by Peter Darman
‘It is not a copy,’ said Girra, ‘though in truth a better example could have been made if Atrax had made good on his promise to melt it down.’
‘Will you and the others assist us, lord?’ asked Gallia.
Girra pointed at my armour and sword. ‘I have helped you, warrior queen. But you must use your own wits to defeat Atrax, as well as paying heed to the story of the seven sons. Do you regret not calling on King Gafarn for assistance, King Pacorus?’
‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I have lost too many of those close to me already.’
He looked at us kindly. ‘So be it. I bid you goodnight.’
He turned and marched from the room, closing the door quietly behind him. I slid my sword back in its scabbard, grateful beyond words it and the helmet gifted to me by Castus all those years ago were back in my possession. I went to bed a happy man with Gallia in my arms and an inkling the gods just might be on our side.
The next morning the enemy attacked once again.
Atrax might have been a preening young fool but his general knew what he was doing. Titus Tullus had over twenty years’ experience in one of the best armies in the world and he used his knowledge to good effect. After a hasty and meagre breakfast of bread, cheese and yoghurt, we rode down into the now-deserted city to the walls, which had been manned by a small force of Pogon’s spearmen. Once more the garrison and its Duran allies were split into four groups, each one again assigned to a specific section of the perimeter wall.
This time our numbers had been reduced by casualties and desertions, though to be fair the majority of the civilian archers and slingers once again reported for duty. But our supplies of arrows were low, and we could only allocate the civilian archers one quiver each. They seemed happy enough: the western gates were locked shut and the bridge over the ditch was gone. Believing the enemy could not breach the walls, their morale was high, though only because they did not know no relief was coming.
I stood on the wall with Zenobia, Gallia, Bullus and Klietas, the latter counting the number of stones in his bag, in between casting glances at the enemy marshalling beyond the ditch. Bullus had a bandage on his right arm and his helmet’s crest had been destroyed in the previous day’s fighting.
‘They will hit us hard today,’ he warned.
Accompanied by the racket of kettledrums and the abuse of thousands of hill men, the first assault was a highly coordinated affair, far removed from the earlier tactics of Laodice’s wild hordes. Once more I deployed the civilian slingers and archers in the towers spaced along the wall either side of the gates, both to get them out of the way of the Amazons and legionaries who were trained to work together, and to increase the effectiveness of their slingshots and arrows, as they would be shooting down on the enemy.
That was my first mistake.
Whereas before we were shooting at hill men carrying wicker shields and wearing no armour, this time we faced the locked shields of Pontic legionaries, behind which were foot archers aiming at those in the towers. Once more Bullus arranged his legionaries so their shields became an extension of the wall, through which the Amazons could shoot at the enemy. But the enemy they were shooting at were slingers whose weapons had a longer range than the compound bows used by Zenobia’s warriors. And whereas their arrows fell short, the lead shots of the Pontic slingers were deadly even at ranges of up to four hundred paces and beyond.
I heard a thud and saw an Amazon collapse a few paces away, a lead shot having pierced her eye socket to enter her brain. Gallia ran over to her but there was nothing anyone could do.
‘Cease shooting,’ she called.
As one her women took cover behind the wall, slingshots slamming into shields and going over our heads to land harmlessly among the buildings near the ramparts. Screams were coming from the towers as the enemy picked off the civilians, who always stood and watched where their missiles fell instead of making themselves a smaller target after they had taken their shot. Soon the towers were filled with dead and wounded men, those who had not been hit by the deluge of enemy arrows shot at them deciding to flee the raised fighting platforms. But to do so required them descending ladders that were exposed to the elements, and the enemy. As a result, more civilians were killed trying to escape the towers that had become nothing more than raised death traps.
