by Peter Darman
‘The gods are cruel,’ I hissed, forgetting myself.
A sympathetic look. ‘Cruelty, kindness and everything in between are the creations of mortals, whose lives are short and full of fear and uncertainty. What use do they have to those who do not die, grow sick or age? Now I must be away, someone approaches.’
It was High Priest Parmenion, similarly dressed in a long white robe, though without a hood and a belt of silver around his waist.
‘It is the high priest,’ I said, turning to see Girra had vanished.
‘Welcome, majesties,’ said Parmenion, ‘you have come to pray to fortify yourselves before the coming trial? To ask the forgiveness of the Sun God?’
‘Forgiveness for what?’ said Gallia sharply.
‘There are no kings or queens in the sight of the Sun God, majesty, only sinners and weak vessels.’
Gallia looked around the spotless, gleaming temple.
‘It is only weak vessels that stand between you and this fine building being turned into dust.’
‘Prince Atrax was born and raised in this citadel, majesty,’ he replied smugly. ‘He would never desecrate the temple where he, his sisters, father and mother prayed.’
‘You hope to see him pray again in this temple, Parmenion?’ I asked.
‘I am a mere servant of Shamash, majesty, I have no opinion when it comes to politics.’
‘How convenient for you,’ said Gallia, ‘to be able to flit from one side to another without any conscience. In the coming battle, will you praying for King Akmon or Prince Atrax?’
‘Whatever Shamash commands, majesty,’ he said without blinking.
‘Thank you, high priest,’ I said, eager to avoid a clash between the two, ‘we would like to pray alone.’
He bowed in an ostentatious fashion and retreated.
‘Can you smell that?’ she asked.
‘Myrrh?’
‘Treachery,’ she spat, turning and marching from the temple.
Out of respect or perhaps wishing to avoid further harsh words, Parmenion first ordered his priests and slaves to leave the temple before absenting himself. I walked to the altar, behind which was a large gold disc engraved to represent the rays of sun, kneeling before it and bowing my head.
‘Forgive Gallia, Lord of Light. She has always possessed a cutting tongue. Keep her safe in the coming battle and take my life in place of hers if her words have offended you.’
Whether it was the incense or the presence of Shamash Himself, when I left the temple I felt serenely calm, my mind cleared of trivia and focused on the coming fight. That night I enjoyed a deep and peaceful sleep, waking at first light to the sound of a slave banging on our bedroom door.
‘Majesties, forgive the intrusion but you must come at once.’
I sprang from the bed, Gallia a split-second behind me, both of us pulling on robes to cover our nakedness before opening the door.
‘What is it?’
The slave fell to his knees and bowed his head.
‘The army of Prince Atrax has been sighted, highness.’
In fact, it was only the advance scouts that had been spotted, though the news was enough to send a wave of fear coursing through the city. It was a curious thing: before an enemy was seen, people’s minds conjured up images of a vast horde of enemy soldiers, all intent on plundering their city, raping their wives and daughters and murdering them all. People flocked to temples to pray to the gods, promising the immortals a life of subservience if only they could be spared. Those civilians who had volunteered to man the walls reported to their muster stations, though many would be cursing their bravado as the reality of fighting enemy soldiers dawned on them.
In the citadel, men went about their business in a sombre fashion. There were a few small armouries in the city below but the majority of Irbil’s weapons and ammunition was held in the citadel’s armoury within the palace compound. Squat, thickset armourers issued quivers or arrows, of which there appeared to be a great quantity. For the moment I, Gallia and the rest of the Durans would use our own arrows, which equated to four full quivers for each individual, including the Daughters of Dura: a total of six hundred quivers – eighteen thousand arrows.
We attended one final council of war before the main body of the enemy arrived. It was yet again a beautiful summer’s day, and though it would be warm on the city wall, the clear, bright conditions were ideally suited to long-range shooting. Before we disappeared into the palace, we inspected Bullus and his legionaries and Zenobia and her Amazons, behind them the Daughters of Dura. I called Bullus and Zenobia forward, the latter dismounting and handing her reins to her deputy, the slim Minu. I caught the sight of Haya, the teenager not yet a woman who was a recent recruit to the Amazons. She gave me a broad grin and I smiled back. Nerves were not affecting her, it would seem.
