by Peter Darman
‘Now,’ shouted Gallia.
The arrows of the Amazons were shot high into the sky, so they would fall like rain drops on the Sarmatians, a second and third volley being strung and loosed before the arrowheads of the first peppered the enemy. It was a sight both beautiful and terrible to behold as black slivers fell from the sky to strike flesh and bone, cutting down ten, twenty and more of the enemy every five seconds. Sarmatians clutched forlornly at arrow shafts stuck in them, stumbling and falling, those behind tripping on the bodies of their comrades. Some looked up and were killed instantly when an arrow pierced their eye sockets and the metal heads penetrated their brain.
And still they advanced.
They were relentless, stepping and stumbling over their dead to reach the barricade, Amazons shooting arrows at an-almost vertical trajectory so they would fall on the Sarmatians thrusting spears and chopping with their axes at the men at the wagons. Dismounted horse archers, they had only daggers to defend themselves at close quarters and suffered accordingly. I saw one, two, three collapse, their heads split open by axes or their faces disfigured by spear points.
I grabbed Rodak’s arm. ‘Get some of your spearmen here, otherwise we are lost.’
He gave me a curt nod and ordered one of his men to run back to the horses and fetch more men. The soldier took to his heels as though all the demons of the underworld were after him.
I released my bowstring to shoot a Sarmatian who had been hoisted on top of one of the wagons, the arrow slamming into his belly, causing him to flop back down from whence he had come. Another man scrambled up on to a wagon. I shot him, too. A woman, a screeching banshee wielding a long knife, scrambled over a wagon and stabbed one of Rodak’s men. I hesitated. Two arrows struck her in the chest, and she was gone.
‘Getting soft, Pacorus?’ asked Gallia beside me, nocking another arrow.
I saw Bullus at the barricade, using his shield as a defence and thrusting with his gladius in a series of deft moves. Next to him was Haytham, wielding his own sword with aplomb, stabbing Sarmatians in the face, chest and belly as they appeared in front of him. But they were only two and around them Assur’s horse archers were going down with alarming speed.
‘Line,’ shouted Gallia, kneeling and hauling me down to my knees.
Four other Amazons knelt beside us and six more stood behind us.
‘Rapid shots,’ commanded their queen.
Quivers slung over our shoulders, we shot seven arrows a minute at the Sarmatians attempting to scale the wagons. Twelve archers loosing a combined total of over eighty arrows a minute.
Then the enemy was gone. Assailed by a storm of arrows that literally swept them away from the barricades like a brush sweeping leaves, they retraced their steps back to where they had come from. My elation at having thrown them back was tempered by the sad realisation I could not rise from a kneeling position.
‘Come on, old man.’
Gallia, herself slowly rising to her feet, assisted me to my own, around us Amazons and what was left of Rodak’s horse archers raising their bows and cheering their victory. But twenty of his men were either dead or wounded and three Amazons had been slain by enemy arrows.
The arrival of fifty spearmen from Assur raised spirits further, especially as they were accompanied by slaves carrying water bottles and food. It was late afternoon and though the heat of the day was now subsiding, it was still hot and airless and after our exertions, many men and women took the opportunity to lie on their backs and gasp for air.
Bullus, rivulets of sweat coursing down his granite-like face, came over to me. The hide covering his shield was torn, the metal rim dented and the central boss showed battle scars.
‘That was close,’ he panted.
He looked at the spearmen from Assur – men equipped with wicker shields faced with hide, helmets and only long knives for close-quarter fighting.
‘Is that the best we can call on?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘It’s at moments like this that makes me appreciate what we have at Dura.’
‘Dura will be here, Bullus,’ I told him, ‘we just have to hold a little longer. My horsemen are on their way, and close behind, the Durans and Exiles.’
He cocked his ear to the north. ‘What’s that?’
It was chopping. Barely audible at first but gradually increasing to arouse everyone’s attention. Tired men and women hauled themselves to their feet to look north, staring at the great expanse of date palm grooves that filled the eastern riverbank. From where there came the sound of what seemed like an army of woodpeckers furiously at work.
