in the senate house by fellow senators, by men he had pardoned, men whose careers he had advanced, men he had thought of as friends. But they could not be his friends, precisely because they and he were senators and he had advanced or even pardoned them. The dignitas of a Roman senator did not allow another senator to advance, let alone pardon him. Caesar himself had said his dignitas meant more to him than life itself. Times may have changed under the autocratic rule of the emperors, but dignitas still lay at the heart of a senator's being. Dignitas could still be a reason to kill. And whose wounded dignitas drove them to try and have me killed, Ballista thought sourly. That of Acilius Glabrio, a dead brother to avenge, the stain of obeying the man who abandoned him to wipe out? Or that of the sons of Macrianus the Lame? Quietus, who he had punched in the balls? Or Macrianus the Younger, who had been shown up in failing to help his brother? Macrianus himself? The Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae was not often called a cunt to his face in the courtyard of the emperor's palace. Maybe more to the point, he was not a man who liked to be crossed when he had decided who should have a command on the Euphrates against the Persians. Perhaps it was nothing to do with the Romans at all. Perhaps it was something altogether simpler, something Ballista understood better: perhaps it was a straightforward northern bloodfeud between him and the Borani?
For some time, Ballista's eyes had been resting on the black smudge in the sky to the south beyond the head of the column. Now, with a hollow feeling inside, he began to realize what it might be. Without signalling to his entourage, he kicked his heels into his mount's flanks and set off towards the front of the army. He was only slightly aware of the sound of hooves behind him. His attention was focused on the blackness in the sky.
Infantry to the left, cavalry to the right, soldiers of his army flashed past. Some called out. He did not answer. Their voices vanished behind him. Missiles shot from left to right across the front of his face. He galloped on, almost oblivious, his thoughts concentrated on the black marks against the brilliant blue of the sky.
Arriving at the front of the column, Ballista skidded Pale Horse to a halt. He gazed out over the heads of the infantry. He vaguely noticed his followers pulling up in a clump behind him, Albinus trotting up next to him. The wind was getting up. It was shredding the curtain of dust – blowing it straight at the Romans. Ballista wiped his streaming eyes. He could see the Sassanids, horse and foot, about fifty paces away, shouting, edging closer. Squinting, he could see beyond them the road, running straight and dark through the desert. And, about two hundred paces away, he could see the first tombs of the necropolis on either side of the road and, spreading wide on either side of them, suburban gardens and orchards. And there, no more than four hundred paces off, were the walls: tall, crenellated, mud-brick, the same colour as the desert. Beyond the walls was the city of Circesium, but he could not see it. The billowing black smoke was getting in the way. The city was burning.
The city had fallen. Circesium, just like Arete, had fallen to the Sassanids. Ballista had failed again. They will have a field day in the consilium, was Ballista's first thought. Led by Acilius Glabrio, they would close in for the kill: negligence and sloth – how long wasted in unnecessary training upriver? – if not something worse – what do the reports of the frumentarii say?
'Fuck, oh fuck,' said Maximus.
The flow of lively obscenity put an end to Ballista's unhappy imaginings. What was the point of worrying about what people might say some time in the future when he had to find a way to stop them all dying here and now?
Ballista looked south. Not much more than a hundred and fifty paces to the first of the tombs, gardens and orchards. As soon as the head of the column reached there, he would order the charge – the walls, ditches, close-packed trees, and huts of the market gardens would shield the right wing of the army. Any sooner would mean throwing away the chance to trap the enemy, might even bring catastrophe. Just a few more moments of torment. Not long now.
A huge, swelling roar rolled up the line of the Roman march. Ballista could make out hundreds, thousands, of voices chanting, 'Ready, Ready, Ready.' He could not hear who was shouting out the formulaic question – 'Are you ready for war?' – but he could guess. His heart sank. There was a great, rattling thunder as the soldiers beat their weapons on their shields.
Calling Maximus over and leaning on his shoulder, Ballista precariously stood on his saddle. He looked back to the north and saw what he expected to see. With the red signum fluttering above them, the two hundred or so remaining troopers of the Equites Primi Catafractarii Parthi were charging out to the east against the enemy. They were riding knee to knee in a tight-packed wedge. At their head was an elegant figure in scarlet and gold. Too soon, you fool, Ballista cursed, too soon. Most of the reptiles will escape. He watched for a few moments. The Sassanids turned to flee. Some were too slow. In their confidence, they had come too close. The first Sassanids, both horse and foot, were bowled over by the heavily mailed Roman cavalry, disappearing beneath the pounding hooves.
