‘Do you think they are out there?’
Hanno turned wearily in the saddle. His eyes were just visible in the folds of the dust-caked cloth that covered his helmeted head and his shoulders, but Valerius sensed he was smiling. The Syrian shook his head. ‘We would have seen signs. More activity ahead; cavalry patrols seeking out our spearhead.’ He waved a hand behind them to where the other cavalry units were hidden in a plume of yellow. ‘Dust.’ Of course, an army as large as that of the Parthian King of Kings would perpetually carry with it a cloud that cloaked it like a ready-made shroud.
Hanno removed the cloth from his face and spat. He had a feel for this land that no man who wasn’t born here would ever match. ‘Every sign of movement we have seen has come from the south, and nothing since we moved into this valley.’ Valerius had never thought of the grasslands they were crossing as a valley, but he supposed it was true. The hills to the north were matched by mountains to the south which had started as low foothills the previous morning, but now created the formidable barrier that stretched eastwards to the far horizon. Unbroken. Yet somewhere out there was Corbulo’s gap. If it existed. He dashed the thought from his mind, remembering the specific instructions he had been given. Riding behind them beside Serpentius was an engineer who had been with Corbulo from the start. The man had created Corbulo’s sand table and he brought with him a leather scroll case containing detailed maps: maps he had drawn during the general’s expedition during the consulship of Petronius Lurco. The gap was there. All Valerius needed to do was reach it before the Parthians.
‘And we’re sure we packed the special equipment?’
Hanno laughed. It was the third time Valerius had asked the question. For answer he adjusted the unfamiliar heavy shield that hung behind him and cursed its awkward unwieldiness. Valerius tested the sword slung on his back in a harness designed by Serpentius so he could draw it over his right shoulder. The cavalry spatha Corbulo had given him was a fine weapon, but the Medusa-pommelled gladius he had carried since Boudicca’s death was a talisman that had accompanied him this far and he would have felt naked without it.
When the sun dropped close to the western horizon he began to fear that they’d missed the valley entrance. The chances of finding it in darkness would be slim for the sharp-eyed Thracian scouts even with a three-quarter moon to aid them. Fortunately one of the patrols stumbled upon a shepherd and his two herder sons and Valerius set off with Hanno to their camp to question them.
The man and the younger boy sat by the fire that had alerted the Thracians to their presence. The elder son stood belligerently by the flock of about thirty skinny, ragged sheep daring any of Hanno’s men to come near them.
The shepherd waved Valerius to the place of honour on the upwind side of the fire and Hanno crouched beside him and made the traditional salutations in his own language. Valerius’s nostrils twitched at the rank animal smell emanating from his host, but he nodded as the man answered Hanno’s questions, revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth.
‘He says he has seen no Parthian patrols,’ the Syrian translated. ‘Or he would have driven his flock to the higher pastures on the hills yonder. The Parthians would take his sheep, unworthy though they are, and cheat him. He knows the Roma are honest men who would never deprive him of his livelihood and would be happy to negotiate a price.’
‘Ask him if he knows of the Cepha gap.’
The shepherd shook his head, but Valerius saw a flash of understanding in the dark, liquid eyes of the boy, probably less than ten years old, sitting opposite him.
‘Ask him again, but more forcefully.’
Hanno grinned, but when he spoke his voice contained a hard edge and the shepherd glanced nervously at Valerius before he replied.
‘He says, yes, now he understands what you mean, but he knows it by a different name, the Road of Sorrow, for this is the way the kings of Parthia and Seleucia have ever ridden to milk the lands of Armenia.’
‘Tell him he will be well rewarded if he takes us there.’
The smile didn’t reach the shepherd’s eyes and he gestured regretfully to his sheep.
‘Alas,’ Hanno translated, ‘he says he and his family must stay with their sheep. Without them they will starve when winter comes, as the north wind says it soon must. And there are wolves from the mountains; you have doubtless seen their tracks. He honours you, but he must decline, though he will gladly provide you with directions.’
The shepherd nodded and smiled ingratiatingly.
‘Then the boy will take us.’ Valerius pointed to the younger son and two of Hanno’s escort lifted him to his feet.
