Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  I heard a slow scraping sound and saw Bullus draw his sword. And then I saw them.

  A column of horsemen cresting a gentle rise beyond the fields, initially riding two abreast with outriders performing the duties of scouts. At first, they were hard to identify. Every horseman appeared to be carrying a lance, though I could see no banners or pennants to identify their kingdom of origin. Their column was ragged and actually a collection of small groups, which indicated they were not disciplined soldiers, which meant they were bandits. As they got closer, I saw that they wore a variety of armour – mail, scale and leather – though every rider was bare headed. The man at the front of the group suddenly raised his hand to halt his men, exchanging a few words with the rider I assumed was his deputy before re-commencing his journey towards us. My heart sank when I recognised him.

  ‘Shamash give me strength.’

  It was Spadines, the leader of the Aorsi tribe that had made its home in northern Gordyene, and who had been a close ally of first Spartacus and now Castus. The rulers of Gordyene believed the Aorsi to be valued allies, but I held them in contempt, and had done nothing to hide my opinion from their leader. He was a swarthy individual with a wild beard and even wilder hair, a roisterer, cut-throat, robber and all-round rogue. I saw a couple of riders gallop away from the now-stationary group of Sarmatians, a leering Spadines pulling up his horse a few paces from me.

  ‘King Pacorus of Dura. What strange twist of fate brings you here?’

  He glanced at Bullus beside me, gladius in hand, but ignored him.

  ‘I am visiting an old friend,’ I replied. ‘More to the point, what are you doing here? This is, after all, Media, and the Aorsi have no business here.’

  He scanned the huts in front of him.

  ‘We are on the business of King Castus, and seeing as his brother sits on Media’s throne, Akmon will not mind if we traverse his territory to please his brother.’

  ‘What business?’ I demanded to know.

  ‘Out of courtesy and respect for your age and position, I will tell you.’

  I was barely controlling my anger. He was probably my age, or thereabouts, his hair and beard streaked with grey, though his locks were thicker than mine, which annoyed me intensely for some reason. Like many Sarmatians, he wore a short kaftan that opened at the front and was wrapped across the chest from right to left. Fashioned from deerskin leather, it was dyed red to reflect his ‘noble’ position. His leggings were brown leather, as were his ankle boots. Over his kaftan he wore a shining scale and mail corselet, the rounded iron scales sewn to a leather backing, the mail attached to the bottom of the leather and split at the front and rear to enable him to sit comfortably in the saddle.

  ‘I am here to escort a wedding present for the new queen of Gordyene back to Vanadzor,’ he smiled.

  I was at a loss as to what he was babbling about. As far as I knew, Castus was going to marry Princess Elaheh of Atropaiene, though I had no specific details as relations between Dura and Gordyene were distinctly frosty following Castus’ attempt to kill Gallia’s assassins, hence our not being invited to the wedding. But there was nothing of value in this region to take back to Vanadzor as a wedding gift for a queen.

  ‘What can you possibly want with a small village in Media?’ I queried. ‘I doubt there is anything here that would interest Princess Elaheh as a wedding gift?’

  He gave me a knowing smirk. ‘How little you know, King Pacorus.’

  ‘This old man is asking for a slap,’ whispered Bullus.

  ‘Not yet, Bullus,’ I said.

  ‘King Castus has not married Princess Elaheh,’ Spadines told me. ‘He has found a far more suitable bride, a woman cast in the same mould as himself.’

  ‘Does she have a name?’ I asked.

  ‘Yesim,’ he answered.

  ‘Who?’

  I had never heard of her, and try as I might, I could think of no king in the empire who had a daughter by the name of Yesim. I assumed she was a daughter of one of Gordyene’s lords, which was perfectly fine. Though I was still at a loss as to why Spadines had been despatched to Media.

  ‘We are here to take a man by the name of Klietas back to Vanadzor,’ said Spadines. ‘He was a difficult man to find. But King Castus has much gold and gold buys you information.’

  ‘What does Castus want with Klietas?’