I did not blame them. What were they but farmers and the like who had performed as well as expected against professional soldiers? And the Pontic legionaries were above all professionals. After clearing the towers there was a brief lull in the battle as Atrax’s slingers and archers ceased shooting and the Amazons and Bullus’ men continued to take shelter behind the wall. I peeked over the latter to take stock of the situation. I saw around five hundred Pontic legionaries deployed in two lines, the foot archers behind them and between them a line of slingers. Behind them all was a mass of hill men. I could not see any horsemen or a dragon banner and assumed Atrax was somewhere else, most likely at the northern gates where another dragon banner would be flying.
Klietas beside me looked over the wall.
‘What now, highborn?’
I pushed his head down as a lead shot ricocheted off the top of the wall a couple of feet away.
‘Now they will make a lot of noise, but they have no way of crossing the ditch and scaling the walls,’ I told him.
That was my second mistake.
I had forgotten Media was littered with orchards and vineyards and Atrax had been diligent on his march, harvesting the ample amount of wood to construct the means to cross the ditch and scaling ladders for his soldiers to climb the wall. I watched with horror as dozens of hill men rushed forward under the cover of the archers and slingers, groups holding what looked like long wooden trestles and others shouldering scaling ladders. I looked at Gallia, who nocked an arrow in her bowstring.
‘To your positions,’ she called.
I too nocked an arrow and shot it at one of four men holding a trestle they intended to throw across the ditch, hitting him in the stomach, causing him to pitch forward on the ground. The others stopped, allowing me to string another arrow and shoot a second hill man, prompting the others to drop the trestle and flee.
The Amazons were shooting at a rapid rate, ignoring the hail of missiles being shot at them by the enemy, the raised shields of Bullus’ men providing some protection. An arrow glanced off the shield being held by the centurion, fortunately deflecting upwards away from me. Bullus growled with fury when two or more lead shots struck his shield, to lodge in the wood. But Duran shields were well made and even though the shots penetrated the hide and splintered the wood behind, they did not break through.
The air was filled with cracks and thwacks as the Amazons cut down dozens of hill men, shooting a combined total of over six hundred arrows a minute. To our front the ground beyond the ditch was littered with dead and dying men and for a moment I thought we might repulse the enemy’s attack. But we were less than a hundred archers manning a small section of the wall, and to our left and right, on the edges of Lucius’ field defences, other groups of hill men had reached the ditch and were crossing it on their rickety, makeshift bridges.
‘Sound withdrawal,’ I commanded Bullus.
For a split-second I saw surprise in his eyes, but he turned to the signaller crouching nearby and issued the order.
The trumpet sounded and immediately the Amazons ceased shooting and crouched low behind the wall, the legionaries doing likewise. Gallia was incensed but I had no time to explain.
‘Reform at the bottom of the embankment,’ I told Bullus.
His men and the Amazons scrambled down the earth bank to form up near the temporary stables. I grabbed Klietas and threw him down the embankment, following him with Gallia at my side.
‘What are you doing?’ she cried.
‘We are about to be outflanked,’ I said, reaching level ground and pointing to further along the wall where bareheaded hill men were swarming onto the ramparts after climbing their ladders.
‘Get your men back to the citadel,’ I ordered Bullus, ‘we will cover you.’
‘The Amazons will mount up,’ I shouted.
Zenobia glanced at Gallia who nodded, her commander shouting at her women to move. I ordered Klietas to fall back with the legionaries, Bullus grabbing his tunic and hauling him away as his men commenced a forced march back to the citadel.
I ran to the stables to saddle Horns and join Gallia and her Amazons, who were forming up near the gates, bows in hand but now running desperately low on ammunition. I rode Horns from the stables and saw hill men running along the walls towards the gates.
‘Move,’ I commanded.
Gallia stayed with me as two files of Amazons trotted away as more enemy hill men came from the right and left and began running down the embankment, intent on getting to grips with us. Gallia shot an arrow to hit a bare-chested man in the mid-rift and I loosed an arrow at a wild axe man screaming at the top of his voice as he hurtled towards me, the missile hitting him in the chest to cause him to crumple in a heap on the ground. We turned our horses and galloped away from the gates to follow the Amazons.
