'Time to go,' Turpio said. Ballista, whose clandestine nocturnal visit to Cledonius had left him no time to sleep, climbed wearily into the saddle. His familia – Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius – fell in behind. They cantered down to take up again the frustrating task of trying to keep the non-combatants in order.
Valerian, no doubt urged on by Quietus, from the outset pushed the army hard. Soon the baggage train was moving down a road flanked by stragglers from the fighting units. From the rear, the way back to the north was seen to be already dotted with deserters from the standards heading back to the Euphrates. Worryingly, no orders had been given to post guards to stop them.
After about two hours' hard marching, word was passed down for the army to halt, for an overdue meal. In keeping with the feverish sense of urgency emanating from the emperor's staff, the men were ordered not to leave their posts but to eat and drink standing by the banks of a small, nameless stream. Even so, the command to move on came before most had finished.
Another hour en route, and horsemen galloped back down the column. They had cloaks bunched in their fists and were waving them above their heads. Enemy in sight! Enemy in sight!
Ballista's heart sank. They had barely set off, and the easterners were on them already. For some reason, he found himself thinking about the deaths of emperors: about Gordian III, mortally wounded by the Sassanids at the battle of Meshike; about Decius, cut down by the Goths in the marshes at Abrittus. In both cases, there were stories of a Roman betrayer. They were untrue. Ballista was certain it was untrue in the case of the latter. He had been at the side of the general Gallus, the supposed traitor, throughout the battle. But the idea of betraying a Roman emperor to the barbarians was in the minds of many men.
Trumpets blared. Executing its pre-planned manoeuvre, the Roman army, one unit after another, turned and marched to the right. When they were strung out in line across the plain, they halted. Then, as one, each unit turned to the left. To be fair, the manoeuvre was carried out reasonably smartly. In under half an hour, the Romans had moved from order of march to line of battle. Now, the cavalry of Pomponius Bassus formed the right wing; the infantry, with the emperor, the centre; the cavalry of Maeonius Astyanax formed the left wing. In theory, forty thousand armed men, ten thousand of them mounted, faced the enemy. Yet, even before the plague, many of the units had been vastly under strength. In reality, not many over twenty thousand soldiers of Rome waited for the onslaught.
Following orders, Ballista and Turpio brought the baggage train close up behind the infantry but kept it in line, strung out along the road. When it was in place, they took themselves and a few followers off to the left, to a low eminence from which they could see over the serried ranks of the infantry.
Across the high, rolling plain was the enemy. There looked to be roughly five to six thousand of them. Unusually for Sassanid cavalry, there were no bright colours on view. Instead, the cavalry had a drab, ochre appearance. They milled about, circling their horses just out of bowshot.
A huge kettledrum thundered. A high cry like that of cranes on the wing drifted down the south wind. The Sassanids came on.
Roman trumpets sounded. Officers bawled orders. At about a hundred and fifty paces, the Roman light troops shot. Arrows and slingshots whooshed away. Some of the enemy went down. Moments later, the easterners released. Arrows rattled off Roman shields and armour. Some struck home. Men and horses screamed.
Then the Sassanids were turning, spurring away. They rode hard, not even shooting back over their horses' quarters.
A sharp trumpet call rang from the centre of the Roman line. It was picked up and repeated by bucinator after bucinator up and down the army.
'Fucking Hades,' muttered Ballista.
'Indeed,' said Turpio. 'Not exactly what one would have hoped for.'
As the musicians continued to sound the general advance, the whole Roman line surged forward. Within moments, the cavalry wings were pulling away from the infantry.
Ballista looked at Turpio. Before the question was asked, Turpio gave the answer: 'Yes, go and try to make him see sense.' The northerner spurred away, with Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius following. Watching them, Turpio spoke out loud, although to himself rather than to the handful of Dalmatian troopers around him. 'Not that it will do any good. The old fool will not listen. The eye of Cronus is on us. Some god wills our destruction.'
At a flat gallop, Ballista raced after the charging army. He set his course for the huge imperial purple standard that was snapping in the wind above a cluster of lesser standards towards the rear of the infantry. He let Pale Horse pick his own way through the dead and wounded, the clumps of partially trampled undergrowth. On the wings, the cavalry were rapidly disappearing out of sight. In the centre, wide gaps were opening between the infantry units. The men were no longer in neat files but in loose clumps around their standards. Without a blow struck hand to hand, the army was fast disintegrating as an organized fighting force.
Four Equites Singulares blocked the way. Furious, Ballista reined in. The commander of the imperial horse guards, the young Italian Aurelian, rode up. 'I have orders not to let you approach his imperial majesty.'
Mastering his anger, Ballista spoke urgently. 'You are a good and competent soldier, Aurelian. You can see what is happening. Someone has to try and reason with him.'
The young tribune hesitated.
'If he does not countermand this order, we are all dead.'
Still the Italian wavered between disciplina and his own judgement.
'Remember the fate of the men with Crassus at Carrhae.' Ballista laughed bitterly. 'Valerian at Edessa – it will be the same.'
Reluctantly, the young officer waved his men aside.
Ballista clapped him on the shoulder. 'Do not worry. Most likely we will all dine in Hades tomorrow.' Or, he thought as he kicked on, with luck I will dine in Valhalla; an infinitely better place, by all accounts.
For once, the emperor Valerian turned to Ballista with a broad smile. 'They are running. The reptiles are running.' He laughed; a senile laugh. 'We will chase the goat-eyed cowards to Babylon, to Ctesiphon… ha, ha… to Hyrcania, to Bactria.'
'Dominus, that is not their main force. They are a few light cavalry luring us into a trap. Their main army, the terrible, mailed clibanarii, are hidden over one of these rises, waiting.'
The emperor was not listening. '… to the Indies, the Seres, the outer Ocean.'
Ballista leaned over and grabbed the bridle of the emperor's horse. 'Caesar, pay attention to me.' The surrounding Equites Singulares put their hands to their sword hilts. Ballista ignored them. 'Caesar, look about you. This premature charge is destroying your army.'
'Premature charge? What would you know of that?' Quietus pushed his horse up on the other side of the emperor. 'Dominus, do not listen to this timid barbarian. If Gaius Acilius Glabrio had not ignored his orders and charged at Circesium, there would have been no victory.'
The aged emperor was startled out of his dream of eastern conquests. He glowered at Ballista. 'Unhand my mount.'
Quietus pointed ahead. 'See, Dominus, our cavalry return victorious.'
A large mass of horsemen was riding up from the south. Sunlight glittered on arms and armour. Even at a distance, they shone – yellow, red, lilac – gorgeous in the clear, spring light. Above their heads flew bright banners: wolves, serpents, stranger beasts and abstract designs.
'Gods preserve us,' said the emperor.
The massed Sassanid clibanarii advanced like a wall of steel. On their flanks rode clouds of light horse, their numbers beyond reckoning.
'What should we do?' Valerian looked around beseechingly.
'A truce, Dominus, we must ask Shapur for a truce,' said Quietus. 'I will go myself, arrange a safe conduct for you to talk to him.'