The father began to wail, but Hanno snarled at him and he lapsed into silence. ‘Now he is willing.’ The Syrian grinned at Valerius.
‘No, the boy will take us. I do not trust the father. He would find some means of slipping away in the night. Bring him.’
They remounted, leaving the shepherd standing beside the fire with the older son, who had abandoned his charges.
‘What will we do with them.’ Valerius understood it was not a question, but a reminder. ‘If we leave them behind and a Parthian patrol stumbles on them as we have…’
‘I know, prefect.’ The Roman’s voice was harsher than he intended, but Hanno’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Make sure they are fed first.’
The Syrian issued the order and as they galloped off Valerius could hear him laughing. ‘Aye, a full belly will make a cut throat all the easier to bear.’
‘They are here.’
Valerius cursed as he heard the scout’s whisper to the Third Thracian commander. The column had reined in a few hundred paces from the northern entrance of the Cepha gap, in the shadow of the hills, while a patrol checked for the enemy.
‘How many?’ Hanno demanded.
‘Perhaps seventy, a reinforced patrol.’ Only now did Valerius recognize the voice of Hassan, the Damascus trader’s son. ‘The usual mix of archers and spearmen, if their mounts are to be believed.’
‘Seventy? You are certain? And you weren’t seen?’
‘Does a vole see the hunting owl on the first pass? Does the hare see the eagle?’ White teeth grinned in the darkness. ‘They are camped in the centre of the valley, but their sentries are weary and have grown careless. Janos slipped past them and checked as far as the great river. Is that not so, Janos?’
‘Seventy, my life on it,’ agreed another voice.
‘Aye, so be it,’ Hanno said. ‘When we charge them you will be the first to meet their spears.’
‘Wait!’ Hassan turned at the sound of Valerius’s voice. ‘If you slipped past them once, can you do it again, this time with twenty men?’
‘If I may choose them. The valley is broad enough for it to be done.’
‘Is it worth the risk of discovery?’ Hanno sounded doubtful.
‘If so much as a man escapes, Vologases will send every sword, spear and bow he can get into the saddle and they will be on us before daybreak. Can we take that risk?’
For answer, the Syrian made his dispositions. ‘Janos, pick out your men. Archers, eh? Hassan, position your scouts and be ready to take out the guards at the first sign of an alert. Tribune, I would beg the honour of allowing the Third Thracians to make the attack.’
‘Very well.’ Valerius nodded. ‘But I want you here by my side. You are too valuable to lose to a stray arrow. We will deploy twelve squadrons.’
He saw Hanno’s grin of acceptance, but he knew the Syrian would be disappointed to miss the battle, if it could be called a battle with a numerical superiority of six to one and the element of surprise in favour of the attackers. But he could take no chances. Not a man could be allowed to escape.
‘We need to know the position of Vologases and his forces, so I want prisoners.’
Hanno nodded and went to issue his orders, leaving Valerius alone in the darkness, or so he thought.
‘How long do you think we’ll have to hold them?’
‘Vologases
will march at first light, Serpentius, and I doubt if he’s more than two or three hours away. Even if he orders a forced march it’s unlikely the general will reach us by the eighth hour. Six hours, maybe more.’
‘Then let’s hope the King of Kings enjoys a long breakfast.’
Valerius imagined the might of the Parthian army marching against his puny, lightly armoured force. ‘Let’s hope he chokes on it.’
But first there was a valley to win.
Cloaked in their white shrouds, the twelve squadrons of the Third Thracian cavalry ala appeared as ephemeral as ghosts in the silver moonlight. They approached at a walk, spread in formation across the valley, with their prefect and General Corbulo’s cavalry commander on their right flank. Valerius knew the cloaks provided camouflage of a sort against the moonlit rocks and grass, but it couldn’t be long now. If the guards didn’t react, the attackers would break into the trot at two hundred paces and sweep through the camp peppering anything that moved with their arrows. When Hassan’s scouts had dealt with the sentries they would move into the Parthian horse lines hamstringing and cutting throats. Any Parthian who escaped from the camp would be cut down by Janos and his screen of archers.
