Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  He, King Castus, Prince Haytham and King Akmon had caught up with the Immortals and professional horsemen of Gordyene to strike west through the mountains to arrive at the border with Cappadocia. The army totalled twenty-seven thousand men, which was substantially smaller than the force that Spartacus had led to Sinope the year before. But it was an army of professionals: foot soldiers and horsemen with a wealth of battle experience. But its greatest strength was its organisation and training, which were down to the vision and talents of one man. He was not present and neither were any of his soldiers, but the influence of King Pacorus of Dura was clear to all. The Immortals were based on Dura’s famed legions, the Vipers were a direct copy of Queen Gallia’s Amazons, albeit five times larger, and Gordyene’s horse archers and mounted spearmen were trained to work closely on the battlefield with the Immortals, just as Dura’s legions and horsemen were trained to work together.

  Kewab was a graduate of Dura’s Sons of the Citadel scheme and so his horsemen were trained and equipped to become a mirror image of Dura’s horsemen. The three and half thousand horse archers that had originally been part of Mesene’s army, now exiles in Dura, had been raised and trained by Nergal, once the commander of Dura’s horsemen before he became King of Mesene. It was true the thousand cataphracts and twenty-five hundred horse archers from Susiana had not been cast in the Duran mould, but they and their commander Satrap Otanes had fought with Kewab against the Kushans and the Egyptian trusted them implicitly. Even the five hundred cataphracts and fifteen hundred horse archers from Media had as their commander King Akmon, brother of Castus and Haytham and an individual raised and indoctrinated in Gordyene’s military ethos.

  ‘You are sure about this?’

  Castus was nervous. He had grasped the nettle by acting on the information given to him about the muster of enemy forces in Melitene, gladly accepting the offer of reinforcements and welcoming his older brother Akmon’s decision to join Kewab with two thousand Median horsemen. But now the consequences of the decisions he had taken weighed heavily on him as a larger enemy army was bearing down on his own. The intention had been to construct a marching camp prior to offering battle to the enemy the following morning, but scouts had returned with news that thousands of foot soldiers and horsemen were gathering to the east of Melitene, and two hours after midday the horizon began to fill with small black shapes and hundreds of glittering pinpricks – the sun reflecting off thousands of whetted spear points.

  ‘Quite sure, majesty,’ said Kewab calmly.

  ‘Our battle line is very thin, satrap,’ said Akmon, looking left to right at the Immortals drawn up in a line three-quarters of a mile in length. They were grouped in ten divisions, each one numbering a thousand men, all armed and equipped akin to Roman legionaries with helmet, mail armour and a large, curved oblong shield faced with leather. For weapons, each Immortal carried a short sword that was an exact copy of a gladius, a dagger and two javelins.

  On their right flank stood the horse archers of Gordyene and Mesene – five and a half thousand riders – and on their left flank were deployed Kewab’s horse archers-cum-lancers and Otanes’ horse archers – another five and a half thousand riders.

  Kewab turned to Hovik. ‘Your man Motofi is fully briefed on the battle plan, my lord?’

  The commander of Gordyene’s army gave him a thin smile.

  ‘He commands the best-trained soldiers in the world, lord, you need have no worry about him or his men.’

  There was a slight breeze to make life more bearable for the thousands of men wearing armour standing on the grassy plain, and the horses encased in scale armour carrying cataphracts. But the wind also carried the sounds of the enemy army, the drums, war cries, horns and trumpets being sounded to instil fear in the Parthians and bolster the courage of their adversaries.

  Castus turned his horse to face Akmon, his brother wearing a burnished cuirass of dragon-skin armour, blue tunic and grey leggings – the colours of Media’s army. He extended an arm to Akmon.

  ‘For mother and father.’

  The King of Media nodded and gripped his brother’s forearm.

  ‘For mother and father.’

