Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  Around a third of the horsemen and the same proportion of legionaries died at the hands of the women and girls before they fought back. The legionaries had their shields on their backs and their helmets dangling from their belts, for this was friendly territory they were marching through. But after the initial surprise had reaped its grisly reward, all-but-defenceless females were no match for mounted spearmen with lances and professional foot soldiers armed with javelins and short swords.

  Yesim had told them what to do: kill your opponent, turn and run as fast as you can to reach the safety of the trees. But mourning women given the chance to exact revenge on those responsible for the loss of their loved ones will all too readily unleash their feral fury. And once the bloodletting had started they forgot Yesim’s words. They kept on stabbing, wounding horses that collapsed on the ground, and then trying to plunge their knives into a second and third soldier. But they were not the only ones with blades.

  *****

  Titus Tullus had watched with fury as his men were assaulted, instinctively drawing his sword and slashing it downwards when a teenage girl wearing a smile and holding a garland got close. The spatha cut her pretty face in half and she fell dead without making a sound. He shouted at his horse and dug his knees into its flanks to urge it forward, hacking left and right at women and girls scattering before him. But his wicked blade caught two who were not quick enough, the blows caving in the back of their skulls and sending them crashing to the ground.

  ‘Use your lances,’ he screamed at the horsemen, who had been momentarily stunned by the attacks unleashed on them. He glanced behind and saw the centurion barking orders at his men and knew they were in good hands.

  He smiled when he heard high-pitched screams and saw riders jabbing the points of their lances into unprotected bodies. Now the women and girls were running, hitching up their skirts so they could sprint towards the trees.

  ‘Don’t let them escape,’ he hollered, his call being answered seconds later when a signaller sounded the charge.

  A line of horsemen began to canter towards the treeline, eager to cut down the harridans who had killed their comrades. The trees would offer no sanctuary because they were widely spaced and there was no undergrowth to speak of. Around seventy horsemen levelled their lances as they approached the treeline, the women and girls disappearing into the forest, to be replaced by a horde of teenage boys.

  Who unleashed a volley of stones from their slings.

  In skilled hands a sling is a deadly and effective weapon, the smooth stones plucked from rivers and streams and used as missiles impossible to see once they have been launched. But if they strike a face the result is death. Even those that struck helmets would give the wearer intense concussion. At least twenty men were knocked from their saddles as missiles struck faces and torsos, a second volley unhorsing a dozen more. The charge disintegrated as riders pulled up their horses and wheeled away from the slingers. But the latter had the skill to seek out and kill more horsemen, the boys who had shot the first volley slipping second stones into their pouches and launching them at the retreating horsemen. Another score of lancers toppled from their saddles.

  Titus Tullus screamed in rage and frustration. And became aware he too was vulnerable sitting on his horse. He jumped down from the saddle.

  ‘Dismount,’ he shouted at an irate Gaius Arrianus, whose views on the mental inferiority of the hill people had just been cruelly disproved.

  ‘Use your horse as a shield and follow me,’ Tullus called to the ambassador.

  Grabbing the reins, Tullus kept his horse between himself and the trees as he walked briskly towards the legionaries, who had adopted a testudo formation in response to the slingshots. Gaius did the same, until a stone struck his horse in the head and dropped it. The ambassador, who had tasted the bittersweet elixir of battle, sprinted towards the testudo, reaching the sanctuary of locked shields without injury. Around the formation lay a ring of dead women and girls, their robes shredded and soaked in their own blood.

  ‘We need to get into the trees,’ Tullus told the centurion.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  Slingshots were striking the testudo now that the horsemen had been dealt with, the survivors having abandoned the legionaries. Or perhaps they were all dead.

  ‘What about the tents and supplies, sir?’ asked the centurion.

  ‘Leave them. We get into the trees and kill these bastards first. We will retrieve the supplies later. Move.’

  Gaius Arrianus had relieved a dead legionary of his shield, sword and helmet and stood ready to advance with the testudo. Tullus cracked a smile at him.

