by Peter Darman
‘Now’s your time, my lord,’ shouted Mark Antony to Darius.
The King of Media needed no second prompting, turning his horse to gallop back to his five hundred cataphracts on the left flank. Another of his officers galloped away to the other flank where a thousand Median mounted spearmen and five thousand horse archers waited.
Antony clenched his fist and roared with delight as the two wings of Median horsemen broke into a gallop to charge straight into the flanks of the enemy horsemen who were wheeling inwards to attack his legions. Arrows were shot at the cataphracts and mounted spearmen that smashed into Phraates’ horsemen. Each cataphract carried the long kontus two handed on the right side of his body, and five hundred of them skewered horses and men, horse archers being unable to get out of the way were then hacked and slashed with swords and maces. The Median charge inflicted many casualties. But Darius only had five hundred cataphracts and a thousand mounted spearmen and within minutes they had been engulfed in a huge swirling mass of horsemen in a disorganised mêlée. And still the legions ground forward mercilessly towards their target: King of Kings Phraates.
*****
The leader of the Parthian Empire sat in the saddle in a near catatonic state, his eyes unblinking as his brain processed the disaster unfolding before his eyes. He could not understand it. His army outnumbered the enemy and yet that army was falling apart, hundreds of spearmen, minus their spears, flooding to the rear to escape death at the hands of Roman legionaries. Either side of his rapidly collapsing centre was a confusion of mounted combat, in which all semblance of discipline and order had vanished.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said at last.
‘Highness?’
The commander of his Babylonian Bodyguard looked at him for guidance, as did the officer in charge of the five hundred cataphracts from Susiana who stood immobile in their ranks. Added to the Babylonians, Phraates had command of a thousand élite horsemen who could yet tip the scales of battle in his favour, or at least avert a disaster. Before he had left Ctesiphon, the high king had been lauded by poets as a new Alexander of Macedon and Leonidas of Sparta. Alas he was more like the Persian leader Xerxes whose mighty armies had been humbled by much smaller forces.
‘Where is Prince Ali?’ demanded Phraates, his malicious mind seeking a scapegoat.
‘He was deployed on our right wing, highness,’ replied the Babylonian.
‘Deserted, more like,’ spat Phraates. ‘I will have his head for his treachery.’
They could all see the Roman standards now and the thousands of helmets of the legionaries around them, accompanied by a horrible rasping sound as gladius blades cut through wicker shields and tunics to pierce Parthian flesh.
‘Where is King Spartacus?’ screamed Phraates. ‘His head will be mounted on a spike after I have him executed for his treachery. I am surrounded by traitors!’
*****
The rider pulled up his horse sharply, creating a dust cloud that enveloped the party of horsemen.
‘Report,’ demanded Hovik.
‘The Romans and Medians have engaged the high king’s army, lord,’ answered the scout. ‘It goes ill for King of Kings Phraates.’
Hovik looked with pleading eyes at Spartacus who appeared to have not a care in the world. Rasha and Akmon also looked at the King of Gordyene, expecting him to issue orders for the army to rush towards the battlefield, around three miles to the east. The journey down the eastern bank of the Tigris had been uneventful, the eyes of all Media focused on the south and the approach of Phraates’ army. Now the army of Gordyene was in touching distance of the enemy, though its king seemed strangely reluctant to intervene.
Hovik pointed to the east. ‘There are Parthians dying over there, majesty, let me take the medium horsemen and half the horse archers.’
‘You would split the army in the face of the enemy?’ Spartacus asked him. ‘Such a move would invite disaster.’
‘If we do not intervene speedily,’ said Hovik, desperation in his voice, ‘High King Phraates may be defeated, perhaps even killed or captured.’
Spartacus smiled. ‘What a shame that would be.’
‘We dishonour ourselves by our lethargy,’ Rasha’s voice was stern.
‘Let me lead a vanguard, father,’ pleaded Akmon.
‘You will be quiet,’ Spartacus told him.
They could hear the sounds of battle now, which resembled the crashing of waves against rocks. He wondered which side was the waves and which was the rocks.
