by Peter Darman
Akmon, fully encased in scale armour like the rest of his cataphracts, came to me and raised a hand.
‘It is good to see you well, lord, if you will forgive me I have pressing matters to attend to.’
He led his riders away from the line of Pontic soldiers now barring the entrance to the street of death and presenting a compact line of locked shields that bristled with javelins held at an angle of forty-five degrees to deter horsemen. I looked behind me to see Zenobia following Akmon’s cataphracts and horse archers with the Amazons, wondering what was going on. A female voice answered my question.
‘Akmon knows his city better than the enemy. He will try to sweep around them using backstreets and attack them from behind.’
I spun to see a beaming Gallia leap from her horse and throw herself into my arms, removing her helmet to kiss me long and hard on the lips.
‘You did not think I would abandon you to die a Roman death, did you?’
I laughed. ‘You certainly gave Atrax a shock.’
‘I will give him more than that when I catch up with him.’
Bullus and the commander of the palace guard were marshalling their men into a wedge formation, or a cuneus as the Romans termed it, prior to smashing through the line of Pontic soldiers, who must have numbered around three hundred or so. Around fifty or so of Akmon’s horse archers were readying themselves to provide missile support for the attack when it was launched.
Gallia put a finger and thumb into her mouth and whistled. Moments later a grinning Klietas appeared with Horns in tow.
‘Your horse, highborn.’
Strange to say emotion welled up inside me when I saw Horns, tears coming to my eyes at the sight of his familiar face. I stroked his neck and head and he nickered in response, nudging his nose into me.
‘Your battle against the enemy will be told for generations, highborn,’ the slinger grinned.
I took Horns’ reins. ‘What battle?’
‘Apparently, you fought a hundred or more enemy soldiers to allow Klietas to escape, or so he told us,’ said Gallia, ‘you are truly a modern-day Achilles, Pacorus.’
I thought of how meekly I had surrendered to the enemy centurion at the western gates.
‘More like Achilles and Hector rolled into one.’ I vaulted into the saddle. ‘Time to concentrate on the here and now.’
There were actually two wedges, one smaller with Centurion Bullus at the tip, the other, larger one composed of Akmon’s palace guard, each poised to smash through the line of Pontic soldiers. The latter had a strong position, their flanks secured against mud-brick houses that marked the end of the street where the civilians had been crucified. But they had no missile troops to support them and so the horse archers, plus civilian slingers and archers, gathered on the flanks of our two wedges were able to shoot arrows and stones at the line of enemy shields with impunity.
Klietas reached into his bag, pulled out a stone and placed it in the pouch of his sling.
‘Aim for where our soldiers will strike the enemy line,’ I told him.
He looked at me as though I was speaking a foreign language. He was just a boy and had no knowledge of tactics.
‘Do your best,’ I said.
The professional Median horse archers were already shooting at the spot that would be struck when their palace guard attacked the Pontic legionaries. The latter’s shields were able to stop a three-winged bronze arrowhead easily enough, but such was the volume of arrows being shot at a specific point that the enemy line was buckling. It was a similar story on their right flank where the civilian slingers and archers were supporting the compact wedge of Durans. Their rate of shooting and accuracy was poor compared to the Medians but the weight of slingshots and arrows being launched against the enemy line was not unsubstantial.
Gallia clenched her first when trumpets sounded to announce the attack of the palace guard, followed seconds later by the war cries of the Durans as they too charged. Bullus’ men had javelins that the first two ranks hurled before racing forward with their shields held nearly horizontally to smash into the battered and bleeding front rank of enemy soldiers. I held my breath as there were two loud cracks when the attackers hit the Pontic legionaries, followed by frenzied clicking sounds as the Durans went to work with their short swords and the palace guard battered the enemy with their maces.
I rode up and down the line of archers and slingers, who had stopped their activities to marvel at the sights and sounds of two groups of heavily armed and armoured men locked in deadly combat a few paces away.