  He sighed. ‘To punish him for the great insolence he has displayed towards King Castus. He is to be sacrificed in honour of Yesim, in accordance with the ancient rituals of her people.’

  ‘The time for talking is over, majesty,’ whispered Bullus.

  A rider suddenly galloped up to Spadines, pulling up his horse sharply. He bowed his head to the Sarmatian.

  ‘No soldiers nearby, highness.’

  ‘Highness?’ I laughed. ‘I knew things in the world are far worse than they once were, when men of honour and integrity ruled the empire and the rule of law applied to all kingdoms, but the title “highness” is only applicable to those of royal birth. Have you become a king, Spadines, or perhaps you are here to carve out your own kingdom?’

  His smirking demeanour disappeared, to be replaced by a cold, hateful visage.

  ‘The great King Pacorus, the mighty warlord who has always looked down his nose at the Aorsi.’

  ‘With good reason,’ I retorted.

  ‘And here you are, a long way from home with no army to protect you.’

  He jabbed a finger at Bullus. ‘Is this all that remains of your famed foot soldiers, King of Dura? Has Dura fallen on hard times?’

  Bullus growled under his breath but I held him back.

  I scanned his motley collection of horsemen attired in a variety of armour either gifted or stolen, the mail rusty and full of holes, the scale armour tatty and in a state or disrepair. Only the horses were in an excellent condition. Sarmatians needed well-fed, speedy mounts to make good their escape after thieving and murder.

  ‘How many men have you got? A hundred? One Duran to one hundred Aorsi. That is what one of my soldiers is worth.’

  Bullus guffawed.

  ‘Turn around and ride back to your master, dog,’ I spat. ‘For that is what you and your Aorsi are. Jackals who inflict misery on all you come into contact with.’

  He drew his sword. Bullus immediately jumped to place himself between me and Spadines, shield in front of him, gladius poised ready to plunge into his horse’s chest. The Sarmatian pointed his sword at me.

  ‘I am a generous man, King of Dura. I will allow you and your lone soldier to leave this village unharmed. Decide now. Live or die, it makes no difference to me. But I will not return to my king empty handed.’

  ‘How about returning to your king headless?’ I quipped.

  He was dumbstruck. ‘You would die for a poor farmer?’

  ‘Would you?’

  He ignored me, turning his horse to canter back to his men. I too turned and walked back into the village, Bullus covering my back. I heard shouts and heard horses’ hooves and knew the battle was about to begin. I tried to run but my left leg suddenly began to ache intensely, causing me to hobble towards a waiting Navid.

  ‘Get your men out and kill as many as possible,’ I shouted to him.

  He turned to his signaller and issued a command, seconds later the shrill sound of the trumpet echoing around the village. Navid tossed me Horns’ reins and Bullus interlinked the fingers of his hands to provide an aid to allow me to gain the saddle.

  ‘Protect Klietas,’ I told him, ‘and stay alive.’

  He gave me an evil grin and made for the headman’s hut where Klietas and Anush were sheltering.

  Twenty-seven riders prepared to attack nearly four times their number. But numbers were only part of the equation during a battle. The main thing separating my men from the Aorsi rabble was training. ‘Train hard, fight easy’ was the motto of Dura’s army, which in turn had been the philosophy of its first commander, Lucius Domitus, a former Roman centurion I had first met in Italy. Eve
ry legionary, cataphract and horse archer received intensive training, so they obeyed orders without question on the battlefield, instinctively reacting to commands even in the white-heat of combat. In this way drills became bloodless battles and battles became bloody drills. Nothing was left to chance, and that included equipment.

  When they had first encountered us, the Romans had made the fatal error of dismissing Parthians as nothing more than effete, weak barbarians with their womanly long hair and beards. Carrhae had disabused them of that notion but both armies that had fought each other on that hot, dusty plain had been highly trained instruments. Just as the Romans had simple but effective weapons in the gladius and pilum, so did we have the Scythian bow. Perfected over hundreds of years, the weapon first used by wild Scythians of the plains measured only three-and-a-half feet in length when strung. Comprising a three-element core of ibex horn between two segments of wood, its most distinctive characteristic was the extreme curvature of the end sections, which pointed away from the archer, that is, they were reflexed. Conversely, the central section is severely bent towards the archer in a deflexed fashion.

