The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

  Spadines galloped over to where Spartacus was marching a few paces ahead of his Immortals, the king raising a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘We should increase the pace, lord, it will take all morning to reach Van.’

  Spartacus, oval shield in hand, shook his head. ‘We are not going to Van. We want the enemy to come to us. Your men are fully briefed as to their mission?’

  ‘Yes, lord, but I worry you and your men will be killed.’

  Spartacus smiled to himself. ‘Everyone dies, my friend. May your gods go with you.’

  Spadines raised a hand, turned his horse and rode back to his men. Moments later the Aorsi formation broke up, half wheeling left, half wheeling right to form the flanks of the army that now halted to deploy into line. It took a while to form thirteen thousand men into battle formation, the Aorsi dismounting and sitting or lying on the grass as the Immortals made ready to fight.

  They were like Roman legionaries but unlike them in many respects. Like their Roman adversaries they wore helmets with large cheek and neck guards. They were armed with short swords, though it was forbidden in Vanadzor to mention the word gladius, and their large, curved oval shields were even faced with leather painted red, though with a silver lion’s head painted around the central boss. Instead of mail armour, leather cuirasses and leather greaves on their lower legs protected them. They did not carry javelins but spears and their organisation was different from the legions. Ten men formed a company, ten companies formed a battalion, ten battalions a division, and ten divisions a corps. But the one thing that united the legions of Rome with the Immortals of Gordyene was their training.

  Spartacus learned a useful phrase from an ex-Roman centurion, a man who had nearly beaten him into senselessness with his vine cane. His name was Lucius Domitus. He had commanded Dura’s army and he lived by a simple code: train hard, fight easy. Train incessantly so drills become second nature, performed unthinking, even in the white heat of battle. This was the unofficial motto of Spartacus’ army, that and the rule that any man or woman was free to join the army, regardless of social status, wealth, race or religion. He had seen such views turn Dura, a former frontier backwater, into the first kingdom of the Parthian Empire.

  Whistles and trumpets marshalled the divisions into line, officers barking orders at their men and pointing to the north to hurry their charges. In the distance, just a low black line at first, came the Armenian army, the sound of kettledrums and trumpets carried on the wind. Every Immortal company was in open order: four ranks, each one made up of twenty-five men. Then the command to advance was sounded and ten thousand men moved forward.

  Spartacus, on foot in the front rank in the middle of the battle line, peered at the enemy now filling the ground ahead, perhaps a mile away. He saw foot in the centre and horse on the flanks – a normal and entirely predictable deployment to engage a force similarly arranged.

  Unknown to Spartacus, Geghard had amassed over thirty thousand men at Van for the invasion and subjugation of Gordyene. Now he could avenge his daughter’s abduction and humiliate the man who abducted her at the same time. His twenty-one thousand foot soldiers overlapped those of Gordyene by perhaps half a mile. Ahead of them was a screen of Caucasian slingers who would pepper the enemy with stone shots to soften them up before they were struck by his Armenian spearmen. In the centre of Geghard’s battle line were three thousand heavy spearmen, trained to fight in a Greek-style phalanx and armed with spears and short swords. Their heavy rectangular shields were strapped to their left arms and over their shoulders so they could use both hands to thrust their long spears forward. Their helmets and mail armour protected their heads and torsos.

  Either side of the heavy foot were blocks of five thousand levy spearmen. They wore no armour, carried only a wicker shield and spear and had little formal training. Against professional, heavily armed soldiers they would suffer substantial casualties. But against opponents who were outnumbered and had been subjected to withering volleys of arrows and stone shots, they would be effective enough. On the extreme ends of the Armenian centre were skirmishers: men carrying wickers shields, three javelins apiece and a heavy war axe.

  On the flanks of the foot soldiers were Geghard’s horsemen – the majority lesser nobles and their retainers equipped to fight in a mêlée with lances, swords and shields. They all wore scale-armour cuirasses and helmets and the general placed five thousand on each wing. Lastly there were the horse archers equipped with recurve bows, a thousand on each wing forming the extreme ends of what was a formidable army.

  With half a mile separating the two armies the Aorsi suddenly charged, a wild, reckless headlong gallop aimed at the wings of the Armenian army. The earth shook as hooves kicked up clumps of earth and the air was filled with the hollering of war cries from three thousand throats. They left the flanks of the Immortals exposed as they charged at the Armenian horse archers, wheeling away and fleeing from the field while the first volley of arrows was still in the air. The Armenian nobles on horseback whistled and jeered at the cowardly barbarians who had left the foot soldiers to fight and die alone.

