The Caspian Gates

XXXI



The prince Narseh of the house of Sasan with his warriors and his father’s Caucasian vassals marched out of the north gate of the Iberian town of Harmozike five days before the ides of September. Ballista’s odyssey to rescue Calgacus was going to be decided soon, one way or the other. Yet he feared it may all have taken too long. After they had met Hamazasp down at the Alazonios, etiquette had demanded they remain camped on the riverbanks for two days. First, the king of Iberia had feasted the son of the Sassanid king, then Narseh had returned the compliment. These had been uncomfortable occasions for Ballista. Beyond a formal greeting, he had managed to keep from having to talk to Hamazasp – there were many present – but he could not avoid the Iberian’s glances. The monarch did not attempt to disguise his hatred. Ballista knew the man would like to eat his liver raw.

Another six days had passed as the combined forces wended their way up to Harmozike. There, two more precious days had been consumed by yet larger, yet more extravagant dinners. Wedging himself among Rutilus, Castricius and Maximus, and using Pythonissa as a screen, Ballista again had avoided any conversation with Hamazasp. But in his own residence the king had become bolder, especially when fortified with wine. Several times, Ballista had looked up the hall to realize that Hamazasp was talking about him, laughing with his nobles. Ballista was certain of it. He could not hear the words, but they had glanced over. Had Hamazasp been telling them what he had nearly done to Ballista in the cell in Edessa? Was he claiming more than the truth – claiming that he had gained some revenge for the death of his son by raping his killer? Ballista was furious. If the Iberian said something in Ballista’s hearing, the northerner would have to try to kill him – even though the chances of success were minimal and the likelihood of himself being killed almost certain. But unless that happened, there was nothing he could do.

Pythonissa had said that there was much more than sexual innuendo to be concerned about. Ballista had argued that, as he was doubly protected as an envoy of Rome and a companion of Narseh, the king of Iberia would not dare harm him. Pythonissa’s withering reply had surprised Ballista in the crudity of its language. Did he not understand that they were lodged in the palace? Hamazasp hated him – the northerner had killed his son, and now was f*cking his daughter-in-law under his own roof. Pythonissa’s father had not countenanced her remarriage to the old king, but Hamazasp himself had given every indication of wanting to f*ck her. Hecate knew, he had tried often enough, in this very building, when she was married to his son. Of course, Hamazasp would not make an overt move against Ballista, just as he would say nothing that Ballista could hear – the Iberian may be a filthy, perverted goat who had tried to f*ck his son’s wife – but he was not a fool. Yet had Ballista failed to notice that, in the Caucasus, poison was a way of life? Anyway, she was as concerned for herself as for Ballista. Her relationship with the northerner had made her an enemy in Hamazasp, that and not going to the king’s bed. She had insisted neither Ballista nor she ate or drank anything that had not been tasted by her poor eunuch. She advised Ballista not even to touch anything that others had not already handled. Such procedures were hard to carry out unobtrusively. She did not seem to even try. It had not helped the general atmosphere at court. Nor had Pythonissa’s open nocturnal visits to Ballista’s chamber. At least the eunuch had not died yet.

It was a fine morning as they rode out of Harmozike. The early autumn had taken the intense heat out of the weather. Ballista felt better. He was fully armed and mounted on a good horse – a Nisean stallion lent by young Gondofarr. Ballista’s three Roman friends were around him. They rode at the head of the army, just behind Narseh, well away from the Iberians.

The order of march remained as before, with two thousand of Hamazasp’s Iberians added to the rear. At a last-moment command of Tir-mihr, the rearmost group of Sassanid light horse were divided into two, and one half was placed between the Albanians and the Iberians. Old ethnic animosities might flare at any time. Ballista was confirmed in his admiration for the elderly Persian general.

They rode past the confluence of the Cyrus and Aragos rivers and followed the valley of the latter to the north. The Aragos was broad. It ran in several shallow streams, separated by low shingle banks. The green hills descended some distance away. Every so often they were cut by tributaries that came down in reed-fringed, wooded gorges of their own making.

At the end of the second day, they made camp just beyond where Ballista and Pythonissa had left the Aragos and taken to the hills in their flight to the east. From there, it took the army two days to reach the Dareine Pass. Now the hills were closer. Small figures could be seen on the higher slopes, watching them. It was impossible to say if they were Alani, or followers of Saurmag, or Suani loyal to Azo. Although in dribs and drabs, small numbers of the latter began to appear in the camp to perform proskynesis to Pythonissa. Some stayed to fall in behind her with their weapons.

