Fire in the East (54 page)

Ballista stood still, a point of calm in the eye of the storm. He breathed in the familiar homely smell of the stables, the evocative mixture of horse, leather, saddle soap, liniment and hay. He was struck by the timelessness of the scene. Stables would always be much the same; the needs of horses did not change. Give or take the odd marble manger or bit of fine wood panelling, stables were the same in the
imperium
as anywhere else. They were the same in his homeland as they were in Sassanid Persia. Horses were not much affected by the culture of the men who rode them.

In the golden glow of the lamps Ballista saw Maximus making his way down the line of horses. The air was thick with dust raised from the straw by the boots of men and horses’ hooves.

‘I have saddled Pale Horse for you,’ Maximus said.

‘Thank you.’ Ballista thought for a few moments. ‘Thank you, but leave him in his stall-leave him saddled. I will ride the big bay gelding.’

Maximus did not question the order but went off to carry it out.

Calgacus appeared, chivvying along Demetrius and Bagoas, who were carrying Ballista’s war gear. Ballista was pleased to see that they had not brought the fancy Roman parade armour of earlier that day but his old war-worn mail shirt. Asking just Calgacus to attend him, Ballista stepped into an unoccupied stall. As the aged Caledonian helped him into his armour Ballista spoke, his voice low so no one else could hear.

‘Calgacus, old friend, I have a very bad feeling about this. When we are gone I want you to collect our essentials, saddle all the remaining horses, pack supplies on three of them: skins of water, army biscuit, dried meat. Wait here in the stables with Demetrius and the Persian boy. Have your sword drawn. Do not let anyone touch the horses. I will leave five of the
equites singulares
here in the palace. I will tell them to take their orders from you. Post one at each of the three gates, one on the terrace and one on the roof.’

Outside in the narrow alley between the palace and the granaries, Ballista rapped out orders. He organized his little mounted column and told his staff, the house slaves and the five guardsmen who were staying behind to do as Calgacus instructed. The latter received the command with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

Ballista squeezed the big bay gelding with his thighs and set off, around the small temple of Jupiter Dolichenus and down the wide road that led to the
campus martius.
The small column rode at a loose canter in single file. They kept well closed up. After Ballista came Maximus, Castricius, Pudens and the five
equites singulares.

Trumpet calls echoed through the town. In the distance men were shouting. There were the sounds of crashing and banging. Yet the military quarter was strangely deserted. A few soldiers were running, some staggering, but not nearly the proper number were heading to their posts. In some doorways soldiers lay unconscious through drink. As he clattered past the military baths Ballista saw one soldier lying on the steps dead to the world, a half-naked girl next to him, one of her pale white legs across his. A large wine jar stood next to them.

Emerging on to the
campus martius,
Ballista saw Antoninus Posterior standing in the centre of the broad open space. The centurion was bareheaded, his helmet in his hand. He was shouting at his men. There were but ten of them. One or two appeared none too steady on their feet. Ballista rode over.

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The irony in speaking the ritual phrase on behalf of his reduced company did not appear to have struck the centurion.

‘Is this it, Antoninus?’

‘Afraid so,
Dominus.
I have sent five others off to try and rouse more of the boys.’

‘It is as the gods will. As soon as you have a few more, I want you to lead them down to the tower on the south wall that is nearest the desert wall.’

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

Ballista started to turn his horse.

‘Dux,
wait.’ Out of the darkness from the north came Acilius Glabrio. The young patrician was riding a fine horse and wearing gilded armour. There was a sword on his hip. Ballista felt a jet of pure anger rising in himself, but before he could speak, demand to know how the young bastard dare break his house arrest, dare disobey another command and arm himself, Acilius Glabrio slid from his mount. The horse was well trained; it stood stock still. Acilius Glabrio walked up to Ballista, then knelt in the dust, arms up in the gesture of supplication.

‘Dux Ripae,
I have disobeyed your commands. But I would not have you think that I am a coward. If the Sassanids are within the defences you will need every man. I ask your permission to accompany you as a private soldier.’