‘Majesty!’ Hovik was beside himself.
Spartacus sighed. ‘Very well. Take the medium horsemen and an equal number of horse archers. Find Phraates and protect him until we arrive. If he’s dead, return to the army. If he’s alive he hopefully hasn’t fouled his silk undergarments yet.’
But Hovik was already galloping away, barking orders to the commander of mounted lancers and the coterie of lords nearby. Within minutes four thousand horsemen were kicking up a great dust cloud as they galloped towards the east.
Whistles and trumpets blew behind the king as the Immortals deployed from column into battle formation, like the legions they were marching against deploying into half-divisions arranged in a chequerboard formation. The Immortals were legions in all but name but it was an offence punishable by a flogging for any of their members to say so.
The change in formation was conducted at speed, like their counterparts at Dura incessant drill and training had produced soldiers who could carry out procedures in their sleep. The lords and their men were less disciplined; their task was to provide mass missile support to drive away enemy horsemen and support the Immortals. Two formations were trained to work closely with the foot soldiers: the Vipers and five hundred male horse archers that were part of Vanadzor’s garrison. These two units now moved to provide close flank protection for the Immortals.
Spartacus and Akmon rode with the King’s Guard to take their place in the centre of the Immortals, ahead of the first line half-battalions, heading straight for the stand of banners where Mark Antony sat on his horse.
*****
The triumvir was beaming with delight. His legions were routing the enemy’s foot soldiers and his ally Darius’ horsemen had prevented Phraates’ horsemen from interfering in the battle. When the legions had swept aside the remnants of the enemy centre Phraates would probably flee, though hopefully he would remain to fight and die with his horsemen. He still had his two thousand Gallic horsemen as a reserve, ready to deliver the fatal blow to Phraates’ army. Then it would be on to Ctesiphon where he would empty its treasury of all its gold. He had heard stories about the fabulous wealth stored at the Parthian capital and was determined to have it all. In a week he would be dining by the side of the Tigris, having split the Parthian Empire in two. The disaster at Phraaspa would be avenged, his reputation would be restored and he would have enough gold to build ships and enlist soldiers to crush Octavian. He began to whistle as he beheld his victory.
‘Enemy forces approaching from the west.’
The voice was distant at first but became very close when Quintus shouted at him.
‘Your orders?’
He was pointing furiously to the west where the ground was filled with thousands of horsemen and foot soldiers presenting a frontage of at least two miles. The colour drained from Antony’s face as his victory vanished before his eyes. He could commit his Gallic horsemen against this new enemy but they were only two thousand and the fresh foe numbered many more than that.
‘Who are they?’ he demanded.
The huge banner fluttering behind Spartacus would soon identify the army of Gordyene, but by then it would be too late. Antony looked at the northern army and then at the battle to his front and sighed.
‘Give the order for the legions to withdraw back to camp.’
The hardest part for the legions’ retreat was the legionaries keeping their footing as they about-faced and retraced their steps through a carpet of dead and dying Parthians. B
ut the bellowing of centurions to make haste completed a skilful withdrawal and once they had left the ghastly debris of battle nearly eight thousand men were able to reach their camp a mile south of Irbil without molestation. The Gallic horsemen covered their retreat but in truth they were never threatened as the army of Gordyene diverted to the south to link up with Hovik and the hapless Phraates, who had managed to avoid death or capture despite remaining immobile throughout the whole battle.
Darius’ horsemen also disengaged from the huge mêlée in which a total of thirty thousand horse archers had fought at close quarters with swords, the ranges too short to use their bows effectively against foes intermingled with friends. The cataphracts and mounted spearmen had done some damage but after the initial clash, lightly armed and highly mobile horse archers managed to avoid their lances and swords. One man only had kept his head – Prince Ali – who gathered his men together and rode with haste to the northeast back to his father’s kingdom, believing the battle lost. Whether he would keep his head in the weeks to come remained to be seen.