As they progressed upriver, they were riding back over the ground where Ballista and Pythonissa had been pursued. They went by the ruined barn where the Suanian Kobrias had died so that they could escape. Ballista would have said a prayer to the Allfather for him, but that deity of the distant north had no interest in men from Suania. Ballista was unsure how much interest Woden had even in his own descendants.

At the Dareine Pass, Hamazasp invoked the oath sworn by Pythonissa. In that desolate place he installed a garrison of one thousand of his Iberians, under the command of his younger brother, the pitiax Oroezes. High on one of the bare shoulders of rock, they got busy pitching tents, setting out horse lines, building fires. The smell of the dung they used as fuel wafted down to where the army camped along the path in marching order.

Ballista sought out Tir-mihr. He spoke quietly in Persian. Since his involuntary use of that language in the paradise after the charge of the boar, there was no further point in reticence. ‘This is the main pass down from the Caspian Gates out of the Caucasus. Now the pitiax holds it, have we not put ourselves in Hamazasp’s hands?’

Tir-mihr inclined his head, a gesture acknowledging the force of the argument, but not accepting it. ‘If we lose, very few of us will escape these mountains. The Alani will hunt us down and the Caucasian tribes will turn on us: Iberians, Albanians, Suani – all of them. It will be a disaster like that suffered by the Achaemenid Cyrus at the hands of the Massagetae If we win, Hamazasp will not dare oppose us, nor would he have the power. But I imagine the king of Iberia thinks, as you did, that he has got the better of us. Mazda willing, he will be proved wrong.’

The army turned right out of the Dareine Pass and followed the Alontas river to the north-east. Ballista had ridden this route twice before – arriving in Suania and in his flight. It looked familiar, if far from welcoming. High above the slopes, eagles soared, riding the updrafts on wide, feathery wings. Many among the Caucasians made the sign of the evil eye or openly cursed them.

The army was moving with no great haste. It was settling in for the night when a Suanian galloped in from the north. The Alani were breaking their camp before Cumania, ready to move south. Already their scouts had been seen before Dikaiosyne. Narseh ordered Tir-mihr to take one thousand Sassanid horse ahead in a night march to the village. The main body would set out before dawn the next day to join them.

Breaking their camp before Cumania … the words reverberated in Ballista’s thoughts. Their camp before Cumania … the fort had not fallen. Do not tempt the gods but, most likely, Calgacus was alive; most likely Wulfstan and the others were too. Allfather, Grey-hood, Deep-thinker, let it be so, let the miserable old Caledonian bastard be alive.

It was raining as they rode into Dikaiosyne. The place looked no more prepossessing than before – tall, gloomy stone towers, narrow lanes and mud. There were hairy pigs and yapping dogs everywhere – under the horses’ hooves, unsettling them. As they crossed the village square, Ballista eyed the Mouth of the Impious. From Germania or Rome, this really was the far end of the world. They did things differently here: cursing eagles and protecting rams, sacrificing madmen and throwing adulterers into underground rivers, eating millet – no end to their strangeness.

Narseh quartered the troops then held a brief council of war. They stood on the flat roof of a tower, looking north. The Alontas was braided in several shallow streams. Its broad valley was rain-swept, its flanks bare, except for the two tangled ravines about half a mile away, where mountain streams came down, one on either side. A straightforward battle plan was outlined. Clibanarii and allied heavy horse in front. Narseh himself, Tir-mihr and the kings Cosis and Hamazasp would command. The light horse were to form up behind under the orders of Gondofarr. In both lines, the Persians would hold the centre, with the Albanians on the right, the Iberians the left. The topography dictated a frontal clash. The baggage was to stay in Dikaiosyne. With no danger of outflanking, just one hundred Sassanids would be sufficient to guard it from local banditry. It would be best if the mobad Manzik, the Romans, the kyria Pythonissa and her Suani remained in the village to oversee it. Tomorrow would bring the battle – let everyone get what rest they could.

Pythonissa led Ballista and the other three Romans to her house. After they had eaten, she took Ballista to her room. Beds were made for the others elsewhere. When they were alone, Pythonissa was eager, wanton. She tugged at Ballista’s clothes, pushed him on the bed, mounted him. Leaning forward, her breasts just above his face, she rode him, all the time saying the things that excite men.

