Cosis and Zober made haste to pledge their men.
‘It would be an honour if the king himself led his men,’ suggested Narseh.
Cosis said the honour would be all his. Ballista realized that the Albanians would be as much hostages as a military asset – a position he knew all too well.
‘Good,’ said Narseh. ‘We will gather another thousand riders from Hamazasp on the march.’
The Sassanid’s horse raised its head from the water, tossed it. Narseh waved the flies from its eyes, quieted it. ‘One thing still concerns me. While I accept the need for speed, urged by both the framadar Ballista and the kyria Pythonissa, is it wise to go into the Caucasus with cavalry alone?’
Ballista knew it was time for him to justify the gamble he was asking them to make. ‘ Kyrios, infantry usually are essential for hill fighting – to hold ground, to guard the heights flanking the column. But, as the kyria says, the tribesmen will not be united against us. The Alani, like the Persians, prefer to fight on horseback. They and Saurmag are pinned to the fort of Cumania. The pretender has to take Azo, and the Alani have to ensure the pass back to the steppes. They will have to meet us in open battle before the Caspian Gates.’ Ballista tried to sound like Tir-mihr, sagacious and certain. He hoped he was not leading them all to disaster.
Narseh laughed, his teeth very white behind the blue-black beard. ‘I hope you are right, Framadar. I hope your desire to rescue your friends has not clouded your judgement.’ He was no fool, this handsome young prince. ‘We Persians remember what happened when the Achaemenid Cyrus went against the nomad Massagetae. Their barbarian queen used the King of King’s skull as a drinking cup.’
XXX
It was a tradition among the Persians not to begin a march until after sunrise. It was not, as the Greeks held, a result of sloth, but down to the demands of religion. After the necessary dawn sacrifice, with the day already well advanced, the signal was given by trumpet from the tent of Prince Narseh.
It was four days after the hunt in the paradise that they finally set out. Despite his eagerness to get to his familia in Suania, Ballista was not unhappy at the delay. Certainly, the first day had been a godsend. The problem had been another Persian tradition. Something they had decided on drunk had to be discussed again sober to see if it still seemed a good idea – and vice versa. They had ridden back from the pool and eaten roast boar. Then, with the servants dismissed and a ring of particularly trusted clibanarii posted, they had started to drink and talked it through again. They had drunk a great deal. Pythonissa had left early – which, given nine very drunk men, had been a good thing. They had drunk through until the stars paled above the treetops. The next day, Ballista had been unable to get out of bed. He was good for nothing, except perhaps one thing. Pythonissa had visited him. While it lasted, sex gave a hungover man an unfounded sense of well being. Afterwards, of course, he felt far worse. Even on the subsequent two days, Ballista had felt washed out. He was sure he could drink less than when he was younger.
Narseh had been busy while Ballista moped about. The Sassanid prince had made great efforts to circumvent yet another Persian custom. Eastern armies – and those of the house of Sasan were no exception – liked to take their comforts with them. Huge meteor trails of wagons and carts, slaves and concubines; all manner of camp followers streamed in their wake. The length of the column was much increased, its rate of march and cohesion drastically reduced. The civilians got in the way of the warriors, and were very given to panic. To venture into the mountains thus encumbered was to invite disaster.
Issued by the authorized general and a son of the Mazda-worshipping divine King of Kings, the word of Narseh was not to be ignored. But his ukase was unpopular. Each clibanarius was to be accompanied by just one servant. Every ten light horsemen could have one servant. The hierarchical nature of Sassanid society was further reflected. Each commander of a hundred might have five servants; each commander of a thousand, ten. The prince himself – appearances had to be kept up in the sight of foreigners – would travel with one hundred. All servants were to ride. It did not have to be a horse – a donkey, mule or camel would do – but there were to be no wheeled vehicles at all. Cosis was instructed that the same regulations were to apply to his Albanians.
Ballista rode off with Maximus and Castricius to a spur of the foothills to watch the army come down into the plains. It was a warm morning; going to be a hot day. The horses stamped, swished their tails as the flies got at them. Ballista wondered whether to question Castricius about his newly claimed Macedonian ethnicity. A sophist he had once heard had claimed that we reinvent ourselves with every action, if not every thought. But publicly changing from a Gaul to a Macedonian seemed somewhat excessive.
A swarm of light horse came out from the tree line. The bowmen swooped across the grassland, wheeling this way and that out of sheer high spirits. With their bright tunics and turbans, the colourful saddlecloths of their mounts, they resembled a migration of exotic, fierce birds. Ballista estimated their number – about five hundred. It was odd watching them in amity. He remembered seeing their like on the march down to Circesium, and the fear they had induced.
Two more distinct bodies of light cavalry emerged, the numbers of each about the same as the previous division. The newcomers cantered off to right and left to flank the march. They may be deep in allied territory, but Ballista approved that Narseh was taking all precautions. He suspected the hand of the dependable Tir-mihr.
Narseh led out the main body. Above him floated a great lilac banner with an abstract design picked out in silver. The mobad Manzik carried the prince’s sacred flame, boxed for travel. Ballista was unsure about these Zoroastrian symbols. He thought each Bahram fire was lit from another; forming, as it were, an extended family.
Behind Narseh, the clibanarii rode five abreast: big men on big horses, splendid in silk and steel, bristling with lances, hung about with bow cases, maces, long swords. The column was four hundred deep – a sight both beautiful and terrible.
The baggage train was next. Ballista could see Tir-mihr and young Gondofarr spurring up and down its length, trying to chivvy it into some order. Given Narseh’s instructions, it should consist of less than three and a half thousand mounted men. It was impossible to be sure, but there seemed more. Yet many would drop out before the mountains, and at least there were no wheeled carriages.
After the camp followers came the remaining five hundred Sassanid light cavalry, with Cosis and his Albanians bringing up the rear. For the first morning of a march, it was none too bad. Ballista had seen a lot worse. He remembered old Valerian’s army straggling along by the Euphrates up towards Samosata.
‘These Zoroastrians, you have to say, have a far better afterlife than your Greeks and Romans,’ Maximus said. ‘Lots and lots of virgins.’
‘I thought that was Manichaeans,’ said Castricius.
‘Maybe them too. Either way, it is a fucking sight better than all that fluttering and squeaking in the dark like a bat. It is no wonder your Greeks will hardly fight at all.’
‘And the Romans?’ Ballista asked.
‘Nowadays, they prefer to let the likes of us do it – just proves my point,’ Maximus said.
‘I am sure it is Manichaeans,’ said Castricius.
‘But you do not know,’ said Maximus. ‘Hippothous now, he would know.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Castricius. ‘Like most Greeks, he only knows about Greek things.’
‘But he knows a fuck of a lot about physi-’
‘Physiognomy,’ said Ballista.
‘Exactly,’ said Maximus. ‘He could take one look at Castricius here, read that pointy little face and see straight into his soul – and what a horrible sight it would be.’
‘And then he could tell us why he has started pretending to be Macedonian,’ said Ballista.
‘It is a long story,’ said Castricius.
‘Are you going to tell us?’ Ballista asked.
‘Not now, no,’ Castricius said.
‘I am not sure I would want an eternity of virgins,’ said Maximus. ‘Me, I often like a woman with a bit of experience. And all the virgins are ever so willing. What about a bit of reluctance? Rip her clothes off, throw her on the bed.’
‘Stop it,’ said Ballista.
