their principles come and go? And what about the arrogance of the bloody Romans? Their gods are just the natural ones.'
'It has to be said, they are a lot closer to the sort of gods you and I worshipped when we were young, a bloody sight closer than a criminal on a cross,' said Maximus.
'Well, Woden the Allfather did let himself hang on a tree in agony for nine days.'
'Actually, I was really talking about the other letter. The one from your wife.'
Ballista grinned, his teeth white in the gloom, but said nothing.
'Everything all right at home? The boy is all right?'
'Isangrim is fine.'
'And the domina?'
'She is fine too.'
'Gods below, man, you are not thinking there is another man's mule kicking in your stall?'
Ballista laughed quietly. 'A lovely turn of phrase, but no, it is not what I was thinking.'
For a time they sat in silence again, now a more companionable, a somewhat happier silence.
It was Ballista who spoke first this time. 'It is nothing specific. I suppose I just miss them. But then, when I start missing them, wanting to be with them, I start worrying where it is I want to be with them – in the villa in Sicily or back north in the halls of my people.'
'I do not pretend to understand. You have a marble home on a beautiful island under the southern sun, and you want to go back to living in a glorified mud hut in a bleak northern forest.' Maximus shook his head in mock sadness. 'The world is full of girls and women, all shapes and sizes, almost all of them willing, some ever so grateful, and the few reluctant ones just needing to be shown what they are missing, and you stick to just the one.'
From somewhere Maximus produced a flask. He drank and passed it over.
'It is not natural, and it is not good for you. But you will probably have the better time than me.'
Ballista, drinking, made a doubting noise.
'What do I have? Apart from the fighting, just the two things. One makes me feel like dying in the mornings and the other is finished in a quarter of an hour.'
Ballista laughed. 'A quarter of an hour?'
'I have got better.'
Both men laughed. Ballista passed the flask back and said they had better get some sleep. They got to their feet and walked back under the big moon. Already, as the army snaked out of camp, Ballista could sense the coming heat of the day. Today would decide things one way or another. Ballista's mission was to raise the Sassanid siege of Circesium. Today, barring disaster, Ballista would reach Circesium. If he entered the town, the Sassanids would go away. Yet that was not enough. As soon as Ballista and his army left, the Sassanids would return and place Circesium under siege again. He had to defeat the easterners in battle. But it was difficult for an infantry-based army such as Ballista's to force a cavalry horde into battle. He had to trap them in unfavourable terrain. The only place where that might happen was before the walls of Circesium itself. The town was sited on a promontory at the junction of the Euphrates and a river called the Chaboras. The Euphrates ran north-west to south-east. The Chaboras flowed into it from the north-east. With his rear protected by the Euphrates and his right resting on the outskirts of Circesium; one all-or-nothing charge might catch the Persian cavalry in the narrow triangle of land leading up to the banks of the Chaboras.
Everything depended on timing and disciplina. Charge too soon and all the Sassanids would escape, galloping away to the north-east. If Ballista's men did not all charge as one, most of the Sassanids would escape, streaming away through the gaps between the Roman units. One united all-or-nothing charge before the walls of Circesium.
It was the best that Ballista could come up with, but he knew it was not much of a plan. And for it to have any chance of working, the army had to reach Circesium in one piece. Any break in the line, any premature charge, would be fatal. And the line was painfully thin. After the near-disaster with Acilius Glabrio, he had reinforced both the front and rear of his column with five hundred legionaries of Legio IIII Scythica. It had left only a thousand legionaries of Legio III Felix guarding the left flank. And the line was becoming ever thinner. Casualties had mounted steadily.
