Anamu tipped his head back and shouted, loud in Persian, 'Every man for himself! Run! Save yourselves!' He kicked his horse. It gathered itself and set off. Over his shoulder he called to Ballista again in Greek, 'Not my fault.'
The Sassanid facing Ballista backed his horse again, four, five steps, then hauled on the reins, jerked the beast round and followed Anamu. Suddenly the air was full of high eastern cries. The rattle of hooves echoed round the Horns of Ammon. As one, the Persians desperately sought to disengage and spur their way to safety. The fight was over.
Ballista watched the Sassanid cavalry disappear down the defile. His own men were already busy, throwing themselves off their mounts, slitting the throats of the wounded Easterners, stripping them, searching for the wealth they were rumoured to always carry.
'Leave one alive', Ballista shouted. But it was too late.
Haddudad and Turpio arrived and calmly announced the butcher's bill; two troopers dead, two men wounded, including Turpio himself who had an ugly gash on his left thigh. Ballista thanked them and all three climbed stiffly to the ground.
Ballista checked over Pale Horse: a graze on the left shoulder, a small nick on the right flank, but otherwise the gelding seemed unharmed. Calgacus appeared with water and strips of clean cloth. He started to bandage Ballista's arm, swearing volubly as his patient kept moving to stroke his mount.
Bathshiba cantered up. Ballista had forgotten all about the girl. She jumped off her horse, ran to Haddudad and threw her arms round his neck. Ballista looked away. Something shining on the ground caught his eye. It was the helmet he had discarded earlier. He went over and picked it up. It was buckled. A horse's hoof had trodden on it. The bird of prey crest was bent, twisted out of shape, but it could be repaired.