‘Try to restrain our brave civilian volunteers,’ I told them. ‘They will be tempted to start shooting as soon as they see any enemy soldiers.’
I looked at Bullus. ‘Try not to strike anyone, at least not without good reason. Remember, you were once a new recruit.’
There was a blast of trumpets behind us and I turned to see Joro’s son leading his cataphracts from the palace courtyard, raising his hand in salute as he did so. I raised my hand in response and admired the hundred armoured horsemen passing by, followed by two hundred squires all equipped with bows. The cataphracts presented a curious spectacle, each man wearing a scale armour cuirass and open-faced helmet, but devoid of arm and leg armour, which would be a hindrance when fighting on the walls where mobility and dexterity were required. They carried no long lances but every man was equipped with weapons ideally suited to close-quarter fighting on the walls: maces and axes.
‘Where will he be fighting?’ asked Bullus, nodding towards the figure of Parmenion striding across the courtyard towards the palace.
‘He will be praying for us,’ said Gallia.
‘Lucius’ plan is a good one,’ I said to them. ‘We hold the walls and we live. The army is on its way. Shamash be with you.’
They saluted and returned to their charges, Zenobia vaulting into her saddle and leading the Amazons and Daughters of Dura from the courtyard, Bullus and his men following on foot.
‘Don’t say anything to annoy Parmenion,’ I said to Gallia as we walked towards the palace.
She gave me an evil grin. ‘Who, me?’
In the throne room, the dais flanked by soldiers of the palace guard, Parmenion was holding court when we arrived, raising his arms to the heavens, his aristocratic voice imploring Shamash to shine on Akmon and Lusin in their coming trial.
‘We beseech You, great Shamash, to shower the king and queen with your blessings, to cloak them in the armour of your protection and smite their foes.’
Akmon, who as far as I knew worshipped the Horseman like his father, looked very earnest, while Lusin, an Armenian who presumably worshipped the Goddess Anahit, maintained an air of nobility. Joro was fidgeting with his hands, Lucius was like a Greek statue and Pogon was sweating, though to be fair it was warm in the chamber. Akmon saw us enter and used our appearance to cut Parmenion short.
‘King Pacorus, Queen Gallia, welcome.’
Parmenion gave us a disparaging look as his arms dropped to his side, Joro smiling with satisfaction. Akmon looked splendid in a dragon-skin armour cuirass and blue plume in his helmet. I pointed at it.
‘If I may offer a word of advice, lose the plume. Enemy archers will be looking for such finery. You don’t want to attract unwanted attention.’
Lusin rose from her throne, picked up the helmet from the dais and ripped out the plume. She pointed at the fresh goose feathers in my Roman helmet.
‘And you, lord?’
‘I’m too old to change, lady,’ I smiled, ‘besides, the enemy does not know I am here.’
Akmon stood, picked up his helmet and embraced his wife.
‘Media owes Dura a debt of gratitude, which will not be forgotten.’
/> He stepped from the dais, Joro falling in beside him.
‘Let’s get this done,’ said the general.
We followed them from the throne room, through the reception hall and into the courtyard where our horses were being held for us. I looked up into the sky and breathed in the sweet air. I felt so alive and free from the aches and pains that had dogged my last few years. Beside me a glowing Gallia put on her helmet and closed the cheek guards, flashing me a triumphant smile. We were so full of life and thirsted to end the lives of our enemies.
Chapter 8
‘Look like a lion, let him who sees you be paralysed by fear.’
Lusin accompanied us to the northern gates; a crowd instantly gathering around our mounted column when they discovered the Queen of Media was among them. They crowded round her horse, reaching out with their hands to try to touch her, much to the annoyance of Joro.
‘Out of the way,’ he bellowed, drawing his sword, prompting Pogon and the score of Palace Guard with us to do likewise.
‘Put your weapons away,’ ordered the queen, ‘they mean no harm.’
