Demetrius fervently prayed that Ballista and Maximus did not share the fate of Dolon. If the young Greek had had the poetry of Homer to hand he would have tried to see how things would fall out. It was a well-known method of divination to pick a line of the Iliad at random and see what light the divine Homer shed on the future.
The thoughts of Demetrius were dragged back to the present by the sounds of a Sassanid patrol making its way along the ravine up from the river. He heard the challenge 'Peroz-Shapur' and the response, 'Mazda', then a low exchange in Persian. Demetrius found himself, like the others, on the lip of the ravine, leaning forward, straining to catch the words. It was pointless. He did not know a word of Persian.
Demetrius physically jumped as a flood of light came from the postern gate. He spun round. In silhouette in front of the gate stood Acilius Glabrio. The torchlight caught the nobleman's gilded cuirass. It was moulded to resemble the muscles of an athlete or hero. Acilius Glabrio was bareheaded. The curls of his elaborate coiffure shone. His face was in shadow.
'What in the name of the gods below is happening here?' The patrician tones sounded angry. 'Decurion, why is this gate open?'
'Orders, Dominus. Orders of the Dux.'
'Nonsense, his orders were that this gate remain shut at all times.'
'No, Dominus. He told me to keep the gate open until dawn.' The junior officer was cowed by the seemingly barely controlled anger of his superior.
'And why would he do that? To make it easy for the Persians to get in?'
'No… no, Dominus. He and his bodyguard are out there.'
'Are you mad? Or have you been drinking on duty? If you have I will have you executed with old-fashioned severity. You know what that entails.'
Demetrius did not know what that entailed, but presumably Cocceius did. The decurion started to shake slightly. Demetrius wondered if Acilius Glabrio's anger was real.
'Even our beloved Dux is not such a barbarian that he would desert his post to run around outside the walls in the middle of the night.'
Acilius Glabrio half turned. He pointed to the gate. 'You have moments to get inside and return to your post before I have this gate shut.'
Arguing with senior officers did not come easily to Cocceius. 'Dominus, the Dux is still out there. If you close the gate he will be trapped.'
'One more word from you and it is mutiny. Inside now.'
The two troopers sheepishly went inside. Cocceius started to move.
'No.' Demetrius almost shouted. 'The Dux heard the sounds of tunnelling. He has gone to spy out where the Persian mine is being dug.'
Acilius Glabrio rounded on him. 'And what have we here? The barbarian's little bum boy.' He stepped close to Demetrius. He smelt of carnations. The torchlight highlighted the little ruffs of beard that were teased out in curls from his neck. 'What are you doing here? Selling your arse to this decurion and a few of his troopers so that they open the gate and let you desert?'
'Listen to the boy, Dominus. He is telling the truth,' Cocceius said.
The intervention attracted the full attention of Acilius Glabrio. Now the young patrician's anger was palpably genuine. Turning from Demetrius, he approached the decurion. 'Have I not warned you? Inside now.'
Cocceius dared a final appeal. 'But Dominus, the Dux… we cannot just abandon him out there.'
Forgetting the sword at his side, Demetrius bent down and picked up a rock.
'Are you disobeying a direct order, Decurion?'
Demetrius felt the rock sharp and gritty in his hand. The curls on the back of Acilius Glabrio's head shone in the torchlight.
'Ave, Tribunus Laticlavius.' A voice came from beyond the torchlight.
Acilius Glabrio whirled round. His sword rasped from its sheath. He crouched, his body tense.
Two ghostly figures, blackened and streaked with dust, emerged into the circle of light. The taller pulled a cloth from his head. His long fair hair fell to his shoulders.
'I must congratulate you, Tribunus, on your diligence. Patrolling the ramparts in the dead of night, most admirable,' Ballista said. 'But now I think that we should all go inside. We have much to discuss. We have a new danger to face.'
XV
Ballista went to take a last look at the Persian siege ramp. He peered out from behind the makeshift parapet. Virtually every day the Sassanid artillery smashed the parapet to pieces. Then that night the defenders rebuilt it.
Despite the thick cloud of dust the progress of the ramp was clear enough. The Persians had begun work thirteen days before the kalends of August. It was now nine days before the kalends of September. Counting inclusively, that was thirty-six days' work. In thirty-six days the ramp had inched forward some forty paces and been slowly lifted up almost to the level of the parapet of the town wall. The ditch in front of the wall, which had taken the defenders such trouble to dig, had been packed with rubble. A gap like a canyon still separated the ramp from the defences. But the canyon was only about twenty paces wide, and it was partly filled by the defenders' own earth bank up against the wall. When the canyon was filled the Sassanid storming party would have a final approach over a level land bridge some twenty-five paces wide.
The progress of the siege ramp had been bought at the cost of the back-breaking labour of thousands. Every morning in the grey light of pre-dawn the Persian vinae, the mobile shelters, were pushed forward and joined together to form three long covered walkways. Under these, lines of men laboured to bring up the earth, rubble and timber that those at the front, protected by stout screens, dropped down into the space before the ramp. At the sides of the ramp more workers, again protected by screens, levered and mortared into place the mud bricks which formed the retaining walls.
The ramp's progress had been bought at the cost of the lives of many, many men in the Sassanid ranks. Soon after work had begun Ballista had sited the town's four twenty-pounder artillery pieces behind the wall in line with the ramp. Several houses had been demolished to create the new artillery emplacement. Those property owners that could be found had been promised compensation – should the town not fall. Every morning the vinae had to advance on the same lines, and then stay in place throughout the long day. Every morning the ballistarii in charge of the twenty-pounders, having checked the settings of their weapons, could fire blind at a high trajectory over the wall, reasonably confident that, sooner or later, with help from the spotters on the wall, one of their smooth round stones would hit one of the vinae at terrifying speed; would smash its wood and leather and reduce to a sickening pulp the men labouring in the illusory safety beneath.
As soon as the look-outs on the wall shouted, 'hit, hit,' the defending bowmen would emerge from the shelters they had dug in the base of the town's internal glacis, sprint up to the battlements and pour a devastating hail of iron- and bronze -tipped arrows into those Sassanids exposed as they feverishly worked to repair or reposition the vinae.
Ballista had ordered that the two six-pounder artillery pieces sited on the towers at the threatened stretch of wall concentrate on the bricklayers working on the ramps' retaining walls. The ballistarii in charge of these had a clear line of vision. The screens could not withstand repeated impacts. Here again, over time, the slaughter was immense.
The Sassanid artillery had done what it could to destroy its counterparts. But so far they had been unable seriously to curtail the havoc caused by the defenders. Ballista had had to replace both the six-pounders and most of their crews twice, and one of the twenty-pounders had been smashed beyond repair. There were no further reserves of stone-throwers. Yet the volume of shooting had been little reduced.