Lion of the Sun wor-3 Read online

  The low, smouldering fire was unexpected: bright red in the night. Ballista did not look directly at it. Keeping his eyes on his hands and feet, he crawled to a fallen rock and lay behind it.

  Closing one eye to keep his night vision, Ballista studied the scene. The road ran about one hundred and fifty paces to the fire. It grew increasingly narrow. The rock walls were jagged; at the fire, no more than fifty paces apart.

  There was a campfire burning in the Syrian Gates. The wind was from the east. That was why Ballista had not smelled it. He could see the silhouette of what looked like a small cart. Other smaller, dark shapes indicated men by the fire. A group was spending the night there. But who were they? It could be an innocent caravan. But it could be a Sassanid war party.

  For a long time, Ballista lay silent, hoping to hear what language the men by the fire spoke. Now and then, he heard a murmur of conversation, but they were talking low, and the wind was against him. There was nothing for it: he would have to get closer.

  Waiting for the clouds, using the movement of their shadows, Ballista crawled nearer. It was slow, painful going. His hands were cut, knees grazed. The last twenty-five to thirty paces, there was no cover. Ballista stretched out behind a rock little bigger than his head. The cloud cover had increased, but every time it cleared he felt horribly exposed. Suddenly, from beyond the camp, a horse called. From behind him, clear on the freshening breeze, came an answering neigh from one of the Roman horses.

  There were voices from the fire now: 'Did you hear that?' 'What?' 'Listen!' They were Persians.

  Outlined by the glow, two men stood up.

  'We should go and look.'

  'Not me. Who knows what daemons lurk in these hills at night?'

  A third man spoke. His voice conveyed authority: he must be some form of officer. 'If it was not misfortune enough to be sat on this bleak mountain missing all the pleasure the others are enjoying in Iskanderun — but to be stuck with a man who sees a Roman behind every rock, and another who fears devs everywhere. Sit down. Let the night pass quietly.'

  The men sat.

  If he had not been so well trained, Ballista would have sighed with relief. It was mid-morning the following day when Ballista returned to the Syrian Gates. Time plays tricks. His crawl back to the others had seemed to take for ever; the ride to Pagrae passed in moments. He had given orders and fallen into a heavy sleep for a couple of hours.

  The troops had been roused well before dawn. Having been tormented by mosquitoes, few complained.

  Ballista had called a consilium of officers, down to the rank of optio. He had made sure everyone knew the order of march and his tactical plan, such as it was. They were to explain it to the men under them and see that all had a good breakfast.

  Food was important. Ballista knew the Persians ate only a light breakfast but took lunch earlier than westerners. If his timing was right, his men would be well fed, the Sassanids hungry. It was not much of an advantage to build on. This was a battle that would be decided by the disciplina and sheer fighting quality of the Romans; above all, that of the legionaries.

  The march up had been glorious. In daylight, the Amanus range had revealed its beauty. The men had climbed upwards in the shadow of pine and wild olives, between banks of lavender and myrtle. In every shelf of soil, every crevice where a tree could thrust its roots, was a mass of vegetation. The view, looking backwards, at times took in the whole plain, with the lake of Antioch glittering in the centre and the valley of the Orontes off to the south.

  They had marched on foot, quickly, but with no attempt at concealment. There was no chance of surprising the Sassanids. A column of over two thousand armed men cannot but make a lot of noise, but their numbers would only be sufficient if the Persians had not had time to summon reinforcements.

  As they halted near the summit, the wind picked up. Big, dark stormclouds again rolled in from the east. Strong gusts tugged at Ballista as he made a final check that everything was in order.

  At the front were the saddlesore, aching legionaries; a block fifty wide and six deep, close-packed. Behind them were five hundred dismounted horse archers, in loose order. The rest, nine hundred spear-armed and four hundred bowmen, again all on foot, were stationed as a reserve a few hundred paces back, where the space was wider.