Valerius reined in and watched the troopers ride by and he heard Hanno’s whispered curse as his gelding twitched and fidgeted demanding to be with its brethren. His nerves stretched like lyre strings as the silent minutes passed. Hassan must have done well, because there was no alarm cry or trumpet call as the first squadrons reached the trot and it wasn’t until they could feel the quake of the ground beneath them that the Parthians began to react. He heard shouted orders and panicked cries, a scream that was cut off the instant it began. Then the silver horde was on the little circle of Parthian tents.
It was done.
‘Congratulations, prefect.’ Hanno grinned at him. ‘Now the real work begins.’
‘This is the narrowest and most defensible point of the valley?’
‘It is, sir,’ Corbulo’s engineer, Petronius, an intense balding man, assured Valerius. ‘It narrows a little more to the north, but the valley walls are less steep. This is where we have the best chance of holding them.’
‘Very well.’ Valerius marched forty paces ahead and called his cavalry commanders to form a circle around him. They crouched together as troopers enclosed them in a ring of cloaks and Serpentius lit an oil lamp in the centre. With his dagger, Valerius sketched out a rough drawing in a sandy patch he’d chosen. ‘The narrowest part of the valley is here.’ He pointed to the position the engineer had indicated. ‘But we will make our defensive line at this point.’ He laid the dagger across the valley approximately where they now stood. If he expected a protest, or at least a question, he was disappointed, but he realized it was a measure of the respect he had won from these hard men in the weeks he’d ridden with them. He felt a pulse of pride that he immediately suppressed. It was all very well to issue orders, but if he made a miscalculation every one of these soldiers would be dead before tomorrow’s sunset.
‘Marcus? The Augusta Syriaca will form a covering line, here. First Ulpia and First Praetoria? I want staggered lines of camouflaged two-by-two pits dug across the neck of the valley behind the defence line. We don’t have stakes to make them proper horse killers, but…’ He produced a four-pronged iron spike from beneath his cloak. ‘Caltrops. Every man in the column carried four of these. That’s ten thousand of them; to be scattered between the pits. A killing field fifty paces deep. You’ll be working in the dark, but this has to be done properly. The pits and caltrops must be set to create diagonal lanes which will allow the withdrawal or reinforcement of all units. That’s the job of our engineer.’ Petronius nodded gravely. ‘He will supervise your work. Finally, prefect Hanno? The Third Thracians have done their work for the day and done it well. They will form a reserve ready to support Syriaca and provide patrols to locate and track the army of King Vologases. I need to know exactly where they are and in what numbers from first light at the latest. Do you have any questions?’
‘Why don’t we fight from behind the pit line from the start?’ the Syriaca’s commander asked softly. ‘By fighting in front of it we accept greater casualties and deny ourselves the ability to hurt the Parthians.’
Valerius nodded. ‘That’s true, Marcus.’ In the flickering yellow light of the oil lamp he looked each of them in the eye. ‘We fight in front of the pit line, because the pit line has been dug for the main force. We will fight and we will die in front of the pit line and only if we are on the point of annihilation will we withdraw behind it. That decision will be taken either by myself or, if I am dead, by prefect Hanno. Is that understood? This is our ground and we will hold them here or die in the attempt.’
XXXVI
The last scouts rode in at the gallop as the first light of dawn coated the eastern mountains pink and gold. The Cepha gap was a three-and-a-half-mile-long gorge that slashed through an otherwise unbroken range of saw-toothed peaks. The valley’s thousand-foot sheer flanks of fractured red sandstone were divided by a mile of dry grassland at its widest point, but in places it was much narrower. Valerius watched as a fast-moving squall of Parthian cavalry appeared from the dust behind his patrol, howling and yipping and loosing arrows from the saddle. With every eye on their prey it was a moment before the pursuers realized what they were seeing and drew their horses to a disbelieving halt in a shower of flying earth. From valley wall to valley wall a long line of Roman shields blocked their passage. An undernourished, patchy line, its ranks lacking the solidity that would be expected from the cream of Roman infantry, but the message carried by the big curved shields was clear: the legions were here and if King Vologases’ army wanted to reach Tigranocerta it must first destroy them.
