The Caspian Gates

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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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.

‘I am just thinking, with no concubines among the baggage, those servants are going to get very sore arses. You know what these easterners are like – obsessed with sex.’

‘Let us go down and join them.’

It was hot down on the plain, very hot and humid. It was still August, nine days before the kalends of September. They rode to the north-west, between the foothills on the right and a seemingly endless marsh on the left. They forded numerous watercourses running down from the high ground. Despite the thatched farmsteads dotted across the country, there was much unworked land. It was good cavalry country.

On the second day, they came to a place where the marsh and the hills came close together, leaving a gap of no more than four or five miles. The following day, the barriers drew back and the plain spread out in freedom. Ballista thought about Calgacus and Wulfstan and the others. If Cumania had not fallen, they had been imprisoned within its walls for thirty-one days. The fort would make a very circumscribed prison: four identical circular rooms, stacked on top of each other, each no more than fifteen paces across – dark, damp and depressing. The strain of continual vigilance, of continual fear, both robbing the goodness from the defenders’ sleep. And worse in a way for Calgacus: the views of freedom from the roof walk – the Booted Eagles and Black Vultures soaring above the crags, the Alontas river tumbling down the gorge, past the walls of the fort, and then off to the north, unrestrained by the encircling horde of barbarians through which it ran.

Maximus would smile to hear such poetic views ascribed to Calgacus. But the Hibernian might be wrong. He did not know Calgacus as Ballista did. All Ballista’s life the old Caledonian had been there – from the time childhood memories stopped being isolated incidents and pictures and became something which could, at least with creative hindsight, be ordered into a rough narrative. Beneath the wheezing, cursing and foul-mouthed muttering, Calgacus was a kind man of surprising sensitivity. Ballista was determined to get the old bastard out.

Despite the sunshine, Ballista’s thoughts took a dark turn. If he raised the siege, Calgacus would not be free, merely returned to the strange armed exile to which Gallienus had sentenced them. There was no time limit to the sentence. They had no idea where it would be served next. It was unlikely they would be allowed to return home any day soon. It was as if a capricious deity had his eye on them. Who alive was closest to a god, if not the Roman emperor? The eye of Cronus was upon them.

Yet, in a way, Ballista could not help a feeling of almost gratitude towards Gallienus. The emperor had not killed them. He had not condemned them to a small island, to pointlessly wandering the beaches of Gyaros or Pandateria. It showed practicality – the imperium was getting use out of them at the ends of the world – and a certain magnanimity of soul.

Something from the treatise On Exile by Favorinus came to mind. Something about the philosopher wandering vast swathes of territory, Greek and barbarian, seeing and hearing what happened there and, by memorizing it, making it part of an education in virtue. From what Ballista could remember, there was nothing at all in the work that even hinted at the acquisition of alien wisdom. It was all Greek.

A Roman might have been a little different. They always boasted of their willingness to adopt the best of foreign things. But, apart from Greek culture, that really boiled down to weapons and military practices – a Spanish sword, a German war cry, the Punic word for ‘tent’. Ballista would follow them in that. He actually relished the chance to ride with the Sassanid clibanarii and see what war was like with them. And he had the dangerous opportunity to fight the nomadic Alani and see how they waged war.

But Ballista wanted to go further. He wanted to find out how the other peoples he was thrust among did things, how they regarded the world and the things in it. He was not going to fall into the trap of considering the customs of every people as good as each other. The Suani were too murderous; the Persians too god-haunted. But by looking at their attitudes, his own values might come more clearly into focus. The fable told that each man had a wallet on his back containing his failings. Those of others were easy to see; your own very difficult. Maybe exile could provide the chance to sit down, unstrap the wallet, bring it around to the front and examine its contents with care.

Duty, friends, family – in ascending order, Ballista had decided that these were what he was about. Trying not to let any of those three down, trying not to do things of which he would be too much ashamed. Pythonissa slipped into his thoughts. How did she fit into the image he was constructing of a man made better by being refined and tempered by exile? Allfather, what if Julia found out?


The warriors of Hamazasp were waiting for them on the far bank of the Alazonios river. It was a serious levy, twenty thousand or more, arrayed for war. The Iberian king was in the centre, mounted on a black Nisean charger, beneath a great black banner embroidered with a red bull. The men with Hamazasp outnumbered those with Narseh several times.

The Sassanid forces neatly manoeuvred into position: the clibanarii in the centre with Narseh, the light horse on either side, the Albanians out on the right flank.

The two armies watched each other across the water. The Iberians looked much like the Persians. But they were less well armed, and showed less discipline. The Persians sat quiet in their units, awaiting the words of command. The Iberians surged about, horse and foot intermingled. Their nobles caracoled their horses, sang out things in their native tongue.

Ballista spotted the tall, red-headed figure of Rutilus stationed with the nobility near Hamazasp.

Hamazasp and another rider, backed by half a dozen others, walked their horses out to midstream. The Alazonios was the border between Albania and Iberia. It was neutral ground, watched over by the deity of the river.

Narseh told just the mobad Manzik, young Gondofarr, Ballista and Pythonissa to accompany him. Obviously, the veteran Tir-mihr was to take command, should anything happen to the prince. The five riders splashed out into the river. Narseh halted the length of a horse from Hamazasp.

It was for Hamazasp to speak first. The water ran around the horses’ legs. The king of Iberia looked over those with the Sassanid prince. When he reached Ballista, he sneered.

At length, Hamazasp bowed in the saddle, blew a kiss. ‘Welcome the glorious Prince Narseh, son of the Mazda-worshipping divine Shapur, King of Kings of the race of the gods, grandson of the Mazda-worshipping divine Ardashir, King of Kings of the race of the gods, great-grandson of King Papak of the house of Sasan. I, Hamazasp, by the grace of Mazda king of Iberia, and my brother the pitiax, Oroezes, welcome you. How may we and the warriors of Iberia serve you?’

With a slight movement of the head, Narseh acknowledged this. ‘We thank you for the gracious words. In the name of my father Shapur, we wish to cross your land unhindered to drive the nomad Alani back through the Caspian Gates to the sea of grass.’

‘It shall be as you say.’

‘Furthermore, we wish you to provide food for our men, fodder for their horses.’

‘It shall be as you say.’

‘Furthermore, we wish you or your brother, the pitiax Oroezes, to join our expedition with one thousand horsemen, and to take a binding oath to these things.’

‘I will be honoured to lead my men to war with you.’ Hamazasp could not prevent the sly look on his face. ‘All will be as you wish, noble prince of the house of Sasan. But I have a petition. The late King Polemo of Suania unjustly seized territory from Iberia. If his daughter who rides with you will take an oath to return all the land up to the Dareine Pass, my warriors will fight all the more courageously in a just cause with friendship restored between the Iberians and the Suani.’

Narseh turned to Pythonissa. She curtly bowed her head.

Hamazasp took his oath first. It was in the Persian fashion. The mobad Manzik produced the salt, and the king of Iberia swore with his hand on that.

Pythonissa nudged her horse nose to tail with that of Hamazasp. The pitiax reached across her and tied her thumb to that of Hamazasp. The king of Iberia produced a knife. He cut his own thumb, then hers. ‘Neither with steel nor poison,’ he said. Raising their bound hands, he licked the blood from his own thumb then from that of the woman who had once been his daughter-in-law. ‘Sealed and countersealed in blood.’

As Pythonissa repeated the oath, Ballista knew full well that neither of them would keep it.