Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  The raft in the Sarmatian vanguard now held only dead men and women, having been the focus of our arrows. But the other rafts still carried more living than dead, and now they smashed into the bridge, one disintegrating as it did so, its occupants falling into the river to be swept under the bridge and downstream. But the others did not break apart and now their occupants leaped on to the pontoons to attack us. I slung my bow behind me and drew my sword.

  Rodak deflected an enemy spear point with his shield, the metal failing to pierce the hide facing, thrusting his sword forward into the Sarmatian’s face, specifically his mouth. The man recoiled and fell into the water below. Another Sarmatian chopped down at his face with an axe, the governor bringing up his shield sharply to block the blow before stabbing the man in the belly with his sword.

  The man on my left collapsed, a spear in his belly, the Sarmatian holding it grinning with relish as he twisted the shaft to increase the victim’s agony. I cut down with my sword and severed the Sarmatian’s right hand gripping the pole at the wrist, the stump pumping blood after I had done so. The man gazed, open mouthed, at his wound before being killed when I rammed the tip of my spatha though his chest.

  The Sarmatians were swarming on to the bridge now, spearmen fighting deadly duels in an effort to keep them at bay. The air was rent with pitiful screams and cries as bodies were ripped open by axe and sword blades and spear points.

  ‘Down, Pacorus.’

  I heard Gallia’s voice and instantly obeyed, a second after I had done so an arrow hissing over my head to strike a Sarmatian gripping an axe before me in the belly. Another to my left chopped down at me with his axe but I blocked the blow with my sword, the wooden haft striking the edge of the blade. I pulled my Roman dagger from its sheath and thrust it upwards into his groin. He let out a blood-curdling shriek and doubled over, falling from the bridge when I kicked him over the side.

  Our line had been broken, the bridge becoming the venue for a number of separate fights as groups of spearmen and archers tried to hold back the Sarmatian tide. I picked up my bow at Gallia’s feet and searched for targets, Rodak beside me, his sword smeared with blood and his shield looking the worse for wear. Minu and Haya joined us, the young women’s file of nine forming a circle, in front of which were Rodak’s second-in-command and around ten of his spearmen.

  ‘We need to sweep the bridge,’ I shouted. ‘Form wedge and head for the barricade. Move.’

  Rodak took up position at the tip of the wedge, Gallia and me flanking and slightly behind him as he walked forward. A Sarmatian, having just butchered a hapless slave with his axe, turned his head and staggered backwards as I shot him in the side. Gallia shot a Sarmatian woman hollering like a demented person, silencing her instantly. We continued walking towards the wagons, two hundred paces away, or thereabouts.

  Parthian spearmen, slaves, old lords and boys eagerly joined our group when we saved them from being sliced open or thrown into the water, plus Amazons who had been defending their own small groups. Soon, there were several dozen with us, with only me, Rodak, Gallia, Minu and Haya at the tip of the spear. We shot our bows and those behind us shot theirs to maintain a continuous volley of arrows that cut down every Sarmatian in our path.

  Our pace slowed when we were forced to step over the dead and dying, our footing becoming precarious as we slipped on the blood-splattered planks. I shot a woman in the back – not my proudest moment – who was grappling with an Amazon, Gallia’s warrior shouting in triumph as she pushed the dead woman away from her, bloody knife in her hand.

  And then we were at the wagons where Haytham and his ragged band still held the barricade. His head bleeding from a gash and his scale armour missing a few plates, he raised his gore-covered sword in acknowledgement.

  ‘Watch out!’ I shouted, seeing a Sarmatian suddenly appear on top of the wagon above him.

  Without thinking he spun and slashed his sword diagonally at the enemy’s legs, the keen edge of the ukku blade slicing through both limbs just under the knee. The Sarmatian toppled backwards from whence he came, his lower legs falling forwards to land at Haytham’s feet.

  We had linked up with the young prince at the barricade. But behind us stood a thick press of Sarmatians between us and the western end of the bridge.

  Gallia showed me her empty quiver.

  ‘What now?’

