‘Signaller?’
‘Sir.’ The man readied the lituus, the ornate trumpet used by the cavalry for relaying commands.
The sharp cry of a warning shout was answered by the thrum of bowstrings and followed by the screams of at least two men and the thud of falling bodies. Cries of consternation rang out from the camp to his left.
‘Sound the charge.’
The two distinct notes from the brass horn were echoed among the advancing squadrons and from behind, where Valerius knew Hanno would be launching his attack on the lightly defended baggage camps. Beneath him Khamsin responded to the call without the urging of his heels, surging into the trot and snorting through her nostrils. He could feel her excitement and that of the men around him as he reached for the long cavalry spatha and felt its familiar weight in his left hand. His ears echoed with the thunder of hooves across the packed earth. To his right, Serpentius snarled a litany of what sounded like curses, but Valerius knew would be prayers to the Spaniard’s native gods. A dozen more strides and the air was thick with the stench of human excrement as they passed over ground where Vologases’ tens of thousands of infantry had camped the previous night. In the far distance, still a mile away, a dark stain covered the gold of the fields of dried grass in the southern neck of the Cepha gap. His heart almost failed him at the sight of that huge mass of men. It had always been a gamble, but now that gamble was exposed as suicidal. The first rule of war was that a commander should not attack unless he was aware of his enemy’s dispositions. Valerius could only be guided by Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo’s advice and his own intuition. That advice and intuition said that Vologases would mass his cavalry against the Roman line and continue to use it in successive waves until Corbulo’s army was destroyed, or so weakened as to be helpless before a final Parthian charge. If the King of Kings held even a few hundred of his armoured cataphracts in reserve they were capable of blunting Valerius’s charge and destroying its momentum.
He chanced a look over his shoulder and was rewarded with a sky filled with towering clouds of smoke; the funeral pyre for King Vologases’ baggage train. Hanno had done his job well. If nothing else the Roman soldiers holding back this huge army would see it and know hope.
Half a mile now to the mouth of the valley. The first auxiliary cavalry were already sweeping through the gaping, stunned stragglers hurrying to join the Parthian army; swords slashed down and blood stained the golden grassland.
‘Hold the line.’ Valerius roared the order and the signaller echoed it with his trumpet.
A Parthian war drum answered the call with a frantic beat and Valerius saw movement in the ranks ahead, as what commanders there were frantically attempted to form a defensive line. But these were conscripts who had been waiting for two days while their cavalry fought to breach the Roman defences. They were farmers and peasants, townsmen and shopkeepers who had no option but to march behind their lord and no inclination for battle. If they expected to fight it was against a defeated enemy fleeing from the cataphracts’ spears. Yet even that expectation had been blunted by the endless hours of waiting. They were listless and bored, lying in groups wondering how long it was until the next meal. Now their leaders screamed confused orders and the sky to the east was black with the smoke of their burning rations and thousands of strange cavalrymen were bearing down on them at a terrifying rate. A few managed to form the semblance of a defence, but they were small groups of widely spaced spearmen. Most froze in confusion and terror.
A cantering horse takes less than a minute to cover half a mile. By the time the Parthians had worked out whether they were facing friend or foe that distance had halved, then halved again. Eight of Valerius’s auxiliary wings were made up of mounted archers and he had placed them in the front ranks. They loosed their first arrows at a hundred and fifty paces, darkening the sky with feathered shafts that arched gracefully before plummeting into the massed ranks of the Parthians. Before the first had landed, a second volley was on its way, instantly followed by a third. Twelve thousand arrows rained down on the Parthian spearmen in the space of twenty seconds. None of the defenders wore armour, few had helmets, and the wickedly barbed points pierced skull, shoulder and back as men crouched to avoid the rain of deadly missiles. Instinctively they sought shelter, pushing back into the unharmed mass behind them, but there was no shelter.
The archers turned away, using the same tactics which had tormented the Romans for the past two days, but they were immediately replaced by Numidian spearmen who added their light javelins to the horror, hurling them one after the other into the cringing mass of Parthians. By now the killed and wounded lay ten and fifteen deep along the length of the Parthian line, carpeting the valley in a twitching mantle of death. Still it was not enough, for the bowmen returned, giving the enemy no respite and firing again and again until their supply of arrows was spent, then turning away once more.
Valerius steeled himself against pity. The killing must go on, for when the Parthians stopped dying the agony of the Romans would begin. He waved the light cavalry forward once more. Their javelins were spent, but they were far from harmless. It was time for the swords.
There was little cohesion to the Roman line, but there did not need to be. Fear was as great a weapon as any blade. The Parthian foot soldiers on the fringes of the great mass that made up Vologases’ rearguard were already demoralized by the carnage caused by the Roman spears and arrows. Now their only thought was to escape these phantoms who had appeared where no enemy had a right to appear. Many had already thrown away their spears in blind panic, and as Valerius’s mounted cohorts urged their horses over the corpses of those already fallen they scrabbled to bury themselves deeper in the illusory safety of the crowd. But there was no escape from the swords.
This was not war. It was slaughter.
