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by Peter Darman

  ‘I understand your misgivings, and truth to tell I would not countenance an alliance, albeit temporary, with any Roman. But events have dictated my actions rather than the other way around. And here we are.’

  ‘Here we are, majesty.’

  ‘I do know one thing, though, the Romans will be fighting for their lives tomorrow and I would rather have them fighting with us than against us.’

  He said no more on the subject and I did not doubt that once the battle began, his mind would be focused on winning it rather than reflecting on strategy or politics.

  When we arrived at the section of the camp where Kalet and his lords were quartered, we found a scene of revelry and noise. The retainers of each lord were singing bawdy ballads at the tops of their voices, drinking out of waterskins, though I doubted they contained water. It was amazing how alcohol could appear seemingly out of thin air on the eve of battle. Kalet was roaring drunk when we reached him, showering me in wine when he embraced me and spilling the contents of his tankard over both of us.

  ‘Hail to the king,’ he bellowed at the top of his voice.

  His men drew their swords and raised a mighty din with their cheers. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Dalir with his arm around Eszter, both of them ecstatically happy and gazing into each other’s eyes. I smiled; it was good they should be so tonight because tomorrow one or both of them might be dead. I broke free from Kalet and raised my arms.

  ‘Siiiiiiiiileeeeeeence!’ shouted Kalet.

  The din died down.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said loudly, ‘we end this war. Ever since I became King of Dura, I have esteemed the lords of my kingdom my most loyal subjects.’

  This was the cue for wild cheering and whooping, and more drinking. I raised my arms again and waited until the commotion had died down before speaking.

  ‘We have fought together on many occasions, won great victories and lost many friends. It has been a saga of triumph and tragedy in equal measure. But through it all your bravery, loyalty and steadfastness has given Dura victory after victory. Those victories have allowed you and your people to live in peace and freedom, to live your lives the way you see fit. That is your greatest victory.

  ‘Tomorrow, we fight again, side by side as brothers against the enemy like so many times before. Whatever happens, know that I am immensely proud and humbled to have fought with you, my brothers. So drink well, and fight better tomorrow.

  ‘I give you our battle cry for tomorrow – kill Tiridates.’

  They erupted in wild cheering, chanting ‘kill Tiridates’ over and over, followed by the chant that always sent a shiver down my spine: warriors and soldiers crying ‘Dura, Dura, Dura’. Chrestus smiled and nodded with approval.

  Tomorrow would be a good day.

  Like on the previous days the weather was fine and warm, with a slight northerly breeze to invigorate the senses and keep men in mail, steel and iron armour and helmets from over-heating. Talib and his scouts, together with those under Spartacus’ control, left camp before dawn to reconnoitre the ground and gather as much information on the enemy as possible. After waking, I knelt beside the cot I had slept in alone and prayed to Shamash. I asked the Sun God for victory not only to avenge the deaths of Nergal and Praxima, but also to destroy Tiridates’ rebellion that had once more brought civil war to Parthia. Afterwards I dressed in silence, pulling on my boots and standing still as an orderly fitted my Roman leather cuirass. I ate breakfast alone, Gallia dining with the Amazons and Eszter with Dalir in the company of Kalet and the other lords.

  As I chewed on the strips of cured meat and dates, washed down with water, I thought of old battles and old friends. I stared at the spatha gifted to me by Spartacus all those years ago, and the helmet given to me by Castus. They both had aged better than me that much was certain. When I had been in my twenties, war had been an exciting adventure filled with glory and triumphs. Even the defeat in the Silarus Valley had been a victory of sorts when we had escaped from under the Romans’ noses to flee from Italy and make it back to Parthia. But now campaigns were a chore to be undertaken as a result of a foreign aggressor or native upstart. They were fought to preserve what we had built up over the years rather than for notions of glory, though I hoped that honour had also been a factor in every war I had taken part in. Was there honour in revenge? To spill an ocean of blood for a minor slight, no. But Nergal and Praxima had been killed defending the rightful and lawful high king, and criminality could not be allowed to go unanswered. They and I knew that every time we rode into battle there was a chance one or more of us would be killed by an enemy weapon, that is the nature of war, but Tiridates had started this war for purely selfish reasons. And I intended to put an end both to it and his ambitions. He was no different from Mithridates and Narses who had plagued Parthia many years before.

