by Peter Darman
‘Horsemen approaching.’
I was brought back to the land of the living by Silani’s voice, turning in the saddle to see Roman horsemen approaching. My immediate response was alarm when I saw the green oval shields and red saddlecloths, but then remembered they were our allies. Gallia, hair loose and bare headed, gave them a cursory glance as they pulled up and saluted.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus,’ the officer said, a Decurion, I assumed. ‘Legate Quintus Dellius and Tribune Tullus request to ride with you and Queen Gallia during the march.’
I looked at Gallia, expecting to see her eyes narrowing and shaking her head, but she gave me an unconcerned shrug.
‘We will be delighted to ride with the legate and tribune,’ I replied.
The officer saluted and rode off with his men, returning around ten minutes later with the two Roman commanders. The legate, resplendent in his uniform and red cloak, launched an immediate charm offensive when he manoeuvred his horse next to Gallia’s.
‘These are the famous Amazons I have heard so much about?’
‘They are, and those in the rear are their female squires,’ she told him.
Titus Tullus behind his commander leered at Zenobia carrying my standard covered by its wax sleeve. She ignored him.
Quintus Dellius looked around. ‘Desolate place, is it not?’
‘The land between the Tigris and Euphrates used to be irrigated and green, hundreds of years ago,’ I told him, ‘when Babylon ruled the known world. This whole desert was criss-crossed by canals and irrigation ditches. Indeed, the land around the city of Babylon is still irrigated.’
‘What happened?’ asked Tullus.
‘Babylon flourished until it was captured by Alexander of Macedon three hundred years ago.’ I answered ‘After his death, his empire was divided up between his generals, the Diadochi, which ushered in decades of fighting throughout the Persian Empire they had conquered. Babylon suffered as a result.’
‘But it is still rich?’ probed the tribune, no doubt thinking of loot.
‘Its temples and palaces contain valuable artefacts, yes, but it is not dripping with gold.’
‘Mark Antony believed that if he captured Ctesiphon,’ waxed Tullus, ‘then all his troubles would be over.’
‘How so, tribune?’ asked Gallia.
‘Ctesiphon is the capital of the Parthian Empire,’ he stated, ‘and is bursting with gold. If Mark Antony had taken it he would have been ruler of Parthia and would have been able to raise a host of armies to defeat Octavian.’
Gallia burst out laughing. ‘When I was a child, my mother would tell me that there was a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow. So whenever I saw one I would run towards it to find the spot it landed on earth. I never did find the end of the rainbow or any pot of gold. It was just a myth, like the Roman obsession with Ctesiphon.’
‘But Ctesiphon is the capital of Parthia?’ queried the legate.
‘It is the symbolic capital of the empire,’ I told him, ‘but the idea that he who holds Ctesiphon holds all Parthia is, as my wife says, a myth.’
‘Then why are we here, trying to capture it?’ asked Tullus.
‘Tribune, hold your tongue,’ snapped Quintus Dellius.
‘It’s a fair question,’ I said. ‘As I said, Ctesiphon is the symbolic capital of the empire. If we eject Tiridates from there then his authority and credibility will be fatally damaged. But more important than that, his army, which includes the soldiers of his fellow conspirators, is here. We destroy that and the rule of Tiridates will come to an abrupt end.’
‘You will kill him?’ grinned Tullus.
‘If I can,’ I admitted.
‘Then you will be what was it, king of kings?’
‘No, I will restore Phraates to the throne.’
‘Mark Antony met him, at Phraaspa,’ stated Quintus Dellius.
‘Thought he was a worthless streak of piss,’ added Tullus.
‘Your language,’ the legate scolded him. ‘Remember where you are.’
Gallia laughed once more. ‘Your assessment is biting but accurate, tribune.’
‘Then why restore him?’ said Tullus.
‘You will have to ask my husband that,’ she answered.
‘But there is gold at Ctesiphon?’ probed Tullus.
‘Yes, tribune,’ I sighed, ‘there is indeed. But first we have to find and defeat Tiridates.’