  ‘Ready to meet the locals, ambassador?’

  ‘Ready,’ came the stony reply.

  The testudo shuffled towards the trees, following the track that was now flanked by dead horsemen, wounded horses crying pitifully in their pain, and slain women and girls. The slingers continued to rake the shield formation with stones, but found the hide-covered oblong shields impossible to penetrate. Slowly but surely, the volleys lessened in intensity and stopped altogether.

  Tullus peered through the narrow gap created by his own shield held in front of his body and the shield of the legionary behind him held horizontally over his head. The trees were close now, and in the shade of the forest canopy he could see a great many individuals armed with a variety of weapons – spears, knives and clubs – waiting for him and his men. He chuckled.

  ‘Women and boys only,’ he shouted. ‘When I give the order, break formation and kill everything you encounter. Spare none.’

  He felt his heart pumping in his chest, the thirst for battle making it race with anticipation and excitement. Just over seventy men shuffled into the trees, the women, girls and boys forming a semicircle around the testudo, which suddenly broke apart when Tullus gave the order.

  ‘Kill the bastards,’ he roared.

  But the bastards had other ideas.

  *****

  ‘Now,’ shouted Yesim, turning to the youth with the horn, who blew it to fill the trees with its low groan.

  From behind the semicircle of women and girls came a blizzard of javelins, hurled directly at the advancing legionaries. Many were simple lengths of wood with a fire-hardened point, or merely freshly cut branches with a sharpened end. But they had the desired effect. As one the legionaries stopped, brought up their shields and deflected the hail of missiles.

  ‘With me,’ shouted Yesim, now equipped with a round wooden shield and an axe, the same one her father had used to chop firewood.

  She ran forward towards the enemy soldiers, beside her Berker and behind them a few warriors in their prime and more who were in their autumn years. Not all the men of fighting age had left with Laodice. Some had remained to guard villages and the womenfolk. Now they charged alongside the grand chief’s daughter, gripping axes, clubs and a few swords. Joining them was around two-dozen men with grey in their beards and thinning hair, but not lacking anything when it came to courage and fortitude.

  The women, girls and boys whooped with joy when the men surged forward, infiltrating the legionaries whose major advantage in battle was their discipline and ability to fight in formation. But that formation had broken apart to herald a fight between individuals. But Yesim and her followers were still fighting professional soldiers wearing mail armour and helmets, equipped with shields and armed with javelins, short swords and daggers.

  Yesim dodged left to avoid a javelin hurled at her, the thin point slamming harmlessly into the ground. She ran at the legionary who had thrown it, chopping down with her axe when she reached him. But he caught the blow on his shield, the keen blade of the axe ripping the hide covering but making little impression on the wood beneath. He ducked low and was about to thrust his short sword below the bottom edge of his shield, aiming for Yesim’s groin. But Berker brought his axe down hard on the soldier’s right arm, the blow falling just below the elbow. The severed limb fell to the ground, the soldier staring at it in disbe
lief, the stump gushing blood.

  Yesim left the man to be hacked to death by those behind, swinging her axe once more at a second legionary. But this adversary was facing side on, having just ripped open the belly of a youth foolish enough to think he could kill one of King Polemon’s palace guards with a knife. Yesim delivered a horizontal blow with her axe, the edge of the blade biting deeply into the legionary’s right eye socket, below the rim of his helmet. The force of the blow shattered bone to enter his brain, killing him instantly. She prised the axe out of the gore and yelped in ecstasy, around her legionaries being cut down by her followers. The battle was not one-sided but she and her followers were winning, and that was all that mattered.

  *****

  ‘Back to back.’

  Tullus did not know if Gaius Arrianus had ever fought on foot. More likely, he had directed operations on horseback to the rear of the legions.

  Most of his men were dead now, either that or were about to be. Titus Tullus grabbed Gaius Arrianus by his tunic and positioned him behind his back. To be fair, the ambassador, bare headed, battered shield tucked into his left side and bloody gladius in his right hand, had backed up his boasts about Roman superiority with a degree of ruthlessness and skill. But even simple-minded hill people will triumph against soldiers who have abandoned their formation. So it was now. One by one the legionaries went down, each one surrounded and cut down by a frenzy of axe blows and spear thrusts. They died well and it was a pity that their sacrifice would not be remembered.