They called her ‘Mayry,’ the Armenian word for ‘mother’ and it was clear the people loved her, probably because she had organised the distribution of food for the refugees, and had been seen among them handing out blankets, fruit and bread, or so Klietas had told me. I doubted the Queen of Media spent her days administering succour to the poor and homeless, but even if she had done it but once it was a major break with the past. Media’s rulers usually never mixed with the lower orders for fear of being attacked or contracting deadly illnesses and diseases. As far as I knew my sister Aliyeh never stepped foot in the city that surrounded the palace, riding through it with a heavy guard to reach the sanctuary of the citadel, which was physically and metaphorically separate and aloof from the general population. But here was Lusin, accepting the adulation of people who appeared to hold her in genuine affection.
The press of people delayed our arrival at the northern entrance to the city, our horses being taken and led away to the stables, formerly warehouses where merchants had stored their goods before fleeing the city, after which Akmon had ordered them to be requisitioned. The entrance to the city had been made by slicing through the earth rampart that encircled it to create a gap, the sides of which were reinforced with logs placed vertically. Then two wooden gates were put in place to create a barrier. This allowed the wall on top on the rampart to run across the top of the gates, allowing soldiers armed with bows, slings and spears to launch missiles down at any enemy crossing the bridge. More earth had been stacked against the inside of the wall to strengthen it and create a platform from which missiles could be shot at an attacker. The wall reached to around chest height for anyone standing behind it, which allowed archers and slingers to shoot at an enemy approaching the walls, but also meant enemy missile troops could aim at the torsos and heads of defenders. It was the same for those manning the towers spaced at equal lengths along the wall.
Lucius had advised standing down those who would defend the walls to deprive the enemy of any intelligence regarding our numbers, or lack of them. I must admit I had not thought of that, but as the enemy’s horsemen came into view and rode up and down in front of the walls, I had to admit it was an excellent tactic. There were hundreds of them and they knew what they were doing. I stood with Gallia, Akmon and Lusin watching the riders wearing an assortment of different coloured leggings and tunics carry out their reconnaissance. I smiled when one inadvertently rode into Lucius’ field of obstacles, his horse collapsing in pain as it trod on an iron spike. In what seemed like no time at all, the horsemen had identified the iron spikes, sharpened stakes and stake-lined trenches either side of the gates.
‘I’ve seen them before,’ I said, wracking my brains trying to work out where.
‘They are from Pontus. We encountered them at Lake Urmia,’ Gallia told me.
‘Of course, the soft caps on the heads, I remember now.’
Akmon was shocked. ‘Why would the soldiers of Pontus be marching with Prince Atrax?’
‘Your father has attacked Pontus, so for King Polemon supporting Atrax is a way of retaliating against him,’ opined Gallia.
‘But relations between Media and Gordyene are at a low ebb,’ said Lusin.
‘I doubt King Polemon cares about that,’ I told her.
The horsemen wore no armour and carried only bundles of javelins and round wicker shields for weapons and protection, but they were fast and careful not to stray too close to the walls or towers. Small groups – officers with signallers and standard bearers holding flags bearing a spread-winged eagle, a double-headed eagle and an eagle on the back of a dolphin – stood and observed us. They would see a wall and towers largely devoid of soldiers, though their eyes would be drawn to the richly attired and armoured group staring back at them.
Then I heard it, a distant groaning noise at first, increasing in volume and intensity as more enemy horsemen appeared. A constant droning noise that was as irritating as it was threatening – the sound of kettledrums. They formed the vanguard of Atrax’s army: a phalanx of riders wearing bright blue tunics and burnished helmets banging drums sitting either side of the front of their saddles. I had always loathed the sound of kettledrums because for some reason they reminded me of a toothache the way they gnawed at the brain, and it was no different now. From our vantage point we could see a party of mounted spearmen behind the drummers, the sun glinting off whetted lance points, and behind them a group of riders in rich armour, shining helmets, blue plumes and a huge black banner showing a white dragon.
‘Atrax,’ spat Gallia, ‘like a dog returning to his own vomit.’