We were fortunate, or unfortunate depending on one’s view, because Tiridates found us. On the third day, having covered around sixty miles of ground since leaving Uruk, Talib returned with news that his men had spotted parties of enemy horsemen to the north and east. That night the army made camp adjacent to the Euphrates. The two camps, one Duran, the other Roman, had their western entrances a mere three hundred paces from the river, at the edge of a date palm grove, the gap between them similarly narrow. At an hour past dawn on the morning of the fourth day, the sun again hiding itself behind low-lying clouds, a northerly breeze blowing to cool an already chilly morning, Talib and his men galloped into camp.
The legions were already beginning to file out of camp, six abreast, when Talib reported to me in my tent, Gallia and I having just finished a breakfast of thick, warm porridge. Eszter was also eating with us, having been ordered to share her parents’ tent instead of the sleeping quarters of Kalet’s son. During the day she rode with Dalir but at night she rested her head in the king’s tent, much to her chagrin.
Talib gave me a curt nod and reported what he had seen.
‘Horsemen to the north, east and south, majesty, heading this way but moving slowly.’
‘How many?’ I asked.
‘Small parties, but numerous.’
‘How far away?’
He scratched his beard. ‘Around ten miles.’
I stood and strapped on my sword belt. ‘You think they are scouts for the main force?’
‘Seems likely, lord.’
‘But where is the main force, that is the question? You and your men get yourselves something to eat and fresh horses and ride out again, Talib. I need to know if we are facing Tiridates or just a reconnaissance in force.’
He bowed to Gallia, then me and left the tent. I followed and ordered one of the guards to send word to Chrestus to attend me, after penning a note to Legate Dellius to delay leaving his camp, not to dismantle it and would he do me the honour of attending a council of war in my command tent?
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Gallia.
‘To stay where we are and invite Tiridates to attack us.’
Eszter was counting the arrows in her quiver but gave me a quizzical expression.
‘If the battle goes against you, there is nowhere to retreat to. Does not fighting with one’s back against a river contravene military doctrine.’
I was delighted by her assessment. ‘I did not know you had been enrolled in the Sons of the Citadel.’
She stuck out her tongue at me. ‘I grew up around soldiers, father, or at least their commanders. I lost count of the number of times your friends and our relations gave me lectures on strategy, tactics, logistics, battle plans, when to fight, when not to fight. Then Orodes or Uncle Gafarn would regale me with stories about the battles and campaigns they had fought in, and Surena and Spartacus would try to impress me with their military knowledge. Some of it must have rubbed off.’
I smiled with fatherly love. ‘You are right, Eszter, my idea runs counter to the principles of war, which hopefully will not be lost on Tiridates, should he be present.’
The Roman commanders were of the same opinion and were unimpressed by my idea.
‘We will be pinned against the river,’ said Quintus Dellius, ‘unable to manoeuvre and being peppered with arrows while rooted to the spot.’
‘Just like at Carrhae,’ added Tullus.
They were sitting at the table in my tent, along with Chrestus, Silani, Kalet, Sporaces, Quintus Varsas, Karys, Azad and Gallia, orderlies serving us warm wine and dates.
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‘Not like at Carrhae,’ I emphasised. ‘There, Crassus formed his army into a great square, but I propose to form the three legions we have into line.’
I saw a row of worried faces. ‘Bear with me.’
I placed a number of biscuits on the table and arranged three in a line.
‘These are the three legions.’
I placed a biscuit on each flank of the legions.
‘These are our horse archers, five thousand on each flank.’
I put two biscuits behind the row of five biscuits.
‘Behind the legions will be the cataphracts and Kalet and his men, forming a reserve.’
‘Reserve?’ grumbled Kalet, ‘I and my men should be in the front line.’
‘You will get your chance to fight, have no fear,’ I told him. ‘There is more than enough of the enemy to go around.’
