The floor of the defile was a picture of confusion, bodies of men and animals thrashing on the ground, loose horses plunging, crashing into those still under control. Ballista swung his aim to the untouched rear of the column. His first shot missed. His second took a riders’ horse in the flank. The beast reared, hurling the warrior backwards to the ground. The other two horses he had been leading bolted.
‘Haddudad, Turpio, now! Demetrius bring up the horses!’ Ballista yelled over his shoulder. He shot off some more arrows as the crunch and scatter of loose stones grew louder behind him. When the Greek boy appeared with his mount Ballista dropped the bow and vaulted into the saddle. Guiding with his thighs he set Pale Horse at the slope. From up here it looked far steeper than it had from below, an awkward surface of large slabs of ochre, grey and brown with patches of treacherous scree.
Ballista lent back against the rear horns of the saddle, dropping the reins, letting Pale Horse find its way down. He could hear the others following. Down and off to his right he saw the seven Roman riders, Haddudad and Turpio at their head, thunder into the defile.
As Ballista drew his sword Pale Horse stumbled. The long cavalry
spatha
nearly slipped from Ballista’s grip. Cursing mechanically he recovered it and slipped the leather thong tied to the hilt over his wrist. The riders with Haddudad had crashed into the head of the Sassanid column. They had bowled over or cut down three or four of the Easterners, but the lack of space and sheer weight of numbers had brought them to a halt. There were loose Persian horses everywhere. Clouds of dust billowed up the scarred cliff face opposite.
Although taken by surprise and now leaderless the Sassanids were experienced warriors. They were not ready to run. A Roman trooper with Haddudad toppled from the saddle. An arrow whistled past Ballista. Another landed in front of him, snapping and ricocheting away. Everything hung in the balance.
As Ballista neared the bottom the closest two Sassanids stuffed their bows back into their cases and tugged their swords free. They were at a standstill. Ballista was moving fast. He wanted to use that. At the last moment he swerved Pale Horse at the warrior to his right. The brave little gelding did not flinch and crashed shoulder to shoulder into the Persian horse. The impact threw Ballista forward in the saddle. But the enemy horse was set back virtually on its quarters, its rider clinging to its mane to keep his seat. Recovering his balance in a moment, Ballista brought his sword across Pale Horse’s neck in a fierce downward cut. The Sassanids were light cavalry; few of them wore armour. The blade bit deep into the man’s shoulder.
Retrieving his sword, Ballista urged Pale Horse to cut round the rear of the injured Sassanid’s mount to get at the other one. Before he could complete the manoeuvre a third Easterner lunged at him from the right. Ballista caught the blade on his own, rolled his wrist to force the Persian’s weapon wide and riposted with an underhand cut at the man’s face. The Sassanid swayed back. As Ballista’s blade sliced harmlessly through the air he felt a searing pain in his left bicep.
Now he was caught between the two Sassanids. With no shield, not even a cloak to guard his left side, Ballista had to try to parry the attacks of both with his sword. He twisted and turned like a baited bear when the dogs close in, steel rang on steel and sparks flew. A hammer-like blow from the right hit Ballista in the ribcage. The Persian’s lunge had broken one or two of the mail rings on his coat, forcing the jagged ends into his flesh. But the armour had kept out the point of the blade.
Despite the pain Ballista forced himself upright and swung a horizontal cut not at the man on his right but at his horse’s head. It missed but the animal skittered sideways. Painfully sucking air into his lungs Ballista swivelled in the saddle, blocked a blow from his left and lashed out with his boot, kicking the Sassanid’s mount in the belly. It too gave ground. He had bought himself a few seconds reprieve.
Ballista looked up. There was nowhere to go. In front of Pale Horse were four or five loose horses, milling, blocking the way. Again the fierce dark faces closed in. Again Ballista twisted and turned like a cornered animal. But he was getting slower. His left arm throbbed. His damaged ribs were agony as he moved. It hurt like hell to draw breath.
Just when it seemed that it could only end one way, Maximus appeared. A deft cut, almost faster than the eye could follow, there was a spray of blood and the warrior on Ballista’s left toppled from the saddle. No time for thanks, Maximus spurred on and Ballista turned all his attention to his remaining adversary.
After a time, as if by mutual consent Ballista and his opponent backed their horses a pace or two. Panting heavily, each waited for the other to make the next move. The din of combat echoed back from the rocky slopes and the dust rose up like chaff from a thrashing floor. Around Ballista and the Persian the hot battle roared, but their perceptions had narrowed to a space little bigger than the reach of their swords. Ballista’s left arm was stiff, almost useless. Every breath he took seared his chest He noted another rider in eastern dress looming up in the murk behind his assailant. Ballista recognized him.
‘Anamu, you traitor!’
The long, thin face of the man from Arete turned towards Ballista. The wide spaced eyes showed no surprise. ‘It is not my fault,’ the man shouted in Greek. ‘They have my family. I had to guide them after you.’
Seeing Ballista’s distraction, the Sassanid surged forward. Instinct and the memory in his muscles let Ballista flick the blade aside.
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.