by Peter Darman
‘Remember Carrhae?’
‘Yes, I was there, you may recall.’
She looked at the square taking shape with admirable efficiency.
‘That day, we were the ones shooting at a square of Romans, and now we will be a target for enemy horsemen.’
‘The difference being, my sweet, the Sarmatians have few horse archers, so we do not need to worry about being under a deluge of arrows.’
She was unconvinced. ‘What if this Tasius deliberately kept you from seeing his horse archers, Pacorus?’
I had not thought of that, but I was not unduly worried.
‘Our square has missile power, whereas Crassus put his faith in his legionaries.’
‘It is too late to change anything now,’ she said, pointing to the east.
A detachment of white-uniformed horse archers was cantering towards us, and as it got closer, I saw it was led by Sporaces. He pulled up his horse and saluted.
‘The enemy is closing, majesty, divided into many formations that appear to be equal in size.’
They were the same tactics used against Silani and Otanes.
‘Armoured horsemen in front?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, majesty.’
‘Very well, withdraw your companies and get them inside the square.’
He saluted, turned his horse and galloped away, followed by his men. Minu had removed the wax-coated sleeve covering my griffin banner to allow it to flutter in the wind. Unfortunately, there was no wind, so it hung limply on its pole. The sun was still beating down from a cloudless sky, making us all sweat in our armour, though at least my cuirass was feather-light, unlike the mail protection worn by the Durans and Exiles, standing in their ranks waiting for the battle to begin.
I rode over to where Bullus stood with his century, Gallia and the Amazons following. The grizzled centurion had become something of a legend and was regarded as a lucky mascot by the rest of the army. As a result, everyone wanted to serve alongside Centurion Bullus, though it was certainly not because of his charm or cheery words. As usual, he was standing in front of his men, marching up and down with vine cane in hand, tapping shields and arms to highlight infractions.
‘Stay sharp. Eyes front and no talking in the ranks.’
He turned when his men and others in nearby units began banging the shafts of their javelins on the insides of their shields. He stood to attention and saluted when I pulled up Horns in front of him.
‘Come to try a bit of real fighting, majesty?’ he grinned.
‘I will have to decline your kind invitation, Bullus. I have a battle to direct. Keep yourself alive; this campaign is not over.’
He raised his cane. ‘You can be sure of it, majesty.’
‘She is alive, Centurion Bullus,’ Klietas behind me called to him.
Bullus looked none the wiser.
‘Anush,’ said Klietas, ‘she is in safe in Irbil. And I will have a son.’
‘My day is complete,’ shouted Bullus. ‘Look lively.’
He was pointing to where horse archers were galloping towards the gaps between cohorts. Behind them, still at a distance but closing, bodies of horsemen, a great many of them all in a line.
The Sarmatians were here.
I raised a hand to Bullus and waited until the horse archers had entered the square, then commanded the Amazons to follow them. Gallia pulled her bow from its case and her women did the same. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the griffin banner ruffle. A few seconds later it began to billow as a wind picked up. I followed the Amazons into the square, halted Horns and turned him so I could see the Sarmatian host. I heard trumpets sounding and whistles blowing and knew legionaries and horse archers were readying themselves to receive the enemy’s assault. Then I heard Klietas, wonderment in his voice.
‘Majesty.’
‘Not now, Klietas.’
‘But, majesty.’
Annoyed, I spun in the saddle. And saw a truly breath-taking sight.
At first, I thought it was dust tornado on the horizon, a great brown cloud in the sky. But it could not have been a tornado because it was high in the heavens, separated from the ground, and it was descending rather than ascending. And then I saw it transform into the shape of a giant bird filling the sky. I blinked and the vision was gone, replaced by the huge brown cloud once more. Everyone was looking at it in wonderment and had forgotten about the tens of thousands of Sarmatians deployed to our front, their disciplined formations of horsemen extending left and right as far as the eye could see.
The cloud changed formation as the wind blew it along, eddying and spinning like autumn leaves in a breeze. And then we heard the buzzing and realised it was not leaves but insects, millions of them.
