by Peter Darman
‘Get your men forward and relieve your comrades. If the enemy breaks through the battle is lost.’
He grinned with delight and saluted.
‘Yes, majesty.’
Trumpets blew and the whole square broke apart to form two centuries, which ran forward to support the wavering Durans. I rode across to the two hundred men guarding the Exiles’ silver lion and relayed the same order, two more centuries racing forward to lend support to the rest of the Exiles. Behind the centuries still battling but giving ground, orderlies were attending to injured men. I saw Alcaeus assisting a man sitting on the ground, blood gushing from a head wound. I nudged Horns over to him. By now the Amazons and Median horse archers, out of arrows, had withdrawn to group around Gallia and Akmon.
‘You should get yourself back to camp,’ I told him.
He did not look up at me.
‘If you are not here to help then I have no time for you.’
He was bandaging the man’s wound and oblivious to the impending disaster that was about to engulf him, and all of us. That calamity was but moments away when I heard another trumpet blast and my heart sank.
Behind the Amazons, Media’s horse archers and Joro’s cataphracts was another body of horsemen, between our army and the camp but a mile distant. The latter was our only sanctuary but now the enemy had placed a body of horsemen between it and us. And not just any horsemen. They were cataphracts, the sun glinting off tubular steel armour on their arms, burnished scale armour cuirasses and open-faced helmets. The latter sported crimson plumes to complement the colour of the eagle banner that flew in the middle of the enemy line, a line that was long in extent. When I caught up with Joro, Gallia and Akmon joining me, he gave me the news that King Artaxias himself was with the enemy cataphracts.
‘And not just Artaxias,’ said Akmon, pointing at a black banner flying beside the King of Armenia’s standard. ‘That is Atrax’s flag.’
‘Then we can kill two birds with one stone,’ scoffed Gallia, drawing her sword and resting the blade on her shoulder.
We were finished, that much was apparent. The horsemen of our right wing had disappeared as they duelled with the enemy; our centre was on the verge of caving in; on the left the mêlée was going against Kalet’s men as the more heavily armed Armenians pushed them back; and in our rear at least four or five hundred cataphracts marshalled in preparation to launching an attack that would cut through our meagre force of Amazons, horse archers without arrows and eighty cataphracts.
Far better to die doing something useful than meekly waiting for death.
I too drew my sword. ‘Then let us kill both of them, as my wife says.’
Joro barked an order to his deputy who ordered the cataphracts to form into a wedge formation, two ranks deep. The commander of the two hundred and fifty Median horse archers began to organise his men to deploy into formation behind them, though what use men without helmets, armour and shields and lacking arrows would be was questionable. Like the Amazons they had swords but against the lances and close-quarter weapons of the cataphracts they would come a poor second. Not that it mattered; the enemy horsemen would cut us to pieces when it came to it. I glanced behind to see the line of Chrestus’ cohorts still standing. How long his centre would hold was anyone’s guess.
Farewell Chrestus; farewell Alcaeus. We will meet again in the next life.
‘They are withdrawing.’
I heard Akmon’s voice and saw him pointing his sword at the enemy cataphracts, which had wheeled left and were riding away hard. But to where?
My first thought was they were going to finish off Kalet and his men. But I discounted the idea because if they killed me, Gallia and Akmon they would bring the battle to a swift end and place Atrax on Media’s throne. They had seen our banners and knew where we were. They would not abandon the opportunity to strike at the heart of our army. But now they were doing just that. I was even more confused when trumpets being sounded came from the mêlée on our left flank, followed by the Armenian horsemen following their king and withdrawing. What in the name of Shamash was going on?
‘I don’t understand,’ said Akmon, putting into words what we were all thinking.
More confusion followed when the clatter of battle behind us began to die down. I turned Horns and urged him forward, riding through bemused cataphracts who minutes before had pledged to follow their king and sell their lives dearly but now found themselves with no one to fight. Gallia, the wellbeing of Eszter uppermost in her mind, rode over to the left with the Amazons to find her daughter.