  The forest floor was carpeted with the dead and dying, the majority hill men and women, and a fair number of girls, their pretty faces mutilated by gladius blades, their bodies pierced multiple times by sword points.

  And then there was silence.

  Battle is a curious phenomenon. The mind and body are gripped by tension and anticipation in the time before the bloodletting starts. Like tightly wound sinews and a bowstring about to be released, the strain can become almost unbearable. When the fighting begins, the difference between discipline and undisciplined soldiers is training. In kingdoms such as Dura, and in Rome’s armies, soldiers are trained to such a degree that drills become bloodless battles, and battles bloody drills. Feral fury is a terrifying thing to behold, especially if one is on the receiving end of it. Races such as the Gauls harnessed such rage to devastating effect on the battlefield, their warriors seemingly possessed of superhuman strength and endurance. Some – the ‘naked swords’ – were drugged to supplement their courage and make them immune to pain, at least until they were reduced to shattered husks.

  But eventually rage is exhausted and after a frenzy of hacking, stabbing and thrusting at the enemy, stamina is also used up. Minds become tired, limbs become leaden and gasping for air becomes painful. And if the enemy is still standing in their disciplined ranks, be it a Roman cohort or Duran legion, then the battle is lost.

  Yesim’s people were totally exhausted, bewildered and demoralised. They had tasted the sweet elixir of victory when they had sprung their ambush, but then the enemy soldiers, all professionals, had retaliated savagely. Yesim’s foresight had destroyed most of the horsemen when the slingers she had positioned just back from the treeline, emptied many saddles with their accurate shots. Her father had told her how the soldiers of King Polemon fought, and she knew the remaining foot soldiers would adopt the Roman testudo formation. And so it was. She thought her hundreds of women, girls, boys, old men and handful of warriors could whittle down and destroy the rectangle of locked shields. But instead the lowlanders had attacked, reaching the trees and assaulting her followers with fury. Dozens had been cut down and she had escaped death only because of Berker’s intercession. But now Polemon’s soldiers were all dead, save for two, though she and her followers were utterly exhausted.

  Tullus had positioned himself with his left side next to an old walnut tree, which reduced the chances of anyone attacking him from that direction. And with Gaius Arrianus behind him, he had a good chance of killing a few more hill people before he met his end.

  ‘You handle a sword well, ambassador,’ he panted, his tunic drenched in sweat.

  There was a time when he could have marched all day and fought a battle at the end of it. But that was years ago and being a general in the Pontic army meant a life of ease and privilege, which had added to the circumference of his waist. The old skills had not left him, but his young, muscular body had departed years ago.

  ‘I am not the effete diplomat you had me down as,’ replied Gaius.

  A circle of angry, dirty and drawn faces had gathered around them, women with cuts on their arms and some with bleeding wounds on their shoulders and legs. All giving them hateful stares. Ashen-faced boys stood with them, along with old men who had clearly seen the face of battle before.

  ‘Apologies,’ said Tullus, eyeing the throng for signs of any who was preparing to attack.

  ‘It is quite all right. Have you ever been to Rome, Titus?’

  Tullus shook his head. ‘I was just a lowly centurion, sir, who spent his life fighting on foreign soil.’

  ‘Then I would like to invite you to join me in journeying to Rome when we have reached Sinope. I’m sure King Polemon will grant you a deserved leave of absence.’

  Tullus was touched. ‘I would like that.’

  Gaius banged the flat of the gladius blade against his shield.

  ‘Excellent. I’m sure Augustus will be delighted to hear some of your stories. And perhaps we might find you a wife in the fair city.’

  Tullus laughed. ‘A patrician lady, perhaps?’

  ‘Why not. You are, after all, of high rank now.’