The hill men at first concentrated on celebrating their capture of the gates rather than launching a pursuit. I slowed Horns and Gallia halted her own horse to observe the mass of barbarians at the entrance, all whooping and cheering deliriously. I pulled an arrow from my quiver and nocking it in the bowstring. We were about two hundred paces from the gates, but I had a clear view of the crowd of hill men that was growing in size by the minute. I raised my bow and let the sinew cord slip through my fingers, watching the arrow arch upwards as it flew through the air to land among the enemy. My gesture did nothing to interrupt the celebrations and I considered shooting another arrow.
‘You should save your ammunition,’ Gallia told me, ‘we do not know what has happened at the other gates.’
Her words were prophetic because when we reached the ramp leading to the citadel we found a scene of chaos. The assault on the western gates had obviously been delayed for some reason, because whereas Bullus and his Durans and Zenobia and her Amazons had the time to conduct a disciplined withdrawal, the retreats from the other city entrances had been more desperate.
The palace guard, arrayed in a semi-circle around the base of the ramp, was endeavouring to hold back what looked like hundreds of hill men who were flooding from every side street. On the ramp itself, Akmon’s dismounted horse archers were shooting at the barbarians, their arrows seemingly making little impact on the swelling numbers of Laodice’s heathens. And we were all bystanders to the drama, unnoticed by friend and foe alike. But it would not last for long. I rode over to Bullus.
‘Reinforce the palace guard at the foot of the ramp. The Amazons will provide support behind your wedge.’
Once more the grizzled centurion placed himself at the tip of a wedge of legionaries and led the charge into the maelstrom, he and his men with their shields tucked tight to their bodies, stabbing and jabbing their swords into enemy torsos, legs and necks as they sawed their way forward. Behind them, their horses at walking pace, came the Amazons, shooting their bows only when they were certain to strike a foe. Gallia organised half of them to concentrate on what was going on behind, for as soon as Bullus and his men attacked, the enemy became aware of our presence.
I stayed with the rear rank of the Amazons, turning Horns frequently to get a clearer indication of what was happening. Of my two quivers one was empty and the other contained around a dozen arrows.
Enemy soldiers armed with axes tried to get close to the horses to slash at their legs and bellies. One or two succeeded, inflicting horrendous wounds on the mounts of Amazons, both horse and rider collapsing before being surrounded and hacked to pieces by blood-crazed barbarians. I shot one, two, three hill men in quick succession, Gallia coming to my side to shoot more arrows at men with bloodlust in their eyes closing in on us. There was a trumpet blast and Zenobia turned all the Amazons towards guarding the rear of Bullus’ wedge. I heard a succession of wicked hisses and saw at least a score of enemy soldiers fall, then more when a second volley was unleashed at them.
‘Let them through.’
I turned to see the ragged semi-circle of palace guard part to allow Bullus and the Amazons through. I gave Gallia a smile of huge relief and she grinned back. I heard a shout and saw with horror a half-naked hill man rush at her with axe gripped with both hands. He screamed in rage and used all his strength to swing it sideways at her belly, my mouth dropping open as the curved blade struck her body.
To shatter like a clay pot dropped on a stone floor.
He stared in disbelief, gaping up at Gallia who drew her sword and slashed it across his neck, sending a spurt of blood into the air. She turned her mare to follow the Amazons, now almost devoid of arrows, cantering through the now closing gap, their queen ordering them up the ramp and into the citadel. I rode Horns forward and the palace guard closed the gap, a horde of hill men rushing forward to attempt to hack their way through the locked shields with their axes.
I saw a banner appear and recognised the figures of Akmon and Joro on their horses, around them cataphracts and squires hacking left and right to force a way through the throng of hill men. The archers behind me on the ramp saw them too and began directing their arrows towards the barbarians trying to kill their king.
‘Get off your horse,’ I heard someone shout, prompting me to slide off Horns’ back.