  Wrapped in sinew which in turn was covered in Chinese lacquer to keep it waterproof, each bow required around six months of crafting and drying before it was ready to use. Light and compact, it was ideal for shooting from the saddle. But the instrument to propel an arrow was only half the equation. The arrows themselves were highly developed weapons. Many woods were used for arrow shafts. Birch was hard and tough, cedar was light, but Dura’s soldiers were equipped with reed arrow shafts. The reeds were collected from the banks of the Euphrates and dried for two weeks before fletching and the fitting of heads. The vast majority of arrowheads were the three-winged variety, though narrower heads were also used to penetrate armour, both metal and leather. Arrowheads were bronze, a metal excellent for casting, which meant arrowheads could be mass produced. Iron was lighter and stronger than bronze, though, and was used to make narrow-pointed arrowheads that could penetrate armour, as the Romans had discovered to their cost at Carrhae.

  Two lines of horse archers charged out of Vazneh, one led by me, the other by Navid. The Aorsi, leisurely cantering towards the village, were taken completely by surprise. As I had done a thousand times before, I plucked an arrow from one of my quivers, nocked it in the sinew bowstring, my legs secured in place by the four horns of the saddle I sat on, Horns’ reins wrapped around my left wrist, my left hand gripping the central section of my bow.

  I dearly wanted to kill Spadines but in battle you shoot the first target that presents itself, in this case a mounted spearman bearing down on me with his weapon levelled. I raised my bow, pulled the bowstring back to my ear and let the sinew slip from my fingers. The arrow hissed through the air and flew past his right ear. He howled in delight and hollered a war cry; certain he was about to skewer the King of Dura. But the ruler of Dura had other ideas. I plucked a second arrow from my quiver, strung it and released it when the Sarmatian was but twenty paces from me, the missile thudding into his chest. His horse carried on galloping, but its rider slumped in the saddle and hit the ground hard, being trampled on by those following.

  Shooting a bow from a secure saddle is easy enough. Hitting a moving target while one’s own horse is charging is more difficult. I slowed Horns as the horse archers behind me flanked left and right to form a line, each man slowing their mount to allow them to shoot more accurately, loosing around five arrows a minute – one hundred and thirty missiles – at the Sarmatians, who quickly took to their heels.

  Navid’s file had also enjoyed good shooting, dead and wounded Aorsi lying on the ground in front of them as their surviving comrades also beat a hasty retreat into the distance. I scoured the green earth for a body clad in red but saw only bodies attired in green and brown hues. Spadines lived to fight another day, it seemed. Navid’s archers raised their bows in the air and began chanting ‘Dura, Dura’ as the Aorsi retreated out of range. Their commander galloped over, his face flush with victory and wearing a broad grin.

  ‘We must have dropped nearly half of them, majesty,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘They might return,’ I warned him. ‘Get your men back inside the village. We surprised them, but they will be more wary next time.’

  His eyes met mine and we both realised something was very wrong. His smile vanished when we heard the sound of hooves behind us. I turned and saw Sarmatians galloping out of the village, spears levelled and swords raised high, ready to skewer and slash at men on stationary horses.

  Whether Spadines had planned a two-pronged attack on the village or whether it was another group of his men who had been scouring the countryside and had happened to appear at more or less the same time, I did not know. But I knew we were about to be dealt a cruel blow.

  ‘Retreat!’ I hollered, but it was too late. Far too late.

  Some of Navid’s men displayed a rare courage in not attempting to flee from the horde bearing down on them, choosing to twist in the saddle and shoot at the oncoming Aorsi. Their arrows emptied saddles but within moments they were surrounded and cut down. Others did flee, shooting over the hind quarters of their horses, as did I as we galloped away from the village. The Aorsi, ill-disciplined rabble that they were, completed the butchering of those horse archers that had remained stationary, before wheeling around to head back into the village.

  I pulled up Horns and turned him.