Locusts!
The wind picked up and suddenly they were above our heads, almost within touching distance, an incalculable number of them, blocking out the sun and making the earth go dark. Horses whinnied in fear and men clutched lucky talismans as they stared, open-mouthed, at the unholy spectacle. Klietas gripped his bear’s claw, I caressed the lock of Gallia’s hair and my wife did the same with Rasha’s hair hanging around her neck.
They are reddish-brown in colour, with bright wings, and when the sun’s rays catch them it appears the sea has been transported into the sky. But the vast myriad of insects had momentarily blotted out the sun as they passed over us, driven by a wind blowing in the Sarmatians’ faces. I had to remind myself that one locust is but a tiny insect that you can catch and crush in your hand, but this vast, dense cloud of them had the power to wreak appalling destruction.
And then the wind abruptly ceased and the Sarmatians disappeared as the maelstrom of locusts enveloped them. I checked myself and Horns for signs of locusts but could not see even one. Everyone was doing the same, looks of disbelief on their faces when they realised not one locust was on their body, face or horse. I saw the gold ring on my finger and understood.
I raised my bow and dug my heels into Horns’ sides.
‘Every horse archer to me.’
He bolted through a gap between two cohorts and headed for the swarm of locusts around four or five hundred paces ahead. I heard trumpet blasts and hooves pounding the ground behind me and smiled. Pulling an arrow from one of my quivers, I nocked it in the bowstring and shot the missile. I saw the arrow arch into the sky and disappear in the swarm. I pulled up Horns around fifty paces from what appeared a dense, moving wall of locusts and loosed another arrow into the swarm. Gallia halted beside me and the Amazons began spreading out into line either side of us. Klietas pulled up his horse and nocked an arrow in his bowstring.
There was a sudden gush of wind and the liquid-like wall of locusts began to recede, to reveal men in horn-scale armour frantically trying to brush away the tormenting winged insects, calm their frightened horses, and a combination of both. The last thing on their minds was the lines of Parthian horse archers forming to their front almost within touching distance.
‘Pick your targets,’ shouted Gallia, her voice barely audible in the buzzing that hurt our ears.
I saw a man remove his helmet to shake out the locusts that had wormed their way inside it. I shot him with an arrow, knocking him from his saddle. I shot the man next to him and the man behind him, selecting targets with ease from close range as the locust swarm continued to move east, propelled by a gentle wind. Either side of me, Amazons were doing the same, adding lethal hisses to the incessant buzzing as arrows shot through the air, each one finding a target. And either side of my wife’s bodyguard, stretching into the distance, more and more companies of horse archers from Dura and Hatra were leaving the square to join us in shooting helpless Sarmatians from their saddles.
The locust swarm moved slowly, as though the wind itself was being directed by a supernatural force to allow us to shoot as many enemy soldiers from their saddles as possible, while at the same time allowing us to replenish our ammunition from the camels that now came from the square to take up position behind the companies
of horse archers. And all the while, as we walked our horses forward among the bodies of the dead Sarmatians we had killed, not one attack was launched against us. Not one arrow was shot at us, not one spear was thrown at us or one axe hurled at us.
As Sarmatians appeared as they exited the swarm, which continued to be blown east, they were shot. Not all were killed instantly. Some tumbled to the ground with arrows lodged in their shoulders or bellies, the iron heads having penetrated the horn scales of their armour to inflict wounds with varying degrees of severity. But all died when they were shot a second, third or fourth time. And then we were shooting individuals with no armour and I realised we had penetrated to the third and fourth lines of the Sarmatian formation we had been battling.
Individual Roxolani, driven mad by the locusts, were running around on foot, weeping and clutching at their clothes that were infested with insects. They too were shot down. Horses maddened and terrified by the locusts, their owners now dead, bolted towards us to escape the swarm, our own mounts also giddy with trepidation as they walked towards the seething cloud of locusts, which fortunately was always moving away from us. But they now had to thread a path through ground littered with dead Sarmatians, though no locusts. I stared at the ground with disbelief to see no insects were feasting on the lush grass. I touched the ring on my finger and gave thanks to Shamash for the miracle he had gifted me, and Parthia.
