Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (18 page)

Some, his brother Philip among them, would consider his views jaundiced, but Priscus had never had any time for sentimentality. And he knew these people. He had been born in a dusty village in the province of Arabia, had grown up speaking a dialect of the Aramaic they spoke here in Mesopotamia. It was a hard world – nowhere harsher than the arid frontier lands of the East – and you had to be hard to rise up out of such an environment.

There was a dry wadi about a mile ahead. It curled around from the east and ran across their way. The landscape was not quite as desolate as it had been. For two days after leaving Hatra there had been nothing but a vast expanse of ochre-grey sand, occasionally punctuated by scatters of rocks and the derelict-looking huts of shepherds which clustered around the few sulphurous wells. Since they broke camp this morning, there had been isolated patches of green, a few yellow and blue flowers in the odd hollow. Even the flies did not seem to cluster quite so maddeningly around their eyes and those of their horses. The country might be a little less bleak, but the road was still an unmade track, and they would have to negotiate the steep sides of the dry watercourse, for there was no bridge.

Priscus had met the new Emperor a few times three years before during the eastern campaign of Alexander. A huge man, strikingly ugly, Maximinus had been one of the officers charged with gathering supplies. Taciturn and grim, he had carried out his duties with honesty and efficiency, if without charm. An equestrian like Priscus, he had risen through the army. Now, as Emperor, he had inherited a full-scale war on the northern frontier. No doubt Maximinus would wage it with the utmost vigour. And that, for Priscus, was an alarming proposition.

There was no declared war in the East, but Persian incursions were increasing in number and range. Only an imbecile could fail to realize that they heralded a major attack. The Sassanid Ardashir had fought the field army of Alexander to a standstill, and the King of Kings had shown no sign of renouncing his claim to all the lands once held, centuries before, by the Persian dynasty of the Achaemenids. If the threat could be made reality, it would take Persian horsemen to the Aegean and beyond.

The Romans could hardly be worse prepared. When the northern tribes had crossed the Rhine, Alexander’s advisers had stripped the East of troops. Mesopotamia had suffered as badly as anywhere. Notionally, Priscus still had two legions; the 1st and 3rd Parthica, based at Singara and Nisibis respectively. But the detachments that were marched west, combined with desertion and sickness, had reduced them to fewer than three thousand men each. The situation with the auxiliaries was worse. Unfortunately, the Osrhoene archers had distinguished themselves in Alexander’s war. As a result, the foolish councillors of that weak Emperor had ordered almost all of them hundreds upon hundreds of miles from their homes to fight the Germans. Neither the feelings of the soldiers nor the weakness created by their absence had been considered. There were just eight auxiliary units left. The pair of thousand-strong cavalry
alae
would be lucky to put that many in the saddle between them. The remaining six formations, cavalry and infantry alike, were all below their roster strength of five hundred. On the most optimistic estimate, Priscus had fewer than ten thousand regulars, and whatever levies he could raise, to defend his province. And now the new Emperor might demand yet more reinforcements for his expedition into the forests of Germania.

If any consolation were to be found, outside the specious posturing of the schools of philosophy or the messianic ravings of depraved sects, Priscus sought it in the calibre of his higher command. The Prefects of his legions, Julianus and Porcius Aelianus, were equestrian officers from Italy. Each had a long record of service and had fought well in the Persian war at the head of local auxiliaries. Priscus had promoted them. Both were competent and loyal – as far as any man could be judged the latter in this debased age. To the west, the garrison at the strategically important Castellum Arabum was commanded by the youngest son of the King of Hatra. It was not just a political appointment. Although still in his twenties, Prince Ma’na was a veteran of Alexander’s expedition and the Sassanid attack on his father’s city a few years before.

Priscus turned in his saddle. He rode a few lengths in front of the others. Nothing could stop the flies, but he saw no reason to be choked with dust as well. At the head of the column was a large, flamboyant figure with flowing embroidered silks, elaborately curled and arranged hair, a moustache teased into points and kohl-lined eyes. Prince Manu of Edessa had been raised as the heir to the throne, until the Emperor Caracalla had abolished that small kingdom. Now a corpulent man in middle age, Manu had adapted to his changed circumstances. He retained his title as a courtesy and remained an immensely rich landowner, influential throughout the area. More to the point, like his younger near-namesake from Hatra, he was a natural leader of men in battle.

