Fire in the East (55 page)

The second Sassanid had got to his feet. Ballista jumped at him over the man whimpering on the floor. The Sassanid brought his sword down in a fierce cut. Ballista took it on his shield; splinters flew from it. Quick as a flash, from Ballista’s left, Maximus’s short sword thrust into the Persian’s armpit. The man crumpled and fell against the parapet.

With about half their number down, the Persians turned and fled.

‘After them,’ bellowed Ballista. ‘Do not let them shut the door.’

The Roman soldiers burst into the tower on the heels of the fleeing Sassanids. The pursued hurled themselves down the stairs to find safety in the numbers pouring into the town from the Christian necropolis. Ballista went for the stairs up to the roof. He took them two at a time.

As Ballista emerged on to the fighting platform, he saw two Persians with torches, their backs to him. They were signalling to those outside still ascending the ravine. A backhand cut to the head dealt with the one on Ballista’s right. A forehand cut caught the other at the left elbow as he turned. He looked bemused, at the blood fountaining out of the stump of his arm until Ballista drove the point of his sword into his mouth. For a second the blade snagged. Then Ballista pulled it free, fragments of teeth and blood coming away with it.

‘Come!’ A voice like thunder echoed round the tower. ‘And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider’s name was death, and Hades followed him.’

Theodotus was pointing at Ballista. Between the two men was a line of men fighting. Ballista could clearly see the tall Christian priest over the crouched, ducking figures of the combatants. Theodotus’s face was shining. He was shouting, his voice carrying over the clash of weapons.

‘The sixth angel poured his bowl on the great river Euphrates and its water was dried up, to prepare the way for the kings from the east.’

The words made no sense to Ballista.

‘Why, Theodotus? Why betray your townsmen?’

Theodotus laughed, his great bushy beard bobbing. ‘The number of the troops of cavalry was twice ten thousand times ten thousand; I heard their number ... the riders wore breastplates the colour of fire and of sapphire and of sulphur.’

‘You fool,’ Ballista yelled. ‘They will kill us all. They will not spare the Christians. They will not spare anyone.’

‘I saw a beast,’ Theodotus continued to rant, ‘with ten horns and seven heads, with ten diadems upon its horns and a blasphemous name upon its heads ... let him who has understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred and sixty-six.’

‘Why?’ Ballista roared. ‘Why let the Sassanids massacre the people of this town? For pity’s sake, man, why?’

Theodotus stopped chanting. He looked keenly at Ballista. ‘These Sassanids are reptiles. I do not do it for them. They are no better than you. They are merely God’s instrument. I do it for pity - pity for the sins of the people. The Sassanids are the punishment that God has ordained in his infinite mercy for the sins of the people of Arete. Christians and pagans, we are all sinners.’

Outnumbered, the Sassanids on the fighting platform were falling. A trooper broke through their line and made for Theodotus.

‘If anyone worships the beast... he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the lamb.’

The trooper swung his sword, catching Theodotus on the leg. The Christian staggered.

‘Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.’

The trooper swung again. Theodotus fell to his hands and knees.

‘Salvation ...’

The trooper despatched him in drill-book style: one, two, three heavy cuts to the back of the head.

Persian resistance on the fighting platform had ended. Ballista numbered his remaining men: Maximus, Turpio, Acilius Glabrio, two
equites singulares,
three troopers of Cohors XX; nine men including himself.

‘Are there any wounded who cannot run?’

There was a pause. Turpio came forward. ‘They have been ... dealt with.’ Ballista nodded.

‘This is what we will do. The Persians are coming up under the wall. They are going straight on into the town. There are no Persians on the wall.’ Ballista had no idea if this last were true. He found that he was pacing, crackling with energy. ‘We will head east along the wall towards the river. When it is safe we will come down from the wall. We will make our way to the house of Iarhai. There we should find ... should gather some more men. We will make our way up through the eastern part of the town to the palace.’

Ballista saw the blank looks. ‘There are horses waiting for us there.’ The men nodded. Ballista knew they had no idea what he intended they would do if they made it that far and got mounted, but any plan seemed good to the men now, at least it gave them something to work towards, provided a tiny glimmer of hope.