  Chapter 12

  Half of Rodak’s spearmen were dead, more than half of the volunteers had also fallen and the governor’s archers were almost all gone. Fortunately, due to their training and the fact they were armed with swords and daggers in addition to their bows, most of the Amazons still lived, though a few had nasty cuts and bruises. Worse, they were almost all out of arrows, as was I.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Gallia.

  The battle had been a bruising affair not only for us but also the enemy, the Sarmatians having lost a great number of men and women in their efforts to wrest the bridge from our control, which in truth they had achieved. However, they were also tired, and I could see as they formed into a group behind the big man with the two-bladed axe, many were hobbling, and others had arms hanging limply by their sides. If not broken then fractured or badly sprained.

  ‘Bullus,’ I called, praying to Shamash he still lived.

  Battered, bruised and in a testy mood, he pushed his way through what was left of us to report to me. The crest on his helmet was damaged, the hide of his shield had been torn and he was sweating profusely. But he appeared not to have a mark on him. He stood to attention and saluted.

  ‘The queen wishes to know how we are going to get across the bridge to reach the safety of Assur, Bullus. I am at a loss, but I thought you might have a few ideas.’

  He turned to look at the menacing group of Sarmatians being marshalled by the big brute with the axe, around forty paces away.

  ‘Pig’s head, majesty,’ he said, ‘though the chances of it working with what we’ve got are low.’

  The pig’s head formation was used by Rome’s legions to devastating effect on the battlefield. It involved forming foot soldiers into extremely close order to create or exploit gaps in the enemy battle line. On a bridge only a few paces wide, it would be reduced to one man forming the tip of a very narrow wedge to literally cut a path through the Sarmatians.

  I looked at a perplexed Rodak, who had picked up a new wicker shield.

  ‘Essentially a wedge formation.’

  Bullus pointed his gladius at the Sarmatians who were now in a compact mass, the big brute in vanguard, gripping his axe with both hands.

  ‘May I make a suggestion, highborn?’

  All eyes turned to the figure of Mascius, the well-dressed slave with manicured hands, who by some intervention of the gods had managed to survive the bloodbath. He had lost his helmet and but retained his spear and wicker shield, which had taken a few blows. Bullus screwed up his face at the attractive young man.

  ‘Make it quick,’ I said.

  ‘It would appear we are about to be attacked by a large number of the enemy,’ he began.

  ‘We have ourselves a military genius among us,’ remarked Bullus, caustically.

  ‘Continue,’ I said, glaring at Bullus.

  ‘Why do we not use one of the wagons as a blunt instrument to force our way through them, highborn?’ suggested Mascius.

  ‘That might just work,’ said Gallia.

  One of the wagons was tipped back on its wheels and manhandled towards the Sarmatians by willing slaves, glad to no longer have to participate in the fighting. There were bodies on the bridge to impede its movement it was true, but now we had a battering ram to force our way through the enemy throng.

  The bridge had been built to allow two wagons travelling in opposite directions to pass each other, so there was room for three spearmen to lock shields and level their weapons on each side of the wagon, plus a pair of Amazons sheltering behind shield bearers to ride on the wagon itself, who began shooting immediately.

  ‘Hea
ve,’ I called, slaves gripping the sides and rear of the wagon to push the vehicle forward.

  Then the Sarmatians charged, a wild, disorganised rush that gave the appearance it would overwhelm us.

  ‘Stand firm,’ shouted Bullus, standing behind one of the spearmen beside the front of the wagon, shield resting in the soldier’s back to ensure he did not abandon his position. I stood beside the centurion, my wicker shield also ‘supporting’ the back of the spearman in front of me, spatha raised and poised horizontally.

  The two Amazons in the wagon – Haya and Minu – had been given all the remaining ammunition, and they continued to shoot furiously, an arrow leaving each bowstring every eight seconds. It took the Sarmatians around ten seconds to reach us, but by then the pair had shot over twenty arrows, each one striking a target and taking the sting out of the enemy charge. But they still hit us with a force that stopped us in our tracks, spears and axes thrusting and chopping at the spearmen either side of the wagon.