Ballista woke in the middle of the night, sometime around the sixth hour of darkness. There was an odd smell, oily with a note of burnt almonds. Without moving, he opened his eyes. Pythonissa was not beside him. He sensed a presence in the far corner. Silently, he raised his head.

A single lamp was burning. Pythonissa was naked. She held his drawn sword. She was rubbing a liquid from a phial into the steel. Ballista watched her for a time. ‘What is that? Poison?’

‘No.’

‘Is it poison?’

‘No, it gives strength. It is what Medea gave Jason.’

Ballista grunted his disbelief.

‘You still wear the ice-white gem I gave you. Have your nights been disturbed?’

‘Coincidence.’

She laughed, walked towards him. ‘The unguent works on flesh too.’

‘You should have been a hetaira.’

‘You are not the first man to call me a whore.’

In the morning there was a thick mist. It haloed the many torches in the village square. Prince Narseh approached one of the huge panniers by the Mouth of the Impious. He drew an arrow from the gorytus on his hip. He dropped it in. One by one, the nobles and officers did the same. The clibanarii and light horsemen would throw in their arrows with less ceremony. Ballista knew from Herodotus that, long ago, the Persians had marked out an area of ground, marched in their men in their thousands. After the battle, they had repeated the procedure. From the empty space, they had estimated casualties. The new Sassanid system gave far greater accuracy. At the end of the day, every man took back an arrow. Those shafts remaining in the panniers indicated the number fallen.

An Iberian nobleman approached Narseh and performed lesser proskynesis; understandable, given the mud. ‘I bring bad news, Prince. The noble king Hamazasp sends his apologies. He has been struck down by illness. He is unable to ride with you to battle and share your glory. My name is Ztathius, son of Gobazes, I have been given the honour of leading the warriors of Iberia. Hamazasp will keep back only a hundred of his men as guards.’

The words of Ztathius were received in silence. Young Gondofarr looked openly sceptical. Tir-mihr scowled behind his beard. But there was little that could be done. ‘So be it,’ said Narseh at last. ‘Mazda watches you, and your king.’

With Pythonissa and the other Romans, Ballista climbed to the top of the tower where the council of war had been held. It must have been dawn, for there was light behind the mist. But the vapour was still thick, limiting vision to no further than a boy could throw a stick.

A trumpet sounded, muffled in the fog. A detachment of Sassanid horse bowmen trotted out below the tower. They disappeared north into the gloom, fanning out to screen the deployment of the main force. A drum began to beat. Below the tower, Narseh led out the clibanarii. At a stately pace, they manoeuvred into line. The Iberian heavy horse followed, taking their station to the left, then the armoured Albanians moved out to hold the right. The three thousand cavalry, eight deep, filled the valley like a phalanx of iron statues. Where they stood in the streams of the Alontas, the water swirled around the hocks of the horses.

At a trumpet call, the screen of bowmen trotted back through the narrow gaps between the divisions. The rest of the light horse rode out of Dikaiosyne to join them. Until the army moved forward, there was not room for all the four thousand unarmoured to take their places. Many were left still jostling in the lanes of the village.

The fog was thinning. Ballista could see a hundred yards or more. Below the great lilac standard of Narseh, he could make out the mobad Manzik. The priest was on foot, praying, arms raised. A white ram was being led up. With no warning, arrows arced out of the vapour. Most fell short. Some clattered off the armour of the clibanarii. A few landed near the sacrifice. The mobad took no notice. He pulled up the ram’s head, slit its throat. The beast collapsed. The priest again raised his arms and invoked his god. The arrows were falling thicker. Nomad horns howled in the mist. Manzik prostrated himself before Narseh, unhurriedly got up and, as if strolling in a peaceful garden, made his way through the ranks back to the village.

A Sassanid war drum thundered. The clibanarii drew their composite bows. A flight of three thousand arrows shot blind into the gloom. Like rain blown in from the sea, a dark squall of shafts came back. Here and there among the clibanarii a horse plunged as an arrow tip found its way through mail, plate and hardened leather. The Persian light horse joined the exchange, aiming a high trajectory over the heads of the armoured men. The arrow storm intensified. Above the thrum of numberless arrows came the screams of men and horses. Men were dying in the Persian ranks. Out of sight, men would be falling among the Alani. There was something uncanny about this fight with an unseen enemy.

‘This cannot last,’ Rutilus said. ‘Their quivers will soon be empty.’

