Harry Sidebottom - Lion of the Sun

As he waited, time played strange tricks on Maximus. It slowed down; stopped altogether. Each breath seemed to take an age. The noise of the Sassanids grew louder, but they did not appear. The sounds seemed to fade. Maximus relaxed the bow. He counted his arrows: twenty. He looked at the stars, as unknowable as the hearts of men. They were paling. It was nearly dawn.

The first two Sassanids took him by surprise. They turned the corner side by side, at a good canter. Maximus drew the bow. He aimed at the one to his right, deliberately low, intending to hit the horse. He released. Having grabbed another arrow, he saw the horse was down, its rider rolling in the dust. He shot at the other and missed. He shot again. The arrow buried itself into the horse's chest. The animal somersaulted forward, its rider catapulted over its head. He crunched hard into the stony path.

Another Sassanid had negotiated the first fallen horse. Sword out, he was urging his mount up the incline. Calmly, deliberately, Maximus shot him. The arrow plucked him off his horse's back. The smell of blood strong in its nostrils, equine cries of pain loud in its ears, the horse bolted up past Maximus and away.

The remaining Sassanids at the foot of the incline were at a standstill, unsure how many were against them, uncertain whether to go forward or withdraw. Maximus drew and released again and again. The deadly shafts whistled through the pale-grey light of pre-dawn.

An easterner on foot was rushing at him from the left. Maximus dropped his bow. He crouched to scoop up his sword and his opponent loomed over him. The Sassanid held his sword over his head in a two-handed grip. The long blade started to come down in a great sweep like an axe. Uncoiling, sword out in front, Maximus drove himself forward under the blow. The sharp point of the Hibernian's gladius drove into the stomach of the Sassanid. The two men were pressed together. There was a slaughterhouse stench. Maximus pushed the still-gasping easterner away.

The Sassanids drew back out of sight. Under his shield, peering round the stones, Maximus could see two dead horses and two dead men. Nothing else. He counted his remaining arrows: eight. He wondered whether to run for it. Had he bought enough time for the others?

No time now. A rising war cry. The Sassanids were coming again. Maximus put down the shield, sprang to his feet and drew his bow. The Persians thundered into sight. Maximus released. He grabbed another arrow. Working as fast as he could, he poured missiles down into the enemy.

An arrow sliced a hand's breadth past his head. This time, the easterners at the rear were shooting over the heads of the ones in front.

Maximus released again. A Persian horse went down. He shot once more. He missed. He reached for another arrow. There were none left. He took up sword and shield. There was no stopping them this time.

The Sassanids were almost on him. He could see the flaring nostrils of their mounts, hear the snap of the long streamers they wore. A small stone bounced off his helmet. He glanced up. A shower of stones was falling. Above that, the air was full of rocks.

Maximus turned and ran. Stones and rocks slewed off the ground all around him. One caught him a painful blow on the shoulder. Behind him there was an awful roaring, a grinding.

He had moved beyond the torrent of debris. Maximus stopped and looked back. The track was invisible behind a thick cloud of dust. He stood staring stupidly at it. Beside him, his horse whinnied, struggling against its hobble. Maximus walked over. He found he still had his sword in his hand. He sheathed it. He must have dropped his shield. He calmed the horse, untied its hobble, climbed on its back.

The dust had started to drift away: the track was almost obliterated under the landslide. The Sassanids were gone; either crushed or fled.

A noise above him made Maximus look up at the top of the cliff. An ugly face gingerly peered over the edge. Seeing the Hibernian, it broke into a huge smile.

'Try not to look so surprised. Who did you expect would save someone like you? Surely you don't think the gods love you enough to cause a landslide? I am not really sure I do,' said Calgacus. 'And now I have to find my way down again.'

His back to the wall, Ballista could not move. His thighs were pinned by those of two other men, the tribune Marcus Accius on his left, Camillus of the VI Gallicana on his right. Ballista could feel the heat coming from their bodies. His own was dripping with sweat. The air was thick and he was finding it hard to breathe.

Ballista had always feared confined spaces. The subterranean cell was tiny. The majority of the senior officers of the Roman field army had been pushed into it and there was barely enough space for them all to sit. Ballista badly needed to stretch his legs, to check his cut and bloodied feet, but there was no room.

The dignitas of Rome was humbled, the emperor Valerian captured, his entire army dead or surrendered. Almost all the high command had been herded like slaves into this stinking prison — almost all: Valerian and his ab Admissionibus Cledonius were not there. They had been taken elsewhere, to endure further humiliations, to be gloated over at leisure. And Turpio was not there either. He was dead. Ballista had taken a last look at his friend as they left the valley of tears, a last look at his decapitated head stark on a pike.

From somewhere in the crush of bodies came the voice of the Praetorian Prefect Successianus. 'Discipline, we must keep our discipline. These cock-sucking Sassanid reptiles do not know disciplina. Keep our disciplina and we can beat them.' Over and over he muttered it. Ballista thought Successianus might be losing his mind. If so, it would be no wonder.

The march south could have robbed any man of his reason. It had been two days of hell. The line of prisoners had been driven along by blows, from whips, the butts of spears and the flats of blades, sometimes the edges. Valerian had been at the head of the line, dressed as a slave, a crown of thorns digging into his aged head. His officers, loaded with chains, followed him. Their boots had been taken and they had stumbled as the sharp rocks tore their feet. Behind them had trudged the long tail of the rank and file.

It had been hot, unbearably hot. Overhead, the sun was merciless. Swirling clouds of dust had blinded them, lodged in their throats, threatened to choke them. They had been terribly thirsty. Once a day they had been driven like cattle to water. Many had not had a chance to drink before they were beaten onwards. Twice, rounds of stale bread were thrown to them. Some had been too far gone to eat; others had fought over these scraps.

Degradation had been added to cruelty. If a man fell out to relieve himself, the Sassanids amused themselves by jeering and throwing stones as he squatted. When a man collapsed, he was beaten to his feet. If he did not rise quickly enough, he was summarily killed.

The ordinary milites had suffered worse than the officers. No residual eastern respect for rank had protected them. If a young soldier's looks, not totally obscured by the dirt and suffering, happened to catch the eye of a guard, he was hauled out of the ranks. Held down, often in full view, he was raped, sometimes repeatedly. After the assault, the victim was left lying in the dirt. Some staggered back to the column; others remained prone in the dirt. Ballista had watched as one, a fresh-faced youth not yet twenty, covered his head and waited to die.

Not long after setting out, they had come upon a dry stream and the march was stopped. Glorious in purple and white raiment, with streamers floating behind, the Sassanid King of Kings had ridden up to inspect the stream. After consultation with some of his courtiers, Shapur had ordered a squad of legionaries to be forced down into the low watercourse. The banks had been ringed with horsemen. The Romans had fallen to their knees, arms out in supplication. It had done no good. To the accompaniment of mocking laughter, the defenceless men were riddled with arrows. An imperious order, a flurry of blows, and the column had been forced to march over the still-bleeding bodies of their comrades.