  Bullus was like a human scorpion, his gladius jabbing back and forth like a deadly sting, stabbing at enemy faces over the shoulder of the spearmen in front of him. The spearmen themselves, as they were trained to do, kept their shields tucked tight to their bodies and thrust their spears into the target in front, withdrawing the point to stab another enemy soldier behind after the first man had fallen. Their spears were around seven feet in length, allowing them to be manoeuvred relatively easily in confined spaces.

  The spearman in front of me had killed the first Sarmatian who had attacked him, a second thrusting his own spear at his belly, the point going into his wicker shield and getting stuck. He released it, pulled a knife and lunged at the Assur soldier. But I also lunged my spatha over his shoulder and into the Sarmatian’s left shoulder, forcing him back.

  ‘Heave.’

  I heard the cry and saw the wagon move forward once more, Minu and Haya still shooting their bows at point-blank range into the enemy mass. A mass that had lost its momentum and was now faltering. The Sarmatians had no shields, headgear or armour and were suffering accordingly. They were essentially light horsemen and women totally ill-suited to fighting on foot in confined spaces.

  ‘Heave.’

  The wagon trundled forward a few feet, momentarily stopping when one of the front wheels hit a dead body, moving again with a mighty effort from those pushing it.

  I thrust my sword over my companion’s shoulder again, the point glancing off the side of a Sarmatian face, cutting the skin and forcing him to flinch. I jabbed at him once more and this time the spatha’s tip went into his eye. He staggered backwards.

  The other Sarmatians were giving ground; they were no longer hacking and thrusting at us. Rather, they were retreating. I gave a shout of relief when I saw their leader, the big brute with a large axe, lying dead on the planks in front of us, an arrow lodged in his right eye socket.

  The wagon stopped. There was a small pyramid of dead preventing its movement, no matter how many people tried to manhandle it forward. It was stuck fast and unless the pile of dead was removed would go no further. But there was no need to push it any more. It had done its job. The Sarmatians, having lost their leader, were now streaming back to the rafts to make their escape.

  We let them go. Haya and Minu were nearly out of arrows and were physically drained, flopping down in the wagon and panting for air. I slapped the spearman in front of me on the shoulder.

  ‘Well done.’

  He turned, his face ashen, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like a demon had sucked the life out of him.

  ‘Thank you, majesty.’

  Few spoke as we walked slowly across the bridge, barely casting Sarmatians paddling furiously on rafts a second glance as they passed us in the water below. I embraced Gallia and together we trudged back to Assur. In a touching scene, Klietas placed an arm around Haya to comfort her and provide support. Rodak, physically shattered, walked with his head down, while Haytham still looked reasonably fresh after his exertions. As was Mascius, who was walking behind us.

  ‘We are in your debt, Mascius,’ I told him, ‘and you now have a tale to tell the children of your master.’

  He was visibly shaken by what had happened and the scene of horror around him. I had long become used to the sights and sounds of the battlefield, though I still found the smells – urine, faeces, vomit and blood – disagreeable. But for a pampered house slave, the sight of corpses with entrails hanging from their sliced-open bellies, limbs nearly severed, and skulls smashed and reduced to unrecognisable bloody messes, must have been truly traumatic. Blood was everywhere. It never ceased to amaze me how much blood a body contained. Ripping open a stomach with a blade was like slicing a bulging water skin. Blood gushed from the wound or spurted like a fountain if a limb was severed or a head cut open. Mascius was holding a cloth to his nose. Bullus slapped him on the back.

  ‘Men shit themselves when they die. You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I have no wish to get used to it, master.’

  ‘Most sensible,’ I said. ‘I too had resolved not to participate in the sport of war, and yet here I am, once again walking in the blood of my enemies.’

  ‘It is your fate, lord,’ said Haytham behind Mascius.

  ‘My curse, more like,’ I muttered under my breath.

  That afternoon, Dura’s horsemen arrived.