‘Even Sarmatians have a basic understanding of mathematics,’ I lamented.
‘Majesty?’
I pointed at the wagons decorated with dead bodies, both Parthian and Sarmatian.
‘The end of the bridge is a chokepoint, Bullus, which can be held by a comparatively small number of troops.’
I then turned and pointed at the bridge behind us.
‘But this bridge is over three hundred paces in length, and if I had an overwhelming superiority in numbers, I would construct rafts to allow my soldiers to float down the river to assail the bridge along its whole length.’
‘Clever,’ said Bullus, admiringly.
‘Not a word I thought I would ever associate with Sarmatians, but yes. Clever.’
I called Rodak to me. ‘If the Sarmatians are going to assault the bridge with rafts, then we need more men. Call for volunteers. Anyone who is able to use a spear, axe or knife.’
He looked up and down the bridge. ‘Perhaps it is time to fire the bridge, majesty.’
‘No. We need it. And if we are overrun and it is captured by the enemy; it can be recaptured at a later date. If it is burnt, then we lose a valuable crossing point over the Tigris.’
He was right but so was I, and in truth there was a part of me that was reluctant to destroy something that had been created by Dura’s engineers. Perhaps it was vanity, but I was not prepared to see something go up in flames because of a tribe of Sarmatians, however large.
The bodies of enemy dead were left on the other side of the wagons to impede attacking Sarmatians, those of our own slain being removed for cremation. The chopping did not lessen as the light began to fade, and when the sun had left the earth the palm groves further upstream were illuminated by what appeared to be a thousand torches. The Sarmatians obviously had the bit between their teeth and were determined to create a fleet of rafts by daybreak. I felt tired and dirty and would dearly have loved to depart for the governor’s mansion to bath, be massaged and sleep in a soft bed. Instead, I could look forward to grabbing perhaps a couple of hours’ sleep on the planks of the bridge before battling the Sarmatians again on a new day.
Rodak had sacks stuffed with straw and blankets brought from the town to allow us to sleep in shifts, plus more ammunition from the garrison’s armoury. Full quivers were issued to Assur’s archers and the Amazons, after which Rodak reported to me and Gallia, the queen swathed in a thick blanket, for the night sky was cloudless and the temperature had dropped considerably.
‘That is the last of the ammunition, majesty,’ he said. ‘Three quivers for each archer.’
‘Ninety arrows each,’ remarked Gallia. ‘The loss of Hatra’s army works against us by the hour.’
After the governor had made his excuses and left, cooks brought us hot soup cooked on pans over braziers brought from the town. She did not say anything while she was consuming the soup, dipping pieces of bread in the thick, tasty broth. But when she had finished, she spoke.
‘Phraates will want Castus’ head for this.’
I sighed. ‘I know. There is no way he will be able to extricate himself from the great harm he has inflicted on the empire.’
I looked at Haytham nearby, seated on a barrel cleaning his sword.
‘His life will be forfeit, too. Phraates will not allow a sibling of Castus to inherit Gordyene’s throne.’
‘
Exile, then,’ said Gallia.
‘Exile, yes.’
‘What about Akmon?’ she asked. ‘Phraates will not wish to remove a man who has proved an excellent king of Media, but one who is also brother to both Castus and Haytham.’
‘That is something for Phraates to worry about, not me.’
‘And then there is the separate matter of Dura avenging Gordyene’s treatment of its king,’ she said ominously. ‘Such insults cannot and will not be tolerated.’
‘I will be honest with you. I do not wish to see the death of the son of Spartacus and the grandson of the man of the same name. If it comes to it, I will lobby for Castus and his snake of a wife to be exiled from the empire.’
‘That will not do, Pacorus. We do not want another Atrax lingering like a bad smell just beyond Parthia’s borders.’
‘I am just glad Gafarn and Diana are not here to witness the tragedy that is unfolding,’ I said, rather pathetically.