The battle was not entirely free of unwelcome interruption, however.
Unable to contain their frustration with having to stand idle while their social inferiors were winning all the glory, Hatra’s cataphracts pleaded with their king to be allowed to uphold their honour. Pacorus, also wanting to win his first victory as their king, readily acquiesced to their request. He led fifteen hundred cataphracts from the square to plunge into the locust swarm, the cream of Hatran society disappearing into the brown cloud to plunge their long lances into Sarmatians, and then go to work with their swords, axes and maces.
I rode to the ammunition train to pick up two fresh quivers where I was accosted by Azad, helmet pushed up on his head.
‘The lads are unhappy, majesty.’
I knew what was coming. ‘Oh?’
‘They have been putting up with a lot of sarcastic comments from Hatran nobles about who are the best horsemen in Parthia, that sort of thing. And now they are forced to sit by and watch the Hatrans win all the glory.’
I handed the camel driver my empty quivers and slotted the two full ones on to my saddle.
‘You have my permission to prove the Hatrans wrong, Azad.’
He was gone in an instant, his signaller blowing his trumpet to alert the cataphracts, who had exited the square and were formed up in company-sized wedge formations, ready to be unleashed against the enemy.
A cataphract charge is a truly wondrous sight: men in full armour riding horses attired in steel and leather making the earth tremble as they canter across the ground, every kontus being lowered in unison and gripped on the right side of every horse prior to being thrust into an opponent. This charge was not made at the gallop as Azad’s men were traversing ground covered with bodies, but it was still a sight to swell the chest of any Parthian.
We had unleashed a deluge of arrows at the Sarmatians, but the cataphract assault drastically reduced the volleys of missiles shot at Tasius’ warriors, who had mostly fled from us anyway. The great swarm of locusts had also moved on, propelled by a gentle wind to the east, which suddenly changed direction to a southerly breeze. I thought nothing of it. We had won a great victory and inflicted huge losses on the Roxolani, who were still suffering at the hands of the cataphracts. Dura’s steel fist would be doing murder with their ukku blades, which would be cutting through horn and iron scales with ease. I wondered if Tasius himself had escaped the slaughter.
It was three hours before Azad returned, he and his men in high spirits after their orgy of violence. He recounted how they and he had pursued the Sarmatians for miles, cutting down any who attempted to stand and fight, slaying those who attempted to give themselves up, and hacking at anything with their swords until they no longer had the strength to wield their weapons. They and their horses blown, their armour and that of their steeds splattered with blood and gore, they reluctantly headed for camp. By the time they and Hatra’s cataphracts walked into the marching camp being created by the Durans and Exiles, many literally as they led exhausted horses on foot, the sun was dipping on the western horizon. Using their entrenching tools was the only work the frustrated legionaries did that day, much to their disgust.
At dusk, the sun a massive blood-red ball in the west, a rider in a blue tunic and grey leggings rode into camp with a message from King Akmon, stating he and his army were approaching from the north. The victorious day was complete. In the morning, we would join forces with Media’s king and drive the Sarmatians from Parthian soil.
No one slept that night, the sounds of revelry filling the air until the first shards of light lanced the eastern horizon to announce a new day, a glorious day in Parthia’s history when barbarian invaders would be driven from the empire.
Despite my age and ailments, I felt remarkably fresh when Klietas served me and Gallia breakfast in the morning, my former squire wearing a broad grin as he placed figs, olives, biscuits, cured meat and diluted wine before us.
‘Well, Klietas,’ I said, ‘we will soon have you back with Anush. You can ride to Irbil today, should you so desire.’
His smile disappeared. ‘I would rather stay here, majesty, until the fighting is over.’
‘I doubt there will be much fighting,’ said Gallia, ‘not after yesterday.’
‘The appearance of the locusts was a miracle, majesty,’ said Klietas.
Gallia smiled and I touched my gold ring.
‘It certainly was,’ I agreed.
‘You are both beloved of the gods,’ he announced.
