by Jack Ludlow
‘I doubt any host has marched without a certainty of impending success and too many have paid in blood for being overzealous. I would want it to be no different with us but we must acknowledge realities.’
The response came from Coutzes, who led the largest contingent of cavalry. ‘It is possible to be too cautious, Flavius Belisarius, and that is not a feeling it is wise to allow to pervade an army. Our men look to us to display confidence. We must ever appear certain of victory otherwise the spirit will not be there when we need it.’
A son of Vitalian and the dux of Phoenicia Libanensis, Coutzes ruled his satrapy from Palmyra. He came across as a man full of confidence and one who saw no need for excessive respect to his titular superior, both obvious in the cast of his look and the tone of his voice, though he was never openly impolite.
That there was an undertone in his attitude was only to be expected; Coutzes knew Flavius was close to Justinian, just as he must be aware that the Emperor had been behind his father’s murder. That fact alone made Flavius wonder how he could continue to serve the Emperor and placed a mark on his character. Yet to show any disrespect would not serve, so the response had to be one that took account of his obvious self-esteem.
‘I know what you mean, Coutzes, and I accept it as valid. But men who cannot see further than the end of their lance rely on the likes of us to do so for them, to make sure we do not waste their blood. We are about to traverse a desert, which imposes supply problems not least with water and that tells our enemies the direction we must take to have access to the wells.’
Atafar the Saracen spoke up this time. ‘Where they will wait for us.’
Of all the junior commanders he seemed the most receptive to what was being imparted and it was easy to understand why, for his men were entirely infantry. He was an experienced leader and came showered with honours from previous battles in which he had acted with bravery and distinction, so he knew what he wanted. Fluid battle and rushed movement was not the forte of the kind of levies he led. They were more suited to stout defence on suitable ground followed by a mass attack once the conditions for victory had been attained, namely the enemy been rendered disordered when they were still in proper formations.
‘Perhaps. If they want to avoid battle they will block access and force us to withdraw, for we cannot remain an effective force without water. If they want a fight, then the position they will take will be beyond the wells in the hope that with thirst fully quenched we will attack them.’
‘You seem to know their mind, Flavius Belisarius.’
‘Let us say, Coutzes, that I know my own and it is what I would do.’ That got a look that disconcerted him, given it smacked of scepticism. ‘In the second case we will have ample water, a good line of supply back to Dara and enough cavalry to screen against being outflanked and surprised, so we can wait them out.’
‘Hardly glorious.’
‘You will have all the glory you wish, Coutzes, when we beat them.’
‘You seem very sure we will.’
‘You cannot hold both arguments, now can you? You reproach me for too much caution then question my confidence.’ Flavius smiled to take the sting out of the next words. ‘Which is it to be?’
‘Just as long as we fight.’
‘We shall, but think on this. The field of battle could be desert and that means sand. How much harder will it be for your horse, Coutzes, to stay strong on soft ground? The Sassanids rely on horse archers and their speed to cause havoc, to so affect our levies that they will wilt when attacked by the enemy infantry. Well, I have seen them and if I say to you I want them riding on that same sand I hope you will understand why.’
‘It will slow and tire them,’ Atafar said.
‘I will wager my horsemen will do as well as any other,’ Coutzes insisted, ‘never mind the ground.’
Watching them the following morning as the men he was to lead fielded and paraded, Flavius concentrated his attention on the cavalry. There were two contingents, that of Coutzes and another from Palaestina led by a young Equestrian called Vincent, and he could not but compare their discipline to that of the bucellarii when he observed how hard it was for them to form up into the required files, efforts accompanied by much shouting and blowing of horns.
This told him he had command of a mounted force of the kind that had failed so often before, men on hard-to-control mounts chosen for speed, full of fire and with only one aim, to charge at and destroy any perceived enemy. The Saracen infantry were equally full of ardour for battle but at least they seemed able to arrange themselves in some kind of order within a reasonable time and this he put down to Atafar and his long experience.
Every inch the Arab, with his hooded eyes, hooked nose and full greying beard, Atafar was the man who most impressed Flavius. He would have liked to have anointed him as his deputy but the feelings of Coutzes, with his imperial rank of dux, made that difficult.
Flavius had his verbal instructions from Justinian and they brooked no delay and that was backed up by a constant stream of missives once the nature of the threat became known; this Sassanid force must be expelled, which led his anointed general to impious thoughts. With no one to restrain or check him, the new Emperor, after one marginally successful campaign in Armenia, seemed sure he was possessed of a hitherto undisclosed military genius.
Did he not see by his insistence on instant action he was leaving no time for training or the chance to impose his will on the force he led? However many times the despatches were read, Flavius knew the message: he must make do with what he had and act at once.
The first part of the march was relatively easy as they passed through an imperial territory rich in agriculture but just as long on indifference. There was no gathering of citizenry to cheer them on, no flowers cast at their feet and no paeans of praise aimed at the finely clad man leading them, which led Flavius to wonder, as he had in the past, at the nature of the men who ruled these far-flung provinces.
