Fall of Empires

Chapter 29

Peroz dug his heals into his horse's flanks and urged her up the slope. The loose shale scattering under the mare's hooves threatened to send them both tumbling but he nevertheless pressed her on ever faster. His pursuers were closing all the time. Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder he could see that the nearest riders had reached the bottom of the slope. He cursed as the horse stumbled and then regained her footing. She was almost blown. He had lost count of the fresh mounts he had taken over from the post stations along the road from Ctesiphon as he had ridden northwards day and night to deliver his message. This last fresh horse had been given to him two days ago. She was a plucky little mare but he had pushed her hard and now she was exhausted.  

He wondered again whether he should have chosen this route or whether he should have stuck to the main road towards the Cilician Gates rather than taking this detour through the rough hill-country in the hope of avoiding the Roman forces he had been warned were still in the area. The men who pursued him now must have been left behind by the force that had destroyed the army of the now-dead Shahin to watch the passes. Peroz shuddered at the recollection of the great general's dangling corpse in the courtyard of the royal palace and felt a cold sliver of fear at the thought of the impending failure of his own mission. He had been relieved to receive the orders to ride to the army at Chalcedon, with an urgent message to be put only into the hands of the general Rhazates. After months of kicking his heels in the garrison at Ctesiphon awaiting some development, it had been all he could have hoped for; the open road and the chance to see some real action at last in this war. 

He had forsaken armour in favour of speed and as he crested the ridge to find himself in a gently sloping meadow of yellow grass, he had cause to regret that decision as four more enemy scouts burst from the tree line. They called out to each other in excitement as they spotted their quarry and spurred their mounts onwards. The mare was blowing hard and specks of foam flew back from her mouth and spattered his tunic. Her eyes were wide. Peroz knew he could not outrun them. He reached for his bow, hoping to even the odds, sawing on the reins to bring the mare around as an arrow loosed by the closest scout whistled over his shoulder. The horse stood gratefully still with her chest heaving as he took aim and loosed two shafts as swiftly as he could before spurring her on once more. He drew his sword as he noted with satisfaction that both arrows had found their mark and that two of the scouts lay motionless in the grass. Riding straight at the closest scout who was fumbling with his bow, Peroz hoped to cut him down and gain the safety of the trees. An arrow fired by the other scout whipped past his ear. Peroz aimed the point of his sword at the centre of the nearest man's chest as the distance closed but found himself suddenly launched into the air as his horse stumbled and went down. He hit the ground hard and rolled, his sword lost. As he attempted to regain his feet he was barged down by the scout he had been hoping just moments before to skewer on his sword point, who had ridden straight at him.  

Looking back towards his horse he saw with sadness that the brave little mare had an arrow through her chest and two more in her rump. They had been fired by the pursuing scouts who had made it to the top of the slope just in time to aid their comrades. They surrounded him now, riding around him like huntsmen around a cornered boar, their bows trained upon him.  

The chase was over. Peroz was a prisoner. He had failed. 

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Theophanes galloped along the lake shore, making for the imperial tent, wondering excitedly at what could have prompted a summons from the emperor himself. He urged Bucephalus on and the horse responded with that turn of speed which few other horses could match. It was a fine day to be alive. He took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air and took in the view around him of the vast lake that reflected the scudding clouds, the camp clustered like a village along its shore and the dark forbidding forests at the edge of the windswept plateau which clung like moss to the foothills of the mountains beyond.
These weeks beside the great lake where the forces of the empire had reunited as spring had given way to early summer had been amongst the finest times that Theophanes could remember since leaving Antioch. Each day along with Isaac and the other members of his unit he had ridden far and wide, exploring the local terrain, hunting game for the pot and pushing their mounts and themselves ever harder. He had practiced with sword and spear and bow until he had become a reasonable shot from the saddle and able to bag a rabbit if it was sitting still. His attempts to skewer one of the unfortunate creatures that teemed on the upland plateau on the end of his spear, if it happened to bolt across his path, had been less successful. Their new comrades had accepted Theophanes and Isaac well enough once their horsemanship skills had been demonstrated and Theophanes had been able to convince them that, despite his curious pronunciation of their tongue, he had some Arab blood himself. His new cuirass of toughened leather still chafed at the shoulders but he was beginning to feel quite at home in Heraclius’ army.
Dismounting outside the emperor’s tent, Theophanes announced himself to the guards and after a few moments was gestured inside.