Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

‘Form a wedge on me!’

The colourful bulk of Manu of Edessa moved up on his right knee; his brother on his left. Sporakes, the governor’s personal bodyguard, and the scout tucked in close behind. An arrow fell in front of his horse, skidded up the dust.

‘We are armoured, they are not. We ride through them. No bows, just swords. Across the wadi, and north to Singara. No matter who goes down, no one stops.’

There was no time for anything more.

‘Charge!’ Priscus drew his blade and kicked on without looking round.

The Persians were almost on them. Loose tunics and wide trousers billowing, at full gallop, they put away their bows and drew their long, straight swords. They were natural horsemen. The first came at him from the right, long black hair flying. The easterner’s blade described a great arc of steel, cutting at his neck. Dropping the reins, Priscus gripped his hilt in both hands, took the blow just in front of his face, deflected it over his head. The impact knocked him backwards. A sharp pain at the base of his spine. His horse ran on. Only the high rear of his saddle stopped him being thrown over the rump of his mount. Dismounted, you were finished. His left hand found one of the saddle-horns. As he hauled himself upright, struggling for balance, another swung at him from the left. Somehow, he got his blade across. Steel scraped on steel. A fierce dark face, close to his, shouting. Then their horses pulled them away from each other.

Clear ground in front. Nothing between them and the wadi. Manu on one shoulder, Philip the other. They were through. Priscus felt contempt for whoever led these Persians. He gathered the reins, looked back. Sporakes was there, the rest following, not too dispersed. Further back, Sassanids like wild dogs circled a couple of troopers who had been separated from the rest. One was on foot, the other still mounted. It made no odds: it was over for them.

‘Ahead!’ Philip shouted.

More Persians were emerging from the gully, four or five dozen of them. They were on the far side, milling and wheeling, bright like exotic birds. A big young Sassanid with reddish hair was getting them into line. Not such a fool, after all, Priscus thought. The first group was intended to delay us. He means these to hold us until the main body from the East comes up in our rear.

‘Close up.’ Priscus got his horse in hand, eased its pace a little to let the others get in order.

They were nearly at the wadi. There was nothing else for it. They had to cross. Alexander the Great had crossed the Granicus in the face of an entire Persian army.

‘They are only Persians. They will not stand.’ Priscus did not believe his own words. ‘Thrust at their faces. Remember the Granicus! Alexander!’

Above the thunder of hooves, one or two troopers yelled: ‘ Alexander! Alexander! ’

From ahead, louder, a roar came back. ‘ Garshasp! Garshasp! ’ The Persians brandished their weapons. The big red-haired leader was in the front rank, laughing.

As the drop loomed, Priscus gave his mount its head, urging it with his thighs to make the leap. The ground fell away. Priscus leant back. He was lifted from the saddle, then, as they landed, slammed back hard down into it. An awful numbness arched up his back. The horse stumbled. Almost on its knees, it gathered itself.

A couple of strides, and they were going up the far side. Priscus stretched forward over the horse’s neck, clutching its mane. Loose stones and sand shot out from under its slipping hooves. It gathered its quarters; two titanic thrusts and they ran into a Persian horse at the top. A blade thrust at him from the right. He parried, rolled his wrist and thrust back. The resistance jarred up his arm. The reek of blood, hot horse, and fear. Men and beasts screaming, indistinguishable. A flash of light to his left. A blow clanged off his helmet. Head ringing, he struck out blindly, left and right.

They had been stopped. Only a few were with him. Most of the troopers were still down in the wadi. He had to clear the way. If they did not get moving, they were dead. He fended off a cut from his left. His right was exposed. The easterner there drew back his blade, and stopped, staring stupidly at the severed stump of his sword arm. Manu shaped to finish the man. Another horse crashed into the melee. Manu’s mount was thrown backwards; its hooves fought for purchase on the edge of the gully. Manu had lost his seat, was almost over its neck, his kohl-lined eyes wide. They toppled backwards.

Only one Sassanid ahead. Priscus called to his horse, kicked his heels into its flanks. The easterner’s animal turned across their path. They were flank to flank. The Persian raised his sword for a mighty overhand stroke. Priscus thrust the tip of his blade into the man’s armpit. The way was open again.

‘Forward! Get moving!’

Priscus looked over his shoulder. Philip was there, and Sporakes. Troopers were urging their mounts up the incline. Down in the wadi, Manu was on his feet, ringed by Persians.

‘Forward! On to Singara!’

Rome

The Carinae,

Seven Days before the Ides of May, AD235

Iunia Fadilla always smiled when she walked over the mosaic of the bath attendant with the enormous, jutting penis, its glans picked out in purple. It was the right response. All sorts of malign daemons sought out bathhouses, even those in private houses such as hers. They congregated especially in doorways. Nothing dispelled them like laughter. So everyone said.

In the tepidarium , she kicked off the clogs which had protected her feet from the floor of the hot room, a maid took her robe and she climbed naked on to a couch. A slight intake of breath told her masseuse the oil had not been warmed quite enough. The girl murmured an apology. You got a better massage in the Baths of Trajan. Since the ruling of the last Emperor, they remained open after dark. But, from midday, the best rooms were reserved for men; too many things were in life. And there were the complications of bothering to organize a return in the dark; the need for a litter, linkmen, guards. Perpetua was joining her, and she would have been especially silly, as tonight was the first night of the Lemuria , when the gates of Hades stood open. Maybe she should just sell the girl and buy a new masseuse.

The girl smoothed the scented oil up her back. Iunia Fadilla gazed at the wall decoration. Compared with those her late husband had commissioned for the bedrooms, Jupiter abducting Europa was very tame. In the form of a bull, the deity shouldered aside the waves. On his back, Europa lightly steadied herself with one hand; from the other dangled a basket of flowers. Given the turn of events — one moment innocently gathering flowers on the shore with her friends, the next crashing through the sea on the back of the lust-crazed King of the gods in bestial form — she appeared oddly unconcerned, even complacent. Perhaps Jupiter had reassured her: he would transform himself into an eagle before he raped her; and the man she would then be forced to marry was, after all, a King among men: worse things could happen to a girl a long way from home.

As the slave got to work on her shoulders, Iunia Fadilla’s breath came in little gasps, almost as if in the act of love. But her thoughts had moved to very different matters. She had decided which of the two villas on the Bay of Naples she would buy. There was a crack in one of the external walls, but the engineer had assured her it did not affect the integrity of the structure, while the other property had a problem with its supply of water and an ongoing boundary dispute. Also, the one she had chosen had more extensive vineyards. The rent they would bring should not only cover the costs of the repairs to the house, but eventually begin to offset the price of the purchase.