Far from Constantinople, provincial governance was carried out on the personal whim of the man in charge, and experience told him, something he had found in all those duties he had undertaken for Justin, that most of those cared not a whit for the welfare of the Emperor’s subjects.
A province of empire was there to be bled for profit, the kind of sums that could then be employed to buy an office within the higher bureaucracy, something the ruler seemed incapable of changing. Justin had tried and failed in the face of obdurate officials. Knowing Justinian, Flavius felt he would be more inclined to use it to gain his ends than seek to alter it.
Even here he had a cavalry screen out in front of the main force, this led by Coutzes. There had been an awkward moment the previous night when he had sought a private interview. After beating about the bush, there being many references to his father and his abilities, the dux Phoenicia Libanensis had hinted that when the time came for battle to be joined, he would wish to be granted a leading role and that should this be forthcoming it would be to the advantage of Flavius Belisarius.
The inference, however subtly it was put forward, was obvious: Flavius was being offered a bribe, which told him that this man knew nothing of him and had made no effort to find out. How many times when engaged in pacification had he been offered talents of gold to bend one way or the other? The mere suggestion always made him think of the fat and venal Senuthius Vicinus, the man responsible for the death of his male relatives as well as the men they led.
He could not do then what he had done in the past, string the miscreant up by his thumbs and invite those whose money they had no doubt pilfered to chastise him as they wished, either with rotten vegetables or, as had happened in some cases, with stones enough to leave a bloody pulp. He needed this man, which obliged him to think on his motives.
Coutzes clearly wanted glory and the sole reason for the need was to impress Justinian of his loyalty and secure himself against the same fate as his father. The notion nearly made Flavius laugh, which would have been just
as insulting as a downright refusal to take his gold; Justinian would not kill Coutzes, he was not important enough and nor was he, as Vitalian had been, a perceived threat.
‘It is to be hoped that we will all be eager to engage with our enemies when the time comes, Coutzes, and should glory beckon it will likely favour you as much as anyone.’
‘I can arrange—’
Coutzes got no further as Flavius abruptly cut him off. ‘No arrangements are necessary.’
The way that was taken showed that this cavalry commander was not yet the fully formed courtier, for he could not mask his anger, hard as he tried. It was with a stiff expression that he inclined his head, before spinning round and leaving the chamber. The memory of the encounter stayed with Flavius and was with him as he rode; a man in search of personal glory could pose problems.
Encamped that night, Flavius called another meeting at which he sought to cement his views. Then, having eaten, he took a tour round the tents, seeking to make his presence and his face known. He wanted, even if it was only with a look, to imply to those he led that he cared for their welfare and to ensure they knew that as they ate the supplies he had arranged for them, it was he who had worried for their bellies. It was an impossible task given if anyone spoke with him it was as rare and respectful as to have little effect.
The following morning, after the priests had said Mass and the men had broken their fast, they formed up again to head due east into the arid desert of Thannuris. This was done under a blazing sun that, with the sand dragging at their feet, took a heavy toll on the foot soldiers. Nor were those mounted spared; they spent as much time walking as riding with frequent stops for water taken from the loaded carts Flavius had sent ahead.
That would not pertain on the following day; the carts would follow the army not precede it, for they would be close to where they expected they might find their enemy. If they were west of the wells Flavius would have no choice but to order an immediate withdrawal, which would do nothing to enhance his standing here or in the capital. To give his infantry as little marching to do as possible he had sent the cavalry ahead to find the Sassanids and give him warning of what he faced.
His orders had been explicit: locate and wait unless they are west of the wells and seemingly set up to do battle, in which case we will make a display of force then retire out of the desert. Personally, he longed for them to be beyond the wells and his mood was a mixture of eagerness and anxiety as to what would be the outcome of his first battle as a general if that wish was granted. The history of fighting against the Sassanids was not one of success for the Eastern Empire but if he could deploy as he wished, then he had a chance to alter that.
How good it would have been to have someone close enough to him to confide in, to share such thoughts, like old and crabby Ohannes, long gone to meet his maker, or even his mentor Justin, to say that if he knew he faced failure he would embrace that, anything rather than risk men’s lives for his personal aggrandisement.
‘Rider coming, Your Honour,’ came a call from one of his escort, ‘and fast.’
‘From Coutzes, no doubt,’ Flavius replied.
He rose in his stirrups to cast a look to the front, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun. The messenger was closing at a flat-out gallop, the tail of his horse near horizontal, which had the Belisarius heart feel as if it was suddenly in his exceedingly dry mouth. That went to positive leather when the missive was delivered by the breathless rider, one of the numerus commanders that Flavius had met briefly.
‘Dux Coutzes sends me to tell you that he has halted behind a ridge that overlooks the wells. The Sassanids are drawn up between us and water but he can see few in number and they seem unprepared to defend their position.’