  Horns was brought to the tent when Gallia and the Amazons arrived, Zenobia holding Dura’s griffin banner behind her. I nodded to my wife and gained the saddle beside her, glancing up at the white puffy clouds in the sky before we trotted from camp. Gallia noticed my stare into the sky.

  She smiled. ‘The gods will have an uninterrupted view of today’s proceedings, have no fear.’

  ‘Let us hope everyone remembers their part in the coming drama.’

  To this end there was an impromptu council of war outside the ramparts, involving the assembled kings, queens and generals while thousands of legionaries and horsemen were exiting the camp to march north, towards Ctesiphon. Everyone was in armour and helmets, even Diana, who also had her bow in its case attached to her saddle in addition to two full quivers. Herneus, the gruff, no-nonsense commander of Hatra’s army, was seated beside her with Gafarn on her other side. Prince Pacorus, as always resplendent in his shining steel armour and plumed helmet, was next to his father. Spartacus was beside Rasha, flanking them the senior commanders of Gordyene, while the officers from Mesene surrounded Karys, many of whom were familiar faces. Less familiar were the tribunes grouped around Legate Dellius, though I recognised the hard visage of Titus Tullus well enough.

  ‘We end this war today,’ I told them. ‘Whatever the enemy does, however many troops Tiridates can muster, stick to the plan and we will triumph. We destroy his army, kill him, capture Ctesiphon and his rebellion will be over. More than that, we destroy his army and we send a clear message to any would-be usurper that their efforts will end in failure.

  ‘May the gods be with you all.’

  The plan was simple enough. In the centre three legions – the Durans, Exiles and the Romans – would hit the enemy’s centre to split Tiridates’ army in half, while on the flanks thousands of horse archers would attack, feint withdrawal and attack again against their enemy counterparts, being re-supplied by Farid’s camels to ensure their volleys did not slacken during the fighting. The centre would comprise fifteen thousand legionaries, plus a few hundred auxiliaries accompanying the Romans. On the right flank would be deployed Hatra’s professional horse archers and the kingdom’s lords and their retainers – a total of twenty thousand horse archers. The right wing – Gordyene’s and Dura’s professional horse archers and the mounted bowmen of the lords of those two kingdoms – would number slightly less: sixteen thousand. In reserve would be the cream of our army: horsemen that were the best trained and led in all Parthia and which would deliver the deathblow to Tiridates’ army. They included Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard, Hatra’s cataphracts, Dura’s cataphracts and Amazons, and Gordyene’s Vipers, King’s Guard and medium horsemen. The latter wore red tunics, black leggings and scale armour comprising rows of overlapping iron scales riveted onto thick hide and reinforced with scale armour shoulder guards. They also wore leather strips protecting the thighs – pteruges – and carried round wooden shields faced with red-painted hide and embossed with a white lion’s head. Their main weapon was a spear, with swords and axes as their secondary weapons. In themselves they were not as hard-hitting as cataphracts but they were all professional soldiers that had bee
n trained to work closely with Rasha’s five hundred female horse archers, the Vipers.

  The reserve totalled just over five thousand men and women, more than enough to deliver the deathblow to Tiridates’ army when the time came.

  The commanders returned to their units, though the kings and queens stayed together, the different banners fluttering in the breeze that had stiffened as the morning wore on. I had noticed Shamshir had been missing but when I questioned Spartacus concerning the absence of the commander of his bodyguard, he answered with a brusque ‘he’s on important business’. I wracked my brain trying to think what could be more important than the coming battle to decide the fate of the Parthian Empire but failed to come up with an answer.

  Talib and his men were riding around like men possessed, galloping up and down the rapidly forming enemy line to gather as much intelligence on the size and composition of our opponents as they could. Parties of horse archers were sent out to disperse them, prompting the scouts to scatter and withdraw, only to regroup and return once the enemy riders had retreated. This cat-and-mouse game was not one-sided: Sporaces and the other horse archer commanders in our own army sending out detachments to swat away Tiridates’ scouts. And all the while two great armies deployed on the plain before Ctesiphon.