  They both clasped forearms with Haytham, the racket being produced by the enemy getting louder as the foe approached. Castus glanced at the Immortals standing static ahead, shaking his head and wondering if they could hold against what appeared to be a huge number of enemy foot soldiers. Each Immortal division was divided into ten battalions, each one made up of one hundred men arranged in ten ranks and ten files. He suddenly felt a long way from home and very vulnerable. He tried to remain calm but this was the first time he had led Gordyene’s army into battle without the armies of Hatra and Dura by his side. He cursed himself for impounding Dura’s siege engines. Khalos was right: it was an infantile thing to do. It was remarkable how the prospect of imminent death put things into perspective. His mouth felt dry and he could not swallow. He felt sweat trickling down his neck.

  And the infernal racket of the enemy continued to get louder.

  *****

  Thirty-four thousand warriors were bearing down on the Immortals, a screen of Cappadocian archers and slingers ahead of them already shooting missiles at the locked shields of King Castus’ foot soldiers. The lead shots and bronze-tipped arrows were bouncing off the hide-covered wooden shields but that was immaterial. The missile troops were buying time for the seven densely packed phalanxes advancing towards the Immortals. In the centre were three phalanxes of Galatian tribesmen, each one numbering four thousand warriors packed tightly together and armed with a variety of weapons.

  Galatia was the homeland of three main tribes of Gauls, the Trocmi, Tolistobogil and Tectosages, but Amyntas’ warriors were mainly drawn from his own tribe, the Trocmi. The two thousand nobles on hardy horses grouped around their king were drawn from all three tribes, but Amyntas had placed his faith in his own tribesmen to shatter the middle of the enemy battle line.

  He may have been a loud-mouthed brute, but the King of Galatia had learned from the previous year’s disasters. He had ordered his chiefs to discard the Gauls’ favourite tactic, what the Romans called the furor Celtica, the wild frontal charge that could strike fear into unsteady troops but had come to grief against the disciplined foot soldiers of Hatra and Gordyene. Instead, the Gauls had placed their best-armed men in the front ranks, big men carrying long hexagonal or oval shields faced with hide and decorated with spirals, circles and animal motifs. They were armed with one-handed axes to literally batter their way through the red-uniformed Immortals, to create gaps into which the rear ranks of Gauls could flood to wreak horror on the enemy with their two-handed hammers and long swords.

  ‘On, on,’ screamed Amyntas, raising his sword to the heavens as his warriors tramped across the grass to lock horns with the Immortals.

  Archelaus smiled and even Polemon was gripped with elation as his own warriors, ten thousand fierce hill men commanded by Laodice, marched towards the static Immortals, raising a din to wake the dead as they hurled insults and shouted war cries to strike fear into the Parthians. They carried an assortment of weapons, most had no armour and only a smattering had helmets. It was a similar story on the right flank of the Gauls where ten thousand Cappadocian foot soldiers advanced towards the Immortals in two huge phalanxes. These men at least looked like proper soldiers, being attired in yellow tunics and leggings and black, turban-like headdresses. They were also uniformly armed and equipped with rectangular wicker shields with a central handgrip, a spear and long knife.

  To support the foot soldiers were four thousand horsemen on the left wing and a further three and a half thousand horsemen on the right flank.

  The kings were all grouped together, behind them the banners of Armenia, Cappadocia, Galatia, Aria and Pontus fluttering in the breeze. The dragon standard of Media was flying on the left flank where Prince Atrax had departed to be with his mounted spearmen and horse archers from Media– fifteen hundred men. Despite the other
rulers doing their utmost to appease him, the morose, prickly prince was very aware he was not a king and believed they belittled him. Tiridates, swaying in the saddle due to imbibing too much wine, did not know where he was but was happy to be sitting on a horse rather than standing on his feet.

  The horsemen kept pace with the foot soldiers in the centre, walking their horses forward towards the wings of the Parthian army. Horse archers nocked arrows in their bowstrings and lancers lowered their shafts preparatory to clashing with the mounted foe opposite. Thus far the Parthian army had stood rooted to the spot. Static, apparently waiting for the massed ranks of Rome’s allies to smash into them and trample them into the earth.

  And then the two Parthian wings charged.