Ballista did not like and did not trust the perfumed aristocrat at his feet, but he had never doubted that the loathsome young man was a fine soldier. ‘Get on your horse and come with us.’

Ballista wheeled his mount and set off south. There was no gate in the wall that separated the
campus martius
from the civilian part of the town, so they had to backtrack. After three blocks they struck the main street which ran across town from the Palmyrene Gate to the Porta Aquaria. There were more people here, soldiers and civilians, but too many of the latter and not enough of the former. Ballista turned right and reined in outside the great caravanserai. Throwing his leg over the gelding’s neck, he jumped down and ran inside. In the light of guttering torches, the scene was much the same as on the
campus martius.
In the middle of the courtyard, bareheaded and exasperated, was Antoninus Prior. The centurion, since the disgrace of Acilius Glabrio the temporary commander of all the legionaries in Arete, was yelling at his men. Again there were only about ten of them. Again several looked the worse for wear. Ballista snapped out the same orders as before and ran back to his horse.

This was all taking time. No one knew what was happening. There was as yet no sound of fighting. But all this was taking time.

They rode towards the Palmyrene Gate for a block then left down the street that would bring them out near the tower where Calgacus had seen the blue warning lantern. There was a great deal of noise but still nothing that spoke unambiguously of fighting. It could be a false alarm. But Calgacus was not given to fancies. In all the years he had known him, Ballista had never seen the Caledonian give way to panic. The lantern could have been lit by mistake. Allfather, let that be the case. But if it was, why had no messenger come from the tower to explain and offer profuse apologies? Ballista kicked on, pushing his horse into something near a gallop.

Apart from a drunken soldier who stepped out into their path then went reeling back, they reached the end of the street without incident. Ballista held up his right hand and reined in. The tower was about fifty yards away, just off to their right, across open ground.

The tower was in darkness. Ballista thought he could see men up on the fighting platform. He sat, playing with the horse’s ears, thinking. A bend in the wall prevented him seeing the next tower to his left but, to his right, all looked normal on the southernmost tower on the desert wall. Torches burnt there, unlike on the tower in front of him.

He indicated that they should move forward. Walking their horses on to the open ground, they fanned out into line. Maximus was on Ballista’s right, Pudens on his left. It seemed very quiet, the background noises very far away. The only sounds that Ballista could hear close to were the hooves of their horses on the hard-packed ground, the hiss of the breeze blowing through the jaws of the
draco
above his head and his own harsh breathing.

Halfway across the open space Ballista called a halt. The horses stood in line, shifting their feet. It was very quiet. The inner wall of the tower was about twenty paces away. The door was shut. Ballista sucked air into his lungs to hail the tower.

He heard the twang of the bows’ release, the wisp, wisp sound of the fletchings in the air. He caught just a glimpse of the arrow. He jerked his head to the left and took a jarring blow as the arrow ricocheted off the right shoulder of his mail coat, sparks flying. The bay gelding reared up. Already off balance, Ballista was thrown. He lost his shield as he landed heavily. He rolled to get clear of the gelding’s stamping hooves. The next horse was plunging, its hooves cracking down on the hard ground inches away. Ballista curled into a tight ball, his arms up covering his head.

A strong grip under his armpit hauled him to his feet. ‘Run,’ said Maximus. Ballista ran.

They ran towards the desert wall, arrows skittering off the ground around them. They veered right to put a fallen horse, its legs flailing, between them and the bowmen on the tower. Head down Ballista ran.

They reached the earth bank inside the desert wall. Running, scrambling on hands and knees, they reached the top. His back against the wall, Ballista crouched in the angle where the southern and desert walls met. Maximus covered both of them with his shield but no one was shooting at them now. Ballista looked around him. Acilius Glabrio and two of the
equites singulares
were still with him. There was no sign of Castricius, Pudens or the other guardsmen. He looked back the way they had come. A column of Sassanid warriors was pouring across the open ground. They seemed to erupt from the very ground beneath the wall on the near side of the tower.