‘It is impossible to tell, but the Persians should be getting the better of it,’ Castricius said. ‘Their armour will be heavier than the nomads. The Alani will have to do something.’

As if in response to their words, the incoming arrows slackened. Dark shapes emerged at the front of the wall of fog. A frenzy of horns, drums and yells sounded from the enemy.

‘Here they come,’ Maximus said.

Three closepacked wedges of horsemen burst from the curtain of moisture. Strange standards flew above: animal skulls, pelts, horse tails, the outstretched wings of birds of prey. Tatters of mist swirled about them.

The standard of Narseh inclined forward, trumpets blared, the war drums beat faster. The mighty Nisean chargers stepped out. Like a great wave building, ponderous but terrible, the Persian force surged towards the foe.

The nomads covered the ground fast. The Sassanids were still at a slow walk when the forces collided. The noise of the clash rolled back down the valley to the Romans watching on the roof. The Alani were outnumbered, but momentum drove the tips of their wedges into the Persian formation. The hideous cacophony of combat stunned the senses.

The lilac standard of Narseh dipped – seemed like to fall – then straightened. The fighting was fiercest around the Sassanid prince. The Alani advance here slowed as Persian numbers told. The other two wedges were already stationary. A great roar went up. Narseh and his retainers had stifled the central thrust of the nomads.

Across the valley, the combatants were pressed close. Often with no room to wield spears or swords, men wrestled on horseback. Clawing with their fingers at each other’s throats, gouging their eyes, seeking to fling them down among the stamping hooves.

‘More like an infantry battle,’ Castricius said.

‘Unless they cut Narseh down, the nomads will lose,’ Rutilus said.

The nomads fought with ferocity, but it could not last. The collapse started at the rear, among those still uncommitted. In ones and twos, then in small clumps, finally in whole groups, nomads pulled their horses’ heads around and bolted back up the valley into the obscurity of the fog.

Peroz! Peroz! Screaming victory, the Sassanids and their allies – heavy cavalry and light horse – poured after them.

As if swept by the hand of a deity, the battlefield was empty. There was the inevitable detritus of war – broken and discarded weapons, dead and injured men and beasts, unscrupulous and avaricious men from the victors, men of no honour, already dismounted and scavenging the field – but the combatants were gone.

The watchers on the tower were silent. There seemed nothing to say. The fog had receded further. It still hung on the hilltops, made a ceiling to the valley. Yet now Ballista could see almost a mile or so up the valley. It was not far enough to see the rout. Everything was eerily quiet. They could hear the river. It ran on as before. From there, or somewhere, came the sound of frogs: brekeke-kex.

The first vultures were dropping down on to the stricken field. Some Suani were slinking out from Dikaiosyne to join those robbing the dead and sending the wounded to join them, so they could take what they had also. Persians were said to carry all their wealth on them. Their allies the Suani would go to them first.

‘Is it all over?’ Pythonissa asked.

‘Yes,’ said Castricius. ‘It is hard to believe thousands of men are being slaughtered just up there.’

A movement caught Ballista’s eye.

‘F*ck,’ Maximus said.

Half a mile away, in the gully to the right, where a tributary came down to the Alontas, the trees and bushes were moving. There was no wind.

‘F*ck,’ Maximus said.

The dark, hunched shapes of the steppe ponies and their riders moved out on to the floor of the valley. They milled for a time. Five hundred, a thousand – the exact number was hard to tell. With a whoop, the majority rode away to the north and vanished into the mist. They were behind the advancing Persians. Their arrival would be a complete surprise, most likely change the entire course of events. It was a perfect ambush. The Alani charge and withdrawal had been planned from the start. All the time the ambushers in the gulley had been waiting their moment.

About two hundred Alani remained in sight. In no particular order, they trotted south towards Dikaiosyne. They halted in a rough line about a hundred yards from the village.

Ballista turned to Pythonissa. ‘How many armed Suani do you have here?’

‘Around three hundred.’ She was admirably calm.

‘How many of them have horses?’

‘One in ten.’

‘Have the mounted gather in the village square. Those on foot must block the entrances to the alleyways that face north.’

She told an attendant to see to it. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked Ballista.

‘Talk to Hamazasp, then the mobad Manzik.’

‘Hamazasp will kill you.’

‘I will have the others with me.’ He pointed to Maximus, Castricius and Rutilus.

‘It is not enough. Ten of my mounted Suani are below; take them with you.’

