by Peter Darman
The Immortal battle line, three-quarters of a mile in length at the beginning of the battle, was well over a mile in length now it had been bent inwards. And the divisions in the middle of the bulge were now spaced apart and isolated. Indeed, had the enemy possessed a capable commander near the actual fighting, he could have organised one or more columns to advance through the gaps. But Kewab knew his enemy and that enemy was intent on killing Immortals. So, the Gaul chiefs were throwing their men at individual battalions of Immortals. The latter, now possessed of scorpions with liberal quantities of iron-missile bolts that had been dumped on the ground near the bolt throwers, were still in formation, still fighting and were now raking the dense enemy formations with missiles that could go through two bodies. But still, they would not be able to hold out indefinitely.
At the edges of the concave formation the Cappadocians and Pontic hill men had not been able to make much of an impression on the Immortals after the latter’s initial withdrawal. Much less so now the scorpions were brought into play. So, the Cappadocian leaders and Pontic chiefs made a rational decision: they decided to divert some of their men into the bulge to support the Gauls who were seemingly driving all before them.
More and more as the battle continued. Just as Kewab knew they would.
‘My Immortals are going to be swamped,’ cried Castus pitifully. ‘Haytham, lead your horsemen forward.’
Haytham commanded Gordyene’s two thousand medium horsemen – professional lancers in scale armour and helmets carrying shields and equipped with axes and daggers as their secondary weapons.
Kewab spun round to look at the prince.
‘Stay where you are. I did not plan this battle to see it thrown away by foolishness.’
He turned back to Castus. ‘If you want to win this battle you will do as you are told. Your men will not break and the enemy will not overrun them.’
Castus’ jaw dropped in speechless amazement. Haytham, just eighteen, sat rigid in his saddle, unsure what to do. Even Akmon, the oldest of the three brothers and a king in his own right, was reluctant to contradict the Egyptian. For this was Kewab, the military genius who had held the Kushan Empire at bay and whose battle plan the year before at Kayseri had won a spectacular victory for the Parthians. But it was Akmon Kewab now turned to.
‘If your horse archers would ride forward to support the Immortals directly to our front, majesty, it would be a great assistance.’
Akmon nodded and turned to his general.
‘See to it, Joro.’
The white-haired noble’s blue eyes glared at Kewab, turned his horse and galloped to the commander of the fifteen hundred Median horse archers waiting patiently on the grass, behind them parties of horse archers coming from the flanks to replenish their quivers from the ammunition trains after duelling with the horsemen on the enemy wings. Moments later, companies of horsemen in blue tunics and grey leggings were cantering forward to shoot at Gauls now lapping round divisions of Immortals. The air was filled with sinister hisses as the horse archers went to work, picking off individual Gauls with ease and plugging the gaps between the divisions of Immortals.
For the moment the crisis had passed but Castus, like his father, was not noted for his magnanimity.
‘If they break through and my foot soldiers are destroyed, I will kill you myself,’ he promised Kewab.
The Egyptian, unconcerned, smiled. ‘Your servant, majesty.’
*****
The Parthians were breaking. Amyntas could feel it, sense it and it exhilarated him. His nobles, eager to win glory rather than sit on their horses around their king, had begged him to grant them the privilege of fighting the enemy before the battle was won. He had assented and seen the majority ride forward to join the rout of the Parthian foot soldiers. On the flanks, the Armenian and rebel Parthian horsemen were containing the enemy and all that remained was to shatter the foe’s centre and the battle would be won. King Castus would be either dead or captured. The Roman ambassador in Melitene would wish him to be bartered for Rome’s gain, but he would see that the foolish boy was taken back to Galatia where he would be sacrificed to Camulus, along with any other Parthians they took. It was the least he could do after the sacrilege committed by them at Corum.
‘What will we do, lord?’ he asked Artaxias beside him, nodding ahead at the thousands of Cappadocians, Gauls and Pontic hill men filling the huge bulge that his warriors had created.
The Armenian king, encased in a magnificent shining scale armoured cuirass of burnished steel plates, stared ahead, stony faced.