‘We will march out with the legions deployed in the centre and horse archers on their wings,’ I continued. ‘Each legion will have a first line of twenty-four close-order centuries, that is four cohorts. In the second line will be three cohorts of eighteen centuries – three cohorts – and behind them another eighteen cohorts.’
I looked up and saw nodding heads. I pointed at the biscuit in the centre.
‘The centre of the battle line will be the Durans, who will be equipped with scorpions. The Exiles will leave their scorpions in camp, and I would ask our Roman allies to do likewise.’
‘Why?’ demanded Tullus.
I turned the two biscuits representing the Exiles and the Roman legion.
‘Because when the enemy attacks, your legion on the right and my own on the left flank of the Durans will withdraw, wheeling ninety degrees inwards to be at right angles to the Durans.
‘At the same time, the horse archers on the wings will ride away.’
‘What?’ Quintus Dellius was far from happy. ‘This is a recipe for disaster. You will collapse the centre and deprive that centre of flank protection? We will all be dead by sunset.’
Chrestus and Azad laughed and Kalet guffawed, much to the consternation of the legate.
‘I have no intention of dying,’ I assured him. ‘But we have an opportunity to kill a great many of the enemy, and hopefully Tiridates himself, and we should seize it.’
I moved the biscuits representing the wings of horse archers.
‘Once the enemy has surrounded what will become the three sides of a square, our two fortified camps constituting the fourth side, Sporaces and Karys will return to the battlefield to attack the rear of the enemy.’
Quintus Dellius stared at the biscuits, disbelief etched on his face.
‘Such a plan requires great discipline and a degree of cooperation between horsemen and foot soldiers unheard of.’
‘Not in Dura, it isn’t,’ said Chrestus with pride.
Titus Tullus looked at me.
‘No offence, your highness, but your horsemen will be on one wing only.’
I pointed at Karys. ‘This is the general of Mesene’s army, an army trained and equipped by King Nergal. Before he became king, tribune, he trained the horsemen of Dura, so you have no need to worry about Karys’ men. But can we rely on you?’
‘A Roman legionary is the best-trained soldier in the whole world, your highness,’ boasted Tullus.
‘We will see,’ remarked Gallia.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘to your places, and may whatever gods you follow smile down on you this day, and on all of us.’
Battle is a curious thing, a mixture of emotions ranging from boredom to terror, and despair to exhilaration. It is a measure of how good soldiers are trained that the marching and manoeuvring to prepare for the actual fighting, which involves trying to butcher as many as one’s opponents as possible, is conducted with the minimum of fuss and delay. ‘Train hard, fight easy’, has always been the motto of Dura’s army since it was forged by a testy Roman by the name of Lucius Domitus. Train hard so that intricate drills become second nature and are carried out unthinkingly when the command is given, or when the whistle or trumpet is blown. Fight easy when soldiers realise that what they have been taught stays in their minds despite the horror, heat and confusion of battle. There was another factor at play as well – Dura’s army now had a long and glorious list of battle honours. It was famous, or infamous, throughout the Parthian Empire for being an organisation that had never been beaten, and that gave its soldiers an added edge on the battlefield. They believed themselves unbeatable. They knew it and the enemy knew it.
Dura’s army marched from camp in silence, infused with a steely determination to get the job done, to meet and defeat the enemy across the barren, grey earth no matter how many he numbered. And the army of Tiridates numbered many. While two great formations moved slowly to get into position, Talib and his scouts darted around like sand flies, riding to and fro to glean as much information about the foe as possible, their commander sending his men to Karys and Sporaces to update them on the composition of the eastern usurpers. He also sent riders to Legate Dellius, though the Romans had their own scouts that got too close to the enemy’s horse archers, saddles being emptied to give Tiridates first blood.
I had ridden with Gallia and the Amazons ahead of the army to get a look at the enemy for myself, which was flooding the plain to the front and on both wings, the breadth of our opponent’s battle line being at least three miles. Behind us the Durans were halting, being approximately a quarter of a mile from our camp’s eastern entrance. On their left were the Exiles; on their right the Romans. I turned in the saddle and examined our new allies. Everything appeared as it should be.
