about twenty paces, the Sassanids spun round and raced away, still plying their bows over their horses' quarters.
In moments they were gone out of range. They left a few crumpled bodies, their dark blood staining their bright clothes, draining away into the sand. Ballista watched a horse struggle to its feet. One of its front legs broken, it limped after the Persians. He looked around the Roman column. It was responding well. The legionaries were closing ranks. The light infantry ran around gathering spent missiles. Camp followers helped the wounded to the baggage train. The dead were left where they had fallen. If they were lucky, their contubernales, their mess- mates, would put a coin in their mouths, close their eyes, sprinkle a little soil on them. It was not what one would hope for, but it was better than nothing.
Out of range again, the Sassanids resumed their jeering and boasting. The first test of the day was passed. But it would be a brief respite. The easterners would come again within half an hour. Ballista idly wondered how many such attacks the column had weathered. It was the ides of March, the fifteenth day of the month. Six days counting inclusively, as everyone did, since Acilius Glabrio's nearly ruinous charge. Six days of marching under a hot sun with the spirits of death hovering close at hand. Six days with wave after wave of attacks. As a heavy surf assaults some roaring coast Piling breaker on breaker whipped by the West Wind
… And in come more shouldering crests, arching up and breaking Against some rocky spit, exploding salt foam to the skies – So wave on wave they came… 'Here they come again,' called Maximus.
With a thunder of hooves, the Persian light horse surged forward. Their shadows flickered out far in front of them. The sun was still quite low. Allfather, it can only be the second hour of the day, thought Ballista. Again the storm of arrows burst over the Roman column. Again the inhuman noise, as wicked steel and bronze filled the air. Acting on instinct, Ballista caught an arrow on his shield, the impact jarring up his arm. He saw an arrowhead dink off Maximus' helmet. He looked around to check Calgacus and Demetrius were safe. He tried to smile reassuringly at the tense-faced Greek boy. With no warning, Albinus was in front of him.
'You had better come to the front of the column.'
Ballista nodded and waved for his immediate entourage to follow. As they cantered up between the columns of infantry and cavalry, Ballista wondered what could be important enough to make the commander of Equites III Palmirenorum seek him out himself. The pressure was always greater on the rear of the column than the front. So, every day, Ballista rotated the units at the two stations. In both places Albinus had shown himself calm and capable. Ballista had a far from good feeling about this.
When they reached the front of the column, Ballista peered out for a few seconds from behind his shield. He saw nothing unexpected: incoming arrows, Persians, dust. He ducked back then looked again. This time he saw it: Sassanids on foot, plying bows and slings.
'Bugger, infantry.'
Behind him he heard Demetrius ask Maximus why it mattered.
'It means there are a lot more of the bastards than we thought.' The Hibernian's voice was resigned. 'This is not a cavalry raiding force but a full-scale fucking army.'
I have to nip this in the bud, thought Ballista. Don't think, just act. He repeated the mantra to himself a couple of times then, putting his shield aside, braving the missiles his standard attracted, he raised himself in the saddle and called out to the nearest men. 'A few reptiles without horses – who gives a fuck? Everyone knows they have the hearts of sheep. They do not have the bollocks to fight on foot. And their big, baggy trousers mean they cannot run. All the more for us to kill at Circesium. Remember: every one of them carries all his wealth sewn in his belt – rich cowards who cannot run!'
A thin cheer rippled away down the front line.
The arrow storm faltered and died as they rode back down the column. With Demetrius inconspicuously prompting him, Ballista called out to men by name as they passed. Already dust powdered the legs of the infantry white, like men on a threshing floor.
At the rear of the column they found Acilius Glabrio and Niger under the red standard of the Equites I Parthi. The young patrician had a nasty-looking gash on his cheek. They all saluted each other.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready, next time, you must let me lead the men out, just a short, controlled charge to drive the goat-eyed bastards away,' Acilius Glabrio said in one breath.
