by Peter Darman
Kewab marshalled his horsemen into long columns, at the front of which were his eastern veterans. Behind them came the red-uniformed exiles from Mesene, all professionals who had been trained by my friend Nergal. For a moment a great wave of sadness washed over me when I looked round and saw none of my friends present. They were all gone, either dead or retired, mostly the former.
‘Pacorus!’
I heard Gallia’s sharp tone and snapped out of my self-pity. I gripped Horns’ reins and urged him forward. Gallia and the Amazons followed, passing company after company of horse archers. To our right the Durans and Exiles were still slowly withdrawing, the Immortals, having first re-dressed their mangled ranks, following. They were delayed by the heaps of dead and dying at their feet – the result of the brutal mêlée that had taken place earlier. But they advanced nevertheless, and in doing so moved beyond the forts that had rendered them splendid service thus far. And there it was – an inviting gap through which we would ride.
To either glory, or death.
Over fifteen thousand horsemen galloped through that gap, all carrying four or more quivers of arrows, for it would be too dangerous for the ammunition trains to follow us. Once more the Durans and Exiles had halted and were again locked in deadly combat with the Immortals. Of necessity, the plan was simple: Kewab and his three thousand easterners, reinforced by Mesene’s horse archers, would head straight for Gordyene’s horse archers standing behind the Immortals, either scattering them or, more desirable, killing them. Meanwhile, I would wheel the horse archers of Dura and Media right to take them behind the rear divisions of the Immortals. We would then shoot volley after volley of arrows at those divisions in a battle of attrition until our ammunition was spent.
Gallia had poured scorn on the notion we could shoot the Immortals to pieces.
‘They carry shields identical to our own foot soldiers. They will merely adopt a testudo formation.’
She was right, but even if only one in ten arrows found its mark, we could still kill several hundred Immortals. And Kewab’s lancers, working closely with the horse archers of Mesene, would hopefully reap a richer harvest against Castus’ horsemen. It was a gamble. Better that than doing nothing.
Horns strained at the leash as he thundered down the ranks of the Immortals, whistles and trumpets sounding to halt and turn their rear divisions. I saw soldiers frantically manhandling scorpions to turn them around to face the new threat that had appeared behind them. I glanced over to my left to see hundreds of Kewab’s men charging away from us.
I peered at the fortress that had anchored the left flank of the Immortals, hoping to see white-uniformed horse archers coming from our own right flank – the horsemen of Hatra. I saw nothing and cursed. Their commander would obviously not move without direct orders from his king. So, thousands of Hatran horse archers stood idle while we fought like demons.
Kewab’s attack bought us time to halt, face right and shoot at the Immortals from a stationary position. Nine thousand stationary horse archers shooting from a static position can unleash a lot of arrows, and with a high degree of accuracy. But all company commanders had been issued orders that they passed on to their men: no rapid shooting, search for targets, do not waste arrows.
The first to die were the scorpion crews, though not before some had shot iron-tipped bolts at the dense ranks or horsemen less than fifty paces away, skewering horses and knocking them to the ground. But the crews were exposed and were shot multiple times by archers. There was a loud, continuous whooshing sound as thousands of arrows were shot at the now locked shields of the Immortals. We shot not at the shields but at their edges and tops, hoping a bronze head would force its way between shields locked together.
I shot arrow after arrow at the wall of shields in vain, the metal heads thudding into the hide-covered wood and turning individual shields into pin cushions. But it did not matter because we had diverted the attention of the second-line divisions of the Immortals from the battle being fought by those in the first line. And the longer we pinned them down, the greater the likelihood of those in the first line faltering. Chrestus would be able to exchange his battered and depleted first-line cohort with the fresh, full-strength ones behind, and tilt the battle in his favour.
I heard the roar of war cries and shouted in triumph. But then stopped and cocked my ear. They were coming not from the front but from my right, the direction we had ridden from. Gallia and the Amazons had heard it, too, and they ceased shooting and peered in the direction of the tumult, other companies doing likewise. I looked at her and we both knew what it was heralding was nothing good.