  ‘Follow me,’ I shouted, digging my knees into his flanks to urge him back towards the village.

  The Sarmatians who had surprised us were already turning back to loot the village, search for women to rape and presumably capture Klietas. That gave us an advantage, albeit a small one, as I led the wedge-shaped formation that numbered perhaps fifteen riders – nearly half our original strength. I shot an arrow into an Aorsi who was sitting on his horse using a flint and stone in an attempt to light a pitch-soaked torch, which I assumed he was going to toss on the thatched roof of the nearest hut. He stiffened and dropped the torch when my arrow slammed into his back, sliding from the saddle.

  I strung and shot another arrow at a Sarmatian barking orders to some men who had dismounted and were about to burst into a hut. He too toppled from the saddle. And then the doors to the huts opened and the villagers flooded out, armed with sickles, hoes, slings and clubs.

  Pandemonium followed.

  We were in the centre of the village now, forming a loose circle and shooting at any Sarmatian within range, which was all of them. I saw the big Kevork haul a man from his horse and club him to death with his hammer, spurts of blood shooting into the air as he pummelled the man’s skull. One villager was screaming in rage as he ran at a raider, only to collapse when the Aorsi hurled his spear and hit him in the chest. I shot the Sarmatian before he had a chance to retrieve his weapon.

  I felt something go past my left ear and turned to see a Sarmatian who had been about to skewer me with his spear waver in the saddle, before tumbling to the ground, dead. I spun in the saddle to see a grinning Avedis with an empty sling. I raised my bow in thanks.

  Horses were rearing up and whinnying in pain when slingshots slammed into them, some collapsing when villagers armed with abandoned Sarmatian spears thrust them into the animals. I caught sight of a man on foot running towards Klietas, who was shooting his bow but who had his back to the Aorsi. Bullus nearby was fully occupied shielding Anush and fending off a Sarmatian with an axe. I shot the man intent on killing Klietas in the back and he pitched forward on the ground. Then he staggered to his feet and stumbled on towards Klietas. I shot him a second time and he stopped. A third arrow put him down for good.

  The roofs of two of the huts were on fire now, the flames crackling loudly as they gripped the dry thatch. The centre of the village had become a place of gore, covered with dead and dying horses and men. I saw Anush next to Klietas frozen in fear and horror, and witnessed another female villager have her belly ripped open by an enraged Sarmatian with a sword. He was wearing a s
cale-armour corselet but that did not save him from the arrow I put into his right thigh. He yelped, clutched at the shaft and plucked it out, wincing in pain as the barb at the base of the arrowhead tore at his flesh. I reached into my quiver for another arrow.

  Empty!

  I reached into my second quiver and that too was devoid of missiles. Had I really shot sixty arrows?

  I jumped down from Horns and walked over to the bleeding Sarmatian. It had been many years since I had fought a man face-to-face with a sword on foot, and though he was wounded and I was not, I reasoned his youth and strength made us equal. I unsheathed my spatha and slashed at his head with the blade. He ducked and thrust his own sword at my thigh, an attack I parried with a downward cut. He circled me, hobbling but not excessively so. His maddened state was obviously blocking out the pain, though his leggings were now showing a large red patch from the arrow wound. That did not stop him charging at me, delivering a series of downward cuts from the left and right as he tried to slice open the side of my neck. I defeated each one with my spatha. But after I had brought up my sword a final time, he punched me on the nose, sending me reeling backwards, disorientated. I fell to my knees, my back to him.

  I spun and brought up my blade to stop his own sword from beheading me. He laughed maniacally as he drew back his sword to deliver another blow. He was towering over me, I was kneeling, and he sensed victory. All I could do was hold my sword in front of me and try to anticipate the direction of his strike. That and pull my Roman dagger from its sheath with my left hand and stab down on his left boot. He emitted a high-pitched cry as he collapsed on the ground and made no further sound when Bullus drew the edge of his gladius across his throat. The centurion hauled me to my feet.

  ‘Are you hurt, majesty?’

  ‘I appear to be in one piece, thank you.’