‘Do?’
‘The enemy is on the verge of defeat. Gordyene is about to lose its king and its army.’
‘First of all, I will give thanks to Aramazd, then I will exact reparations on Gordyene, and finally I will insist its new king send me each and every Aorsi dog so I can subjugate the entire tribe to slavery.’
‘You will take possession of Gordyene?’
Artaxias leered. ‘Phraates will never consent to such a thing. But after we have taken possession of Vanadzor, its army will be disbanded, its armoury and treasury emptied, and its walls dismantled. No longer will Gordyene be allowed to torment the Armenian people.’
‘Or anyone else,’ said Polemon on his other side, behind him his son at the head of a thousand lancers wearing helmets topped with yellow plumes.
‘The gold in Vanadzor’s treasury will be shared equally between those who have suffered at Gordyene’s hands,’ shouted Archelaus, having difficulty making himself heard above the din of battle.
‘There will be enough gold for everyone,’ roared Amyntas, urging his horse forward.
The bulge was now filling with thousands of foot soldiers as the Gauls continued to hack and slash at the Immortals, behind them the mounted retinues of the kings pressing forward, eager to share in the glory.
*****
What is a horse archer but a more mobile version of the bowman who fights on foot? A fully trained archer can shoot up to seven arrows a minute, which means in battle he will empty one quiver in under five minutes, if he is still alive. Most horse archers carried two quivers – sixty arrows – but in a battle lasting perhaps hours, such an ammunition supply is wholly inadequate. That is why Dura, Hatra and Gordyene had dedicated ammunition trains: hundreds of camels loaded with thousands of arrows pre-packed into quivers that horse archers could visit during battle to replenish their ammunition. Thus, to the immediate rear of the King’s Guard, Vipers, Haytham’s lancers, Susiana’s cataphracts and Akmon’s cataphracts, were hundreds of camels, their riders busily handing out full quivers to the horse archer companies returning from the flanks, having expended their arrows shooting at enemy horsemen.
Otanes himself, his face streaming with sweat and his tunic soaked with perspiration, rode up to Kewab to report. Ignoring Castus and Akmon, much to their consternation, he pointed to the left flank.
‘Their horse archers are out of arrows.’
Kewab beamed with delight. He turned to Castus.
‘Find out if the same is happening on the right, majesty.’
Otanes and Kewab stared intently at the King of Gordyene, who curtly commanded a rider to fetch his commander of horse archers. To the front Media’s horse archers were still shooting at parties of Gauls that were endeavouring to use the gaps between the beleaguered divisions of Immortals to surround them.
The battle was now very close to the royal party and their idle horsemen, riders that Castus and indeed Akmon dearly wanted to throw forward to ride among the Gauls. Shamshir was bristling with anger and frustration, though Hovik retained his composure, remembering the counsel of Kewab the night before. But it seemed like an eternity before the commander of Gordyene’s horse archers reported to inform Castus that Atrax’s rebel horse archers were also out of ammunition.
Kewab spun in the saddle to address Castus and Akmon.
‘Now’s your time, majesties, this is the moment we take back the initiative.’
C
astus breathed a huge sigh of relief, turning to Shamshir and Haytham.
‘Follow me.’
Without uttering another word he began riding towards the left wing, Otanes nodding to Kewab before following. Shamshir and Haytham shouted at their officers to follow their king and moments later the King’s Guard and Gordyene’s lancers – two and a half thousand riders – were cantering towards the left wing. Riding in the opposite direction was Akmon at the head of Media’s and Susiana’s cataphracts – fifteen hundred riders – and Narin’s five hundred Vipers.
Akmon rode at the tip of the great wedge of horses and their riders encased in heavy scale armour, gripping his kontus in his right hand as he passed the embattled Immortal divisions, the huge black banner bearing a silver dragon fluttering behind him. He was very aware that in the opposite army were nobles who had once socialised with and fought beside the lords and their retainers who formed the ranks of his own cataphracts. He had made great efforts to extend the arm of friendship to the followers of Prince Atrax, promising them their estates back if they would swear fealty to him. But silence had been their reply and they had remained with their prince, determined to return to Media at the head of an army that would rid the kingdom of its upstart king and his Armenian wife. He knew they must die to cement his reign; their leader also.