Mark Antony ordered his weary legionaries to stand guard on the ramparts of their camp as soon as they had finished their withdrawal, abandoning his Median allies to their fate. Darius himself managed to rally his horsemen and ride back to his capital where the absence of any city walls made him fearful for the citizens of Irbil. He withdrew to the citadel to await the wrath of Phraates.
Chapter 7
Spartacus kept Phraates waiting until his army was firmly ensconced in its camp, which was surrounded by a ditch and palisade topped by wooden stakes in the Roman fashion. His supply train was composed of mules in the Roman fashion and his men slept in goatskin tents in the Roman fashion, though to be different they slept ten to a tent instead of eight. He had no qualms about copying Roman methods. His uncle did the same and, more importantly, his blood father had done the same while fighting the Romans in Italy. It took three hours before the camp was completed and twenty-five thousand soldiers and civilians and thousands of horses and mules were properly organised within its confines. To the north was the red glow of Irbil and the Roman camp a mile from it, to the south the mob that had been Phraates’ army. In between was the army of Gordyene, the real victor of the Battle of Irbil, though not one of its soldiers had seen combat. Not one.
Spartacus was in an ebullient mood as he rode south to the great pavilion of the high king, behind him a company of King’s Guard, the huge banner of Gordyene, and beside him Akmon and Hovik, who had been warmly welcomed earlier by a near-hysterical Phraates.
‘Remember the high king is not much older than you,’ Spartacus informed his son, ‘but do not think that gives you some affinity with him. It does not. Treat him like the demi-god he believes himself to be and do not mention today’s battle. In fact, do not say anything at all.’
‘How did the high king appear?’ the king queried Hovik.
‘Like he had just shit himself, majesty.’
Spartacus bit his lip to stop roaring with laughter.
‘Best if you also remain silent. We don’t want to remind him that we saved his arse.’
‘But we did, father,’ said Akmon naively.
‘As I said, keep your mouth shut.’
A party of Babylonian horsemen, resplendent in their dragon-skin armour and purple-plumed helmets, intercepted them a mile from Phraates’ pavilion, located in the centre of a huge sprawling tent city that had no organisation and was filled with camels, horses, wagons, whores, mystics, priests, hawkers, beggars and injured. It was as if Phraates had collected all the dross of the empire to accompany him on his march from Ctesiphon. At least around the great pavilion itself there was a degree of order, guards standing every ten paces and an empty space at least fifty yards wide around the royal residence.
‘I must ask you to surrender your weapons, majesty,’ requested the keeper of the royal pavilion, an evil-looking man backed up by half a dozen equally fearsome Scythian axe men.
Spartacus unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to the keeper.
‘Guard it carefully, it is a very expensive piece.’
The keeper, taken aback, scowled. ‘I can assure you it will be very safe, majesty.’
Spartacus had seen the royal pavilion before but Akmon stared in wonderment at Phraates’ moveable palace, filled with priests, treasury officials, slaves, courtiers and kinsmen. At its most basic it was merely an oversized tent of cloth, wood and leather, but it was filled with expensive draperies, fine linens, purple and crimson rugs interwoven with gold thread and guy ropes made of silk. The King of Gordyene, his son and his scruffy general looked like beggars among such opulence. The pavilion itself was rectangular with a circular canopy at its centre, the royal reception area containing wooden columns thirty feet high and surrounded by rich curtains decorated with animal patterns in gold and silver.
Phraates, pale and uncertain, was seated on his throne on a dais surrounded by Babylonian guards and Scythian axe men, Ashleen and Timo looking similarly gaunt and tremulous. Spartacus smiled to himself as he walked up to the dais and bowed deeply, the other two following his lead.
‘Hail, great Phraates, ruler of the seventeen kingdoms, son of Orodes and keeper of the peace between the Euphrates and Himalayas. Gordyene and its people salute you.’
Phraates, loving such flattery, began to rally.
‘Welcome to you, King Spartacus, though your arrival might have been sooner to avert our discomfort earlier.’
Spartacus bowed again. ‘Alas, highness, my army moves slowly, encumbered as it is with many carts and mules.’
‘We are in a most perilous predicament,’ lamented Phraates.
