by Peter Darman
When the sun was at its height in a clear blue sky and the early morning breeze had disappeared, three hundred and fifty men walked, hobbled and limped north, following the course of the river so that at least they would be able to slake their thirsts along the way. At their head was a tall man with wild hair and even wilder eyes, his heart filled with a burning hatred for the king he had followed faithfully but had treated him and his people with a callous disregard. He gave no thought to the Parthians who had butchered his warriors, believing he had slipped through their net. To the north the Munzur Mountains beckoned, and on the other side lay the land of his people.
*****
General Joro, scion of an ancient Median family, commander of that kingdom’s army and loyal servant of the crown, was an unhappy man. He looked like a priest with his pure white hair and beard, but despite being in his sixth decade he still retained the strong constitution that marked him out as a soldier. But the worry lines on his face had appeared to multiply and his blue eyes were filled with concern. He shook his head and sighed deeply when his king vaulted into the saddle.
‘I would advise against this, majesty.’
Akmon, flushed with having shared in a great victory and delighted that both Tiridates and Atrax were now dead, especially the latter – the tormentor of Media – smiled at his right-hand man.
‘I intend to see the corpse of Laodice with my own eyes, general.’
Joro grabbed the bridle of the king’s horse.
‘May I remind you that you are the King of Media.’ He jerked a thumb at the five companies of horse archers and fifty cataphracts waiting patiently in the sunshine, behind them squires holding the reins of camels loaded with tents, food and supplies.
‘They are expendable, you are not. And may I also remind you of your wife and son in Irbil. I have no desire to be the one informing Queen Lusin the king fell on some meaningless mission in Cappadocia.’
Akmon leaned forward and rested a hand on the general’s shoulders.
‘Your concern is both touching and reassuring, Joro. But I have not forgotten the atrocities committed in Irbil by Atrax and his lackeys, which included Laodice.’
‘Five hundred horse archers is more than enough to hunt down and destroy a band of desperate men, majesty,’ said Joro.
Akmon sat up straight in his saddle. ‘No, I must do this myself. What sort of king sits in camp while his men fights his battles for him?’
‘A wise one.’
Joro’s face became a giant frown when another, smaller party trotted up and halted in front of Akmon.
Talib bowed his head. ‘Greetings, majesty. On behalf of Queen Gallia, I request we be allowed to join your party.’
Akmon looked at the scout, at Joro and laughed.
‘What business would the Queen of Dura have with hunting down a band of renegades?’
‘We search for someone, majesty,’ Talib answered guardedly.
‘Who?’ demanded Akmon.
Talib hesitated.
‘Tell me or you stay here,’ said Akmon.
‘Their leader, Laodice,’ Minu told him, ‘the queen wants him dead.’
Akmon laughed out loud. ‘You are in luck, Minu, I too desire his death.’
He stopped laughing when he realised the strange band before him, all dressed like Agraci men and women, were assassins acting on behalf of Queen Gallia.
‘Who else does Queen Gallia want dead.’
‘The enemies of Dura,’ replied Minu.
‘That is a long list.’
They all turned to see Castus striding from his command tent, which was but one of four arranged in a line in the centre of the sprawling camp covering many acres. The other tents were the sleeping quarters of Akmon, Kewab and Otanes. The living quarters of the satraps should have been pitched with those of the senior officers of Gordyene’s army and the other contingents, whose tents were arranged in a square around the kings’ tents. But Castus had been grateful for their assistance, particularly the legend that was Kewab, so he insisted both satraps be housed alongside his tent and that of Akmon. It was a gesture both appreciated, especially Otanes who came from the very traditional kingdom of Susiana.
Castus walked over to his brother, flashing the delightful Haya a smile. She returned the gesture, much to the discomfiture of Klietas.
‘You had better be off, brother, else your quarry will escape.’
Akmon looked at Dura’s chief scout. ‘You are welcome to accompany us, Talib, but I cannot vouch for your safety. Perhaps you should leave the girls behind, at least.’
