There were shouts and catcalls from the dark. The praetorians were detested as pampered parade-ground soldiers by both auxiliaries and legionaries. 'Silence!' Accius roared over his shoulder.
Ballista swung down from the saddle. Accius stepped up angrily. 'Why did those praetorians start shooting at us? I have men down. It is their fault.'
'They are nervous' – Ballista spoke calmly – 'but you are out of position. The blame is shared. Now gather your wounded and fall in behind the praetorians. We still have a long way to go tonight.'
XXX
The day came almost unannounced to the tired men of the army. One moment, all was black, the next there was a broad band of brilliant blue on the horizon. Above it, the dark of the night, now tinged purple, stretched away up over their heads and off to the west. The sun would be up soon.
The army was halted. Ballista had taken the weight off Pale Horse's back. He was giving the gelding a drink and a small tub of mash. Maximus touched his arm and pointed. Camillus was riding back down towards the imperial party. Handing his mount over, Ballista walked up alongside the Equites Singulares until he was in earshot.
'Dominus.' Camillus sketched a salute to Valerian. The tribune of VI Gallicana looked exhausted. 'Anamu has gone.'
'Most likely,' Quietus said quickly, 'he is merely scouting ahead.'
'No, he has gone,' Camillus snapped.
'How can -'
'Dominus,' the Praetorian Prefect interrupted, 'we have a more pressing matter.' Successianus pointed to the east.
The sun was rising over the crest of the hill. The skyline seemed to waver, to be moving. Speechless, the Romans watched in horror. The sun rose higher, silhouetting the solid black mass of Sassanid cavalry. The horsemen filled the horizon. Golden rays glinted on their spear points and helmets. Bright colours flashed from the banners above their heads.
'Gods below,' muttered Valerian.
Everyone looked around. The Roman army was in a broad upland valley, somewhere between the city of Edessa and the Euphrates river. No one knew where. After the chaos of the night march, they were totally lost. The floor of the valley was bare except for patches of thorny scrub. It was ringed with hills.
A single trumpet rang out from the eastern hill. Its clear notes echoed back and forth in the still, early-morning air. Then, with a sickening inevitability, it was answered. Once, twice, three times. From the south, the west, the north, trumpets rang out. On all the surrounding hills appeared rank after rank of the enemy. A murmur of dismay ran through the Roman army.
'What have we done for the gods to desert us?' Valerian sounded old, defeated.
'Dominus' – Quietus' voice was wheedling – 'you must parley with them.'
The heavy silver head of the emperor continued to regard the easterners. His face became set. He squared his shoulders. 'An imperator under arms does not parley. Successianus, have the light infantry flank our column. Comites, we march north.'
Ballista ran back to his men. As he checked Pale Horse's girths, a thin screen of Mesopotamian archers got into position on either side. He mounted up and they moved off.
The tired men of the beleaguered field army trudged on. They did not have long to wait. The terrible, familiar drums thundered, resounding around the valley. The easterners gave voice, calling on Mazda to grant them victory. Thousands of Sassanid horse bowmen raced down the slopes. Their mounts ate up the ground. Quickly, they were on the Romans.
The air was filled with the ghastly sound of thousands of razor-sharp arrowheads. Ballista saw them fall like hail among the Equites Singulares in front. Horses reared and plunged. Men toppled from saddles. Pale Horse shied as a missile whipped past his nose. Ballista calmed him and concentrated on using his shield to keep the points away from his beloved animal. To the northerner's right, Maximus, holding his shield in his right hand, was doing the same with his mount.
Arrowheads thumped into the linden wood of Ballista's big round shield. He glanced back at Demetrius. 'Not long – they will soon run out of arrows.' The young Greek smiled back. Thump – an arrowhead punched half through Ballista's shield. Its point clinked off the gold arm ring he had been given on his return from Circesium. He snapped the shaft.
The Roman light infantry were doing what they could, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Soon Pale Horse was stepping over or around the dead and wounded. A centurion lay by the side of the path; an arrow had pinned his thighs together. He held up his money belt, offering it to anyone who would help him, tears running down his face, pleading. No one even dropped out of line to kill and rob him.
The rain of arrows slackened. The Persians were cantering back uphill. A feeble cheer started in the Roman ranks, then faltered and gave way to a groan. There on the skyline were the unmistakable silhouettes of laden camels. Even Demetrius must have known what was happening as the Sassanids rode up to them, grabbed a bundle and spurred back at the Romans. The easterners would not run out of arrows. The foresight of the King of Kings had seen to that. Again the arrow storm howled down.
On they trudged through the valley of tears. Time lost all meaning. Sharp thorns in the brushwood lacerated their legs, pierced their horses' hooves. Blood on the sand. The cries of the wounded were pitiful in the Romans' ears. They were tired, hungry, their mouths as bitter as aloes. The sun was high in the sky. Clouds of dust wheeled up to obscure it. The heat was overpowering.
Here and there, individuals maddened beyond endurance ran out at the enemy. The Sassanids drew back. Let them run, raving, then shot them down, a dozen shafts quivering in their bodies.
It could not go on. Disciplina and desperation could not hold the remains of the army together much longer. Word was passed back to make for a lone hill to the right. They would make a stand there.
The Roman units wheeled, stumbled across the plain. The Sassanids redoubled their efforts. They rode close, very close, shooting from point-blank range, cutting down stragglers with their long, straight swords.
Somehow, the Romans reached the hill. Despite their suffering, so far, the disciplina of the majority just about held. They formed a perimeter, shields locked together. It brought no relief. The Persians did pull back a little way, but the Romans on the hill were set out like men in the tiers of a theatre. Closer packed than on the march, they were hard to miss. The Roman light infantry had long run out of missiles. Only a few of them had enough fight left to scurry around picking up the incoming arrows.
A little way up the hill, Ballista stood holding Pale Horse's bridle. He had turned the gelding to face the enemy and protected both their heads with his shield. Four of the twelve Dalmatians were gone but, of the rest, only old Calgacus had a wound of any account: an ugly gash on his arm.
Tired, thirsty, despairing, most of the Romans had sunk to their knees. Ballista glanced over to where the imperial standard still flew. The huge purple flag snapped in the strong south wind with an ironic jauntiness. Under it, ringed by praetorian shields, Valerian sat with his head in his hands.
A groan rose up from the hillside, like that when a favourite chariot team crashes in the circus. The arrow storm seemed to have slackened. Ballista peeked out from behind his shield. A small unit of legionaries was cut off on the plain. There were probably about two hundred of them. They were huddled in testudo, completely surrounded by Persian light horse. Shot from the closest range, arrows were smashing through shields. Men were falling fast. The legionaries were pushing and dragging their dead to form a low barricade at their feet.
The tempo of the drums changed. The light horse trotted away. A wide space opened around the trapped unit. A wasteland of low thorn bushes, spent missiles, discarded equipment, isolated bodies. All the drums fell silent. A hush descended over the plain, then all eyes were pulled to the far hillside, where one drum began to beat.
Above the skyline appeared a huge, rectangular banner. It was yellow, red and violet and topped by a golden globe: the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the house of Sasan. A lone horseman, clad in purple and white, mounted on a white horse, rode up beneath the banner. The King of Kings had come to oversee his triumph.