A line of torches leaving Assur provided a merciful distraction and all chatter on the bridge ceased as eyes turned to the reinforcements tramping out of the town. Tired Amazons and horse archers smiled and slapped each other on the back at the sight of more soldiers to stiffen our defence. Even Bullus was impressed. Until the reinforcements marched on to the bridge.
They were led by Rodak, now mounted, and a coterie of Assur’s lords, all men with grey beards and thinning hair who had seen too many dawns. They led a few hundred old men, boys and slaves, the latter at least in their prime. Rodak jumped down from his horse and bowed to me. I noticed he had changed his clothes and now sported a fine scale-armour cuirass that glittered in the torchlight.
‘Reinforcements, majesty, as promised.’
Gallia smiled when slaves rushed forward and went down on all fours beside the horses to allow their old, fat masters to use them as dismounting aids. Rodak saw my disappointment.
‘Alas, majesty, some lords left Assur with their horsemen as part of the general muster called by my uncle, riding directly to Nisibus.’
The lords left in Assur assembled behind the governor, waiting expectantly. They were all armed with swords and held bows in their hands, manservants holding full quivers.
‘Thank you for answering my summons,’ I said to them. ‘That chopping sound you can hear is the enemy cutting down trees to make rafts, which they will float downriver to the bridge tomorrow morning.’
‘It is already tomorrow, majesty,’ said a lord with a huge belly and a long beard.
‘The night passes quickly,’ I smiled. ‘I have to tell you the enemy greatly outnumbers us. But I am confident we can hold out until Dura’s horsemen arrive.’
‘Just like at Surkh,’ grinned one of the lords.
I walked up to him. He was a tall, rotund individual with hardly any hair, though a full beard.
‘You were at Surkh?’
‘Yes, majesty,’ he grinned, ‘a commander of horse archers in your father’s army. I was slimmer and had more hair in those days.’
I laughed. ‘Didn’t we all. Well, we were victorious on that day and I have every confidence we will triumph today.’
Bullus was less confident, his initial examination of our reinforcements leaving him less than impressed.
‘Most are either too old or too young, and the slaves for the most part look horrified, like someone who has been handed a bag of venomous snakes.’
Shards of light were lancing the eastern sky to announce dawn breaking. It was very cold and I was shivering, rubbing my numb hands together to return some feeling to them.
‘Do your best,’ I told him.
A token force of garrison troops was left in Assur, the rest lining the bridge, facing north where the rafts would come from. The current was still strong, and I hoped that would work in our favour by making the rafts hard to control on the river. On the other hand, the flow would bring them to us quicker.
The gods give with one hand and take away with the other.
Bullus interspersed the troops from the garrison with the volunteers, placing those with any military experience in the front rank and ensuring they at least had a helmet, spear and shield. The latter was not the stout items of equipment used by Dura’s legionaries, but it was roughly comparable in size. Made of wicker and faced with leather, it was easy and inexpensive to make, easy to repair, light and offered protection against slingshots and arrows. Where it fell down was at close quarters where spears, swords and axes could penetrate the wicker and literally chop it to pieces.
There were no chopping sounds now, only the creaking of the bridge as the pontoons were moved by the river current. I placed Haytham at the wagons with ten spearmen and the same number of archers, just in case the enemy used the threat of an assault from the river as a decoy to lure us away from the barricade. Whatever his faults and complicity in his brother’s madness, he had acquitted himself well enough the day before. I offered him my hand. He took it.
‘Keep yourself alive, Haytham. And try to hold the bridge.’
‘Yes, lord.’
He drew his sword and I realised it was an ukku blade, produced of the semi-magical metal found only beyond the River Indus in the east.
‘Make sure you keep hold of that sword. I would hate to think of a Sarmatian swinging it from his mangy horse.’
‘I will, lord.’