'No, we hold the line until Circesium.'
Unexpectedly, Niger joined in. 'The cavalry commander is right. The men will not take much more. The infantry are having to walk backwards, trying to defend themselves as they do. My cavalry are losing horses and men and have no way of striking back. No men can take that for ever.'
'No, I know it is hard, but it is not far to Circesium now. Then we will all charge as one. If we charge too soon, if we do not all charge together, we have no chance of smashing them and we risk disaster.' The northerner looked at their unconvinced faces. 'I know it is torture, but not for long.' Then, again, using the saddle horns, he raised himself up and called out to the soldiers. 'The reptiles are only brave at a distance. Not far to Circesium now, and then you can kill to your hearts' content.' He paused. There was a less than convincing cheer. 'Remember: they are all as rich as Croesus. They carry all their gold in their belts, hidden in their clothes, maybe stuffed up their arses, for all we know. There will not be a poor man in our camp tonight.' This time the cheer was somewhat louder.
Ballista turned his horse. He looked steadily first at Acilius Glabrio, then Niger. 'Hold the line until my command: six blasts on the trumpet. Hold the line until Circesium.'
By the time Ballista and his entourage reached their station with the Equites Singulares in the centre of the cavalry column, the Persians had struck again. Now the dust hung so thick that you could not see further than a shepherd could throw a stick. The arrows scythed out of the murk before the horsemen could be seen. Again the air was full of horrible, inhuman sounds.
In the middle of the maelstrom Turpio calmly rode up to Ballista. As Turpio saluted, a gold bangle on his wrist flashed. It was his proudest possession. He had taken it in a daring night raid on the Persian camp outside Arete, taken it from the hastily vacated bed of Shapur, the Sassanid King of Kings himself.
Ballista and Turpio leant from their horses to embrace.
'How goes it with the baggage train?'
'Rather quieter than with you,' Turpio replied. 'But rather less well than it was going. There are marshes fringing the Euphrates here. They are getting wider. It is making it harder to ferry the wounded out to the boats. I am running out of porters and animals on shore to carry them and the supplies.'
Ballista looked over and stopped. He had grown so used to the dust and noise all around wherever he looked that it was a shock to be able to see all the way down to the water, across the river and to the sandy bluff opposite. It was, he noticed, a beautiful day, quiet and sunny. From this distance, the boats looked serene, bobbing on the turquoise waters.
'If it comes to it, abandon the supplies. If we win today, we can take all we want, and if we do not…' Ballista shrugged.
Turpio nodded. 'I am not going to ask for them, but I could do with some more of your Equites Singulares. The twenty you seconded to me are becoming overwhelmed by the number of malingerers trying to hide among the wounded and get out to the boats – the light infantry mainly, but some legionaries and cavalrymen too.'
'Do your best. As I keep saying, not long now.'
Turpio saluted and rode away. Ballista watched him go down to the riverbank. The dust raised by his horse streamed away to the north. Good, thought Ballista, the wind is getting down to the plain. Hopefully it will be strong enough to blow away some of this shit, and then we will be able to see what the fuck is going on.
The ides of March. An ill-omened day for Romans – the day Julius Caesar was assassinated. A day of bad memories for Ballista – a year ago, he had first encountered the Sassanids: they had ambushed him, chased him, and a big blond Batavian with the ridiculously Roman name of Romulus had paid with his life for the escape of Ballista and the others. Not a good day for a battle. But there was no choice.
Another wave of arrows swept through the Roman ranks. Ballista had not even noticed the previous attack end. At least now the wind was getting up you could see the bastards shooting at you. A slingshot clunked off the armour on Pale Horse's shoulder. Ballista pulled him out of line and circled him. He did not seem to be lame. The slingshot meant there were Sassanid infantry all around the army now. Was this the third or fourth attack of the morning? Ballista was not sure. His mind wandered. The ides of March. Julius Caesar was killed, stabbed to death