‘Few in number?’
‘He has counted the tents and puts them at less than a thousand.’
‘Cavalry?’
‘None within sight.’
What followed was a verbal sketch of what this fellow and Coutzes had seen. An array of tents within which it was expected the enemy were sheltering from the sun and a calculation put Roman strength well above theirs. For security, the Sassanids were behind a barrier of pointed stakes buried in the ground but had left avenues through which their own men could come and go.
‘My Lord feels it is possible to mount an attack and catch them unawares using those gaps between the stakes.
‘Your lord has his orders.’
‘I am to impress on Your Honour the point that matters no longer fit those orders. The enemy, dux Coutzes asks me to inform you, are at our mercy.’
‘What of the other captains?’
‘They are eager to back up his calculation.’
‘They are obliged to follow mine.’
Flavius fell silent as he examined what he had been told while at the same time conjuring up a mental picture of what lay before his cavalry. If true, it was indeed a golden opportunity but would an enemy commander be so foolish as to leave himself so exposed? He must know that a Roman army was on its way; no force five thousand strong could move in such a region without news of its presence getting ahead of its progress. There was, of course, the obvious solution; he must see for himself.
He spurred his horse and took off, forcing the messenger to jump to one side, in which he was nearly trampled on by the hooves of those bucellarii who now formed his own comitatus. The dust cloud they sent up as they raced across the desert, thankfully not deep sand in this area, perhaps sent a message ahead to Coutzes, or was it just the hunt for valour that animated him?
By the time Flavius had sight of his mounted men they were lined up on the skyline, having ridden to the top of the ridge behind which, he had been told, they had previously been hidden from the enemy. All Coutzes had to do was look over his shoulder to see the man to whom he was bound to defer approaching. Did he do that, Flavius did not know for the sound of the horn, floating across the intervening space, saw the whole of his cavalry disappear down the slope before to leave an empty skyline, though they could hear the loud yells of over a thousand throats.
By the time Flavius and his escort crested that rise Coutzes, right to the front with his banner-bearer by his side, had closed the gap between the ridge and the line of forward-pointing and sharpened Sassanid stakes. The rest had echeloned into ragged arrow shapes and were, following that dux banner, heading towards those gaps that had been described, while to the rear Flavius saw what seemed like panicked defenders seeking to get to their stacked weapons and prepare to mount a defence.
From their elevation Flavius and his men could see what happened, a sight denied to those who rode in the wake of Coutzes. As soon as he chested through the gap, his body fully extended in his stirrups, his sword raised and swinging, the sand-coloured ground disappeared beneath him. He and his horse had charged into a deep, concealed ditch and those following him did likewise, the noise of screaming men and terrified horses filling the air as riders and their mounts piled on top of those already fallen.
‘Back to Atafar. Tell him to turn round and march to the west as fast as he can.’
Order given, Flavius spurred forward, for what was before him now was a melee of his mounted units, riding in circles with no set purpose, while he could see the seemingly disordered Sassanids were anything but. In the distance, probably having been camped at the wells, bodies of mounted men, horse archers by the size of their mounts, were cantering forward to take part in the fight, proving that this had been a carefully designed stratagem.
Worse, disciplined units of foot soldiers, many more than the tents they had abandoned should have contained, were formed up for battle, preparing to advance over solid ground to first finish off those in the ditches and then to take on what was now a completely demoralised force of cavalry.
In amongst them was their general, waving his sword and yelling for them to retreat, a command hard to get across until he found the horn blower was still alive and could sound the right call in a way that would reach th
ose who needed to hear. Some did not follow Flavius as he raced back towards that ridge, either out of loyalty to their dux or sheer confusion and they would surely die.
There was little doubt of his fate and those who had followed him. If the horses and riders falling on top of Coutzes had not killed him there were enough slashing Sassanids in the ditches to carry out the deed. So busy was he trying to get his remaining men clear of danger, it was an age before Flavius Belisarius came to realise the truth. In his first battle as a commanding general he had been soundly defeated.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The wait was frustrating: how would Justinian respond to what had occurred? Fast the imperial service might be, but it still took time to cover six hundred leagues there and back and that was before you factored in the period taken to assess not only the reverse the force from Dara had suffered but how to react to it. Even considering all those particulars it still seemed to drag out to an interminable wait during which, even after a month, Flavius could not get out of his mind the scale of the defeat.
Half his cavalry had perished either by rushing headlong into those concealed ditches or in the ground between them and the ridge from which Coutzes had attacked. They had been victims of the infantry but it was the enemy cavalry that posed the greatest threat. Leading the remainder of his own mounted forces away, Flavius had sought to distract the pursuit by drawing them off from Atafar and his retreating foot levies, who needed time to have any chance of avoiding a massacre. The ploy failed; the Sassanids had declined to follow him on a more northerly route and kept their mind on the primary task.