Ballista clambered down into the saddle. Thanks to Gaius Acilius Glabrio, the Romans were charging too soon, not all charging as one. Somehow Ballista had to try to retrieve the position. He rapped out a string of orders: Infantry, open ranks! Cavalry, prepare to charge! Light infantry to follow! Legionaries will then close ranks and remain halted! Aurelian commands until my return! Ballista signalled to the trumpeter. Six blasts rang out. The men roared. It was the moment for which everyone had been waiting, six long days of waiting. The die was cast.
'Albinus, I will ride with you.' Ballista then raised his voice. 'Equites Tertii Catafractarii Palmirenorum, good hunting.' The two hundred and fifty or so troopers made their way carefully between the ranks of infantry and re- formed beyond them. Ballista trotted a few paces forward to form the apex of the wedge, Maximus on his right, Albinus on his left, Calgacus just behind, his white draco and the unit's green signum following, hopefully Demetrius tucked in somewhere ostensibly safe towards the back.
Another roar drew Ballista's attention to the left. Mucapor at their head, the main body of the Equites Singulares was charging. It was a small, armoured wedge, not many more than a hundred horsemen, but the Sassanids were running from them. All along the line, the easterners were running. Damn, thought Ballista, it is all too soon, all fragmented, most of the bastards will escape.
Ballista put Pale Horse into a trot, rising gently to a canter. There were one hundred paces of bare desert to the backs of the nearest Sassanids. Time to take charge, thought Ballista, it is all or nothing now. He pushed on into a flat-out gallop. The distance between the horsemen and the running Persian foot soldiers closed quickly. Ballista unsheathed his long cavalry sword. He fixed his eyes on the point between the green-clad shoulder-blades of a running easterner. He held the sword out straight. At the last second, a glimpse of terrified, dark eyes, and the man hurled himself to the ground. The charge ran over him.
They were through the infantry. Ahead were the backs of the cavalry. Ballista angled the charge towards the right. The horsemen there were moving more slowly, were milling about. Ballista could feel himself starting to grin like an idiot. His plan might yet work. Despite Acilius Glabrio, it might yet work. The Persian cavalry in front of him realized the Romans were coming. The easterners began to push, to jostle each other. They came to blows. They were at a standstill, literally fighting to get to the lip of the bank, to have a chance to scramble down the steep banks of the Chaboras.
A clibanarius at the back of the mob sawed on the reins to bring his horse round to face Ballista. The horse's nostrils were wide, its mouth bloody. The man's surcoat was a delicate violet, covered in abstract swirls. His face was hidden behind a mail hanging. Even the eyes, in deep shade, could not be seen. The man must have thrown away his lance. He was tugging his sword out. Ballista aimed a vicious back-handed cut over Pale Horse's ears. Steel rang and sparks flew as the clibanarius parried the blow with his own blade. As his gelding drew level, Ballista reached out and with his left hand grabbed the mail aventail covering the Persian's face. It slipped up, blinding the warrior. The momentum of Pale Horse dragged the Persian half out of his saddle. Ballista smashed the pommel of his sword down into the hidden face of his opponent. There was a sickening sound like the carcass of a chicken breaking. Ballista pushed the man over the far side of his horse to the ground.
Another Persian came at Ballista from his left, heavy sword swinging down in a mighty overhand chop. The northerner took the blow on his shield. Splinters flew, and he heard the linden boards crack. Blindly, he thrust out under the damaged shield. The point of his sword slid off the Sassanid's armour. The press of horses and men crushed Ballista and his opponent together, too close to effectively use their swords. The Persian's left hand shot up, his mail-clad fingers clawing at Ballista's face, searching for his eyes. Swaying back, hot blood on his cheek, Ballista dropped his sword, feeling its weight tug at the wrist strap. He grabbed a streamer floating from the easterner's helmet. He yanked hard. The man began to topple backwards. Then the streamer tore. The Sassanid grinned savagely as he regained his balance. Their horses moved a little apart. Ballista punched the metal boss of