‘We are not girls,’ hissed Yasmina.
‘We are Daughters of Dura,’ added Azar.
‘Ridiculous,’ muttered Joro.
‘Stay here until my brother breaks camp,’ Akmon told Joro. ‘If I am not back by then, return with him to Gordyene. I will catch you up.’
Joro threw up his hands in frustration but did not argue with his king. Akmon yanked on his reins to turn his horse, raised a hand to Castus and nudged his mount forward with his knees. The beast trotted down the camp’s main street, on either side of which were narrower streets at right angles to it, and a myriad of walkways between tents in immaculate straight lines. Akmon’s bodyguard of cataprhacts fell in behind. They were all in ‘half-armour’ of scale-armour cuirasses, helmets without plumes and their horses devoid of any armour to save the animals’ stamina. No cataphract carried a kontus; instead, each man was armed with a bow, a full quiver, sword and either axe or mace, and carried a round, hide-covered shield painted black and decorated with a white dragon motif. The horse archers, like the cataphracts attired in blue tunics and grey leggings but carrying two full quivers, took up position behind the bodyguard.
It was only a stroke of good luck, or bad luck if you happened to be hill men, that Laodice was spotted fleeing the battlefield. In the confusion and horror of close-quarter combat, just another bareheaded man trying to escape with his life would have provoked no interest. But an eagle-eyed Median cataphract had spotted Laodice as he fled away from the thousands of Parthian horsemen to lead a large group of hill men through a gap between two Immortal divisions. The man had been part of the garrison of Irbil when Atrax and Laodice had attacked the city, and after the battle was over he had immediately reported what he saw to General Joro. Akmon was informed and parties of horse archers were despatched to hunt for Laodice and his group. When Castus heard, he loaned his brother some of his own scouts. These men were Aorsi who were very familiar with the area east and north of Melitene, having crossed the border many times to trade and raid, the two activities being closely linked in Sarmatian culture.
There was no hard border between Cappadocia and Gordyene, no guard towers, walls or even signposts to mark where Parthian rule ended and the influence of Rome began. Hard borders such as the Araxes River between Armenia and Gordyene were an exception, and even the old marker that had been established by Pompey and King Pacorus to delineate the border between Dura and Syria – a kontus and gladius set in a plinth – could easily be missed by the heavy traffic between the kingdom and the province. Borders existed as lines on maps in the palaces of kings or the mansions of governors, but on the ground they were indeterminate, porous.
The column followed the scouts as it trotted out of camp, maintaining a trotting pace that would cover around eight miles every hour, including a short halt. In this way horses wearing saddles and carrying men in armour would not get fatigued. But they would rest for two hours during the hottest part of the day, in the shade of the increasing number of trees the riders encountered as they travelled north, following the course of a river those they were pursuing had followed the day before.
It was three hours past midday, the air still hot, the cataphracts sweating in their scale armour and riding horses at a walking pace, when the column entered the hills north of the Melitene Plain. Slopes covered with ash, walnut, elm, oak, poplar and willow trees replaced the open spaces. They splashed through streams filled wit
h fantastically clear water that was numbingly cold. In the distance was the limestone massif with dog-toothed peaks that marked the end of Cappadocia and the beginning of Pontus – the destination of those they were hunting.
The scouts had seen signs of their passing: broken branches, footprints beside streams and grass trampled by many boots. They also saw scattered pebbles beside overturned boulders, prompting Talib to shake his head.
‘Such disrespect. Men do not know what they do.’
He and the others were riding at the rear of the Median column, both Talib and Minu not wishing to be probed by Akmon about their mission and who else was on their ‘kill’ list. Talib pointed at the over-turned boulder.
‘It is called a ziyaret and is a sacred site,’ he explained. ‘Boulders topped with piles of pebbles, or trees to which strips of cloth have been tied, represent a prayer to the gods and should be treated with deference and respect.’