‘The dog has a lot of soldiers,’ remarked Akmon dryly.
I wondered what was going through his mind as the enemy began to deploy before the walls of his city, immediately in front of the gates, albeit beyond the range of our slingers and archers. There was Atrax and those lords who had defected to him. The majority were horse archers, the others being mounted spearmen with round shields bearing a dragon insignia. I estimated their combined total to be four thousand, perhaps less.
The Pontic foot archers and slingers numbered around a thousand in total, but I grew concerned when I saw what appeared to be an understrength Roman legion marching into view. Akmon and Joro shot me concerned looks but Lucius made an attempt to calm our fears.
‘They are called Romanised foot soldiers, and are modelled on Roman legionaries. Atrax must be high in the esteem of King Polemon for him to send his best foot soldiers south with him.’
They marched like legionaries and seemed similarly equipped, with large oblong shields that protected the owner from the shoulders to the knees, helmets with yellow crests and each man carrying two javelins. When they halted in their cohorts the only consolation from our point of view was that they numbered only around two and half thousand men – half a legion.
The largest enemy contingent presented a sorry sight: a mass of men wearing no helmets, carrying wicker shields and armed with axes and spears, a few wearing mail and leather armour. They stood in groups with no semblance of discipline or organisation.
‘Hill men from somewhere,’ opined Lucius. ‘Poor quality soldiers whose only advantage is their number.’
There were thousands of them and they formed at least a third of Atrax’s army, which gave me some hope we would be able to hold out until my army arrived. In my experience hill men were good for slaughtering civilians, little else. That said, if they managed to get inside Irbil…
‘Rider approaching.’
A horseman had left Atrax and his senior officers to canter towards the gates we stood above. He carried his right arm aloft to indicate he carried no weapons.
‘Stand down,’ ordered Joro as the archers flanking us nocked arrows in their bowstrings.
The horseman slowed his horse before walking it up to the bridge across the ditch; aware many eyes and not a few bows were trained on him.
‘King Atrax sends his greetings,’ he shouted.
‘King Atrax?’ muttered Joro.
‘The dog has ideas above his station,’ sneered Gallia.
‘In an effort to spare unnecessary bloodshed,’ shouted the horsemen, ‘his highness proposes a meeting between himself, King Akmon and King Pacorus.’
I was surprised I was mentioned. As far as I knew Atrax did not even know I was in Irbil. I looked at Gallia.
‘The traitor Cookes keeps his master well informed, Pacorus.’
‘Let me put an arrow in him, majesty,’ said Pogon, whose flustered demeanour had miraculously vanished, to be replaced by a more serious and calculating manner.
‘No,’ replied Akmon, ‘it is considered bad manners to kill those under a flag of truce. What would you advise, lord?’
He and his wife looked at me expectantly.
‘Agree to meet him, anything that wastes time. If you refuse, he will launch an assault.’
‘He will launch an assault anyway,’ warned Joro, ‘after killing you two first. I know Atrax. He has a malicious and resentful nature.’
‘We will take the usual precautions,’ I assured him, ‘to ensure we are not murdered. Besides, I’ll warrant Atrax is more interested in lecturing us than killing us.’
Akmon agreed, calling down the horseman.
‘Inform your lord we will meet him.’
It took three hours to arrange the formalities of the meeting, which meant it was midday when we rode through the northern gates to the tent that had been pitched half a mile away, the enemy army having quit the field to establish a camp. The latter was a familiar affair, a great square around which was dug a ditch and rampart, wooden stakes topping the latter. Clearly the commander of the Pontic legion was copying his Roman overlords in every respect.
We rode to the meeting with an escort of six cataphracts, one of whom carried Akmon’s dragon banner. It was unfortunate that a member of Atrax’s guard carried an almost identical standard. It had been agreed that Joro would also accompany me and Akmon, the veteran general saying nothing when he spotted the standard of the son of his former king. But the worry lines on his face appeared to have doubled when we arrived at the tent, a large rectangular structure that had been pitched halfway between the city gates and the rapidly forming enemy camp.