‘Reform,’ I called, ‘wheel right.’
The Amazon signaller sounded her trumpet and within seconds Gallia’s bodyguard had wheeled right and formed into two files.
‘With me!’ I shouted, digging my knees into Horns’ flanks to urge him forward.
We retraced our tracks, Sporaces and his companies doing likewise. But it was too late.
They came flooding from the trees that blanketed the northern hillside of the Pambak Valley, a screaming horde of men and women carrying spears, axes, knives and slings. And it was the latter doing the most damage to the mounts of Dura’s horse archers. The Pontic hill men, and women, were just a screeching mob, widely spaced and totally devoid of any semblance of discipline. But they had achieved surprise and were possessed of a feral courage, literally hurling themselves at mounted soldiers and stabbing at bellies of horses with their weapons.
They were Yesim’s’ people, dressed in rags, many barefoot and all devoid of headgear. I had seen and killed many Pontic hill men over the years, but this was different. They had caught us totally by surprise and washed over us like a great barbarian wave. The companies nearest the gap we had ridden through had already been overwhelmed, warriors and their womenfolk stabbing at unhorsed men and their animals in a dreadful scene.
‘Wedge!’ shouted Gallia, reins wrapped around her left wrist and leaning forward in the saddle.
The Amazons flanked left and right and began shooting, creating a swarm of arrows in front of us to scythe down everything in its path. But Yesim’s people were not just in front. They were to the left, right and behind us. They were everywhere, thousands of them.
‘All-round defence,’ ordered Gallia.
The Pontic barbarians were like ants around us, difficult to kill but enormously irritating. In response, companies of horse archers became disorganised, ran into each other and their horses reared up when hill men screaming war cries stood in front of them. Many of Yesim’s people were shot down and trampled on in the chaos, but we had to get back through the gap, which was swarming with hill men darting around like flies, adding to the confusion and resulting in an ever-growing press of humans and horses.
The Amazons provided a rallying point, companies flocking to my griffin banner. I ordered their commanders to lead their men back through the gap, which though occupied by scattered groups of hill men, showed no signs of constricting. Arrows and sling shots were hissing through the air. Riders were going down after being hit by sling shots, though at least the swirling throng of humans and horses made it as difficult for slingers to identify targets as it did for our own archers.
Sporaces, thankfully still alive and unhurt, reported to me, shaking his head at the chaos around us.
‘We tried, majesty.’
‘That we did. Now we have to extricate ourselves from this mess.’
A shrieking hill man, axe in hand, ran towards us, only to be hit by two arrows shot by Haya and Gallia behind me, the missiles thudding into his unprotected chest. He fell to his knees and swayed to and fro, dropping his axe and staring in our direction with vacant eyes. He disappeared when trampled on by a column of horses, their riders wearing leather armour – Kewab’s men.
The area became even more crowded as more and more of the satrap’s riders, plus the red-uniformed horse archers from Mesene, headed for the gap. For the moment, the hill men around
us disappeared as they were either speared, shot down or trampled on by the Egyptian’s horsemen.
The satrap himself appeared moments later, accompanied by a bodyguard of his soldiers. He saluted to me and nodded to Sporaces.
‘We inflicted losses on their horse archers, majesty, but as soon as I heard about the attack from the woods, I withdrew my men.’
‘You made the right decision,’ I told him. ‘Did you see Castus?’
‘We saw a red banner beyond the horse archers but not the king himself.’
‘Get your men to safety,’ I commanded. ‘I am sorry.’
It suddenly occurred to me that he would not now be King of Gordyene. Castus had fought us to a standstill, his army was still intact, and he would be able to renew hostilities in the morning. I felt a blow to my belly and saw a round stone fall to the ground beneath me. A slinger had obviously identified me and had hit me. My cuirass had stopped the shot and dissipated its power. Kewab and Sporaces both wore looks of concern.