With Ballista in the lead again they clattered down the stairs and out of the eastern door. As they exited, there was a shout and a volley of arrows. Just behind Ballista men screamed. He ducked his helmet down to meet his shield and ran. An unlucky arrow in the leg here and it was all over.

In a short time the incoming arrows stopped. The shouts of the Sassanids fell away behind them. It was a long run to the next tower. Ballista’s lungs were burning. All around him he could hear laboured breathing.

The door to the next tower was open. Ballista hurled himself inside, ready to fight. The tower was deserted. He plunged on through it and out the other side.

The next tower was not far. Again it had been abandoned by its defenders. This time Ballista led them down the stairs and to the ground-floor door into the town. Just inside the door he stopped to let them catch their breath. He looked round. Just two men were missing.

Ballista peeked around. The alley by the wall was empty. He led them out and, turning right, they ran on in the direction of the river.

By the time they crossed the open area where the soldier had been hit by the arrow intended for the traitor -
Theodotus, you bastard
— there were people about, soldiers and civilians heading the same way as Ballista and his men, down towards the Porta Aquaria and the river.

After a time Ballista turned north into the street that brought him to the mansion of Iarhai.

The main gate of the house stood open. There were six mercenaries there, their weapons drawn. They looked anxious. Ballista pulled up by them. Bent over, hands on his knees, sucking air into his lungs, it took him some time to speak.

‘Iarhai ... where is he?’

A mercenary jerked his head. ‘Inside.’ He spat. ‘Praying.’

As Ballista stepped inside Bathshiba ran straight into his arms. He held on to her. He felt her breasts against him. We are all about to die, he thought, and I am still thinking about fucking her. A man remains a man.

‘Where is your father?’

She took him by the hand and led him to the caravan protector’s private quarters.

In a sparsely furnished white room larhai was kneeling on a rug praying.

‘You bastard. You knew, didn’t you?’ Ballista’s voice was savage. ‘Answer me.’

Iarhai looked at him.

‘Answer me.’

‘No.’ A muscle twitched in larhai’s broken cheekbone. ‘Yes, I have become a Christian. I am sickened by life, sickened by killing. Theodotus offered me redemption. But no, I had no idea he would do this.’

Ballista tried to rein in his anger. He believed Iarhai. ‘I will give you a chance of redemption, in this life if not the next.’ Iarhai regarded Ballista incuriously. ‘If I can help it, I do not intend to die in this fly-blown dump of a town. I have horses waiting saddled in the palace. If I can reach there, I have a plan which may work. I will take your daughter with me. But we will never reach the palace unless someone holds up the Sassanids.’

‘It will be as God wills,’ Iarhai said in a flat monotone.

‘Get up and arm yourself, you gutless bastard,’ Ballista shouted.

‘Thou shalt not kill,’ intoned Iarhai. ‘Never again will I take the life of another man.’

‘If there is one thing in this world that you love it is your daughter. Will you not stir yourself even to try to save her?’

‘It will be as God wills.’

Ballista looked around in fury. Bathshiba was standing near. Without warning, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to him. She shrieked in surprise and pain. Ballista held her in front of him, his left hand in a strong grip around her throat.

Iarhai half rose. Automatically his hand went to his left hip, seeking the sword that was not there.

‘Will you let her fall into the hands of the Sassanids?’ Ballista spoke quietly. ‘You know what they will do to her.’ Iarhai said nothing. ‘They will rape her. One after another they will rape her. Ten, twenty, thirty men, a hundred. They will mutilate her. She will beg them to kill her long before they do.’

There was a look of agonized indecision on Iarhai’s face.

‘Is this what you want?’ With his right hand, Ballista gripped the neck of Bathshiba’s tunic. With a savage yank he ripped it down. Bathshiba’s breasts spilt free. She screamed and tried to cover her dark-brown nipples with the palms of her hands.

‘You bastard.’ Iarhai was on his feet, a look of indescribable pain on his face.

‘Arm yourself. You are coming with us.’ Ballista let Bathshiba go. She ran from the room. Iarhai went to a chest in the corner. From it he took his sword belt and buckled it on. Ballista turned and left.