Priscus felt a twinge of unease. Surrounding himself with scions of eastern royalty could be easily misrepresented at the court of the new Emperor. He put the thought aside. What else could he do except call on local potentates, now that his province had been denuded of Roman forces?

Riding next to Manu, Priscus’ brother Philip looked incongruously Roman. Immaculate despite the heat, his muscled cuirass gleaming beneath the nodding plume of his helmet, the legate might have just come down from the Palatine or off the Campus Martius. Philip had always loved to display his
romanitas
. Priscus smiled as he ran his eyes across the thirty scruffy troopers who followed. He had recruited his guard from volunteers from all the units in the province. The criteria for selection had been horsemanship and skill with both bow and sword. Philip had argued that they should be outfitted in uniform fitting the dignity of a Roman governor. Priscus did not care what they looked like, as long as they could fight.

Using the horns of the saddle, Priscus hauled himself back around. He was tired, dirty and hot. His harness and mailcoat pulled at his shoulders, and sweat ran down under its heavy embrace. He was forty-five, and regretted he was beginning to lose the stamina of his youth. Still, not far to go now. He looked ahead, past the rider on point duty, past the wadi, above which a brace of doves circled. Singara was not in sight yet, hidden by the haze. Beyond, the clouds piled up over the mountain wall. His thoughts ran to a bath, a meal, bed. Before setting off to Hatra, he had bought a new slave: soft white thighs, blonde, fifteen years old.

His horse stumbled slightly and jolted him from the anticipation of sensuous pleasures. Unbidden, his mind again took up the duties of office. All the forces in the East, Roman and allied, were threadbare, worn down by war and enforced contributions to the imperial field army. Much would depend on the men who led them. Tiridates of Armenia and Sanatruq of Hatra were bred to war, and had every reason to fight the Persians. Tiridates descended from the Arsacid dynasty, which Ardashir the Sassanid had overthrown not ten years before. The Armenian had a better claim to Ctesiphon and the throne of the King of Kings than the upstart from the house of Sasan. It was something neither monarch would forget. Sanatruq had lost his eldest son to a Persian arrow when Ardashir had descended on Hatra.

The governors of the Roman provinces were of more mixed quality. In the course of long careers, both Rutilius Crispinus of Syria Phoenice and Licinius Serenianus had commanded troops in the field and led them with distinction, first as equestrians then as Senators. They would do their duty like the Romans of old. Priscus smiled. The antique virtue of his friend Serenianus had stretched to leaving his beautiful new wife, Perpetua, behind in Rome. Men like these could be relied upon. With the best will in the world, Priscus could not say the same of his own brother-in-law, Otacilius Severianus, who held Syria Palestina, or Sollemnius Pacatianus in Arabia. Yet the weakest link in the chain had to be Junius Balbus in Syria Coele. A wealthy Senator of infinite torpid complacency, it was said he had only been awarded the governorship because he was son-in-law to old Gordian, who held Africa. At least, when trouble came, natural indolence should encourage Balbus to lean on Domitius Pompeianus, the capable
Dux Ripae
who oversaw the frontier forces from the fortified city of Arete. Of course – the insidious thought could not be denied – none of them, Priscus himself included, might be in office that long. When a new Emperor took the throne, powerful men fell. It was the natural way of things.

A shout from ahead. The outrider was wheeling his mount. The ends of his cloak gathered in his right hand, he waved them above his head:
Enemy in
sight
.

‘Close up. Battle order.’ As he gave the orders, Priscus scanned the terrain. They had to be in the wadi. There was no other cover, just the wadi across their front and running off around their right.

Behind him, the stamp of hooves and the jingle and rattle of men hurriedly arming. Priscus waved in the two scouts from the flanks, passed the word for the last men in the column to summon the one from the rear.

He remembered that the wadi was steep-sided, but not that deep or wide. How many mounted men could it conceal?

The question was answered. Behind the galloping scout, over the lip of the watercourse, about two hundred paces away, scrambled some three dozen widely spaced horse archers.

‘To the right!’ Manu said.