  *****

  Kewab’s horsemen were a far cry from the immaculate Royal Bodyguard of Hatra, Phraates’ Babylonian bodyguard, Gordyene’s King’s Guard or Dura’s cataphracts. They looked more like Spadines’ Sarmatians in their variety of sun-bleached tunics that were kaftan-like coats with one breast crossed over the other and tied to one side. Far from wearing burnished armour, their protection comprised bands of hardened leather laced together to form a cuirass. Their helmets were also leather, with padded insides and neck and ear flaps. But these men had served Kewab for years during his campaigns against the Kushans. They were highly trained veteran horsemen and were heavily armed, not only with a recurve bow and three full quivers, but also with a spear with a long blade designed for piercing armour. Secondary weapons consisted of a sword, a straight, two-bladed weapon with a heart-shaped guard and knob-like pommel, plus a straight-bladed dagger.

  Kewab’s commanders had been fully briefed on his battle plan and now they led their men forward, the lines breaking into a trot, then a canter and finally a gallop, the front rank with spears levelled. The horse archers of Satrap Otanes flanked left to increase the width of the line of Parthian horsemen suddenly charging at the enemy’s right flank. As they had been instructed to do once they spotted the advance of the opposite wing, the horse archers of Mesene and Gordyene likewise charged straight at the enemy flank opposite.

  Both Parthian wings made a lot of noise – men hooting and hollering, signallers blowing trumpets – to startle the foe, which had the desired effect. The horsemen on the enemy’s wings withdrew after loosing two or three volleys of arrows that slammed harmlessly into the earth. The lesser nobles of Armenia on the enemy’s right flank – men not as rich or powerful as those who staffed the royal bodyguard of cataphracts, but still capable of raising and equipping horsemen in armour and helmets – quickly recovered from the Parthian attack and launched their own charge, lances levelled as they made the earth shake beneath their horses’ hooves.

  It was the same on the opposite flank where more Armenians and the rebels of Prince Atrax took a few moments to organise themselves before an unbroken line of lancers cantered forward to scatter the Parthian horse archers. The prince had spotted among their ranks the standards he so detested: the silver lion of Gordyene on a red background and the yellow standard of Mesene bearing a double-headed lion sceptre crossed with a sword. Four thousand horsemen charged straight at the Parthians, who halted, wheeled around and speedily withdrew, shooting volleys of arrows over the hindquarters of their horses.

  The riders of Atrax and King Artaxias were very aware of Parthian tactics and slowed their horses to allow the arrows to lose momentum and fall harmlessly to the ground. Whereupon the Parthian horse archers slowed and wheeled around to face the foe once more, trotting forward to shoot arrows on a high trajectory at the Armenians and Median rebels. Thus began a desultory, frustrating and entirely futile duel on both wings as both sides sent forward their horse archers and lancers, only to be countered with identical moves by the opposition. The only tangible result being the Plain of Melitene was peppered with hundreds of arrows.

  But in the centre the warriors of King Amyntas were about to taste the sweet elixir of success.

  *****

  The eyes of Amyntas, Polemon, Artaxias and Archelaus were not on the wings where their own horsemen were dealing with the Parthians well enough, but on the centre where their foot soldiers were about to smash into the Immortals. The famed foot soldiers of King Castus had been peppered with unrelenting volleys of slingshots and arrows that had forced each and every one of them to huddle like frightened children. Riders came to the kings with regular reports: the enemy have no archers or slingers, our own men are advancing unopposed, and the enemy is cowering beneath their shields.

  The reports were accurate. Every Immortal battalion was kneeling, the first rank forming a shield wall, the second, third and subsequent ranks lifting their shields over their heads to form a roof of wood and hide that was impervious to the enemy’s missiles. When compared to the huge phalanxes nearing them they seemed small and puny, ready to be swept aside by their executioners. The war cries and shouts of the Gauls in particular were reaching a crescendo, the prospect of victory and revenge for the desecration at Corum and the defeat at Kayseri within touching distance. And around the edges of the Gaul phalanxes, dressed in white robes and their hair tonsured, stood druids, standing on one foot in imitation of a heron and chanting incantations to call upon their gods to shower the enemy with fire and to turn their urine to poison in their bowels.

