Another roar drew Ballista's attention to the left. Mucapor at their head, the main body of the Equites Singulares was charging. It was a small, armoured wedge, not many more than a hundred horsemen, but the Sassanids were running from them. All along the line, the easterners were running. Damn, thought Ballista, it is all too soon, all fragmented, most of the bastards will escape.
Ballista put Pale Horse into a trot, rising gently to a canter. There were one hundred paces of bare desert to the backs of the nearest Sassanids. Time to take charge, thought Ballista, it is all or nothing now. He pushed on into a flat-out gallop. The distance between the horsemen and the running Persian foot soldiers closed quickly. Ballista unsheathed his long cavalry sword. He fixed his eyes on the point between the green-clad shoulder-blades of a running easterner. He held the sword out straight. At the last second, a glimpse of terrified, dark eyes, and the man hurled himself to the ground. The charge ran over him.
They were through the infantry. Ahead were the backs of the cavalry. Ballista angled the charge towards the right. The horsemen there were moving more slowly, were milling about. Ballista could feel himself starting to grin like an idiot. His plan might yet work. Despite Acilius Glabrio, it might yet work. The Persian cavalry in front of him realized the Romans were coming. The easterners began to push, to jostle each other. They came to blows. They were at a standstill, literally fighting to get to the lip of the bank, to have a chance to scramble down the steep banks of the Chaboras.
A clibanarius at the back of the mob sawed on the reins to bring his horse round to face Ballista. The horse's nostrils were wide, its mouth bloody. The man's surcoat was a delicate violet, covered in abstract swirls. His face was hidden behind a mail hanging. Even the eyes, in deep shade, could not be seen. The man must have thrown away his lance. He was tugging his sword out. Ballista aimed a vicious back-handed cut over Pale Horse's ears. Steel rang and sparks flew as the clibanarius parried the blow with his own blade. As his gelding drew level, Ballista reached out and with his left hand grabbed the mail aventail covering the Persian's face. It slipped up, blinding the warrior. The momentum of Pale Horse dragged the Persian half out of his saddle. Ballista smashed the pommel of his sword down into the hidden face of his opponent. There was a sickening sound like the carcass of a chicken breaking. Ballista pushed the man over the far side of his horse to the ground.
Another Persian came at Ballista from his left, heavy sword swinging down in a mighty overhand chop. The northerner took the blow on his shield. Splinters flew, and he heard the linden boards crack. Blindly, he thrust out under the damaged shield. The point of his sword slid off the Sassanid's armour. The press of horses and men crushed Ballista and his opponent together, too close to effectively use their swords. The Persian's left hand shot up, his mail-clad fingers clawing at Ballista's face, searching for his eyes. Swaying back, hot blood on his cheek, Ballista dropped his sword, feeling its weight tug at the wrist strap. He grabbed a streamer floating from the easterner's helmet. He yanked hard. The man began to topple backwards. Then the streamer tore. The Sassanid grinned savagely as he regained his balance. Their horses moved a little apart. Ballista punched the metal boss of his broken shield into the man's face. The man grunted with pain. He swayed in the saddle. Flicking the hilt of his sword back into his grasp, Ballista swung with his right fist. The Sassanid jerked his head aside. Ballista felt a scrunch of bones as at least one of his knuckles shattered on the steel of the man's helmet. A stab of white-hot agony shot up his arm. Bellowing with pain, Ballista smashed the edge of his shield across the easterner's face. The jagged wood sliced through flesh. Screaming, the man doubled up, his hands flying to his lacerated face. Bright blood matted his black beard. Ballista chopped the blade of his sword down into the back of the man's neck, one, two, three times. Ignoring the sharp bursts of pain from his broken hand, he finished the job.
The Sassanids were no cowards, but they had been caught unprepared, trapped between the impetus of the Romans and the steep slope down to the river. Panic spreads through an army like fire across a Mediterranean hillside in high summer. Soon the only Persians left on the stricken field were dead or helpless and soon to die. Ballista kept the Equites Tertii Catafractarii Palmirenorum close in hand. He did not let any of them descend the banks of the Chaboras, although after a time he let some dismount to throw rocks down into the tangled mass of horses and riders struggling in the stream. Any recruits in the ranks now knew that a river running red with blood was not just a literary conceit.
Here in the south where the Chaboras had impeded their flight, the slaughter of the Sassanids had been prodigious. Some easterners had also died in the north, those who had been too close to avoid the charge of Acilius Glabrio and Equites Primi Catafractarii Parthi. In the centre, all the Persian horsemen had got away into the desert to the east. Mucapor and the Equites Singulares had merely run down some poor infantrymen. Yet Ballista's plan had worked. Although Acilius Glabrio's premature charge had let the majority of the Sassanid army escape, it mattered little. The easterners were scattered, their morale was broken.
As Ballista slid from the saddle to relieve the weight on Pale Horse's back, a wave of depression broke over him. What did it signify? He had beaten this army. The Sassanids would send another. And another after that. This was a religious war. The easterners would not stop until they had lit the Bahram fires, the sacred fires of Mazda, throughout the whole world. A black thought struck Ballista – even if he defeated Shapur himself, even if he killed or captured the King of Kings, the eternal war between east and west would continue.
XII
The aftermath of any battle is hellish, and the battle of Circesium was no exception. Under a high sun, the flat, bright desert stretched away. The ground was covered with the detritus of warfare: discarded, broken weapons, dead horses, the half-naked, humped corpses of men, sweet-smelling piles of horse droppings, the foul stench of human guts.
'Ave, I give you joy of your victory.' Acilius Glabrio had taken off his helmet. His usually purposefully teased curls lay flat to his skull. Sweat was running down into his beard. He was beaming, very full of himself. Ballista noticed the cut on the young patrician's cheek was still open. 'Celeritas and cold steel. Nothing a goat-eyed easterner can do about it.'
Ballista stepped very close to him. 'You insubordinate little prick. I ought to kill you now,' he hissed.
The smile stayed on Acilius Glabrio's face, but his eyes went cold. 'Be grateful, you jumped-up barbarian shit. I have just given us a great victory.'
'You have just given us half a victory, and thrown away the better part,' snapped Ballista. His right hand was swelling. It throbbed like hell. His temper was on a knife edge.
'You gutless barbarian bastard.' Acilius Glabrio's face was full of scorn. 'I have chased away the Sassanids you were so scared of, and now you can retake Circesium unopposed. A great victory. Enjoy it while you can. I have not forgotten what you did to my brother.'
Ballista struggled to control his fury. 'And what will you do about it? Hire another assassin?'
Acilius Glabrio's snort of laughter was genuine. 'You judge others by yourself. I would be as low as you if I stooped to such things.'
The cavalry prefects Niger and Albinus walked up. They said it was time to acknowledge the acclamations of the troops. Ballista, eyes still locked with those of Acilius Glabrio, stepped back. The terrible thing was, he believed him: the odious young patrician had not hired the assassin.