I walked slowly from the wagons along the bridge, in front of the rank of spearmen that now lined it. Behind them stood archers from Assur and Amazons from Dura. I tried to smile at every man and woman who stood gripping a spear and clutching a shield. There were around five hundred of them, of which only around eighty were professionals. The rest were old men, boys and slaves, the latter a mixture of house servants in excellent clothes and shoes, the rest manual labourers in more threadbare attire. I stopped at one slave, a handsome man in his early twenties wearing a fine white linen tunic edged with red, loose red leggings and a pair of soft leather shoes. My eyes were drawn to the hand gripping his spear, which had manicured nails.
‘You are a slave?’
‘Yes, highborn. Mascius, tutor to the children of my master and mistress,’ he answered in perfect Greek.
‘Where is your master?’
‘Gone to Nisibus, highborn.’
‘What do you teach your master’s children, Mascius?’
‘Reading, writing, poetry, music and magic.’
‘Magic?’
He smiled, revealing a row of even white teeth.
‘Yes, highborn, magic tricks to amuse them between lessons.’
I looked at the river.
‘I don’t suppose you can make the Sarmatians disappear?’
‘Highborn?’
I slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter. I am glad you are here with us, Mascius.’
I laid a gentler hand on one youth, perhaps sixteen years old or less, who was clearly terrified, shivering with fear. I glanced past him to see the helmeted Yasmina standing behind him. I moved in closer so no one else would hear.
‘You see that young lady behind you?’
He turned to stare at the Amazon and nodded.
‘If things get too heated, take cover behind her. She has killed more men than I have, so you are in good hands.’
His eyes opened wide in amazement and he took a second look at the stern-faced Yasmina.
‘It’s true,’ I assured him. ‘Have courage.’
Courage, the most precious commodity on the battlefield, and the rarest. Those who have not fought in battle, and there were many standing on this bridge, believe that all soldiers are magically infused with bravery. But the truth is, soldiers put more faith in their training and their comrades than in their personal stock of courage. Only the deluded and insane believe that courage alone can win battles. Therefore, soldiers take greater comfort in faith. Faith that the gods they worship will keep them safe on the battlefield, and faith in their comrades, training and equipment.
‘Here they come.’
I heard the warning and the trumpets of the garrison’s signallers and looked north. To see a crowd of individuals upstream, pushing rafts out into the river. One, two, five, ten, twenty. Simple structures comprising felled tree trunks lashed together, on which stood groups of Sarmatians clutching axes, spears and bows. None carried shields and only a smattering wore helmets. I caught sight of a large individual clutching a two-bladed axe – the man who had led the attack the day before. More rafts pushed off from the riverbank, filling the river with square platforms that were paddled into mid-stream and towards the western bank, after which they drifted downstream towards us.
I stood in the centre of our thin battle line at the mid-point of the bridge, next to Rodak, behind me Gallia and Minu. I was the only person in the front rank clutching a bow. Rodak was equipped with a sword and wicker shield, those elderly lords among the spearmen the only others equipped with swords.
The Sarmatians began shouting and screaming in our direction in an effort to intimidate us, raising their weapons in the air and shaking them at us. I had seen such displays many times before and they no longer unnerved me. It was very different for the many who were facing the trial of combat for the first time, though. I turned to Gallia.
‘Shut them up.’
‘Amazons,’ she called. ‘Loose.’
Ninety-five woman stepped forward through the front rank, selected their targets and began shooting, arrows whooshing through the windless air to strike bodies. The shooting was measured and unrushed, every missile finding its target. Yelps and screams came from rafts and individuals began collapsing into the water. I shot an arrow at the nearest raft, around fifty paces away, the missile striking a man holding a spear in the chest, causing him to spin and topple into the water. I strung another arrow and shot the man who has been standing next to him, who collapsed on the raft.
The volleys of the Amazons, who had been joined by Assur’s archers, were reaping a cruel harvest but the rafts were closing on the bridge fast. They were not in a line or lines, more groups of rafts, and they would strike the bridge haphazardly, but when they did the Sarmatians would clamber over the pontoons and then attack our line.