The spathae rose and fell with the relentless rhythm of a farmer’s scythe and with similar effect. Valerius cut left and right, carving through terrified, shrieking faces and balding skulls, chopping torsos from shoulder to rib and removing hands and arms raised in desperate attempts to protect their owners. And all along the Roman line men did the same. Though he didn’t realize it, he snarled and grunted and cursed with every blow he struck. He tried not to see the grey porridge of an opened skull, the splintered bone of shattered arms or the pink mess of a sword-slashed lung, but he knew the images would remain with him for ever. Within minutes his left arm was slick with other men’s blood; it coated his armour and he could feel it on his face and taste it on his lips. The sheer scale of Vologases’ army, allied to the narrowness of the valley, protected Valerius’s men from counter-attack, because the Parthian war bands which had retained their cohesion and fighting spirit had to battle their way through the men trying to flee the butchery. Even so, amongst the dead, the dying and the defeated there were still men prepared to fight.
‘To your left.’
Serpentius’s snarled warning gave Valerius the heartbeat he needed to duck away from the spear point that would have taken out his throat. He slashed frantically at the shaft and kicked Khamsin through the cowering bodies towards his attacker, a bearded Parthian with dark eyes and a mouth that snarled hatred. Inside the point he knew he had little to fear from the spearman, but this easterner was no shopkeeper. The long ash shaft came round in a hammer blow to the cheekplate of Valerius’s helmet, almost knocking him from the saddle. As he clung to Khamsin’s side, the men he had been killing saw their opportunity and with a collective howl rose up to haul him from her back, hands tearing at him and gouging at his face. Pinned by four or five bodies he felt a sting in his ribs as a dagger point managed to pierce his mail and the leather tunic beneath. It was only a matter of time before its owner sought out his throat or his eyes. Roaring with fury and with the violence of despair, he lashed out at the men holding him, but they were too many. A man pinned his sword hand and the bearded spearman sat on his chest and spat in his face before drawing the knife that would kill him.
A gl
int of metal flashed in front of Valerius’s face, swift as any lightning strike, and the spearman’s head spun from his shoulders leaving his still upright body fountaining blood from the neck. Another man shrieked as a blade split him from throat to crotch, spilling intestines in long coils from his torn body. Valerius hauled the dead weight of the headless man from his chest as his attackers scattered from the ferocious assault of a whip-thin madman with a face that was a gory mask of horror.
‘Here!’ Serpentius reached down and with another trooper’s help hauled Valerius to his feet. Miraculously Khamsin still stood over him and he pulled himself back into the saddle. He had lost Corbulo’s spatha, but when he reached over his shoulder the familiar grip of the gladius moulded itself into his hand and he was armed again. His ears rang from the blow to his head and he could feel blood running down his ribs from where the dagger had struck, but he had no time to rest. He forced himself to concentrate on the cacophony of sounds around him and tried to sense the battle. From somewhere he found a moment of calm, though the breath rasped in his throat and his heart hammered as if it was trying to break free from his ribs. Oddly, it was the soft hiss of disturbed air that registered first, confirming that the mounted archers had returned with their quivers replenished from captured Parthian supply camels. That told him Hanno was in control of his operation and, for the moment, he could disregard his rear.
The slaughter of the spearmen continued. There was no let-up in the butcher’s-block smack of edged metal cutting into flesh and bone, but he knew the situation could not continue indefinitely. More and more Parthians were fighting back, and Roman blood now mingled with that of the enemy. Eventually the arms of his auxiliary cavalrymen would tire, the arrows would run out and the attack would lose its momentum. When the killing stopped the Parthians would be able to draw breath, and when they did they would see how relatively few the Roman horsemen were. Panicked or not, someone would organize a counter-attack and that counter-attack could only have one outcome. But Valerius had made his pledge to Corbulo and that pledge was to fight to his last breath, and that of every man with him. The question was, what was happening on the far side of that great army where the Roman line had endured all this long day? It endured still, Valerius was certain of that, or the Parthian foot would have been able to withdraw and reorganize. Vologases was still trapped between two forces, even if those forces were vastly inferior to his own. But this was not Caesar; being trapped did not bring automatic victory. Somehow, the king’s confidence must be destroyed and his vast army demoralized. That could only be achieved by one man.
Valerius raised his sword and urged Khamsin back into the carnage, praying not to any god, but to Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo.
XLIII
Corbulo’s face betrayed no emotion as another shower of arrows fell on his bloodied cohorts, but inwardly he shuddered with revulsion. The Parthians had become braver and more confident, advancing to the very edge of the line of dead horses and dead men which were the only things now keeping the enemy at bay. Unlike the Romans below, the mountain troops on the crags were winning their battle and the signallers kept up a constant stream of information on Parthian movements which were otherwise invisible to their general. It seemed to Corbulo that Vologases’ growing frustration was written clearly in the steady build-up of troops just behind the front ranks of cavalry. Vast numbers now waited for the final order to advance less than two hundred paces from the fragile line of legionaries.