‘How do you know such things, lord?’ asked Klietas behind him, Haya beside the king’s former squire peering at the trees in search of cloths tied to them.
‘Lord Byrd was originally from Cappadocia and he often talks of its customs and people.’
‘Where are the people?’ asked Bullus.
They had passed by farmhouses and villages on the hillsides, all of which had been deserted, the animal pens and fields around the dwellings also empty.
‘The people in this region are semi-nomadic,’ said Talib. ‘In the autumn and winter they and their livestock live in their homes in the valleys, but in the summer they go up into the mountains where there is rich pasture land.’
The column had slowed to a walk as the horsemen followed a dirt track that suddenly diverted from the side of the stream they had been following to head into the trees. The forest was filled with the grunts and snorts of horses, the jangling of saddlery and the clops of hooves on the bone-dry track. Bullus looked around at the greenery either side of the column.
‘If I was of a mind to spring an ambush, this would be the ideal place.’
He pulled his gladius from its scabbard and the others opened the leather cases attached to their saddles to withdraw bows. Klietas nocked an arrow in his bowstring and peered into the trees, searching for any signs of movement. No one spoke. Ahead of them, the horse archers also armed themselves and the atmosphere instantly became tense. Nerves were on edge as the horses plodded on, sunlight lancing through the forest canopy to create a confusion of greens and yellows and make identification of any movement difficult.
The tension was almost unbearable and sweat began to trickle down Klietas’ face and down his neck. He was thirsty but dare not reach for his water bottle. He touched his bear’s claw necklace for luck, glancing at Haya beside him who was looking at the trees.
‘Don’t look at me, scan the trees,’ she hissed.
‘If I should die, I want you to be the last thing I see.’
‘Silence,’ growled Bullus behind them.
Because they were at the rear of the column they were very vulnerable to being picked off, so Yasmina and Azar kept glancing behind at the track, though the camels interrupted their field of view, the reins of which were tied to the rear horns of their saddles to allow them to hold their bows.
And then the trees ended and they rode into a large, open meadow, the sun on their faces and all thoughts of being ambushed evaporating. Ahead the cataphracts and horse archers were entering a large village made up of at least a score of stone dwellings with straw roofs and two barns constructed of wood, both taller than the houses. Animal pens surrounded the settlement, all empty, and beyond them lush grass sprinkled with a variety of white and yellow flowers. Instinctively everyone relaxed and began exchanging words.
Klietas took the arrow from his bowstring.
‘What did King Castus want?’ he asked Haya.
She gave him a sly smile. ‘A queen.’
His heart sank like a stone tossed into a deep pond. She laughed in triumph.
‘We are on an important mission, Klietas. Do you think I would run off and abandon my queen, the one who saved and changed my life? Are you jealous?’
‘Yes.’
She gave him a kinder smile. ‘If I did not spend the evening with King Castus, we would not have learned of the flight of Laodice, remember that. And that is what we are here for, to carry out the queen’s orders. Or had you forgotten?’
‘Of course not,’ he snapped.
She wore a mischievous leer.
‘Besides, you are the one sharing my bed, or have you forgotten that, too? What would King Castus say if he knew his future queen was not a virgin?’
He did not care for her games.
‘I do not care what he thinks.’
Talib spun in the saddle. ‘Quiet, you two. Remember where you are. This is not some sort of pleasure trip for young lovers.’
A rider, a cataphract, appeared before Talib and saluted.
‘The king sends his compliments, lord, and informs you he will be making camp in the village tonight. He asks that you and your wife dine with him and his senior officers when the tents have been pitched.’
‘Inform his majesty we will be delighted to do so.’