Gallia did the same so as not to impede the archers’ view. Arrows hissed over our heads as the banner inched its way towards the semi-circle of soldiers, now extended outwards by the addition of Bullus and his men. The palace guard and Durans were holding their defensive formation, assisted by the growing pile of enemy dead in front of them, over which the hill men had to clamber to give battle them.
I could see Akmon’s face now, contorted with concentration while hacking at men with his sword as he moved forward. I could also see foot soldiers and even civilian archers and slingers in the gaps between his and Joro’s horse and those of the cataphracts. The mounted soldiers were shielding those on foot, thus sacrificing their mobility and speed. But Akmon was rewarded by bringing the bulk of his men back to the citadel, his palace guard opening ranks a second time to allow him and those with him through. He raised his sword in salute when he saw me and Gallia, utter relief etched on his face. I bowed my head at him in salute at his achievement.
‘You must withdraw to the citadel,’ said Joro in a no-nonsense fashion, ‘as should you, majesties.’
‘Where is Governor Pogon?’ asked Akmon.
No one knew, and I feared he was dead, for only enemy soldiers were coming from the streets that led to the southern gates. Akmon shook his head.
‘And your own man, Lucius Varsas, King Pacorus?’
An arrow felled one of the archers standing on the ramp.
‘He is in the citadel, majesty,’ the commander of his palace guard told him, ‘as you should be, high one.’
Joro unceremoniously grabbed his king’s reins and led him up the ramp, his cataphracts following. The spearmen and civilians had not stopped to gossip but were already inside the citadel and I decided it was time to follow them. Arrows were flying overhead and around us, signalling the enemy’s archers had been brought into the city. It was only a matter of time before the Pontic legionaries would be upon us.
The palace guard conducted a magnificent withdrawal up the ramp, maintaining their testudo-like formation as they inched upwards towards the open gates into the citadel. The air was now thick with arrows and slingshots, the latter making loud thuds as they hit shields. Suddenly a guard would collapse as either an arrow or lead shot found its way between two shields or went through the narrow gap between those shields held vertically around the edges of the formation and those held horizontally to form a roof of hide and wood. Momentarily a gaping hole was created, into which one or more missiles would be shot. But the space would be closed, and the wounded man h
auled inside the testudo, or abandoned if he was dead. But halfway up the ramp the testudo was stopped in its tracks by the sheer volume of missiles being directed at it, hundreds of archers and slingers shooting at it. This allowed the hill men to surge up the ramp to launch a frenzied attack on the rear of the palace guard. I stood with Bullus at the gates, his men forming a reserve just inside the citadel, and shook my head.
‘It is like watching a deer being dragged down by a pack of hyenas.’
And then it started to rain clay.
There were hundreds of hill men in a huge press around the bottom of the ramp and more in a great mass on its lower half, and all were suddenly assaulted with clay pots.
‘What in the name of all that’s holy is that?’ exclaimed Bullus.
I later learned it was called ‘dragon fire’ and had been invented in the armouries at Vanadzor. Akmon had brought the recipe south with him, though had never intended for it to be a part of Irbil’s arsenal. But he had reckoned without the inquiring mind of Lucius Varsas, who when the king had mentioned the toxic substance to my quartermaster general, had proposed creating an amount to offset the numerical superiority of the enemy.
A mixture of quicklime, bitumen, sulphur, naphtha and resin, ‘dragon fire’ was a highly inflammable, sticky liquid that burnt for a long time and stuck to what it landed on. Bullus was wearing a malicious grin when the small pots began smashing among the press of hill men, flames spreading in all directions as the burning liquid attached itself to skin, clothes, shields and weapons. From the walls above pots were tossed into the seething mass of hill man, erupting in flames when they impacted on the ground or hit the heads of victims. Hideous screams pierced the air and I was horrified to see men burning like torches running around like demented animals, clawing at their bodies in a futile attempt to remove the burning liquid that was peeling away the layers of skin on their bodies.