More of the enemy, many more; at least a hundred. They were further away – a good half-mile – and they were also light horse, but far too many to fight.

As the first war cries rang out, the scout skidded to a halt. Priscus fastened his helmet and weighed his few options. There was open ground to the west and south, but no refuge. They would be hunted down.

‘Form a wedge on me!’

The colourful bulk of Manu of Edessa moved up on his right knee; his brother on his left. Sporakes, the governor’s personal bodyguard, and the scout tucked in close behind. An arrow fell in front of his horse, skidded up the dust.

‘We are armoured, they are not. We ride through them. No bows, just swords. Across the wadi, and north to Singara. No matter who goes down, no one stops.’

There was no time for anything more.

‘Charge!’ Priscus drew his blade and kicked on without looking round.

The Persians were almost on them. Loose tunics and wide trousers billowing, at full gallop, they put away their bows and drew their long, straight swords. They were natural horsemen. The first came at him from the right, long black hair flying. The easterner’s blade described a great arc of steel, cutting at his neck. Dropping the reins, Priscus gripped his hilt in both hands, took the blow just in front of his face, deflected it over his head. The impact knocked him backwards. A sharp pain at the base of his spine. His horse ran on. Only the high rear of his saddle stopped him being thrown over the rump of his mount. Dismounted, you were finished. His left hand found one of the saddle-horns. As he hauled himself upright, struggling for balance, another swung at him from the left. Somehow, he got his blade across. Steel scraped on steel. A fierce dark face, close to his, shouting. Then their horses pulled them away from each other.

Clear ground in front. Nothing between them and the wadi. Manu on one shoulder, Philip the other. They were through. Priscus felt contempt for whoever led these Persians. He gathered the reins, looked back. Sporakes was there, the rest following, not too dispersed. Further back, Sassanids like wild dogs circled a couple of troopers who had been separated from the rest. One was on foot, the other still mounted. It made no odds: it was over for them.

‘Ahead!’ Philip shouted.

More Persians were emerging from the gully, four or five dozen of them. They were on the far side, milling and wheeling, bright like exotic birds. A big young Sassanid with reddish hair was getting them into line. Not such a fool, after all, Priscus thought. The first group was intended to delay us. He means these to hold us until the main body from the East comes up in our rear.

‘Close up.’ Priscus got his horse in hand, eased its pace a little to let the others get in order.

They were nearly at the wadi. There was nothing else for it. They had to cross. Alexander the Great had crossed the Granicus in the face of an entire Persian army.

‘They are only Persians. They will not stand.’ Priscus did not believe his own words. ‘Thrust at their faces. Remember the Granicus! Alexander!’

Above the thunder of hooves, one or two troopers yelled: ‘
Alexander! Alexander!
’

From ahead, louder, a roar came back. ‘
Garshasp! Garshasp!
’ The Persians brandished their weapons. The big red-haired leader was in the front rank, laughing.

As the drop loomed, Priscus gave his mount its head, urging it with his thighs to make the leap. The ground fell away. Priscus leant back. He was lifted from the saddle, then, as they landed, slammed back hard down into it. An awful numbness arched up his back. The horse stumbled. Almost on its knees, it gathered itself.

A couple of strides, and they were going up the far side. Priscus stretched forward over the horse’s neck, clutching its mane. Loose stones and sand shot out from under its slipping hooves. It gathered its quarters; two titanic thrusts and they ran into a Persian horse at the top. A blade thrust at him from the right. He parried, rolled his wrist and thrust back. The resistance jarred up his arm. The reek of blood, hot horse, and fear. Men and beasts screaming, indistinguishable. A flash of light to his left. A blow clanged off his helmet. Head ringing, he struck out blindly, left and right.

They had been stopped. Only a few were with him. Most of the troopers were still down in the wadi. He had to clear the way. If they did not get moving, they were dead. He fended off a cut from his left. His right was exposed. The easterner there drew back his blade, and stopped, staring stupidly at the severed stump of his sword arm. Manu shaped to finish the man. Another horse crashed into the melee. Manu’s mount was thrown backwards; its hooves fought for purchase on the edge of the gully. Manu had lost his seat, was almost over its neck, his kohl-lined eyes wide. They toppled backwards.