‘I live to fight another day,’ I said. ‘Time to depart.’
Yesim’s people, having forced us to retreat, were themselves withdrawing, back to the trees where they had been hiding. They left hundreds of their comrades behind in the valley, which was now carpeted with human and equine corpses. I took comfort in the fact the Immortals were also shuffling back after their titanic battle with the Durans and Exiles.
No one was fighting now or making blood-curdling threats to the enemy. As if by mutual consent, both sides had stopped hacking at each other and made no attempt to interrupt the other’s withdrawal from the field of honour. I had no idea why it was called so, being an arena of horror, fear and tragedy. Once I had lived to make war; now I shied away from its intoxicating allure and saw it for the great deception it was. Or perhaps I was just too old and my wrinkled eyes had seen too much bloodshed over the years. But those eyes did not deceive me. I saw men limping back to camp, others, too wounded to stand, being assisted by one or two comrades. Others, life draining away from them, lay on the grass gripping the hands of their friends, desperate not to die alone and forgotten. At that moment, if any man had told me this was glory, I would have struck him down.
Our horse archers and Kewab’s lancers had escaped through the gap and were trotting back to camp, glancing behind to ensure Castus did not have one last trick to play on them. But just as we were tired, hungry and thirsty, so were his soldiers drained of energy. It was quiet now, aside from the mournful cries of injured men crying out for water, or their mothers. They were vastly outnumbered by the dead, who did not speak.
Gallia and the Amazons cantered on, but I pulled up Horns when something caught my eye: a bright flash that lasted but a split-second. It was probably the sun reflecting off a spear point or sword, but whatever it was, I halted Horns and turned in the saddle. I saw a group of Immortals standing in line, watching me. I looked around for more of their comrades but saw none. Most odd. There were six of them, and in unison they rested their shields on the ground and removed their helmets.
I nudged Horns towards them and sheathed my sword. Time stood still and the valley emptied as I beheld long-lost friends. In the centre stood a tall individual with cropped hair – Spartacus. Beside him, a squat, dark-haired man with a deep scar down the right side of his face – Akmon, Spartacus’ deputy in Italy. I recognised the long face of the German Castus, the long black hair of Vagharsh, and the fierce, black-haired warrior we had once crossed an ocean to save: Burebista. And at the end of the line stood a thickset man with a chiselled face and narrow black eyes. My friend, my general and the man who had moulded Dura’s army into a powerful instrument: Lucius Domitus.
They attempted no speech and made no gesture. They just looked at me and in that moment I understood. I could never defeat Castus because in fighting him I was battling everything I had tried to build and held dear. Gordyene’s army had been created in the image of Dura’s legions. They were a mirror image of each other, and no one could reach into a mirror and grab a reflection.
‘I understand,’ I called to them.
The decision had been made. We were going home.
I bowed my head to my friends, tugged on Horns’ reins and followed the Amazons back to camp. I looked back only once but saw no trace of them.
Chapter 19
Pacorus did not take my decision well. After five years of being the de facto ruler of Elymais and now the actual ruler of Hatra, he had grown accustomed to giving orders, not receiving them. Hatran princes and nobles were by their very nature often prickly and recalcitrant subordinates, all with a keen nose when it came to their honour being questioned or damaged. It did not help that he and his cataphracts, together with those from Hatra and Media, had enjoyed an easy victory against the Aorsi and Gordyene’s lords, scattering them without having to break sweat and pursuing them for several miles to the east. Which was the whole point.
‘While you were taking part in a glorified hunt,’ I told him, my leg aching like fury and other parts of my body complaining in apparent solidarity, ‘we were engaged in a more taxing engagement.’
He drank some more wine, his temper rising.
‘Castus is finished,’ he spat. ‘One more battle and we will be feasting in Vanadzor.’
I closed my eyes and sighed.