‘Continue shooting,’ I shouted, ‘aim for the enemy soldiers you can still see in front of you.’
In truth, there was not too much to shoot at. The street was only twenty paces wide so when the two wedges attacked the Pontic line, our own men soon obscured the line of enemy soldiers. I saw javelins arch into the air to land in the rear ranks of the enemy, the Pontic legionaries launching their own javelins that landed among the Durans and palace guard. Above the din of metal striking metal I heard screams, yelps and shrieks as sword points and maces cut flesh and smashed bones.
I felt my heart thumping in my chest as the excitement of battle, a mixture of fear, exhilaration and feral rage, took hold of me. I shouted my encouragement, though soldiers locked in mortal combat would not have heard, but I gave a shout of triumph when the century of Durans began chanting the battle cry I had heard so many times when we had been on the brink of victory – ‘Dura, Dura’ – and knew Bullus had broken the enemy line.
And then suddenly there were no enemy soldiers, only fleeing men abandoning their shields as they turned tail and ran. Straight into Akmon’s cataphracts. Not all the Pontic legionaries died on that street; many fled into alleyways and side streets in their desperation to escape the maces and swords to their front and the armour-clad horsemen and female horse archers in their rear. Akmon’s horse archers trotted through the heaps of dead soldiers and avoided the wounded that crawled away from the scene of the brief but brutal carnage. They rode to join their king who ordered them to scour the side streets for the enemy.
‘Get back to the citadel,’ I told Klietas, he and the other civilian slingers and archers milling around, unsure what to do now the brief bloodletting had finished.
Zenobia returned with the Amazons, removing her helmet and bowing her head when she drew alongside us.
‘It is good to see you, majesty.’
‘Even better to see you, Zenobia. The enemy is routed?’
‘Yes, majesty.’
‘All that remains is to seize the northern gates and destroy the bridge over the ditch.’
Zenobia gave Gallia a glance.
‘That has been taken care of, Pacorus.’
Gallia pointed to the north where black smoke was billowing into the sky.
‘Lucius Varsas with a small party of horse archers left the citadel just after the foot and horse led by myself and Akmon. His orders were to capture the northern gates and fire the bridge. As you can see, he has succeeded.’
‘So, we are back to where we started before the siege began,’ I said, ‘though Atrax has my helmet, armour and sword.’
Gallia looked pained. ‘I’m sorry, but at least you are still alive to regret losing them.’
‘If I ever encounter Atrax again, I will kill him,’ I promised.
Chapter 13
‘Wherever you go, spread terror. Have no equal.’
Lucius returned from the northern gates after his successful mission to destroy the bridge in front of them. Governor Pogon had remained in the citadel to guard Lusin from the thousands of civilians packed tightly into the stronghold, his spearmen manning the walls and gates of the palace in case the great army of bedraggled souls tried to batter down its gates. He need not have bothered. When I made my way into the citadel in the aftermath of Atrax’s inglorious retreat, I found its alleys, paths and streets jammed with old men and women, young women and girls, mothers clutching infants, men shielding thei
r families and wailing orphans. They all had listless, frightened expressions and even the hardest hearts would have taken pity on them.
‘They must be ejected from the citadel at once.’
The candles on stands around the table at which we sat cast everyone in a pale-yellow light. Tired, drawn faces stared at the high priest, who along with Gallia looked remarkably fresh and calm. He sipped at a silver chalice holding wine, frowning that his suggestion appeared to fall on deaf ears.
‘Impossible,’ snapped Akmon, ‘to do so would abandon them to certain death.’
‘May I remind your majesty,’ said Parmenion slowly and deliberately, ‘that the citadel is reserved for Media’s royal family, its nobles and the servants of Shamash. By bringing the common folk into its confines, we risk insulting the Sun God.’
‘How so?’ I demanded to know.
‘The temple is the abode of the Sun God, majesty,’ he informed me, ‘and he requires offerings daily to appease him.’