It was the fifteenth day of March, the ides. How could any country be so hot in the springtime? He looked at the sky. There was no breeze down on the plain but, up there, high up there, clouds moved away to the north. He watched them retreating. Big, heavy clouds, full of rain. They could have made all the difference today: a sudden downpour dampening the bowstrings of the Persians, forcing them to give up their hit-and-run tactics and fight with spear and sword at close quarters, forcing them into his hands. He had prayed to the high god of his people – Allfather, Grey Beard, Wand-Bearer, Fulfiller of Desire. Woden-born though he was, the Allfather had ignored him. The rainclouds had swept on to the north. Behind them, the sky was an empty blue. Ballista shrugged. What could one expect of a god who started wars just because the fever was in his blood and he was bored?
A roll of drums brought Ballista's attention back to earth. The Sassanids were confident. Last night, for the first time, they had encamped barely a mile away. This morning, they had been up and about earlier than usual. While the dew still held the sand together, before the choking clouds of dust rose, they had come up from the south, spread out like a triumphal procession. The great line of clibanarii had taken station out in the desert to the east, spear tips flashing, standards glinting in the rising sun. Ballista had estimated the line about a thousand riders long and at least two deep: at least two thousand clibanarii. As was their way, the light horse archers had swooped and circled across the plain. It made their numbers hard to judge – maybe somewhere between five and ten thousand, maybe more. An army of between seven and twelve thousand riders, maybe more, maybe a lot more. It made little odds. Ballista had to bring them to battle today, had to get them to close quarters in the confined space before Circesium, and then sow panic in their ranks.
So far there was no sign that Pan or any other god had put fear in the hearts of the Sassanids. They looked and sounded confident. The horse archers had swept around the Roman army, enclosing it on every side except the west, where the river ran. Not far out of slingshot, they taunted the Romans, caracoling their horses, calling out insults. Now and then an individual would spur forward yelling a challenge. When no one stepped out to take it up, the Sassanid would make his mount rear, spin it round on its hind legs, and vanish back into the seething mass of horsemen.
The noise of the easterners rose up like a wall around the Roman marching column – drums, trumpets, cymbals, the yells of men and the neighing of horses. Some lines of Homer drifted into Ballista's mind. The Trojans came with cries and the din of war like wildfowl When the hoarse cries of cranes sweep on against the sky. As Ballista had ordered, the Romans trudged on in silence. It was not that he dismissed the value of noise. Only a fool who had not stood in hot battle would do that. Often you could judge the outcome before a weapon was cast by the volume and quality of the shouting. But his men were outnumbered. There was no point in getting into a contest you could not win. Sometimes an ominous, disciplined silence can also unsettle and demoralize.
… Achaea's armies Came on strong in silence, breathing combat-fury, Hearts ablaze to defend each other to the death. Ballista's mouth was dry, gritty. He took the water flask that hung on a horn of his saddle, unstoppered it, rinsed his mouth, spat then drank. He replaced the flask and, without conscious thought, ran through his pre- battle ritual: pull the dagger on his right hip half out of its scabbard and snap it back, do the same with the sword hanging on his left, finally touch the healing stone tied to scabbard of the sword.
The dust was rising high and straight in the still morning air, hiding the clibanarii. But they were there, somewhere beyond the horse archers, waiting for their chance, waiting for the moment of disorder, the gap in the line, the ill-considered charge. The noise of the light cavalry was swelling to a crescendo.
'Steady, boys, here they come.'
A high, ululating cry echoed through the Persian ranks. Allfather, they sounded confident. As one, the horse archers kicked their boots into the flanks of their mounts. They gathered pace quickly, eager to cross the short killing ground where the Roman slings and foot bows outranged them. Ballista heard Roman trumpets sound. Slings whirred, bows twanged. Some Persians went down, but the vast majority raced on at a breakneck gallop. At little more than a hundred paces, they drew and released. Eastern arrows sliced into the Roman column. The sounds of the incoming missiles echoed all around Ballista. Arrows thudded into the hard-packed ground, thumped into wooden shields, clanged off metal armour, and here and there came the awful knife-into-cabbage sound of metal penetrating flesh. Men were screaming. Ballista jerked his head back as an arrow flashed by his face. At