Spartacus looked surprised. ‘Perilous, highness? The Romans are safely confined to their camp and King Darius hides himself away in his citadel. You have the run of all Media should you so wish.’
The courtiers began to smile. Timo nodded approvingly and a look of utter relief spread across Ashleen’s face. The colour began to return to Phraates’ cheeks.
‘But tomorrow the Romans might leave their camp and King Darius might venture forth from his citadel,’ offered Phraates.
‘I have a plan for keeping our enemies occupied this evening, highness,’ Spartacus told him, ‘come tomorrow they will be in no fit state to trouble you.’
Phraates was now nodding with satisfaction, his entourage also smiling, with relief.
‘I would speak to your highness in confidence about matters of strategy,’ said Spartacus.
Phraates clapped his hands. ‘Everyone out. And bring couches for our esteemed guests, refreshments also. They must be dead on their feet.’
Smiling courtiers, thanking whatever gods they worshipped they had been reprieved from the ravages of the enemy, filed out of the chamber. Timo and Ashleen, the latter looking a changed man following Spartacus’ declaration, remained. Slaves brought couches with silver feet for the three guests; others brought pastries on silver trays and more filled silver rhytons with wine. Akmon eyed a beautiful slave girl with flawless olive skin and one breast exposed, her black hair shining and her brown eyes sparkling. Phraates saw the young prince’s lustful stare.
‘Your son has an eye for beauty, King Spartacus. I give the girl to him as a gift.’
Spartacus glared at his son. ‘You are very generous, highness, but my son has no time to indulge his fantasies. He has more important matters to think about.’
‘What precise strategy did you wish to discuss, majesty?’ asked Ashleen.
‘A winning one,’ Spartacus shot back.
Phraates laughed, the first time he had done so that day. It was certainly ending better than it had begun.
‘Withdraw your army tomorrow, highness,’ advised Spartacus, ‘my troops will keep the enemy amused while you do so. You have lost all your foot soldiers and your horsemen will be shaken after the unfortunate events of today.’
‘Retreat?’ Timo’s booming voice filled the cloth chamber. ‘The high king does not
retreat from his enemies. He crushes them.’
‘And so he will,’ Spartacus assured him, ‘but not tomorrow.’
‘What is to stop the Romans marching on Ctesiphon?’ asked Phraates.
‘The army of Gordyene,’ its king told him. ‘Return to your capital, highness, and when I have contained the threat we can sit down and thrash out a strategy to expel the Romans from Media and return that kingdom to the empire. The alternative is to renew hostilities tomorrow but that might prove difficult.’
‘Why?’ demanded Timo.
‘Because the Romans will not leave their camp and Darius will not leave his citadel.’
‘Of this you are certain?’ probed Phraates.
‘Quite certain, highness.’
It was dusk when Spartacus rode back to his camp, the sun having turned into an angry red fireball in the west. Phraates had assured him he would return to Ctesiphon the next day, leaving the King of Gordyene to cover his retreat.
‘May I ask you a question, majesty?’ enquired Hovik.
‘Of course.’
‘Why did you tell the high king our army was delayed during the march?’
‘Because it served my purpose for him to believe so.’
‘I do not understand, majesty.’
‘If I am going to fight for Phraates I prefer it to be on my terms, not his. He surrounds himself with sycophants, priests and the gods know what else. The consequences of doing so became self-evident today.’
That night five hundred Immortals raided the city of Irbil, operating in small groups to cause as much damage and spread as much panic as possible. They killed a few civilians and torched some of the buildings on the perimeter of the city, which was guarded by Darius’ foot soldiers and dismounted horse archers. It was a cat-and-mouse game that the Immortals could not win, but they kept the King of Media’s troops awake all night and frayed their nerves.
Another group of soldiers held the Romans’ attention as they did so.
The night was moonless and black; the fires started by the Immortals and the burning braziers and torches of the Romans the only light to illuminate the plain. To accompany the pale red glow around Irbil was the hideous sound of hundreds of vultures and ravens feasting on the dead that had fallen in the earlier battle.