‘You worry about the Romans?’ asked Gallia.
‘Many things still bother me,’ I told her, ‘but I cannot worry about them now. I have a battle to fight. As for the Romans, Karys told us they fought well in Mesene and Chrestus thinks they are good soldiers. So no, they do not worry me unduly.’
I pointed ahead. ‘They worry me.’
Those who study war from the comfort and quiet of a library believe battles to be rapid affairs, but the truth is it take time to marshal foot soldiers and horsemen into position, even a totally mounted army such as the one commanded by Tiridates. The bigger the army, the more time it takes to deploy its constituent parts, to issue orders and coordinate movements. And Tiridates had a very large army.
Talib, his horse panting heavily, pulled up in front of us and bowed his head. He spun and pointed at a stand of banners in the centre of the enemy line.
‘All the enemy kings are here, majesty. My men have reported banners showing a deer, three tongues of flame, a winged horse and a snow leopard.’
The enemy had now halted, being approximately a mile away, a long, almost unbroken line of horseflesh, men in armour, colourful banners and lances that looked like tiny sticks.
‘They honour us,’ smiled Gallia, her hair plaited down her back, helmet resting on the front of her saddle.
The day was cool, low-hanging clouds blocking out the sun and a breeze coming from the north, which made standards flutter and would mean it would not be too physically taxing for men wearing leather, armour and helmets and carrying shields, javelins and swords.
‘What have your scouts gleaned about the deployment of the enemy, Talib?’ I asked.
‘The centre is made up of cataphracts on horses and camels, flanked by a high number of mounted spearmen equipped with shields and helmets. Both wings comprise thousands of horse archers,’ he told me.
‘It won’t be long now, Talib. Withdraw your men and get them into camp.’
He wheeled his horse away and galloped off to retrieve his Agraci scouts. The battlefield was no place for desert phantoms. I was about to turn Horns, who was showing signs of nervousness, when Gallia glanced to the right.
‘We have company.’
It was Legate Dellius with a small escort. His scarlet cloak billowed in the breeze as he cantered towards us, his helmet looking diminutive compared to its massiv
e red crest. He pulled up his horse and bowed his head to Gallia and then me.
‘You should exchange that helmet for one worn by one of your horsemen,’ she said, ‘you are a conspicuous target for every enemy horse archer.’
He instinctively touched his helmet. ‘I will take your advice, majesty.’
‘How can we help you, legate?’ I asked, my eyes on the enemy battle line that was still stationary.
‘In the event your plan does not work, majesty, what is your back-up strategy?’
‘It will not fail,’ I told him, ‘Tiridates has amassed this great army we see before us for only one reason – to destroy us. That is why he will fall into our trap. Your men know their orders.’
‘They do.’
I turned away from the enemy. ‘Then I wish you good fortune, legate.’
On the left, there was a loud blast of horns and Sporaces and his horse archers began to walk their horses forward. On the right Karys, under orders to wait until he saw Sporaces advance before moving, now led forward his five dragons of horse archers to replicate the movement on the left.
Gallia put on her helmet and fastened its cheek guards to secure it in place. Legate Dellius raised a hand, wheeled his horse about and galloped back to his legion. Gallia caught my eye and smiled.
My great gamble was about to begin.
At the same time as the horse archers on our wings broke into a canter and then a gallop, the Exiles and Roman legion withdrew, each formation wheeling inwards through ninety degrees to place them at right angles to the stationary Durans facing the enemy. It was a spectacle to behold and testimony to the training of the legionaries from Dura and, I had to admit, Syria that it was accomplished in sharp order. By the time the horse archers of Sporaces and Karys had shot one volley at the wings of the enemy army, prior to riding away from the battlefield at full speed, our battle line had been replaced by a large square, anchored on the two camps and containing within it Azad’s thousand cataphracts, Silani’s five hundred Babylonians, the Amazons and Kalet, his fellow lords and their retainers.
