created. Obviously, an exception was made for the impedimenta necessary to maintain the maiestas of a Roman emperor. The imperial possessions, on the backs of fifty or so packhorses, would travel in the notional safety between the praetorians and the horse guards. Ballista and Turpio, with the dozen of their Dalmatian troopers who had survived, would join the Equites Singulares.
Ballista looked to where the aged emperor sat on a quiet but magnificent grey horse. Valerian was taking last-moment instructions from the creatures of Macrianus. They leaned forward, speaking earnestly: Quietus, Maeonius Astyanax, Pomponius Bassus and Censorinus. Even the Arab Anamu, exotic in baggy blue trousers sewn with yellow four-petal flowers, was joining in. The tail wagging the dog, Ballista thought in his native tongue. The loyal men, the Praetorian Prefect Successianus, the ab Admissionibus Cledonius, waited at an appreciable distance.
The order came down the line; no trumpets were sounded: prepare to march. Torches were extinguished. The cavalry who were to march in the van mounted up. Pomponius Bassus and Maeonius Astyanax took station at their head. They were joined by Anamu, and half a dozen other supposedly loyal guides who would lead them all over the high country to the Euphrates, and safety in Samosata.
The gates swung back with barely a murmur. Then, hooves ringing, horses snorting, equipment jingling, the cavalry moved out. The arch was wide enough for five mounted men abreast. Rank after rank, they passed. It took a long time for a thousand ranks to clear the gate.
Finally, the backs of the last of the troopers disappeared through the gate. The first of the infantry marched out. Some had not reported to the standards, they had slipped away into the back alleys. It was little wonder that standing siege behind the well-founded walls of Edessa might seem preferable to a march of at least two days through unknown, hostile country. Even so, there were over ten thousand armed men on foot. The emperor, surrounded by the Equites Singulares, would take his place in the middle of them. The praetorians would be right behind the horse guards.
The word came down. There was a gap in the infantry. Those who were not already mounted in the imperial entourage swung up into the saddle. The Equites Singulares set off, its commander, Aurelian, the Italian at the head; Valerian in the midst; Ballista and his familia, Turpio and the Dalmatians at the rear. Immediately behind came the packhorses, led by praetorians, then the main body of the guard. The rest of the infantry would follow.
Outside the gate, it was lighter. A clear night; thousands of stars burning in the heavens. A chill wind was blowing from the south. Away to the south-east, a myriad campfires twinkling, the Sassanid camp lay spread out across the plain like a carpet. On the dark outline of the hills to the north was nothing; not a single watch fire – on this night of all nights. Only a fool, thought Ballista, could think they were not there. They know we are coming. They have put out the fires, maybe even withdrawn the pickets. They want us to march north. They are luring us out – out on to the high plateau, where their cavalry can kill us.
Allfather, Grey Beard, Deep Hood, watch over me this night. Let me see daylight again. Let me see Julia, my beloved sons Isangrim and Dernhelm again. In the dark, Ballista ran through his pre-battle ritual: pull dagger on right hip half out of sheath, snap it back, pull sword on left a couple of inches free, snap it back, touch the healing stone tied to the scabbard. Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius rode behind him. He was as ready as he could be.
They had not ridden more than two hundred paces when they were brought to a halt by the backs of the infantry in front. A night march always brings confusion. Inexplicably, the column stops. Units run into each other, become entangled. Then, equally inexplicably, the way ahead is clear. Units surge forward. Stragglers lose their standards. Gaps open in the column. Whole units go astray.
Gods below, thought Ballista, this has all the makings of a disaster. He thought about taking a drink, but decided against it. Who knew when he would get a chance to refill the water flasks that festooned Pale Horse's saddle. Maximus passed over a piece of air-dried meat. Ballista chewed on that instead.
The troopers in front moved off. Ballista and those around him followed. Off to the flanks, shadowy figures flitted here and there through the starlight. Ballista tensed, hand on hilt, peering into the dark. He relaxed. The shapes were moving away from the column – deserters sliding away into the illusory safety of the night. Fools. He wondered how many of them would be found the next morning, beheaded or staked out and disembowelled, in the path of the army.
At night it is hard to judge distances. It is especially difficult to estimate how far you have travelled if you are in a column of armed men. All most see are the backs of the men in front. If you are at one edge of the column you can look out. But not many do. There are few landmarks in the dark. They are indistinct and soon drop behind. If you stare at them too long, they start to move, to become sinister – rocks and bushes change into enemy fighters. Better to keep one's eyes on the reassuring back to your front. He is your comrade. He is leading you out of the fearful night to safety. Best not let him get too far ahead. Ballista had known whole armies fall apart as everyone rushed faster and faster into the darkness, terrified of being left behind.
A burst of noise from behind. Voices raised in shock and anger. The clash of steel. It was coming from the praetorians leading the packhorses.
Telling those with him to follow, Ballista pulled Pale Horse out of the line and cantered back down the column.
As they came alongside, four or five men could just be seen running away. In moments they were lost in the darkness. One of the praetorians detailed to lead the packhorses was down. Several others were gathered around him. More than one were holding wounds. Ballista dismounted.
'Bastard legionaries,' a praetorian said. Obviously, the lure of the thinly guarded imperial treasures had been too much for the disciplina of some.
Ballista examined the man on the ground. He was dying, a deep sword thrust in his chest. There was no time for compassion. The packhorses were holding up the rear of the column. The front had not halted. A gap was opening in the middle of the army. The northerner spoke to one of the man's companions. 'Do the right thing. Then get moving again.' He remounted. He heard a blade drawn, a slicing sound, a death rattle.
Riding back into position, it struck Ballista that he had just assumed command of their tiny detachment. Turpio had followed his orders without complaint. The quizzical-faced bastard was a good man. Did not stand on his dignitas like most Romans. Starlight glittered on that ridiculously ornate Persian bracelet he always wore. Now was not the moment, surrounded by others, but Ballista would apologize and thank Turpio later – as if over the last few days he had not thanked him enough both for saving his life and for then keeping quiet about Maximinus Thrax.
Anamu was leading the army to the right of the first outcrop of the hills, to the north-east. The road to Samosata that Ballista had travelled before ran to the north-west. They were marching into country he did not know, country he suspected next to no one in the army would know. Off to his right, he noticed a large, solitary rock with an outline vaguely like a crouching lion.
With more and more frequent halts, they marched on through the night. The trail rose, twisting this way and that, until they were up in the rolling highlands, the black shapes of mountains all around.
'Prepare to receive cavalry!' The shouts rolled back down the column. No trumpets, but enough noise to wake the dead.
'Which direction?' a dozen or more officers called out.
'Right!'
'Left!'
The answers came back indiscriminately out of the dark.
Ballista made the best disposition he could, Turpio and eight troopers facing left; Ballista himself, Maximus, Calgacus, Demetrius and the remaining four troopers facing right.
Shouts continued to ring out: 'Over there!' 'Enemy in sight!' 'Stand down!' 'No, hold your position!'
Ballista heard the rattle of hooves. He drew his sword. Into his vision thundered a solitary horse. It was a white stallion, riderless, running free. It carried no saddle or bridle; no tack at all. It was indescribably beautiful. It galloped back down along the column the way they had come. In moments it was gone.
There was a strange hush after it had passed. One or two men laughed nervously.
'Resume line of march.'
From the head of the column, two riders spurred back towards where the imperial standard flew. Even at a little distance in the dark, Ballista recognized the baggy trousers of Anamu. The other was a Roman officer. Telling