  'Remember, boys, they are just a bunch of easterners. They hate fighting on foot, and they get frightened close to the steel.' Ballista had to bellow to compete with the wind. Even so, he was not sure how many even of the legionaries could hear him. 'Get through the arrows and we will kill them. Remember they carry their wealth on their persons. But no looting until the order. Keep your places. Look after your brothers.'

  The legionaries clashed swords on shields.

  'Are you ready for war?'

  'Ready!'

  When the third response echoed from the rocks, Ballista took his place in the front rank. His right hand freed his dagger a little then snapped it back, drew his sword an inch or two then rammed it back, and finally touched the healing stone on the scabbard. His personal pre-battle drill done, he took up the borrowed oval shield, and told the bucinatores to sound the advance.

  As they trudged the last fifty paces to the turning, Ballista wondered how this would turn out. He had no idea how many Persians they were facing. The vital snatch of conversation he had overheard the night before suggested that the majority of the enemy force was down in the western plain, sacking Iskanderun, as the Persians seemed to call the town of Alexandria ad Issum. But, as he did not know how many easterners there were in total, it meant next to nothing. Again, he did not know what, if any, obstructions or defences they might have placed in the defile. All he had seen was a fire, a handful of men and a cart. It would all fall out as the gods willed it. One thing was certain. It would be unwise for a man who had broken an oath to the Persian king to let himself be taken prisoner. Ballista thought of the cell in Carrhae, thought of what had nearly happened there. No, he was not going to be taken alive.

  The men of Legio IIII Scythica jogged round the corner and into range of the eastern bows. They heard yelled Persian orders. The sky darkened.

  'Testudo!' Ballista's was not the only voice shouting. He crouched and held his shield out in front of him. The man behind slammed his shield down on the top edge of Ballista's, covering the northerner's head. The noise was repeated from behind as the shields of each rank in turn slammed home, overlapping like tiles on a roof.

  Seconds later came the arrows, thumping into wood, dinging off metal bosses, skittering off the road. Ballista felt the shield above him bang down on to his helmet as an arrow struck. Somewhere, a man screamed. Nearby, a man swore fluently. Another was praying.

  'Bind and advance.'

  Ballista grabbed the back of the mail shirt of the man to his right, gripped it in his fist. He felt his own tighten as the man to his left did the same. Half turned to the right, taking short steps, crabwise, the left foot always first, they advanced.

  'Left, left, left,' they muttered, getting into rhythm, the momentum mounting.

  Another volley of arrows whistled down. More men screamed, cursed. More men were praying, calling out encouragement.

  'Only officers will speak! This is not a fucking symposium!'

  It was hot and close in the testudo; a strong smell of sweat and unwashed men. Ballista peeked out of the gap between the top of his shield and the overlapping one to the right. The air was full of missiles. A line of men. Incongruous in the centre, a four-wheeled cart. A long way to go. At least a hundred paces.

  The arrows fell like rain. The Persians were shooting at will.

  A cheer spread through the testudo. The Roman bowmen were round the corner. They were shooting back. Now the Sassanids could try the bitter luck of war.

  Above all the noise — the impact of arrows, the hard breathing, the rattle of equipment, the intermittent howls of pain — there was a rumble of thunder.

  Ballista risked another look around his shield. G
etting there: about sixty paces to go. But something struck him as odd. There were fewer missiles in the air. A commotion in the centre of the Sassanid line. Warriors pushing the cart forward.

  'Halt!'

  Surprised, but obedient to orders, the legionaries bumped into each other as they came to a sudden stop.

  The easterners had let go of the cart. It was beginning to gather speed down the incline.

  'Legio IIII, lie down. Cover yourselves with your shields. Pass the word back to the archers to stay on their feet and spread out.'

  In a confused, uncertain scramble, the men around Ballista got to the ground.

  'Face down. Shields over your backs.'

  Ballista had no time to explain or check that his instructions were carried out. The cart was moving faster. He dropped down, nose an inch or so from the road, grit under his elbows, shield braced above his head.

  The terrible rumbling and squealing grew louder as cart and the inevitable collision drew near. The trick had worked for Alexander the Great. Arrian's Anabasis, Ballista thought. That was where he had read about it.