Our concave-shaped battle line of cohorts, battered and ragged, many men being treated in the rear by over-worked medical orderlies, still stood and I could hear no sounds of battle. I saw Alcaeus helping a wounded Chrestus and jumped down from Horns to lend a hand.
The general was limping and I saw he had taken a spear point in his right leg. The wound was gushing blood but my experience of such injuries assured me it looked worse than it was. A tourniquet would staunch the flow of blood and a honey coated bandage would assist in its healing.
He gave me a triumphant grin. ‘We are lucky bastards, majesty, and that’s no lie. The lads were about to break, I could feel it, when all of a sudden they broke contact and are pulling back. What did you do?’
‘I am as ignorant as to why the enemy has faltered as you are. It must be divine intervention.’
Alcaeus guffawed. ‘Ah, yes, the common explanation of the ignorant and deluded.’
Around us exhausted men removed their helmets and gasped for breath, others rested on their battered and shredded shields and some, utterly spent, collapsed on the ground. Alcaeus frowned at me.
‘If you are at a loose end, perhaps you could ride to camp and fetch the carts so I can get the wounded back to the field hospitals.’
He really was incorrigible but entirely correct. But there was no need for me to ride to camp in person because Alcaeus had devised a signal system whereby some of his orderlies were equipped with red flags that they now waved frantically to alert the guards on the palisade – squires and non-combatants equipped with spears and bows. Soon a line of carts would be exiting the camp to pick up the wounded, including Chrestus, who was beginning to look a little pale. Alcaeus was busy applying a tourniquet to his leg after he had instructed the general to sit on the ground. I fetched the water bottle attached to Horns’ saddle, removed the cork and handed it to him. He drank some and poured a little over his sweat-beaded head, wincing as Alcaeus examined his wound with a medical probe.
‘Nothing in there,’ he muttered.
‘I’ve seen them before,’ said Chrestus, nodding at riders approaching Akmon and his horsemen. ‘It wasn’t the gods but mortals who came to our rescue.’
I too saw them and realised a new army had arrived on the Plain of Diyana.
Chapter 18
The score of riders trotting towards Akmon’s banner and my griffin standard were expensively attired, the sun reflecting off their magnificent cuirasses of alternating steel and bronze scales. Normally they wore red cloaks, but the day was warm, and they must have been sweating in their armour and the pteruges at their shoulders and thighs, to say nothing of their heavy helmets. I slapped Chrestus on the shoulder, mounted Horns and trotted across to speak to our saviours. Gordyene’s King’s Guard was a superb force: five hundred lancers armed with ukku swords who also carried bows to add to their potency. Each man carried a round shield sporting a lion motif and the same animal adorned their red saddlecloths. One could not but admire them in their red tunics, black leggings and shiny leather boots. The same could not be said of their commander.
His name was Shamshir, which meant ‘sword’, and he was one of my nephew’s favourites, a man who had a cruel nature but who carried out his orders without question. Tall, dark and ugly, in many ways he was the spirit of Gordyene and its capital made flesh. By the time I had arrived he had removed his helmet and was conversing with Akmon. His cold, dark eyes viewed me wit
h suspicion as he bowed his head to me. Our past encounters had not been happy affairs.
‘Greeting, majesty, King Spartacus sends his regards.’
I heard the distinctive sound of trumpet blasts and knew the Immortals were close.
‘We have snatched victory from the jaws of defeat,’ remarked Akmon, ‘where are Atrax and Artaxias?’
‘Fled, majesty,’ gloated Shamshir, ‘like the beaten dogs they are. What sort of king abandons his army?’
‘A false one,’ said Joro.
‘There is only one true King of Media,’ said Shamshir, looking at Akmon.
The commander of the King’s Guard turned in the saddle to stare at the line of battered cohorts in a concave shape in the heat, most Durans and Exiles still standing resting on their shields now the fighting had ended. Ended for them, anyway. Shamshir turned back to me.
‘My lord King Spartacus will deal with the enemy now, majesty, as I can see that your men are at the end of their endurance.’