Valerius had always known that the only way to hold the gap against a serious assault was on foot. That was why he had insisted the lightly armed cavalry exchange their regular round shields for proper legionary scuta begged and borrowed from the Tenth and the Fifteenth with Corbulo’s assistance. Now the emblems of the two elite eastern legions filled the valley with dismounted cavalry troopers behind them. At this point the gap measured a thousand paces wide as the engineer calculated it. Valerius had formed his men into five weakened cohorts in line abreast, each one hundred men wide and five deep, with a ten-pace division between each unit. To the riders watching from a few hundred paces away it must have appeared that an unbroken wall of shields had sprouted across the width of the valley. Yet it was a pitifully weak, poorly armed and unsupported line. He did not have enough men to both hold the ground and form a reserve. In time of danger each cohort must support its neighbour.
Two figures broke away from the group of riders and rode south. Couriers carrying the unwelcome news to Vologases, King of Kings, that a force of phantoms had materialized to bar his way. The remaining Parthian horse, perhaps a hundred strong, burst into movement, first circling, so that Valerius guessed they must be retreating to gather reinforcements, before advancing to ride across the face of the Roman line at a hundred paces distant. Unlike the earlier patrol Valerius had encountered this was composed entirely of archers; small men, unarmoured, on light horses and ideal for the hit and run tactics that Corbulo had warned him were the Parthian speciality. He waited for the inevitable flurry of arrows.
But the patrol’s commander must have sensed something in the line of shields that smelled of weakness. Without warning he wheeled his horse and led his men directly for the gap between the two left hand formations. If he could breach the Roman defences it would give him a deadly advantage when the main Parthian force arrived. Valerius knew that if the Parthians found their way to the auxiliary horse lines in a gully two hundred paces behind the lines, disadvantage could turn to disaster. A hail of arrows, fired at short range from the gallop, smacked into the shields of the front ranks of the two cohorts with the sound of a hundred branches snapping. Valerius heard the auxiliaries draw a collective breath, but thankfully there was no cry for the m
edical orderlies. Within two strides the Parthians reached the marker stones that identified optimum javelin range. The defending cohorts were a mix of bowmen and javelin throwers, and with a single shouted order a hundred javelins sailed out from the spearmen flanking the gap and converged on the galloping Parthians like a deadly summer shower. Men grunted, screamed and gasped as the light spears tore muscle and sinew, scraped bone and found heart or lung; a dozen horses crumpled in a single choreographed movement, impeding those not agile enough to avoid them. Two more strides and the survivors absorbed another perfectly timed cast. This time those left unscathed reeled away from the killing zone and turned back, accompanied by the jeers of the untouched Roman line.
‘Quiet,’ Valerius roared.
A single rider breached the gap. An archer in the final rank of the left hand cohort turned and loosed. His arrow took the Parthian in the base of the skull and the horse rode on with the rider dead in the saddle until it reached the pit line and went down in a cloud of dust screaming with the agony of a snapped foreleg.
Satisfied, Valerius waited until the surviving Parthians had gathered in a sullen group well out of bow range before he ordered the cleanup. Men from the second rank of the Roman line ran to where the Parthian injured lay stunned and groaning among the dead. The auxiliaries roamed among the carnage with brutal efficiency, cutting throats and providing the mercy stroke as they stripped men and horses of weapons and arrows and recovered bundles of javelins.
‘I want their coats and helmets, too,’ Valerius reminded them.
All through the long morning the men of Valerius’s little command stood in the burning heat and watched with growing dread the build-up of King Vologases’ forces. The Parthians were preceded by the sound of distant thunder that echoed from the valley walls, a deep, menacing throb that seemed to slowly work its way into a man’s soul. Gradually, the defeated survivors of the Parthian charge were absorbed into the mass of the army’s vanguard, the countless horde of light horse which swirled and flowed like the surface of a great river across Valerius’s front seeking some way to break the Roman dam. At first it was insubstantial, a veil of individual squadrons and regiments that lightly dotted the land, but gradually the veil became a blanket and the blanket thickened to become a great multicoloured swathe of humanity that blocked out the coarse grassland. The feeling of enormous pressure building up behind the vanguard grew, but they never ventured closer than four hundred paces.
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