‘I know this,’ I told him.
He took another sip of wine. ‘If we displease the Sun God, he will abandon us, the more so since Prince Atrax was blessed in the temple in the citadel when an infant.’
‘The same Atrax who crucified some of my people,’ growled Akmon.
‘He is, of course, a rebel, majesty,’ smiled Parmenion. ‘But that does not change the fact that the Sun God’s temple is in peril.’
‘In what way?’ asked Lusin.
‘Four meals are served to the Sun God Each day, majesty,’ Parmenion told her.
‘I know that,’ she snapped at him. ‘I may have been born an Armenian, but I am fully acquainted with the care and treatment of the immortals.’
Parmenion put his chalice down on the table and held up his hands.
‘I meant no offence, majesty, but my point is that the meals served to Shamash every day may provoke envy among the commoners given sanctuary in the citadel.’
He was referring to the main meal and a second meal served to the Sun God in the morning and another main meal and second one served to Him again in the afternoon. I was not acquainted with the specific dietary requirements of the Sun God but knew that in general the gods were served a variety of drink and food daily. The quantities could be prodigious, comprising casks of wine, milk and beer, dozens of loaves of bread, bushels of dates and the meat of rams, bulls, bullocks, lambs, birds and ducks. It was a common custom to not let the offerings rot but distribute them among the temple’s priests and officials and their families. In this way the servants of the gods lived like kings, though the more unscrupulous among them were not averse to selling their portions in the markets.
‘Then instead of eating them yourself, why don’t you give them to the refugees in the citadel?’ said Gallia. ‘They are, after all, servants of Shamash, are they not?’
‘That is not our custom, majesty,’ he replied icily. ‘Besides, with the city and countryside denied to us, the daily offerings will greatly diminish, risking the ire of the Sun God.’
‘He will forgive us,’ I said absently.
They all looked at me, Parmenion fuming that I, a mere mortal, dared speak on behalf of the Sun God.
‘If we defeat Atrax then Shamash will forgive us, I meant to say,’ I said hurriedly.
‘That is a remote prospect, majesty,’ stated a glum-faced Pogon, dark rings around his eyes. ‘The first thing Atrax’s soldiers did when they took possession of the city was to empty the granaries, which means we are dependent on the royal granaries in the citadel.’
He cast a glance at Parmenion. ‘Plus the temple granaries.’
‘How long will our supplies last?’ asked an exhausted Joro.
‘Seven days,’ replied Pogon, ‘after that we will have to slaughter the camels and then the horses, though their flesh will only give us a few more days’ respite.’
‘And alas the army of Dura will not be coming,’ said Akmon, ‘we all saw the severed head of the Amazon despatched to Dura to bring General Chrestus and his army here.’
Shoulders slumped and Pogon held his head in hands. Akmon looked at Lusin who reached over to grip his arm.
‘We will need the horses to break out from the city,’ I said.
‘Impossible,’ insisted Akmon, ‘if I flee then my credibility collapses and Atrax will take Irbil and the whole of Media. I have little doubt that Lord Soter is rallying his retainers to join with the rebels even as we speak. If I desert Irbil I will have no army with which to retake the city.’
‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I will stay here and die here if necessary.’
‘We will stay here,’ added Lusin.
It was a touching scene but did nothing to alleviate the predicament we found ourselves in. I looked at Lucius.
‘How many soldiers can we muster?’
‘Around seven hundred, majesty, discounting the squires and civilians that were enlisted as archers and slingers.’
‘Another five hundred at most,’ said Joro, pouring himself more wine.
‘It is highly unlikely such a force would be able to effect a breakout,’ opined Lucius, ‘unless the foot soldiers were sacrificed to allow the horsemen to escape.’
It was a logical assessment, but one greeted with looks of horror from the king, queen and the Medians present.
‘I will not sanction such a dishonourable course of action,’ said Akmon.