  There was an awful sound of splintering wood, agonized screams. A moment's silence, then a sickening crash.

  'On your feet. Close ranks.'

  Alexander's ploy had not worked so well for Ballista. At the front, men were down where the wheels had hit them. The cart must have been airborne for a time. But it had not cleared the unit. There was a mangled mess of broken bodies and shattered woodwork where it had landed, towards the rear. The sound of low sobbing could be heard.

  'On your feet! Close ranks.' The legionaries, eyes wild with shock, were slow to move. 'Close ranks!' Ballista took stock as the men shuffled to obey. The incoming arrows had dropped away as the Persians watched. Still about sixty paces to go: further than he would have liked. But the legionaries were in no state to reform the testudo. It had to be now.

  'Ready for war?' Ballista roared at the darkening sky.

  'Ready!' Each time, the routine response was bolder, more angry. After the third, Ballista ordered the charge.

  As they set off, swords drawn, the arrow storm recommenced.

  The road was steep here. Within a few paces, Ballista felt the muscles in his legs complain. His chest began to burn as he dragged in air. Another peal of thunder.

  Splinters flew hideously close to Ballista's eyes. He felt a sharp stab of pain, blood hot on his cheek. The wicked barbed point was near his face. An arrow had punched half through his shield. He snapped the shaft. Kept moving.

  The Sassanid now facing Ballista was coming forward. He was a big man, scale-armoured, eyes hidden by his helmet. The long sword blade hissed through the air as the easterner aimed a mighty two-handed overhead blow. Ballista punched upwards with the boss of his shield. The impact almost forced Ballista to his knees. Instinctively, he drove upwards, thrusting his sword. The point slipped off the armour. The two men were locked together. Ballista cracked the pommel of his sword on to the back of the Sassanid's helmet. The man grunted.

  There was a deafening crack of thunder.

  In the press of bodies, neither of the men could wield their blades. The Sassanid tried to bite Ballista's face. Horrified, the northerner twisted back. The man's beard scratched his cheek. Ballista dropped his sword. Its wrist strap dug into his flesh, the weight hard on his arm. He grabbed the plume on the Sassanid's helmet; dragged his head back with a convulsive lunge, and Ballista headbutted his opponent. The metal ridge of the northerner's helmet connected with the bridge of the man's nose. Both their faces were running in blood. The crush of bodies pressed further.

  A vivid flash of lightning illuminated the hellish scene.

  The Sassanid had freed his sword arm. Overhand, he was sliding the tip of the steel over the rim of Ballista's shield. Arms pinioned, the northerner struggled desperately. If only Maximus were here. The Sassanid set himself to thrust down into Ballista's throat. He spat blood, broken fragments of teeth.

  There was a surge of pressure from behind Ballista. Driven backwards, the Sassanid adjusted the angle of his sword. His mouth opened. More blood, pouring into his black beard. The sword fell from his hand. He looked down at the Roman blade driven into his armpit. His body went into spasm, became limp.

  'Gratius, Dominus.' The legionary withdrew his sword. The corpse of the Sassanid fell underfoot.

  'I will remember,' said Ballista.

  A space had opened up. The Persians were giving ground. Another boom of thunder, and the rain began. It fell in heavy curtains. Ballista could feel it beating on his back. It was driving into the faces of the enemy.

  'One more step,' yelled Ballista. He launched himself forward.

  Ballista did not know if anyone was with him. His boots slipped in the water. No arrows came at him. The rain had soaked the bowstrings.

  The Sassanid in front of Ballista looked around, hesitated, then turned and ran. Another flash of lightning lit the gloom. All the easterners were running through the rain.

  Ballista laughed to be alive. If the gods wanted vengeance on the oath-breaker, they were biding their time.

  Julia finished inspecting the house in the Epiphania district of Antioch. Everything was in order. She dismissed the maids. It was important that a house was in order when the dominus returned. It was especially important in one with senatorial connections. She went and sat in a wicker chair on the shady side of the atrium.