The thousands of horse archers from Gordyene and Mesene that had been duelling with the enemy’s left wing now charged forward ahead of the cataphracts, shooting volley after volley at the enemy horsemen. The latter, seeing a horde of horse archers charging at them, in turn launched their own charge. Aside from Media’s now useless horse archers, the majority were the lesser nobles of Armenia and their retainers, plus the noble followers of Prince Atrax. They were heavily armed and could easily disperse a bunch of horse archers intent on suicide.
The horse archers maintained their ranks as they rode straight at the horsemen charging at them, the latter with lances levelled ready to skewer bodies wearing no armour. Reins wrapped around their left wrists, the horse archers shot volley after volley at the oncoming riders, creating a blizzard of arrows that cut down the front rank and most of the second. The horse archers slowed and shot more arrows that disrupted the enemy riders but did not stop them. Horses pierced by arrows reared up and threw their riders to the ground, to be trampled by those following. Other missiles struck faces, men dropping their lances and slumping in the saddle. But the Armenians and Median rebels kept on coming.
The horse archers had stopped now, picking their targets carefully among the Armenians and Median rebels, targeting the larger horses that were collapsing in droves. Then the sound of trumpets filled the warm summer air as signallers among the horsemen of Gordyene and Mesene sounded retreat. Almost as one, over five thousand horse archers wheeled around and galloped away, the rear ranks shooting volleys over the hindquarters of their mounts. The Armenians and Median rebels slowed to regroup.
To be struck in the flank by fifteen hundred cataphracts.
Maintaining a steady canter, Akmon had swung his cataphracts right to take them around the flank of the mass of allied horse archers that were keeping the enemy distracted. A frontal assault through the horse archers would have been folly, not only because of the risks inherent in moving cataphracts through companies of horse archers locked in combat, but also because the deluge of arrows shot at the enemy had created a ground littered with dead and dying horses and men, detritus the cataphracts would have to negotiate before they came to grips with the foe. So instead, Akmon wheeled his companies right before turning them left to ride ahead and then wheeling them left again to bear down on the disorganised left flank of the enemy.
He shouted in triumph, both hands gripping the long kontus shaft on his right side, as his horse headed for a group of horsemen attired in scarlet tunics, helmets and scale armour, their round shields decorated with the Tree of Life symbol, in Armenia a motif representing abundance, peace and prosperity. It was also an excellent target, Akmon driving the point of his kontus through the shield and into its owner. To the thunder of hundreds of iron-shod hooves pounding the earth was added a series of hideous scraping sounds as kontus points were driven into torsos, easily piercing the armour covering them.
To their credit many Armenians wheeled left to face the new threat, but their lances were shorter than the Parthian kontus and they were speared before they could bring their own weapons to bear. Attacking in wedges, each one made up of a hundred-man company in two ranks, the Parthian cataphracts gouged a great hole in the ranks of the enemy horsemen.
Akmon released his kontus, drew his sword – his father’s old sword – and slashed left and right at enemy riders. Joro and his sons were by his side, their father going about his grisly work with gusto despite being in his sixties. Akmon caught sight of another dragon banner and beneath it the handsome face of Prince Atrax, the sun glinting off his magnificent dragon-skin armour cuirass.
‘To me,’ shouted Akmon above the din of battle, directing his horse at the rebel banner.
Joro and his company followed, hacking their way through enemy riders wearing blue tunics and grey leggings like themselves. It was Median against Median and the combat was brutal, no quarter being asked for or given. A sword point brushed against Akmon’s cheek, drawing blood, and another cut off a couple of iron plates from his scale armour, but he and his men were killing the enemy as the hundreds of cataphracts cut deep into the enemy’s ranks. Already tired from duelling with horse archers and now assaulted in the flank by fresh cataphracts, the Armenians began to lose heart and made good their escape, what was left of them. Akmon, his sword blade decorated with gore, cried out in frustration.