More riders were appearing and from the left flank came a welcome sight: Gallia, Kalet, Eszter and Dalir, all mercifully unhurt but my daughter wearing a haunted look. She had experienced battle before and at Ctesiphon had been among those who had been temporarily surrounded by a host of enemy horsemen, but something had obviously unnerved her. Kalet reported to me directly.
‘If they had not buggered off we would all be dead by now.’ He looked at Shamshir. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Lord Shamshir, commander of King Spartacus’ King’s Guard,’ I told him, ‘whose arrival signalled our change of fortune.’
‘We are in your debt, lord,’ said Kalet.
This was music to Shamshir’s misshapen ears.
‘Gordyene’s might is always at the disposal of its allies, lord…’
‘Lord Kalet,’ I informed him.
Shamshir raised an eyebrow at a fellow lord’s shabby appearance but said nothing. I also saw him admiring the cuirasses worn by me and Gallia, and which made even his magnificent armour pale into insignificance.
‘We should ride to thank my father,’ said Akmon.
‘He will be delighted to see you, majesty,’ smiled Shamshir.
We found the King of Gordyene sitting on a black stallion beside Rasha, behind them the women horse archers of the Vipers and the rest of the King’s Guard. Both were watching parties of Immortals disarm enemy soldiers who had surrendered in preference to fighting ten thousand fresh soldiers newly arrived on the battlefield. Rasha, attired in mail armour and helmet, beamed with delight when she saw us, jumping down from her horse to rush over to Akmon, who likewise dismounted to embrace his mother. It was a touching scene and there were tears in Gallia’s eyes when she witnessed the reunion of mother and son. Spartacus was less emotional, though even his hard visage cracked a smile when he saw his beloved wife happy. The king’s other two sons, Castus and Haytham, slightly behind their father, rolled their eyes in embarrassment at the scene. Both were attired in mail armour and helmets. Castus was a man now, his shoulders broad like his father and his frame stocky unlike his older brother Akmon.
Spartacus jumped down from his horse and told his two sons to do the same, tossing his helmet to Shamshir as he walked past his commander. Mother and son parted to allow Akmon to greet his father. It had been months since the two had last seen each other, in Ctesiphon’s throne room, and on that occasion there had been friction between father and son, not least because Spartacus had called Lusin a whore. I was there and remembered his fury when Phraates had declared that his oldest son would be King of Media. As I slid off Horns and Gallia also dismounted, I wondered whether Akmon would remember the insult to his wife. In the event, he acted like a king, bowing his head to his father and remaining cordial.
‘Greetings, father, welcome to Media. I look forward to entertaining you and your officers in my palace.’
All eyes were on the King of Gordyene. Claudia had once described him as a brooding menace who hated the world and everything in it. She was of the opinion he had created a formidable army so that he could use it to inflict misery on others as a way of wreaking vengeance on a world that had meted out injustice to him. What precise injustices a former prince of Hatra given a privileged upbringing and later awarded his own kingdom believed himself to be the victim of I had no idea, but Spartacus certainly suffered from a sense of grievance. But today he was generous, magnanimous even. He walked forward and embraced Akmon.
‘It is good to see you, son.’
The meeting between siblings was also friendly and I thought it a good omen for future relations between Media and Gordyene. Much better than if Atrax had triumphed. I looked around at the thousands of demoralised soldiers being corralled into manageable parties by Immortals, the latter using their shields and swords to convince recalcitrant individuals to obey orders.
‘They are to be sold as slaves in case you were wondering, uncle.’
The King of Gordyene was in his prime now, his thick neck, muscular frame and square jaw presenting an intimidating impression to the world, much like his army. He did not smile but neither did he sneer. Rather, his expression was one of cool detachment. There was a time when he and I had been close, and I like to think he looked up to me. But we had clashed on numerous occasions and I had taken great exception to him sending his cutthroat Shamshir to plunder the Temple of Ishtar in Babylon, and so now we were related but distant from each other. I think he thought of me as a quaint relic from a bygone era.
‘They are to be a gift,’ he told me.