  Amyntas and the other kings had ridden closer to their foot soldiers to be as near as possible to the clash that would shatter the Immortals. The moment when thirty-four thousand warriors would crush the soldiers of Gordyene to allow the Gaul nobles, Pontic heavy horsemen and Armenian cataphracts to charge forward to kill or preferably capture the impudent boy king who had dared leave his kingdom to attack them. They saw the huge red banner emblazoned with a silver lion fluttering in the breeze in the distance and knew their vengeance was at hand.

  And then the Immortals leapt up and hurled their javelins.

  Only soldiers so well trained that they obeyed commands instinctively could have reacted so steadily in the face of thousands of approaching enemy troops thirsting for their blood. The battalion commanders blew their whistles, their men jumped to their feet, the huddled groups of Immortals dissolved and the first two ranks in every battalion rushed forward a few steps and hurled their javelins – two thousand missiles hurtling through the air to slam into the enemy throng. Seconds later the third and fourth ranks of every Immortal battalion also hurled their javelins, reaping a further harvest of enemy dead.

  Each Immortal carried two javelins, each one over six feet in length and formed of an iron spike attached to a heavy wooden shaft. The point of the iron spike was hard but the rest was softer, meaning it bent on impact, which meant it could not be thrown back at its owner. Many Gauls caught javelins on their shields, saving their lives but rendering their primary defensive piece of equipment useless. Many then tossed them aside and were struck by a javelin thrown in the second volley.

  High-pitched screams rent the air as javelins pierced bodies wearing no armour and heads unprotected. There was a third and fourth javelin volley, which interrupted the momentum of the enemy phalanxes as dead and wounded in their front ranks created a barrier of corpses and wounded men. The initiative had passed to the Immortals, who normally would have drawn their short swords and rushed forward to stab at the front ranks of the disorganised enemy. But instead they began to shuffle backwards, maintaining their unit formation impeccably. Ten divisions of Immortals began to withdraw, passing the initiative back to the enemy.

  The Gaul chiefs bellowed at their warriors to keep moving, to step over their dead and dying comrades who had been in the front ranks, to ignore the pitiful cries of men pierced by javelins and the sight of blood oozing from wounded bodies and keep advancing. The famed Immortals, the soldiers who had defeated them the year before, were in retreat. The Gauls, eager to avenge what had happened at Corum and urged on by their druids, now surged forward, realigning their ranks and once more presenting a shield wall to the retreating Immortals. They were unaware o
f the slower progress of the Cappadocian spearmen on their right flank and the Pontic hill men on their left, both wings encountering stiff resistance from King Castus’ foot soldiers, first slowing and then stopping their advance.

  But in the centre of the enemy line the Gauls were pressing ahead, now locked in close-quarter combat with Immortals as they wielded their war hammers, long swords and axes against the red-uniformed soldiers of Gordyene. In response, their curved oblong shields tucked close to their mail-covered bodies, individual Immortals jabbed the points of their short swords forward into the faces, necks and arms of their opponents, sometimes ducking low to deliver a stabbing blow from beneath their shields into the exposed groins of the enemy. The clash of weapons sounded like a thousand woodpeckers going to work inside a forest, accompanied by thousands more screams, cries, shouts and curses.

  But the Gauls were still pushing forward and the Immortals were withdrawing, albeit holding their formation as the divisions edged back. As they did so they took possession of the scorpion bolt throwers that had been deliberately deployed behind the Parthian battle line, which now resembled a huge concave shape, the Gauls having advanced to create a huge bulge as they endeavoured to break through what was now a stretched Immortal line, particularly in the centre. To the untrained eye it seemed as though the Immortals would be torn apart at any moment. That thought was uppermost in the mind of Castus as he beheld his army, his father’s army, on the verge of catastrophe. He turned to Shamshir and Narin.

  ‘The King’s Guard and Vipers will advance to support the Immortals.’

  ‘Not yet, majesty,’ said Kewab firmly.

  ‘The Immortals will break,’ he said, his voice laced with alarm.

  ‘They will not break, majesty,’ Hovik reassured him, looking at Kewab for his own reassurance. Kewab supplied it.

  ‘The Gauls are ferocious but undisciplined, majesty. They are consumed by a thirst to kill and that works against them. You see how they cluster around the divisions of your Immortals.’