  Tullus’ smile disappeared when a young female, an attractive woman with large eyes, high cheekbones and full lips, pointed her bloody axe directly at him and smiled savagely.

  Chapter 19

  It took six days for Talib and the others to reach Vanadzor, their column of horses and camels travelling through rocky gorges, stunning valleys and across high hills. The evergreen forests that blanketed the area gave no indication that summer had ended, but the deciduous trees were turning orange and brown and the wind, previously welcome to take the sting out of the summer heat, now came from the north and was beginning to bite. It heralded the coming of autumn, which in Gordyene was not unduly harsh as the high mountains that surrounded the kingdom acted as huge windbreaks. Nevertheless, for the Durans being ‘escorted’ to Vanadzor, the cool days, skies heaped with grey clouds and often-bleak landscape reflected their mood.

  Had they been studying the land they were passing through more closely, they would have noticed villages filled with hale inhabitants of all ages, sheep grazing on the hillsides, goats and chickens in animal pens, and areas of cleared land set aside for crops. The truth was that Gordyene and its people were prospering, due in no small part to the efforts of King Spartacus to keep his kingdom strong to deter foreign aggression. War had previously ravaged Gordyene, but that was nearly two generations ago and now conflict was something the rulers of the kingdom exported. And with Vanadzor’s treasury filled with an enormous amount of gold, there was no shortage of recruits walking to the capital to offer their services to the army.

  They were ideal candidates, being either shepherds or farmers who had been raised in the rugged hills and valleys of Gordyene. They were young men used to subsisting on meagre fare with strong constitutions and mental toughness to see them through the long winter months. For the physically weak and feeble-minded invariably perished in the unyielding land that was Gordyene. In large families with many mouths to feed, second and third sons might leave the home to become Immortals, or even King’s Guard should they possess the requisite skills. Even daughters who would not or could not marry, might be able to swap a life toiling in the fields or herding sheep or cattle for service in the Vipers. Though entry standards were high, just as they were if one wanted to become one of Dura’s Amazons.

  The commander of Queen Gallia’s female warriors was in a testy
mood when she and the others were on the last leg of their journey to King Castus’ capital.

  ‘We are grateful for being rescued, commander,’ she said to Shamshir, ‘but we still have a mission to accomplish.’

  The commander of the King’s Guard, with his men resplendent in large red cloaks, was unmoved.

  ‘As I have told you on several occasions, lady, I too have my orders, from the king himself.’

  ‘King Castus does not command the Amazons,’ replied Minu, ‘nor Dura’s scouts. King Pacorus and Queen Gallia will hear of this.’

  Shamshir merely smiled in response, the gesture resembling more an evil leer on his ugly face. There was once a time when the mere threat of arousing the ire of the rulers of Dura was enough to strike fear into opponents, but Shamshir obviously thought it a hollow threat, which annoyed Minu even more.

  Another Amazon who had become decidedly frosty was Haya, the object of King Castus’ desires and the former lover of Klietas. The farmer had tried his utmost to win her affections back but had met with defeat. He still loved her, but his continual expressions of concern for her welfare merely grated on her nerves.

  ‘What will you say to King Castus?’ he asked.

  ‘I will tell him I am an Amazon,’ she snapped.

  His heart soared. ‘So you will refuse his offer, to be his queen?’

  ‘I did not say that,’ she said.

  He felt crushed. ‘But…’

  ‘But, but, but,’ she snapped. ‘Your incessant whining is getting on my nerves. I will remind the king that he has to seek the permission of Queen Gallia before he can speak to an Amazon regarding marriage.’

  ‘So you will marry him, then?’

  ‘Why not? At least it will shut you up,’ she said cruelly.

  There was no great parade of soldiery to greet them when they arrived at Vanadzor, the black walls of the city presenting a picture of dour strength, the only splash of colour being the huge red banner with a silver lion symbol hanging above the entrance. Guards standing either side of the open gates snapped to attention when the familiar figure of Shamshir trotted into the city, flanked by Talib and Minu in full war gear, minus her weapons and quivers.