The cataphract saluted and rode back to the main group of the column, which was dividing into several parts. Small groups of horse archers were being despatched further up the track to reconnoitre the trees on the far side of the meadow, while others were riding left and right to scout the meadow itself. Most of Akmon’s horsemen, however, were dismounting to assist in the pitching of the tents. The horse archers, anyway; the cataphracts, being lords, or the sons and grandsons of lords, were standing and chatting, waiting for their squires to go about the menial chores. It was ever thus.
Talib turned to the others. ‘Set up the tents on the edge of the village.’
He did not react when a shrill horn call was sounded, but his mouth dropped open when seconds later warriors flooded from the barns and houses. Fresh men riding fresh horses will always catch soldiers on foot, especially troops who are tired and carrying injuries. Moreover, soldiers on foot who have few shields, little armour and a paucity of helmets are very vulnerable to horse archers that can shoot them down from a distance. The only weapons carried by Laodice’s men were axes, clubs and spears, with a few chiefs armed with swords. All useless against horsemen with bows but ideal at close quarters against men on foot wearing no armour.
They came screaming from the buildings, nothing more than an armed, desperate mob swinging axes and clubs and clutching spears with both hands. But they achieved total surprise and in the confines of the village, men and horses intermingled, bows in cases and swords in scabbards, their indiscipline, poor equipment and tired bodies did not count against them.
In the initial assault many horse archers had their skulls smashed by hill men swinging axes against their unprotected heads. Others thrust their spears into horses that screamed before crashing to the ground. Hill men brought wooden clubs down on startled Median soldiers, smashing collarbones, arms and fracturing skulls. They roared in triumph as their enemies were bludgeoned and cut down, their horses likewise being slaughtered in an orgy of frenzied killing.
‘Amazons, with me!’ shouted Minu, screaming at her horse and digging her knees into its flanks.
Because they had been at the rear of the column, she and the others from Dura were outside the village when the barbarian horde attacked, the air filled with shouts and high-pitched screams as the hill men went about their deadly work with relish.
Klietas strung an arrow in his bow and remembered his training: the four-horned saddle allows you to swivel through one hundred and eighty degrees both left and right; wrap the reins around your left wrist; use your arms for holding your bow and bowstring; focus on the target; don’t waste arrows. Yasmina and Azar flanked him and Haya, Minu at the tip of their small wedge, already shooting arrows at hill men. And there were many to shoot at.
At the edge of the village a warr
ior attacked a squire carrying a nosebag filled with fodder with a two-handed axe, the hill man swinging his weapon at the teenager’s head, splitting his skull and embedding the iron head of the axe in what became a bloody stump. He hollered in triumph, turned, saw the approaching riders and yanked his weapon from the mixture of flesh, bone and brains. To be shot in the middle of the chest by Minu, Haya’s arrow hitting him in the belly a second later. He collapsed backwards on to the grass, landing on his backside with his legs stretched out in front of him. Klietas took aim at him but changed his mind when he saw another hill man standing over a prostrate squire, chopping at his head and body repeatedly. He shot his arrow, hitting the man in the back, causing him to desist his chopping, arch his back and fall forward on his victim, both lifeless.
Minu and the others reached the edge of the village, halting their horses to avoid the chaos between the houses, hill men hacking with axes and thrusting with spears at anything within reach, around them a carpet of dead men in grey leggings and blue tunics.
Klietas took aim at a group of hill men surrounding a hapless and helpless Median soldier armed with a sword, his back against the wall of a hut. He put an arrow in the back of a warrior about to hack at the Median with his axe, plucking another missile from his quiver and shooting that at another hill man levelling a spear at the horse archer, after which the other three warriors turned to identity the mystery archer. They were around fifty paces away and suddenly sprinted towards Klietas, visages contorted with hate and their eyes filled with rage. Haya felled one before he had taken three paces, she shot a second square in the chest and she stopped the third with a belly shot, the wounded man grunting, still gripping his spear and staggering towards Klietas, determined to kill him before he himself died. Haya’s arrow slammed into his chest, stopping him dead, his lifeless body collapsing on the ground, his hands still clutching the spear shaft.