‘Fuck, there was another mine,’ said Maximus.

Ballista raised himself up and peered over the wall. Outside in the starlight a long column of Persian warriors snaked up the side of the southern ravine. Lights flared on the Sassanid-held tower. Torches were waved to signal. In the sudden light Ballista saw a familiar figure on top of the tower. ‘No, they are coming up through the Christian tombs cut in the wall of the ravine,’ he said.

Bald head catching the torchlight, bushy beard thrust out, Theodotus, councillor of Arete and Christian priest, stood motionless on the tower amid the mayhem.

‘Never did trust the fuckers,’ said one of the guardsmen.

The Persian column was streaming north into the town, up the street that, moments before, Ballista and his party had ridden down.

There was a commotion on the wall walk to the north. Ballista drew his sword and, with the others, turned to the left to face the new threat.
‘Roma, Roma’:
the newcomers shouted the night’s password. Turpio and half a dozen troopers of Cohors XX ran into view.
‘Salus, Salus,’
Ballista and his group shouted back.

‘More bad news,’ said Turpio. ‘Another group of Christians has overpowered the sentries on the Palmyrene Gate. They are letting down ropes for the Sassanids to climb. There are not enough sober men on the wall walks to dislodge them.’ Turpio smiled. ‘Who would have thought they had it in them?’ His manner suggested that he was merely making a light, throwaway comment on the social foibles of a group; who would have thought that they of all people would be so devoted to the baths or the circus? Nothing about him betrayed the fact that he had just announced the death sentence for the town of Arete and almost certainly for most of his listeners.

Everyone was looking at Ballista. He ignored them, withdrawing into himself. His eyes, unseeing, gazed out over the dark ravine. They were trapped in the south-west corner of the town. Calgacus and the horses were waiting in the palace in the north-east of the town. The direct route, the streets just below them, were filling with Sassanid warriors. If they went north along the desert wall they would run into the Persians coming in over the Palmyrene Gate. The route along the southern wall walk was blocked by the enemy on the tower where Theodotus stood. Whichever way Ballista chose, they would have to cut their way out. He thought of Bathshiba. She should be in her father’s house. Iarhai’s mansion lay near the Porta Aquaria in the south-east corner of the town. Ballista made up his mind.

‘There.’ Ballista pointed at the glinting bald pate of Theodotus up on the tower to the east. ‘There is the traitor. We will have our revenge.’ In the near-darkness there was a low growl of approval from the men. ‘Form up quietly, boys.’

The wall walk was wide enough for four men abreast. Ballista took the position on the right, next to the parapet. Maximus fell in beside him, Acilius Glabrio beyond him, Turpio next. Ballista ordered Turpio to the rear. It would be senseless to commit all the senior officers to the front rank. A trooper from Cohors XX, unknown to Ballista, took the place vacated by Turpio. Ballista looked round at the tiny phalanx. It contained just twelve men all told: four wide and three ranks deep. Maximus told one of the troopers in the rear to hand his shield to the
Dux.
The man reluctantly complied.

‘All ready?’ Ballista asked. ‘Then let us go - quietly: we may yet give them a surprise.’

They set off at a jog along the wall walk. The tower was not above fifty paces away. There was a group of a dozen or so Persians by the open door which led from the wall walk to the interior of the tower. They were looking into the town, pointing and laughing. The Roman phalanx was almost on them before they realized. The Persians may not have been expecting a counterattack, but they stood up to it.

Ballista accelerated over the last few paces into an all-out run. The Sassanid facing him raised his long sword to bring it down on Ballista’s head. Ballista ducked down and, with all his momentum behind it, smashed his shield into the man’s body. The Sassanid went flying backwards. He crashed into the warrior behind him. Both fell back on to the wall walk. As the first Persian tried to get to his feet, momentarily his left leg was not covered by his shield. Ballista brought his sword down, cutting savagely into the man’s knee. The Sassanid howled. All thought of defending himself overcome by the pain, he clutched his shattered kneecap. Ballista drove the point of his sword into the man’s crotch. He was of no further account.