  As they had done countless times the Immortals redeployed from line into square, divisions falling back left and right to form the sides and rear of a square that bristled with spear points and presented a line of unbroken shields on all four sides. Now the soldiers of Gordyene became an island in a hostile sea and within minutes Geghard sent forward his slingers and horse archers.

  A kneeling Spartacus gripped the handle of the shield resting on the ground and braced himself for the storm of stone, behind him the men kneeling in the ranks held their shields above their heads to form a roof of leather and wood. He heard a heavy thud and felt the stone impact on his shield.

  ‘Hold,’ he shouted, a command repeated around the square as slingers went to work and archers shot volley after volley against the square. Inevitably some missiles found gaps between shields and in the space between a shield facing the enemy and one being held by a soldier in the second rank overhead. Groans and screams echoed around the square and for a few moments there were gaps in the square’s wall. But the dead, dying and wounded were unceremoniously hauled back and replaced by those behind. The gaps were closed, the missile storm stopped and the king and his Immortals braced themselves for a bloody mêlée.

  The first to hit the square, on its northern side, were three thousand heavy Armenian spearmen, advancing slowly in their phalanx, long spears protruding from their ranks to skewer the immobile Immortals. On their shields the Armenians sported symbols of their homeland: the Tree of Life representing abundance, peace and harmony; the Wheel of Eternity, symbolising everlasting, celestial life; and the six-pointed star, the symbol of Armenia.

  The Immortals also had spears but they were shorter and would be useless in a spear-versus-spear mêlée. So instead they hurled them at the Armenians, the shrill sound of whistles preceding a hail of iron-tipped shafts arching into the sky to fall among the enemy. Many found their mark to pierce mail and scale armour, but more importantly they wrecked the Armenians’ momentum. Their phalanx slowed and faltered and then the Immortals went to work.

  Spartacus used his shield to force down the enemy spear aimed at his torso, those either side of him doing the same. He stepped on the shaft just below the iron head and the Armenian did what he expected: he let go of the spear to draw his short sword and rushed at the king. Spartacus stepped back and pulled his shield tight to his body, glancing left and right to ensure comrades were on either side. His ukku blade would have been useless in the press but the short sword he carried was ideally suited to close-quarters work. The Armenian used his own short sword like an axe – swinging it over the top of his shield – but the Immortals used theirs as the Romans did. Short, stabbing strokes.

  Spartacus raised his shield to block the blow, jabbing his sword forward to strike the Armenian’s torso. He struck the man’s shield. He jabbed again and again, switching the attack under his shield, over his
shield, the Armenian parrying the strikes and attempting his own scything attacks. But they were easy to predict and defeat whereas his strikes were short stabs delivered in a lightning-fast fashion. He saw a gap, thrust the sword forward and drove the point into the Armenian’s thigh. He whipped the blade back as the man yelped, dropped his guard and died when Spartacus thrust his sword over the top of his shield into the man’s throat. It was a quick stroke, just enough to drive three inches of steel into flesh, but more than enough to slit the throat.

  The man dropped like a stone and another stepped over him to take his place. Spartacus took a heavy blow on his shield nearly knocking him over, but the man behind pushed his own shield into the king’s back to steady him. The air was filled with men screaming, moaning, shouting curses and insults. A spear point lodged in Spartacus’ shield, the point piercing the hide and three layers of wood beneath. It was stuck fast. The Armenian tried to extract it and the king tried to free it from his shield but it refused to budge. They were engaged in a private to-and-fro tussle, which ended when Spartacus dropped his shield, ran forward three paces and stabbed his sword into the Armenian’s left eye socket. He emitted a high-pitched scream that the gods must have heard as the king retraced his steps.

  His shield was still useless with the spear in it but good fortune smiled on him when the Immortal on his left was skewered by two spears and dropped his shield, falling to the ground. The king picked it up, an Immortal from the second rank filled the empty space and the stabbing and hacking match continued.

  The fighting was slowing in intensity now, partly because tiredness was assailing bodies but mostly because the killing ground around all four sides of the square was choked with dead and dying. Immortals who were wounded were dragged back into the relative sanctuary of the inside of the square, but the dead were left where they were. They still had a role to play: to make it harder for the enemy to advance. The ground was also filling with Armenian dead, meaning those still alive had to scramble over corpses to get to grips with Spartacus’ men. From his limited vantage point the king may have believed the battle was going well. But on the other three sides of the square the outcome was on a knife’s edge.