I had to admit I believed he was right. We enjoyed the basic fare on offer. It was hard to not grin like Klietas, especially when Chrestus appeared with the casualty lists. I told him to pull up a chair. Klietas poured him a cup of watered-down wine.
‘Fifty wounded in total, none dead,’ he reported. ‘Of those, five reported to the medical tents with rashes and inflammations due to insect bites.’
‘This must be the most one-sided victory we have ever enjoyed,’ I said.
Chrestus nodded his head. ‘It is, indeed, majesty. Azad thinks the disc of victory commemorating our triumph should bear a locust and nothing else.’
‘An excellent idea,’ agreed Gallia.
‘We should not get carried away,’ I cautioned. ‘The Sarmatians have suffered a grievous loss, but they have not been wiped out. We will continue to pursue them until we have chased them out of Parthia.’
‘I’ll tell that to the cohort commanders,’ said Chrestus, ‘who are aggrieved to say the least that they were bystanders yesterday.’
A sombre mood came over me and I remembered that dealing with the Sarmatians was only one half of the problem needing resolving.
‘They will get their fair share of fighting, I can promise them that.’
Chrestus drained his cup and stood.
‘After the Sarmatians, then.’
There was no wind as the army marched out of camp under an angry sun, Talib and his scouts riding out to reconnoitre ahead, others being sent to link up with Akmon and his Medians. We gave the ghastly battlefield to the east a wide berth, ravens and vultures already feasting on dead flesh and making dreadful cawing sounds that made one shudder.
‘Yesterday locusts, today birds,’ mused Gallia, peering towards the black flocks descending from the sky to go about their awful work.
We met up with Akmon and his army three hours later, the young king wearing a smile as he greeted us and congratulated us on our victory. He also congratulated Pacorus on his ascension to Hatra’s throne and apologised for his brother’s actions in general, and in northern Hatra in particular.
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sp; ‘You have nothing to apologise for, lord king,’ said Pacorus, still flushed with his triumph the day before. ‘Hatra considers Media its staunch ally and its king and queen close friends. I trust the queen is well?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ replied Akmon. ‘It is good to see you, brother.’
Haytham riding behind us tilted his head at his brother. It had been a difficult time for the young prince of Gordyene, having fled his homeland to report Castus’ intention to unleash his Sarmatians against northern Hatra. Despite his revelation, which gave Hatra time to prepare counter-measures against Spadines and his Aorsi, Haytham was regarded with mistrust by many in the army, not least the Hatrans.
‘My sword is yours, Akmon,’ he said.
‘You will always have a home in Irbil, brother,’ Akmon told him.
Joro, the white-haired commander of Media’s army riding beside his king, growled in a disapproving manner but said nothing. A stickler for tradition, rules and regulations, he would never dream of openly contradicting his king, but I had no doubt that in private he would have words with his king about the inadvisability of offering sanctuary to Haytham.
To change the subject, I provided a summary of the previous day’s events, which delighted Akmon but caused the worry lines on Joro’s face to deepen. After a further hour of travel, we understood why his expression was so glum.
The locusts had devoured everything.
First consuming the grass and leaves, they then moved on to the branches of trees and everything hanging from them. The vineyards and orchards that traditionally surrounded Media’s villages were stripped bare, the bark being eaten away to leave trees devoid of any green so that they resembled white skeletons. Every bush had been eaten quite bare and the grass around them had been devoured so totally that it appeared the land had been scorched by fire to leave the ground devoid of life. We rode into a wasteland stretching into the distance, which we would have to traverse to harry the Sarmatians. The dreadful realisation began to dawn on me that the Roxolani would have to flee Parthia as quickly as possible, for their horses, goats and oxen would have no grass to graze on, no fodder to keep them alive. The gods had answered my prayers and had sent Anzu to strip the land bare. We had won a great victory, but the people of Media who had fled their homes to escape the Roxolani would be unable to return to their villages. To do so would mean starvation. They would probably starve anyway, for I doubted Akmon would be able to find enough food to feed the refugees who filled his capital.