  A long line of horses, camels and riders filled the western horizon as twelve thousand mounted troops rode to Assur, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. In addition to Azad’s dragon of cataphracts and Sporaces and his five dragons of horse archers, Kewab brought his three thousand horse archers and the same number of horse archers that had ridden with Karys from Mesene in the aftermath of the sycophant Sanabares becoming the king of their kingdom. They were now exiles in Dura. Karys was dead and though their families dreamed of a return to their homeland, I feared their stay in Dura would become permanent. Nevertheless, they and Kewab’s men were battle-hardened veterans who were significant force multipliers on the battlefield.

  When Rodak had organised the collection and cremation of the bodies on and around the bridge, Sporaces sent out patrols to scout the eastern bank of the Tigris, giving strict orders his men were not to engage any Sarmatians they encountered for fear of being overwhelmed. They returned with news that the wild horsemen of the northern steppes had seemingly vanished.

  Over the course of two days my body was restored to a semblance of full health by a succession of baths, massages and sleep, during which Chrestus and Dura’s foot soldiers arrived, together with Talib and his scouts. The commander of the army was in a foul temper when I convened a council of war in the governor’s mansion the day after his arrival, during which he vented his anger. Despite being early morning, it was already a hot day, the sun roasting the army now in a marching camp located to the north of Assur, so it could draw fresh water from the Tigris rather than sip from the river that contained the town’s waste flowing downstream.

  Chrestus smashed his fist on the table, causing Kewab to squirm with embarrassment and Mascius, whom I had invited to attend, to jump. The slave sat next to me at the governor’s highly polished table.

  ‘I have to tell you, majesty, that the army is spitting blood over your treatment in Gordyene, and there have been near-mutinous grumblings during the march here.’

  I was shocked. ‘Mutiny’ was not a word I had heard when describing Dura’s army.

  ‘Explain,’ I demanded.

  Chrestus ran a hand over his shaved crown.

  ‘The boys are asking why we are marching east when we should be heading north, to Gordyene.’

  ‘My men were wondering that, too,’ said Azad.

  ‘As are my dragon commanders,’ added Sporaces.

  ‘Enough!’ I barked. ‘An army is not a debating society. It obeys orders, my orders.’

  ‘The men gathered at this table have a right to know why the army is not being used to right the wrongs committed against its king,’ said Gallia, her ey
es full of mischief.

  Chrestus was delighted and even Kewab, who I thanked the gods had not yet left for Egypt, appeared thoughtful.

  ‘The empire itself is under threat,’ I said to her, ‘and that outweighs the wrongs done to one man, even if he is a king.’

  Chrestus guffawed. ‘The Sarmatians are no threat to anyone, majesty.’

  ‘They are when there are one hundred thousand of them, Chrestus,’ I told him. ‘At this juncture they are torturing Media, but soon they will turn their attention to Ctesiphon.’

  Kewab was confused. ‘There is nothing of strategic value at Ctesiphon, aside from King of Kings Phraates, who can depart at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘But the gold in his vaults cannot,’ I said, ‘and that is what the Sarmatians are after.’

  ‘May I ask how you know this, majesty?’ enquired Kewab.

  I told him about the appearance of Haytham at Hatra, his revelations concerning the ambitions of Castus and the invitation given by the King of Gordyene to Tasius for him and his people to settle on Parthian lands, not all of them in Gordyene.

  ‘He’s clearly insane,’ said Chrestus, dismissively. ‘We would be doing the empire a favour removing him from power and chopping off his head. Ignorant little bastard.’

  ‘He is not a bastard,’ Gallia chastised him. ‘His parentage is impeccable.’

  ‘Apologies, majesty,’ said Chrestus. ‘I had great respect for King Spartacus and Queen Rasha, but as far as I am concerned, his son has forfeited any respect after the insult to my king.’

  ‘He has been intoxicated by a woman,’ I sighed.

  ‘Like Paris and Helen,’ said Mascius.

  Everyone looked at him, Chrestus glaring at the impudence of… Of who?’

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘This is Mascius,’ I answered, ‘whose idea to use a wagon as a shield and battering ram saved our hides on the bridge. I asked him to join us so he could see the inner workings of Dura’s army. As a reward for his advice.