  I could see its massive gatehouse and white-faced walls from where I sat on Horns, the enemy army perhaps a mere mile from the palace complex’s southern ramparts. The length of the enemy line was long – around three miles – and would overlap our own but that did not concern me. Tiridates’ centre was weak and would snap like a piece of rotten wood when struck.

  The enemy army was a blaze of colour topped with the sun glinting off whetted spear points and burnished helmets. It was easy to identify the different rulers who had rallied to Tiridates’ cause. Looking from right to left I could see the blue tunics and white leggings of the horsemen of Drangiana, next to them the red leggings and red tunics of the riders from Yueh-Chih. The final contingent of the enemy’s left flank was a detachment of camel cataphracts from Anauon.

  The enemy’s centre comprised a mass of foot soldiers, a disorganised mob of hill men from Persis, the ordered ranks of trained spearmen from the same kingdom in their yellow tunics and blue leggings, and a small contingent of Babylonian spearmen in their purple uniforms. Tiridates had deployed his trained spearmen in the middle of his centre, flanked by the hill men. In total, they outnumbered the three legions but in terms of quality they could have outnumbered the legionaries by five- or six-to-one and it would have made no difference against hardened professionals. As Domitus used to say: ‘A cup full of sweat saves a bucket load of blood.’

  On the left of the enemy line as I looked at it were more horsemen – a detachment of camel cataphracts flying the three tongues of flame banner of Yueh-Chih on the flank of the hill men; a large detachment of mounted spearmen from Anauon in grey-white tunics and brown leggings; and on the extreme left of the enemy line, which was Tiridates’ right flank, was a block of mounted spearmen from Aria in black tunics and light tan leggings.

  When Talib galloped up to me he articulated the question that had been gnawing at my mind.

  ‘There are no horse archers among the enemy wings, majesty.’

  ‘What about behind what we can see?’

  He shook his head, sweat on him and his horse.

  ‘Only a detachment of cataphracts, majesty. Tiridates has no horse archers.’

  ‘It is a trick,’ warned Gafarn.

  ‘Most probably,’ I agreed, ‘but the die is cast.’

  I turned to a detachment of Sporaces’ horse archers behind me.

  ‘Give the signal.’

  They rode forward and began waving the red flags each man carried – the signal for a general advance. Moments later the air was filled with horns and trumpets being sounded and the whole of our battle line moved towards the enemy. It was a magnificent spectacle to behold. In the centre three legions, each one deploying four cohorts in the first line, three in the second and another three in the third – fifteen thousand highly trained and motivated men armed with javelins and short swords advancing methodically across the dirt plain. On the wings the horse archers trotted forward, thousands of men nocking arrows in bowstrings in preparation to raining down death on the enemy flanks strangely devoid of horse archers. And behind the battle line we walked our horses forward, the cataphracts, medium horsemen, Vipers and Amazons ready to be unleashed once the enemy line had been broken.

  I could not see the initial clash but I heard it well enough: a long, loud clamour of cheers and war cries followed by what can only be described as frenzied clicking sounds as hundreds of legionaries hurled their javelins prior to rushing at the enemy with swords drawn. Then the clatter of close-quarter killing was all around, accompanied by whooshing sounds as thousands of horse archers shot at the enemy’s mounted spearmen, which suddenly charged at our flanks. I could not see them but did see the withdrawal of thousands of our horse archers as they suddenly retreated in the face of a charge by thousands of mounted spearmen, loosing arrows over the hindquarters of their horses as they did so. After a few minutes they stopped to reform their ranks. The enemy horsemen had been momentarily halted. The result was that both our flanks had been pushed back through forty-five degrees, like a door that had its hinges on the legions in the centre.

  The horse archers continued to duel with the enemy riders, shooting volley after volley in an attempt to force them back, which they did. Slowly but surely, our flanks began to swing outwards as their missiles pushed the enemy back. In the centre the legions were hacking their way through the enemy hill men and spearmen. If I said so myself, my plan was working to perfection.