‘Is this how war is waged in Dura?’ growled Joro.
Lucius stood his ground. ‘General, at Dura we are taught to win wars, using whatever tactics will achieve that end.’
‘There is no victory in an inglorious flight,’ sneered Parmenion.
‘No indeed,’ I said, ‘but he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.’
I pointed at Akmon. ‘Your life is more important than any sitting here at this table or in this citadel, much as you might like to argue otherwise. As long as you live, Atrax will not be able to rest easy. If you die, it is all over.’
‘If there is to be a breakout, it should be launched sooner rather than later,’ advised Lucius.
No one bothered to reply, all eyes focused on Akmon. I could have cut the tension in the air with a knife. The king was young, yet to reach his mid-twenties, his wife even younger, and perhaps it was unfair that he found himself in such a perilous situation. But the gods care little for fairness and I wondered if Gallia and I had been lured here to satisfy their callous natures.
‘I will not flee,’ said Akmon, ‘my decision is final. If you wish to leave Irbil, King Pacorus, you should follow the advice of your quartermaster general.’
‘We are staying,’ said Gallia without bothering to consult me.
‘We had all better get some rest, then,’ I suggested.
On the way out, I cornered Lucius to thank him for devising the plan to rescue me, Gallia informing me I had him to thank for my salvation.
‘It was quite simple, majesty,’ he told me. ‘I remembered an incident during the Servile War.’
‘The what?’
He blushed. ‘Apologies, majesty, but in Rome the war against Spartacus is called the Servile War. Well, I remembered Spartacus being trapped on Mount Vesuvius by a large force of Romans soldiers. He solved that problem by making ropes from the many vines that grew on the slopes of Vesuvius, which allowed his men to abseil down a sheer rock face to attack the Roman troops from the rear.’
‘I remember Claudia telling me that story,’ exclaimed Gallia. Lucius appeared confused.
‘Not my daughter,’ I said, ‘Claudia was the wife of Spartacus whom we named our first child after.’
‘Using mirrors to reflect sunlight,’ he continued, ‘was copied from the tactic your own father used in the battle where you captured the eagle that resides in the Great Temple at Hatra, majesty.’
I slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You have a better memory than me, Lucius.’
We parted company with him at the entrance to the royal quarters where Gallia and I had been all
otted a bedroom, two of Pogon’s spearmen snapping to attention and opening the door to allow us to enter. Normally the palace guard would be guarding the residence of the king and queen, but after their exertions earlier Joro had allowed them all a night’s rest before the fighting that everyone expected on the morrow.
Gallia linked her arm in mine. ‘You are getting too old to be playing hero.’
‘I have grown rather fond of Klietas. If we get out of Irbil alive and not in chains, I’m going to take him back to Dura.’
‘What use will an illiterate village orphan be? What will he do?’
‘He can join the Daughters of Dura,’ I quipped. ‘He’s an orphan, so he qualifies for your teenage assassins.’
She poked me in the ribs. ‘In case you had not noticed, he is a boy.’
‘In that case I will establish my own body of waifs and strays. It will give me something to do.’
‘What will you call it?’ she asked.
I thought for a moment. ‘How about, the Orphans of the Exiles?’
We laughed, and I held her close. It was good to be back by her side, even though we both stood on the edge of calamity. We turned the corner and our smiles disappeared. Leaning against the wall painted with a fresco of a lion hunt was a man with white hair, pale skin and wearing a silver scale-armour cuirass exactly the same as the one owned by Gallia and me, though Atrax now wore mine. Girra turned to us.
‘I have returned some items that belong to you, King Pacorus. Sacrificing yourself for the boy was unexpected. Ishtar was delighted.’
He opened the door and walked inside.
‘Come.’
Feeling like small children we did as we were told, my eyes immediately alighting on the sword, helmet and armour lying on the bed. Without thinking I rushed over to them, pulled the spatha from its scabbard and examined it closely.