At the gate there were just the six men who had arrived with Ballista.

‘The mercenaries have run,’ said Maximus.

In a few minutes Iarhai appeared from the depths of the house with Bathshiba. She was wearing a new tunic. She did not look at Ballista.

‘Time to go.’

At a steady jog they set off north towards the palace. There was a nightmare quality to the journey. None too far in the distance they could hear screams. Already there was a smell of burning in the air. At every street junction they had to fight their way across the streams of panic-stricken people running east to the Porta Aquaria and the river. Ballista knew that there would be scenes of almost unimaginable horror down on the riverbank at the jetties, where thousands of terrified individuals would be fighting for a place on one of the very few boats. Children separated from their mothers, trampled underfoot: it did not bear thinking about. Ballista put his head down and ran north.

They had just passed the temple of Zeus Theos, were within a block of the open ground on the other side of which was the palace, when they heard the pursuit.

‘There he is. Ten pounds of gold for the man who takes the King of Kings the head of the big barbarian.’ For a second Ballista thought he recognized the voice of the Persian officer he had tricked that dark night in the ravine, but he realized it was only his own tired thoughts tricking him.

The Sassanids were still a hundred paces away, but there were a lot of them and they looked fresh. Ballista and those with him were exhausted.

‘Go on,’ said Iarhai. ‘The street is narrow. I can delay them.’

Ballista looked at Bathshiba. He expected her to scream, to cling to her father and plead with him. She did not. She looked at her father for a time, then turned and ran.

‘You will not delay them alone. I will stay.’ Acilius Glabrio turned to Ballista. ‘You do not care for patricians. But I will show you how one of the Acilii Glabriones dies. Like Horatius, I will hold the bridge.’

Ballista nodded and, with Maximus, ran after the others.

Soon there was the sound of fighting. When he had passed the artillery magazine Ballista stopped and drew breath. There was only fifty yards to go to the palace. He looked back. The end of the street was full of Persians. He could not see Iarhai. The caravan protector had not had time to put on his armour. He could not have lasted long. But there was Acilius Glabrio, a small figure in the distance ringed by the enemy. Ballista ran on.

 

‘You took your time.’ Calgacus was beaming.

Ballista smiled weakly. He was too tired to answer. He leant against the stable wall. Compared with earlier, the stables were deserted. Ballista roused himself to ask the guardsman where the other
équites singulares
were. The man looked embarrassed.

‘We ... they ... ah, they thought that you were not coming back. There is only Titus outside and me.’

‘There were a few moments when they were nearly right.’ Ballista ran his hands over his face. ‘What is your name?’

‘Felix,
Dominus.’

‘Then let’s hope that your name is an omen.’ Ballista asked Calgacus about the slaves attached to the palace and was told they had all vanished. He shut his eyes and breathed in the reassuring smells of the stables. His chest hurt. All the muscles in his legs were jumpy with fatigue. His right shoulder was raw where his sword belt had made his mail coat rub. He was tempted just to lie down in the straw. Surely he would be safe, surrounded by these homely smells, surely the Sassanids would not find him here? He just needed to sleep.

The northerner’s childish fantasy was shattered by the arrival of Maximus.

‘We are ready to go. Everyone is outside and mounted except us.’ The Hibernian threw across a water skin. Ballista tried and failed to catch it one-handed. He juggled it with two hands until he had it secure. He unstoppered it, tipped some water into a cupped palm and washed his face, rinsing his weary eyes. He drank.

‘Time to go then.’

Outside, the moon was up, nearly full. The narrow alley between the palace and the granaries was bathed in its light. Ballista tried to remember if this was the harvest or hunter’s moon at home. He was too tired to remember. He walked to the mounting block. Demetrius led up Pale Horse. Ballista mounted painfully.

In the saddle he felt a little better. He looked up and down the alley at the horses and riders. Apart from himself there were fourteen riders: Maximus, Calgacus, Demetrius, Bagoas, Turpio, the two remaining members of his official staff - a scribe and a messenger, the two
equites singulares
Titus and Felix, and another four soldiers who had crossed the town with him - three troopers from Cohors XX and another guardsman. And there was Bathshiba. There were three horses loaded with supplies.