Atrax was nowhere to be seen.
*****
The thousand Cappadocian lancers arrayed behind their king spotted the cataphracts approaching them from the left flank but no alarm was raised. Both the men and their officers saw the black banner emblazoned with a silver dragon billowing in the wind and recognised the horsemen of Prince Atrax. Perhaps they assumed the prince had routed the enemy horsemen facing him and wished to participate in the great victory that was at hand in the centre. So, they sat on their horses and waited patiently for King Archelaus to give the order to advance further into the huge bulge than now contained the bulk of the soldiers of Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia.
The din of battle drowned out the series of sharp cracks behind the Pontic horsemen, and those in the front ranks were unaware that women were shooting down their comrades in the rear of their formation. Akmon’s cataphracts slowed their horses to a slow trot to allow Narin’s Vipers to ride forward and shoot arrows at the Cappadocian horsemen, each woman stringing and loosing seven arrows a minute to decimate the rear four ranks of King Archelaus’ lancers – killing or wounding nearly two hundred soldiers. Two hundred more, responding to the orders of their officers and the commands of their signallers, about-faced and lowered their lances.
To be shot to pieces by the Vipers.
More horse archers, hundreds more from Mesene and Gordyene, had replenished their ammunition and had returned to the fray, assisting the two divisions of Immortals that were battling ten thousand Pontic hill men, shooting at leisure into the two enemy phalanxes and killing dozens with each volley.
It did not take long for the five kings to become aware there were enemy horsemen behind them, lots of enemy horsemen. Some shooting arrows into their own mounted soldiers, others going to work with their swords, axes and maces. The dreadful realisation that their flanks had ceased to exist, and the enemy was about to catch them in a huge trap first dawned on Geghard, the sombre Armenian general.
‘We must withdraw back to the town, majesty,’ he said to a concerned Artaxias, whose wide eyes were darting in every direction.
Before he could answer, the king’s standard-bearer fell from his horse, an arrow lodged in the side of his throat. A horse nearby collapsed to the ground, three arrows in its neck.
‘Majesty!’ shouted Gegh
ard. ‘We must go. Defend the king. Shields!’
The king’s bodyguard closed around Artaxias, to create a makeshift defence. But they were cataphracts with no shields and they and he were on horseback not in a testudo, and so arrows continued to find their mark as they fell from the sky. Arrows glanced off scale armour, but others hit arms covered in mail and penetrated the metal links to inflict wounds.
‘Fall back!’ screamed Artaxias, prompting his trumpeter to sound withdrawal, or at least half the call before he too was struck by an arrow.
Geghard retrieved the standard before he, his king and two hundred cataphracts turned tail and abandoned their allies. Or at least would have done had not those allies also decided that discretion was the better part of valour and were also heading for Melitene. They ran into Gordyene’s King’s Guard and lancers, the former emptying their quivers at the horde of fleeing horsemen, Haytham’s men charging straight at them. The result was Polemon and his son were unhorsed and captured. Amyntas escaped but consigned the majority of his nobles to death as the jaws of the trap closed shut. The sacrifice of the majority of his lancers allowed Archelaus to flee back to his town. Artaxias rode back to Melitene with half his bodyguard intact. But for one king there was no escape.
Tiridates had once been a handsome man, a tall individual with supple limbs and long arms ideally suited to wielding a sword. His legs matched the rest of his body, which meant when he sat in the saddle he was an imposing figure, accentuated by his long brown-red hair. At the height of his powers he had forged an alliance of Parthia’s eastern kings and ridden west at the head of a large army to seize Ctesiphon, depose Phraates and become king of kings of the Parthian Empire. But his dreams of glory had turned to ashes, his alliance was destroyed and he ended up as a fugitive in Syria. The Romans had been grateful he had brought with him the infant son of Phraates, and furnished him with money and a magnificent villa overlooking the Mediterranean. But he realised he had become a Roman puppet, to be wheeled out when it suited his new masters. He also realised he would never return to Parthia and so sank into a blissful alcoholic stupor. Now Parthia had come to him.