‘A lavish gift,’ I commented, glancing at the thousands of captives being rounded up.
‘They will be given to my friend and ally Prince Spadines who deserves them, as compensation for the loss of Van.’
I was disappointed the Sarmatian was not dead but wondered where he was. As if to pre-empt my query, Spartacus provided further details.
‘He and his men are currently pursuing the Armenians and the rebel Atrax. They and the bulk of their horsemen unfortunately managed to escape.’
‘But father,’ said Akmon, ‘how is it you and the prince are here at all?’
‘I was wondering that,’ I added, ‘though I have never been gladder to see the lion banner of Gordyene.’
Rasha walked over to embrace me and I kissed her on the cheek.
‘You have Governor Kuris to thank for that,’ said Spartacus. ‘He got a message to me saying Akmon was in peril, so I quit tormenting the Armenians and hastened south.’
He looked around at the ghastly debris of battle: the intertwined bodies, dead horses, men half-dead from their wounds crawling on the ground and the mournful sound of groans from soldiers nearing death.
He smiled. ‘Music to my ears. There is nothing more heartening than hearing the death rattle of the enemy. My congratulations, uncle, you have reaped a fine harvest of enemy slain.’
I wondered if he knew this war was down to him, that it was his responsibility there were thousands of dead and dying men on the Diyana Plain. That Phraates had engineered this conflict to muzzle the lion of Gordyene. I was tempted to tell him, but he would probably fly into a rage and declare his intention to march on Ctesiphon. Akmon would undoubtedly inform his father about Phraates’ letter to Atrax but that was for another time.
‘Where is your camp?’ I asked.
‘Ten miles to the north.’
He looked at my armour.
‘That is a very fine cuirass, uncle, and I see Aunt Gallia has one too.’
I shrugged. ‘A gift from a friend. Come, our camp is but a mile south of here. Let us leave this place of dead flesh.’
We walked to our horses and gained our saddles, Spartacus ordering Shamshir to organise parties of King’s Guard to provide extra security for the Immortals who had accepted the surrender of more than their number, Rasha ordering Narin, the commander of the Vipers, to remain with the bulk of her women to assist them. So we rode back to camp with an escort of a score of King’s Guard, the same
number of Vipers, ninety Amazons and Joro’s eighty cataphracts. The latter looked very dejected they had been bystanders to the battle, but had they been committed it would have been as part of a noble but futile charge against their Armenian counterparts.
The Durans and Exiles were now limping back to camp, a host of carts containing their wounded also trundling across the plain. Kalet and his lords had also quit the battlefield after their exertions in the unequal battle with the Armenian horsemen.
Akmon pulled up his horse. ‘My people.’
I too suddenly remembered the reason we had marched from Irbil to this vast plain – to rescue the civilians taken during Atrax’s betrayal and murder of Parmenion. Spartacus looked bemused as his son turned his horse and directed it towards the grass-covered earth mound in the distance, around two miles away. We all followed, Akmon explaining to his father the reason for the diversion. Gordyene’s king was bemused and warned his son the journey might end in disappointment. But he was wrong when we rode up the long ramp cut in the side of the mound to enter what had been hundreds of years before a fortress. The post station – a walled enclosure containing stables, living quarters and storerooms – was well maintained, but the rest of the sprawling site was an overgrown ruin, only traces of mud-brick walls and buildings extant. And occupying the site, sitting or lying on the ground in groups, frightened children clinging to their equally alarmed parents, were Irbil’s stolen citizens.
‘At least they have been fed and watered,’ observed Rasha as people began to move away from the horsemen that had suddenly appeared among them.
‘They were to be sold as slaves,’ lamented Akmon, ‘so it was in the enemy’s interests to take care of them, mother.’
‘Lucky for you,’ said Spartacus.
‘Lucky for them, father,’ Akmon corrected him.
There were no water sources on the mound itself but there were several streams around the Gird-I Dasht and the captives were now herded towards these, Joro going among them to announce their king had won a great battle and they were now going home. Within no time, I saw smiling faces and heard a babble of chatter.