Corbulo could imagine, or believed he could imagine, the scene in the imperial pavilion. Vologases still had his tens of thousands of mounted archers, and eventually those archers could win him victory. But archers were ten to the as. It was the cataphracts which were the symbol of Parthian power. The armoured might of the nation. The warrior elite who kept the King of Kings upon his gilded throne. Now he had lost three hundred and fifty of those petty kings, warlords and clan chieftains and their most trusted retainers in a single afternoon, drawn in by a trick any basilica conjuror would have seen through. Not only had he lost his armoured spearhead, he had lost his key military and political advisers and the confidence of those who remained. The hierarchy which kept him in power had been fatally disturbed. There would be no talk of quick, bloodless victories now. Yet he still had a mighty army and given the right leadership that mighty army could smash its way through the thin Roman line. Already Corbulo could see infantry among the leading horsemen and he knew what would happen next. The archers would keep the embattled legionaries at bay while the foot soldiers manhandled the dead men and horses which barred the Parthian advance clear and filled in the pits. What would stop them then?
Tiberius watched the general as he deliberated, marvelling at the calm of the man. The Parthians had launched a second armoured attack midway through the morning, but it had been a half-hearted affair with few of the horses even attempting to charge the Roman cohorts directly. The arrow storm had been the worst torment and he knew he had been fortunate to survive after so long in the front rank. Now he was at Corbulo’s side, the most junior of aides, courtesy of an arrow fired with particular venom which had soared over the lines to impale his predecessor through the right eye. The sweetly sick scent of death was thick in his nostrils and nothing he had witnessed since daybreak had changed his opinion that his own decaying flesh would soon be adding to the stink of corruption. Until now.
He had to look twice before he realized what he was seeing. ‘General!’
Every eye turned to the far horizon.
Smoke.
A great dark swirling pall hanging in the still air behind and to the east of Vologases’ army.
Corbulo’s stern features were split by a grim smile and he sent up a prayer of thanks, asking the gods to aid the endeavours of Gaius Valerius Verrens. He had stopped Vologases in his tracks, he had bloodied him and now he had confused him. But that was nothing to the horror Corbulo was about to unleash on the hemmed-in Parthian army.
‘Gentlemen, take your positions.’
A ragged cheer went up from the Roman line. Tiberius could hear the shouts of the centurions demanding silence and he imagined the gnarled vine sticks cracking on backs. But the cheer had unsettled the Parthians and it was as if a collective shudder ran through that packed mass of humanity.
Corbulo saw it too. Now. Now was the time.
‘Loose the screens and deploy the artillery.’
On both sides of the valley, invisible to the Parthians because of their cunning construction, woven screens made from the long golden stems of dried grass that carpeted the valley had hidden Corbulo’s secret weapon: the siege artillery, carried at such great cost in time and manpower from Zeugma. Behind the screens Roman engineers had constructed two pairs of great catapults that now dominated the valley. Others had assembled the legion’s light artillery of stone-throwing ballistae and their cousins, the smaller but horribly effective scorpios, which fired giant arrows with the enormous power that gave them their well-earned nickname: shield-splitters. Each of the seventeen cohorts was equipped with a single ballista and ten scorpios and now the cohorts moved into open formation to allow the deadly machines to be positioned across the valley. Almost two hundred artillery pieces over a width of less than a mile. One every six or seven paces.
But it was the big siege catapults that Corbulo trusted would shatter the already cracking Parthian resolve. Designed to smash wood and stone and cow the inhabitants of great cities, the massive constructions of wood and iron could throw a stone weighing as much as a small ox for up to half a mile. It had taken patience and fortitude not to use them. To watch his soldiers die without fighting back. But now the destructive power that could destroy a city wall would be turned against flesh and bone.
The eighteen-foot throwing arm had been hauled back on its thick rope of twisted oxhide in preparation for the first throw. The projectile, a roughly carved rock the size and shape of a large cauldron, was in its sling.
‘Loose!’
Tiberius heard
the order and his eye turned automatically to witness the launch. Released from the incredible tension that held it in place, the oak throwing arm lashed forward with a force that kicked through the wooden frame of the huge siege engine and would have thrown it into the air if the engineers hadn’t pegged it to the ground. With a gigantic whuuuup of released energy the arm collided with the padded buffer of hay-filled cloth sacks and sent its enormous projectile towards the Parthians. Unlike many of his peers, Tiberius had taken time to study the intricacies of his profession and he knew that the catapult was notoriously inaccurate. But with a target almost a mile wide and three miles deep accuracy didn’t matter.
A tremendous whooshing surge accompanied the low arcing flight of the stone and for a moment the whole battlefield seemed to fall silent. Tiberius followed the dark blur until it was absorbed into the mass of humanity below. The ground seemed to explode and men exploded with it. He imagined he could see the pink haze as Vologases’ soldiers were pulverized when the giant missile ploughed through them, robbing men of limbs and heads and swatting the big Parthian horses aside as if they were house flies. The power and the speed of the rock was so tremendous that men outwith the epicentre of the landing would be pierced by flying shards of bone and bludgeoned with lumps of still warm flesh. And that was just the first impact. Six times the stone skipped through the massed ranks, and each time it struck it caused carnage and consternation until at last it rolled to a halt in front of a pale and trembling Parthian princeling who looked down at the flesh-smeared lump of rock and fainted dead away.
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