw their torsion-powered artillery bolts speeding after the Persians. I must remember to praise Turpio for his initiative… Ballista waved the trumpeter and Bargas the standard bearer to his side… If I get to see the bugger again. He looked at the Roman army. It was about a hundred and fifty paces away. Aurelian's men were not yet quite in position. It could not be helped. It had to be now. He gave the order: all-out retreat, every man for himself.
It takes a little while for a heavily caparisoned horse to reach full speed. But fear communicates itself easily from man to mount. Soon, all the Equites Singulares, those under Mucapor as well as those with Ballista, were galloping flat out across the plain, riders leaning forward, horses with nostrils wide, ropes of saliva streaming back from gaping mouths, galloping straight and hard, only when essential jinking round a clump of camel thorn.
Ballista glanced over his shoulder. The horse archers were gone, cantering now off to the north-east to lap round the flank of the main body of the Roman army – and in their place were the clibanarii. No more than a hundred paces away, a solid wall of steel, bronze, leather and horn, as far as the eye could see. The earth trembled under their horses' hooves and the air above them was bright with banners, with flowing streamers – yellow, violet, red – and with wicked, glinting spearheads.
Ballista was riding hard, but not pushing Pale Horse near the gelding's limit. He was reasonably secure in his mind. The Sassanid clibanarii had to maintain their line. They could not ride at a full gallop like the fleeing Romans. It should be all right.
Pale Horse swerved around some thorn bushes. Beside and behind him Ballista heard a sound like a whimper. Demetrius was half off his horse, clinging despairingly to its neck. No horseman, the boy must have been dislodged as his mount avoided the sharp camel thorn. As Ballista watched, the Greek youth's grip failed and he was rolling on the hard, dusty ground. Without thought, Ballista reined in, grabbed the bridle of Demetrius' mount and circled back. The boy was on his feet. He was babbling as the northerner led up his horse. The Greek youngster looked over his shoulder, saw the advancing clibanarii and leapt at his horse. He misjudged it entirely and slipped back to the ground.
