The drum changed to a double beat. Through the dust that hung down on the plain, a solid block of horsemen walked slowly towards the isolated Roman unit. These were no light cavalry; these were the feared clibanarii. Armoured in mail and steel plate, riding knee to knee, a dense array of long pikes above, men and horses appeared one solid mass. The outline changed as the pikes came down. The knights of Mazda quickened to a trot. The ground trembled beneath their horses' hooves.
Cracks opened in the testudo facing the clibanarii. Heads popped out to stare in horror, then ducked back. It would have been almost funny had it not been so tragic. The clibanarii moved to a canter. The first Roman threw away his shield, turned and ran. Another then another followed. The testudo began to lose shape. The Sassanids were galloping. The testudo disintegrated. All bar one tiny knot of legionaries ran. It was three hundred or more paces to the main army on the hill. They did not have a chance.
The wave of clibanarii broke around the handful of legionaries still holding their ground. They spurred on in pursuit of the fugitives.
As he watched, a half-remembered line from Plato came to Ballista: War was the highest – or was it the worst? – form of hunting.
Across the plain, the great pikes dipped and struck. The sharp steel pierced the fleeing backs of their foes. The armoured faces of the clibanarii were as cold and emotionless as statues.
It was over in moments. A new trail of corpses stretched out. The clibanarii walked back to surround the tiny clump of legionaries still under arms.
A tall, slim figure with gorgeous silks over his armour emerged from the re-forming ranks of the clibanarii. He was followed by a standard bearer carrying a bright banner with the symbol of a wild beast, a tiger or some other big cat. Ballista had seen him before. The Persian boy Bagoas had pointed him out at the siege of Arete. He was one of the sons of Shapur. Ballista could not remember which.
The Sassanid prince did not stop until he was little more than a sword thrust from the huddle of legionaries. He bowed in the saddle, touched his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. Then he gestured. The ranks of the clibanarii opened. A lane appeared, running to the Roman army on the hill. The lone horseman motioned the legionaries to go.
After a hesitation, the tiny band of survivors began to move. There were no more than twenty unwounded. They dragged maybe another dozen of the not mortally wounded. They carried their weapons. Above them was the eagle of the legion.
Low at first, then swelling, the Sassanids started to sing as the Romans passed through their ranks. Some of the clibanarii pushed back their face masks, the better to be heard.
'Gods below,' Demetrius muttered in Ballista's ear. 'What cruel oriental trick is this?'
'No trick. They are praising the bravery of those men. They sing that they are warriors, the sons of warriors.'
The survivors reached the Roman line. The shieldwall opened. Ballista was pleased to see Camillus, the tribune, lead in all that was left of Legio VI Gallicana.
The big drum on the hill thundered. Throughout the valley, the others took up the beat. The Sassanids, clibanarii and light horse, turned and trotted away.
Demetrius grabbed Ballista's arm. 'Is that it? Is it over? Are they going to spare us?' The young Greek could not keep the desperate hope from his voice.
Ballista patted him on the shoulder. 'I am afraid not. They are going to have lunch.'
Unfortunately, Ballista was only partly right. A large group of Sassanid light horse rode off to the south of the hill and dismounted. Soon, the first coils of smoke rose up from the dry brushwood. The easterners got back in the saddle and spurred away. The strong south wind drove the line of fire towards the Romans.
Leaving the injured Calgacus, Demetrius and two of the Dalmatian troopers to guard their horses, Ballista led the others, stumbling down the hill and out in front of the line of shields. He called to the nearby centurions to lend a hand. They ignored him.
The brushwood was dry and tough. It was hard to cut with swords. The thorns shredded Ballista's soft leather riding gloves, cut his hands, lacerated his bare forearms. Looking up, he was relieved to see Camillus had brought out some of his remaining men. Squads of others were being chivvied by officers to join in.
The smoke was rolling towards them, the dry bushes crackling, the fire drawing closer. The work was slow and painful. Ballista's back ached like hell. The hilt of his sword was slippery with blood. He could feel the heat of the fire on his face.
'Enough.' Maximus' hand was on Ballista's arm. The fire was only a few paces away, but there was a narrow firebreak. The northerner followed the others back.
For the Romans, the midday meal was a miserable affair. They sat on the ground. Many had no food or drink at all. Maximus passed round some air-dried meat. Ballista's mouth was too dry to chew it. They shared out the last of their water. Apart from one gulp, which he held in his mouth for as long as possible, Ballista gave his to Pale Horse. Then he forced himself to eat the tough shreds of meat. Smuts drifted down, further dirtying already grimy Roman clothes and armour. The smoke blew into their faces, gritting eyes, choking breathing. Men stamped and beat where glowing embers carried on the wind had sparked small fires. The remaining horses shifted unhappily.
The Sassanids were having an altogether better time. On the hills, there was music, dancing even. They sang – not paeans of praise, but drinking songs. Some of them taunted the Romans, waving skins of drink, bread and meat.
At length, as the easterners saw to their horses, a lone horseman left the group under the Drafsh-i-Kavyan. He picked his way down the opposite slope. When he reached the floor of the valley, he kicked on into a gallop. Coloured streamers floated behind him. This man Ballista recognized from the siege of Arete. It was the Lord Suren.
Asking Turpio if he would mind staying with the men, Ballista walked across the hillside to stand behind Valerian. Slowly, the Comites Augusti assembled. Quietus was last, until the very final moment whispering urgently with some centurions.
The Suren held an unstrung bow over his head. When he was a stone's throw from the Roman line, he caracoled his mount to a halt. He took off his helmet and hung it on the horn of his saddle. He wore make-up, his face shone with a clean, almost feminine beauty but, when he spoke, his voice was masculine, that of a warrior.
'Shapur, King of Kings, lord of all he surveys, would speak with Valerian.' The Suren spoke in Greek. 'Shapur will ride down to meet Valerian in the open between the armies. Each will be accompanied by five men. None shall be armed.'
There was a breathless hush on the hillside. Squaring his shoulders, Valerian stepped forward. 'A Roman imperator does not come running when a barbarian calls.'
There was a murmur from the troops around the emperor. Then soldiers started to bang weapons on their shields. The first shouts came. 'Meet him.' 'You expect us to fight him, but you dare not even talk to him.' 'Old coward, meet him.' Officers barked orders, took names. It did no good. The core of the shouting came from those with whom Quietus had been whispering. Meet him. Meet him.
Valerian looked around coldly at the mutineers. In truth, the old man had never been a coward. He tried to stare them down. It did not work. Meet him. Meet him.
The silver-haired emperor turned back to the Persian envoy. He answered in Latin. 'Tell your dominus it shall be as he asks. I will meet him in half an hour between the armies.' Valerian turned away. Calling just Censorinus and Quietus to him, he abruptly dismissed the rest of the Comites Augusti.
XXXI
Ballista was walking back to Turpio and the others when he heard the horses coming up behind him. He stopped and turned. Quietus skidded his horse to a halt, so close that Ballista had to step back hurriedly or be knocked over. The other three riders encircled the northerner. They were Arabs. They carried short spears at the ready. All wore the yellow-on-blue four-petal-flower symbol of Anamu. They effectively screened Ballista from the
