Arrowheads thumped into the linden wood of Ballista's big round shield. He glanced back at Demetrius. 'Not long – they will soon run out of arrows.' The young Greek smiled back. Thump – an arrowhead punched half through Ballista's shield. Its point clinked off the gold arm ring he had been given on his return from Circesium. He snapped the shaft.
The Roman light infantry were doing what they could, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Soon Pale Horse was stepping over or around the dead and wounded. A centurion lay by the side of the path; an arrow had pinned his thighs together. He held up his money belt, offering it to anyone who would help him, tears running down his face, pleading. No one even dropped out of line to kill and rob him.
The rain of arrows slackened. The Persians were cantering back uphill. A feeble cheer started in the Roman ranks, then faltered and gave way to a groan. There on the skyline were the unmistakable silhouettes of laden camels. Even Demetrius must have known what was happening as the Sassanids rode up to them, grabbed a bundle and spurred back at the Romans. The easterners would not run out of arrows. The foresight of the King of Kings had seen to that. Again the arrow storm howled down.
On they trudged through the valley of tears. Time lost all meaning. Sharp thorns in the brushwood lacerated their legs, pierced their horses' hooves. Blood on the sand. The cries of the wounded were pitiful in the Romans' ears. They were tired, hungry, their mouths as bitter as aloes. The sun was high in the sky. Clouds of dust wheeled up to obscure it. The heat was overpowering.
Here and there, individuals maddened beyond endurance ran out at the enemy. The Sassanids drew back. Let them run, raving, then shot them down, a dozen shafts quivering in their bodies.
It could not go on. Disciplina and desperation could not hold the remains of the army together much longer. Word was passed back to make for a lone hill to the right. They would make a stand there.
The Roman units wheeled, stumbled across the plain. The Sassanids redoubled their efforts. They rode close, very close, shooting from point-blank range, cutting down stragglers with their long, straight swords.
Somehow, the Romans reached the hill. Despite their suffering, so far, the disciplina of the majority just about held. They formed a perimeter, shields locked together. It brought no relief. The Persians did pull back a little way, but the Romans on the hill were set out like men in the tiers of a theatre. Closer packed than on the march, they were hard to miss. The Roman light infantry had long run out of missiles. Only a few of them had enough fight left to scurry around picking up the incoming arrows.
A little way up the hill, Ballista stood holding Pale Horse's bridle. He had turned the gelding to face the enemy and protected both their heads with his shield. Four of the twelve Dalmatians were gone but, of the rest, only old Calgacus had a wound of any account: an ugly gash on his arm.
Tired, thirsty, despairing, most of the Romans had sunk to their knees. Ballista glanced over to where the imperial standard still flew. The huge purple flag snapped in the strong south wind with an ironic jauntiness. Under it, ringed by praetorian shields, Valerian sat with his head in his hands.
A groan rose up from the hillside, like that when a favourite chariot team crashes in the circus. The arrow storm seemed to have slackened. Ballista peeked out from behind his shield. A small unit of legionaries was cut off on the plain. There were probably about two hundred of them. They were huddled in testudo, completely surrounded by Persian light horse. Shot from the closest range, arrows were smashing through shields. Men were falling fast. The legionaries were pushing and dragging their dead to form a low barricade at their feet.
The tempo of the drums changed. The light horse trotted away. A wide space opened around the trapped unit. A wasteland of low thorn bushes, spent missiles, discarded equipment, isolated bodies. All the drums fell silent. A hush descended over the plain, then all eyes were pulled to the far hillside, where one drum began to beat.
Above the skyline appeared a huge, rectangular banner. It was yellow, red and violet and topped by a golden globe: the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the house of Sasan. A lone horseman, clad in purple and white, mounted on a white horse, rode up beneath the banner. The King of Kings had come to oversee his triumph.
The drum changed to a double beat. Through the dust that hung down on the plain, a solid block of horsemen walked slowly towards the isolated Roman unit. These were no light cavalry; these were the feared clibanarii. Armoured in mail and steel plate, riding knee to knee, a dense array of long pikes above, men and horses appeared one solid mass. The outline changed as the pikes came down. The knights of Mazda quickened to a trot. The ground trembled beneath their horses' hooves.
Cracks opened in the testudo facing the clibanarii. Heads popped out to stare in horror, then ducked back. It would have been almost funny had it not been so tragic. The clibanarii moved to a canter. The first Roman threw away his shield, turned and ran. Another then another followed. The testudo began to lose shape. The Sassanids were galloping. The testudo disintegrated. All bar one tiny knot of legionaries ran. It was three hundred or more paces to the main army on the hill. They did not have a chance.
The wave of clibanarii broke around the handful of legionaries still holding their ground. They spurred on in pursuit of the fugitives.
As he watched, a half-remembered line from Plato came to Ballista: War was the highest – or was it the worst? – form of hunting.
Across the plain, the great pikes dipped and struck. The sharp steel pierced the fleeing backs of their foes. The armoured faces of the clibanarii were as cold and emotionless as statues.
It was over in moments. A new trail of corpses stretched out. The clibanarii walked back to surround the tiny clump of legionaries still under arms.
A tall, slim figure with gorgeous silks over his armour emerged from the re-forming ranks of the clibanarii. He was followed by a standard bearer carrying a bright banner with the symbol of a wild beast, a tiger or some other big cat. Ballista had seen him before. The Persian boy Bagoas had pointed him out at the siege of Arete. He was one of the sons of Shapur. Ballista could not remember which.
The Sassanid prince did not stop until he was little more than a sword thrust from the huddle of legionaries. He bowed in the saddle, touched his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. Then he gestured. The ranks of the clibanarii opened. A lane appeared, running to the Roman army on the hill. The lone horseman motioned the legionaries to go.
After a hesitation, the tiny band of survivors began to move. There were no more than twenty unwounded. They dragged maybe another dozen of the not mortally wounded. They carried their weapons. Above them was the eagle of the legion.
Low at first, then swelling, the Sassanids started to sing as the Romans passed through their ranks. Some of the clibanarii pushed back their face masks, the better to be heard.
'Gods below,' Demetrius muttered in Ballista's ear. 'What cruel oriental trick is this?'
'No trick. They are praising the bravery of those men. They sing that they are warriors, the sons of warriors.'
The survivors reached the Roman line. The shieldwall opened. Ballista was pleased to see Camillus, the tribune, lead in all that was left of Legio VI Gallicana.
The big drum on the hill thundered. Throughout the valley, the others took up the beat. The Sassanids, clibanarii and light horse, turned and trotted away.
Demetrius grabbed Ballista's arm. 'Is that it? Is it over? Are they going to spare us?' The young Greek could not keep the desperate hope from his voice.