‘One more battle and my legions will be down to half-strength. They have lost one in ten dead and wounded already. Dura’s horse archers lost nearly as many casualties, as did those of Media. I assume your own horse archers suffered casualties, notwithstanding their tardiness.’
Pacorus rolled his eyes. ‘Soldiers die in battle, uncle. I assume Gordyene also suffered losses.’
A stern-faced Chrestus sitting beside me, nodded. ‘Several thousand, majesty, by all accounts, especially when King Pacorus got behind the Immortals.’
An orderly poured Kewab some wine into his cup. The Egyptian looked tired, his face drawn and his hair unusually unkempt. Then again, it had been a hard day for all of us. Pacorus looked at him.
‘And you, satrap, what would your estimate be of enemy losses?’
‘Our flank attack in the afternoon caught them by surprise and my men inflicted some losses on the enemy’s horse archers before they withdrew. But I would say in the hundreds rather than thousands, and my men suffered three hundred dead when the hill men came from the trees.’
‘Joro informed me Media’s horse archers suffered a similar number killed,’ remarked a downcast Akmon, no doubt still thinking of the base murder of his younger brother.
‘It comes down to a simple matter of attrition,’ said Pacorus casually. ‘Castus has less men than we have, his lords and Sarmatian allies have been defeated, and his field army has been weakened. If…’
I held up a hand to him. ‘I will not see it weakened any further. Gordyene’s army is a formidable instrument, but if it is destroyed, the Romans and Armenians, or indeed the Sarmatians, will take advantage and de-stabilise the whole of Parthia’s northern frontier. I will not do it, and my decision is final.’
‘Then you have failed,’ said Pacorus harshly.
‘I can live with failure, Pacorus,’ I told him. ‘But I cannot live with destroying something I have spent my entire life trying to maintain.’
‘Which is what?’ he demanded to know.
‘A strong and free Parthia.’
‘Castus will never forgive you, lord,’ said Akmon.
‘Dura will never forgive Castus for his treatment of its king,’ stated Gallia. ‘Gordyene lost many sons today. Do we really want to make more widows and grieving mothers tomorrow?’
‘Media does not,’ said Akmon solemnly. ‘And I do not wish to lose another brother. I too will be taking my soldiers home in the morning.’
Pacorus fell into a sullen silence. He knew that without Dura’s legions, his own soldiers would be vulnerable in enemy territory without a marching camp to rest in each night. I was expecting him to unleash a withering verbal volley against me.
>
‘You are lord high general, uncle,’ were his only words before retiring for the night.
Later, lying beside Gallia, I told her about my vision on the battlefield, of how I had seen Spartacus, Domitus and others we had both fought beside in Italy.
‘It was a sign and you were right to interpret it the way you did,’ she told me. ‘In any case, I have no appetite to see Vanadzor stormed and sacked.’
‘Me neither. I doubt Pacorus will forgive me.’
She hugged me. ‘Hatran honour can be most inconvenient. Killing Aorsi and Gordyene’s lords and their retainers was obviously not enough to quench Pacorus’ thirst for glory.’
‘To a Hatran lord, reputation is all. They probably consider it an insult they had to fight nothing more than Aorsi and low-born chiefs from Gordyene.’
Satisfying Hatran honour was Pacorus’ top priority during the following days, while the rest of the army rested and kept Castus’ army pinned in the Pambak Valley. The day after the battle, both sides sent parties back to the site of the fighting to search for wounded. There was no further bloodshed as medics searched the carpet of corpses for any still living. Their investigation was mostly futile, though I thanked Shamash that one of the few brought back to camp was Centurion Bullus.
The moment I heard he was in one of the medical tents I went to see him. I could have wept at the sight that greeted me. The man in the cot was a pale imitation of the gruff, sturdy fighting machine I was used to. His frame was the same size, of course, but his cheeks and eyes were sunken, his face was deathly pale, and his torso was wrapped in bandages. He was sleeping when I arrived, so I pulled up a stool and waited for him to open his eyes. His breathing was shallow and I feared he might not live to see the evening.