The king of Iberia was quartered in another tower facing north. It was surrounded by his warriors. They did not seem unduly concerned by what had happened. They eyed the men who rode up with some hostility.

Ballista addressed a man in elaborate armour, obviously a leader. ‘I need to speak to Hamazasp.’

‘He is ill.’ The man spoke Greek with a heavy accent; his tone was dismissive.

‘I need to speak to him.’

‘No.’

‘If you do not tell him, Narseh will have you impaled.’

‘Narseh might not return. You are in no position to issue threats, Roman.’ He touched the hilt of his sword. His men shifted.

A figure appeared on the roof of the tower, looking down. It was the Iberian king. He did not speak.

‘Hamazasp,’ Ballista called up, ‘you must lead the warriors with you. We can brush aside the nomads before the village. If we are quick, we can save the day.’

Hamazasp stared down at Ballista with loathing. Still he did not speak. Then he turned away and was gone.

‘Not long for you now, Kinaidos.’ The Iberian laughed.

Ballista swallowed a retort to the insult – that bastard Hamazasp would suffer for saying he took it up the arse. Ballista backed his horse. The others did the same. When they were out of weapon reach, they wheeled and rode away.

Appropriately enough, Manzik the mobad was praying when they arrived at the house he had taken. He finished as Ballista burst into the courtyard and said what he wanted.

‘I am afraid I cannot lead the Sassanids,’ Manzik said. ‘We mobads, with our own hands, can kill everything – ants, snakes, anything that walks, crawls or flies – we take pride in it. But we are forbidden to kill dogs or men.’

‘Tell your men to take orders from me.’ Ballista knew time was fast running out.

‘What about the baggage? Prince Narseh ordered us to guard it.’

‘If the army is defeated, the baggage will be the least of our concerns.’

‘Of course, you are right. Take the men. I will remain and attempt to protect the property of the prince and the warriors.’

Ballista had just over a hundred and thirty mounted men: Persians, some Suani, just four Romans. All well mounted, with good armour: enough for the first task. The second was another matter. He divided the cavalry into two columns, each waiting out of sight in an alley. Ballista was at the head of one, Rutilus the other. Castricius was to bring up the Suani foot. Pythonissa had been told to barricade herself in her house. Allfather knew if she would.

The Alani out in the valley before the village were not expecting trouble. Their line had disintegrated. Apart from forty or so gathered around a ragged standard in the centre, most had dismounted and were looting the dead. Even those still on horse had dropped their reins, were sitting all unconcerned; drinking, eating, chatting.

‘Now!’ Ballista said, and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. Behind him, a Sassanid trumpet relayed the order. The Suani infantry, who had been blocking the mouth of the lane, leapt aside at the last moment. Ballista’s mount accelerated out into the open. There was a reassuring thunder of hooves behind. To his left, he saw the tall figure of Rutilus leading the other charge.

The nomads dropped their pickings, ran for their ponies, swung up into the saddle. All too late. Ballista saw the closest of the looters go down under Rutilus’s blade. The Alani around the standard were not caught so unprepared. A few managed to loose off arrows. They shrieked through the air, but none came close to Ballista. The nomads dragged swords clear of scabbards, made to stand up to the charge.

Ballista splashed through a strand of the Alontas and put the big Nisean charger straight at the pony of the Alan chief. The collision sent the shaggy small beast, still snapping, back on its haunches. The chief fought to retain his seat. Surging past, Ballista swung his blade overhand. The chief instinctively flung up an arm to protect his head. Ballista’s blade severed it below the elbow.

An Alan cut down at Ballista from the left. The northerner took the blow on his shield, without looking thrust his sword around the side of it, felt the steel tip catch, kicked on. A nomad in front was yanking his horse around to flee. Ballista smashed the edge of his blade backhanded down into the man’s left shoulder. The pony took off. The nomad toppled into the stony bed of the river. The stones ran red.

Ballista reined in, checked all around for threats. There were none. Probably half the Alani were down – loose ponies bolting everywhere – the rest were scattered in all directions, hunched low over the necks of their mounts, pushing hard for their individual safety.

‘Rally on me,’ Ballista bawled, first in Persian, then in Greek. His voice had been trained over the years to carry across a battlefield. ‘Form one wedge.’

The Sassanid clibanarii were good warriors. None spurred off in mindless pursuit. Within moments, they were jingling into formation. The thirty or so Suani were slower, some had to canter back from the beginnings of a chase. But soon they began to fall in behind.