  But only the gods are perfect; mortal man is just a pale imitation of the immortals, a weak, insignificant vessel compared to the everlasting deities we worship. Above the clamour and confusion of battle a new sound reached our ears, a noise I had heard many times before and one that sent a shiver down my spine. I glanced at Gallia and the expression on her face told me she too understood its dread significance. Then the earth began to shake beneath us as the rumble got louder and more menacing. The noise of thousands of horses’ hooves drowned out the din of battle, which made me realise thousands of horsemen were exiting Ctesiphon.

  Tiridates had sprung his surprise and within minutes we could see them – horse archers sweeping around the battling wings of each army to envelop them like a giant pair of arms. I glanced left and right to see horsemen around a mile away on either side of us swarming on the plain, thousands of them. Tens of thousands. If we stayed where we were we would be swamped as the foe’s horse archers poured into the rear area of our army. Ahead the legions and our own horse archers were locked in combat with the enemy. Behind us was Farid’s ammunition train. I called forward the deputy commander of the Amazons and told her to ride to Farid and convey my urgent order for him and his camels to withdraw back to camp as fast as possible. She looked at Gallia.

  ‘Now!’ I bellowed.

  She galloped away as I nudged Horns forward and swung him around.

  ‘We stay here; we get deluged by those horse archers. Give the order for the reserve to withdraw.’

  Gallia, Gafarn, Diana, Spartacus and Rasha looked at me as though my senses had deserted me.

  ‘Azad, do as you are told,’ I shouted. ‘We will withdraw. Now!’

  ‘But uncle,’ began Spartacus.

  ‘For once in your miserable life do as you are told. You want to stay here and die, fine. There is only one chance to save the army.’

  I shouted at Horns to move. ‘We must move now.’

  They followed because they trusted me, knew that there was no way five thousand horsemen could stop perhaps upwards of ten times that number, and because I was the only one who had suggested an alternative to being overrun. But Gallia had fury in her eyes as we cantered away from the army, knowing that we were abandoning not only fifty thousand of our own troops, but also our daugh
ter. It was a hateful decision and as we rode back south I kept glancing over my shoulder, to see company after company of enemy horse archers galloping from each flank to link up and surround our army, which was rapidly disappearing from view. Soon they would be shooting at the rear cohorts of the legions and the horsemen of Dura, Hatra and Gordyene caught in the giant trap. While we rode on.

  I raised my hand when I was certain we had escaped the tide of enemy horsemen, who now swarmed around our trapped army like vultures ripping at a wounded animal. I slowed Horns, wheeled him about and nearly wept.

  Ahead, around half a mile away, was a mass of horsemen – enemy horsemen – dealing out death to the soldiers we had abandoned. My stomach twisted as I thought of Eszter dead, pierced by arrows, Dalir and Kalet killed alongside her. I drew my sword.

  ‘We will attack. Give the order to advance.’

  There were no protests as the order was relayed along the line and two and half thousand kontus shafts were lowered, and Vipers and Amazons nocked arrows in bowstrings. The women wrapped reins around their left wrists and dug their knees into the flanks of their horses to move the beasts forward. Horns broke into a canter, covering the ground we had just ridden across and wanting to break into a gallop. The earth trembled beneath the iron-shod hooves of our horses as we traversed the stretch of ground between the enemy horde and ourselves in no time at all.

  To hit the enemy like a hammer pummelling a nut on an anvil.

  There was a sharp crack as the cataphracts and Spartacus’ medium horsemen slammed into the enemy horse archers, killing hundreds and injuring dozens more. The Amazons and Vipers shot arrow after arrow into the dense mass of Tiridates’ horses and their riders, and for a moment I thought we would break through to the legions and our own surrounded horse archers. But a new problem prevented us from sweeping all aside: the heaps of dead and injured horses and men in front of us. So successful had been our charge that it had created a wall of dead horses and writhing horseflesh around it, surmounted by dead enemy horse archers, a barrier high and dense enough to stop our charged stone dead.