  It was hot, but the regular afternoon breeze was blowing up the Orontes valley. The wind moved the material on the loom propped against the wall. Julia looked at its two vertical timbers, shed race, weights and cross bars with something close to loathing. Its presence was necessary in a well-run household. Yet she liked it about as well as an Armenian tigress liked a cage. For women, the loom had always been there. Penelope in the Odyssey, weaving by day and unravelling by night, holding off the suitors while she waited, in the hope that her philandering husband might return. The character displayed an unpleasant mixture of passivity and cunning in the story, Julia thought. Maybe it had been necessary for a wife to weave in the primitive and poor heroic age at the dawn of time, but wealth had rendered the loom redundant for many women. The Roman imperium had added a new level of hypocrisy to the image: Livia, the wife of the first emperor, in a houseful of servants, sitting at the loom playing the dutiful matron of old, in between procuring young virgins for her husband to deflower. Nothing annoyed Julia more than those male doctors who claimed that such work was good for the delicate health of a woman.

  Julia mastered her impatience. Ballista would not care or notice if the wretched loom was there or not. She did not know why she bothered. In the two months since he had escaped from Persian captivity, he had sent just two notes, both brief and impersonal. She knew as well as anyone the danger of the frumentarii intercepting a letter, but he could have sent something more intimate with a trusted friend. That little pleb he put such faith in, Castricius, had been in Antioch.

  Yesterday, the second formal note had come: standard enquiries after her health and that of the children, then much of the public duties of a Prefect of Cavalry and Vir Perfectissimus. The Sassanids had made no further attempt on the Syrian Gates. Nor had they commandeered ships. Neither Seleuceia nor Antioch presently was in danger. The Sassanids had marched to the north to plunder Cilicia. Ballista was ordered to raise ships and men to pursue them. He would return to the house today at noon.

  Except he had not. Three hours after the lunch things had been cleared away, a grubby little legionary by the name of Gratius had arrived. With an impertinent air, he had said that the Prefect of Cavalry had been summoned to the palace down on the island; there was no way of telling how long the emperors' consilium would last; war was a weighty matter.

  Julia had dismissed him coldly. 'War was a weighty matter.' Indeed. Let war be the care of men, as Hector had told Andromache. Men — what fools they were. I would rather stand three times in the front of battle than endure childbirth, as a heroine in a trage
dy had said. Both lines had been written by men, but the tragedian had been nearer the truth than Homer had. Julia thought of her childhood friend Metella, dead giving birth before she reached sixteen. If men bore children, it would put an end to their puerile glorification of war. How could the dangers of war compare with those of childbirth?

  Now she was waiting. As always when he returned, Ballista would want sex — he was like an animal marking its territory. At least he was not a womanizer, did not bother the maids. Not like poor Cornelia's husband. He was a complete ancillariolus. Their house was almost unendurable with its endless tears and recriminations. Julia had always found Ballista's fidelity flattering, but strange. It was part of his barbarian upbringing, like his jealousy. There had been more than one terrible scene at dinner parties when he had thought that she was flirting. She did not want to be a Messalina, but his jealousy was stifling. It was un-Roman.

  'Domina,' the porter announced, 'Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Perfectissimus, has returned.'

  Julia stood and walked around the pool to greet her husband. Ballista smiled. His front teeth were chipped. He looked tired and careworn.

  'Dominus.' Julia's senatorial family had not encouraged public displays of affection between wife and husband. Julia kept her eyes modestly down.

  'Domina.' Ballista leant down. She raised her face and he kissed her on the lips.

  Julia told the porter to summon the children. The silence stretched as they waited. She looked down again. The wind rippled the surface of the pool, making the fishes, dolphin and octopus in the mosaic at the bottom seem to swim.

  A cry of pleasure, and Isangrim ran out. The eight-year-old hurled himself at his father. Julia felt a twinge of irritation. In a senatorial home, it was not just the wife who should behave with decorum. A son should greet his father solemnly, call him Dominus.