Ballista looked back towards the village. A ragged column of Suani warriors on foot was jogging out. Castricius had them in hand.

‘At the trot, advance.’

Almost at once they rode into the wall of fog. The world was reduced to a few yards of shifting greyness. Sounds – the snort of a horse, the clink of metal touching metal – were muted. The air smelt of mist, water, wet stone and damp horse. It was like riding into the demesne of some bleak underworld.

Ballista glanced over each shoulder. Rutilus on one side, Maximus the other; serried ranks of Sassanids behind. The fog pearled on beards and cloaks. The damned croaking of frogs started up – brekeke-kek, ko-ax, ko-ax. From further away came an indistinct roaring, like surf on a rocky shore.

Ballista flinched. With a whir of wings, a flock of white doves dived out of the mist. They wheeled just over the column, and were gone. Shouts, curses from the rear. Ballista turned to the Persian officer tucked in behind him. ‘Pass the word for silence.’

‘Those birds are unclean. Like lepers, they must be driven out,’ the Persian said.

‘Surprise is our only hope. We must not let them know we are coming.’

The order to be quiet hissed back through the ranks.

The roaring was getting louder, sharp sounds within it becoming distinct.

‘Not far now,’ Ballista muttered.

Rutilus leant forward, whispered near Ballista’s ear, ‘Hamazasp can take us in the rear.’

Ballista actually laughed. ‘Allfather, I hope not.’ He stopped laughing. ‘It depends how active is his treachery; how brave he feels. I think he will wait and see who wins.’

A black, moving mass appeared ahead through the vapour; not above fifty yards. The clash of weapons, yells, and screams of men and horses. Ballista flung up his hand. They halted, automatically dressed their ranks. Ballista turned in the saddle. ‘We are there,’ he said softly. ‘They are still fighting. We are in time. Now – on my word, ride hard, but keep closed up, stop for nothing. Our infantry will be here to add their weight soon.’

‘Now!’

They moved off at a walk and went straight up to a close-in-hand canter. The noise of fighting swelled.

Even the Alani at the very rear did not see or hear them coming. The nomads were too noisily intent on the trapped Sassanid warriors in a tight-wedged knot beneath the lilac standard. The Alani were circling, pouring arrows in from all sides, from every trajectory.

The first of the Alani Ballista killed literally never knew what hit him. He had just released an arrow, was reaching for another, when Ballista’s sword caved in the back of his skull. Ballista neatly retrieved his weapon. The next man looked around, an arrow notched in his bowstring. Ballista’s heavy blade smashed bow, arrow, hands to ruin. The Nisean stallion barrelled a pony aside. Ballista forged on. Behind him welled up a chant of ‘Peroz, Peroz.’ In front rose cries of fright.

A warrior with a shaggy sheepskin cap sliced at Ballista. Long training let the northerner watch the blade, take it on his own, roll his wrist to force it wide, and repost; all one fluid movement. The nomad jerked back. Not far enough – the steel sliced across his face. The blood sprayed into Ballista’s eyes; hot, stinging. Half blinded, Ballista finished the man with two chopping blows.

Ballista kicked on. He wiped his eyes, and his Nisean went down. He used a horn of the saddle to push himself off, throwing himself away from his falling horse. The ground rushed up. He landed awkwardly. His helmet rang on a stone. The great weight of the stallion crashed beside him.

Ballista tried to get up. Stay on the ground, and he would die. Sharp hooves were stamping all around. A wave of nausea engulfed him. His legs gave way. Curling up tight, his arms covering his head, the blackness overtook him.

Ballista did not know how long he had been unconscious – he was still in the same position – probably but moments. Legs straddled him. He groped for his sword. It was gone: the wrist loop must have snapped. He looked up. His eyes were gummed with blood; he did not know if it was his own. Maximus and Rutilus, back to back, stood over him. Suani warriors on foot ran past. They were cheering, laughing with the courage that comes from spearing fleeing enemies in the back.

‘This time it is over,’ Rutilus said. ‘They are broken.’

Ballista was helped to his feet by Maximus. As if from a great distance, he heard ‘Peroz, Peroz.’ He drew a deep breath, made to give orders to keep some men together in case Hamazasp tried anything. The nausea rushed up to his throat, his mouth – a cloying, oily taste of burnt almonds. He got back on his hands and knees, and painfully started to throw up.

Peroz! Peroz!