  Five thousand light spearmen and ten thousand levy spearmen were hurled against the other three sides of the square – men wearing no armour and carrying only wicker shields for protection. Recruited from villages and hill tribes they were no match for professional soldiers. But there were thousands of them and though they died in droves they began to wear the Immortals down. The light spearmen carried three javelins apiece, which they hurled at the Immortals. Then they went to work with their heavy war axes. The short swords of the Immortals ripped open the stomachs of hundreds of them, but there were hundreds more to take their place.

  Small mounds of Armenian dead fringed the square that was now contracting under weight of enemy numbers. Geghard knew his levy spearmen in particular would suffer greatly, but what were they but illiterate villagers and the scrapings of towns and cities? The light spearmen were worse, recruited from rowdy hill men, but at least they were hardy fighters. Those fighters were now being cut down in droves but were winning a battle of attrition. Soon he would be able to commit his horsemen when the square broke apart and have his revenge on Gordyene.

  But how little he knew about the man he dismissed as nothing more than a lowborn slave and base thief. Before the battle Spartacus had told his officers the Immortals would be the anvil, and as Geghard savoured the sweet prospect of victory the hammer appeared.

  They came from the south and headed straight for Van, pouring from the trees on the lower slopes of the mountains where they had remained hidden during the morning. Led by Queen Rasha and her five hundred Vipers, they included two thousand medium horsemen and ten thousand horse archers. And accompanying them were Spadines and his Sarmatians – over fifteen thousand horsemen cantering towards Van. The city was empty of soldiers, its gates had been opened to allow Geghard’s horsemen to ride out to battle and so it lay naked and ripe for the taking. Worse, the recently released Lusin was in Van. But Geghard was no fool and as soon as word reached him that thousands of enemy horsemen were behind him heading for Van, he took the only course of action open to him, a course of action Spartacus knew he would take.

  Spartacus heard the fanfare of trumpets and kettledrums above the din of the mêlée and gave a roar of triumph. He did not see the withdrawal of the cataphracts, noble horsemen and horse archers but he did not need to. Twelve thousand Armenian riders turned and abandoned their foot soldiers to save the city of Van and the daughter of their general.

  The nobles and their retainers galloped northwest to head off the queen’s horsemen, the Armenian horse archers forming a parallel column behind them to shoot volleys at the horsemen of Gordyene. The Armenians won the race, for some strange reason Queen Rasha’s riders slowing to a trot as the Armenians reached the walls of the city, and redeployed into a line, ready to charge the enemy. Once more Spadines and his Aorsi trotted forward towards the Armenian horsemen, falling back when Geghard’s horsemen advanced, only to double back when they then fell back towards the city. All Geghard’s horsemen now defended Van. But while Spadines toyed with the enemy, Rasha led twelve thousand riders to the relief of her husband.

  The only Armenian formation that did not fall apart when Rasha’s horsemen arrived was the heavy foot. They were tired and had suffered substantial losses but their discipline was still intact. In a splendid display of control, they disengaged from the Immortals and began to shuffle back towards Van, some ten miles distant. But the other Armenian foot soldiers scattered in panic. It was the worst decision they could take.

  The Vipers and horse archers, operating in companies a hundred strong, methodically hunted down and killed the Armenians, the treeless plain affording no cover or protection from the horsemen. Even when groups of spearmen united and formed makeshift shield walls, they found their wicker defences failed to stop volleys of arrows. Some surrendered, throwing down their weapons and shields and raising their hands in submission. They were cut down without mercy, for the king had given orders that he would banish any Gordyene soldier who showed clemency to the enemy. And so the slaughter continued without respite. Some Armenians, filled with terror and devoid of hope, ran so fast and so far that their hearts gave out. By the end of the day Geghard had lost almost all his foot soldiers.

  Rasha jumped from her horse and ran to her exhausted, battered and bloody husband, throwing her arms around him and planting kisses on his cheeks and lips. Around him equally tired Immortals, resting on their shields or lying on the ground, were largely mute at the display of affection between their king and queen. Terrible groans and moans sounded around them, the piles of dead men completing the ghastly scene.

  ‘I thought you had forsaken me,’ smiled Spartacus, his long hair matted to his sweaty skull.

  ‘Never,’ promised Rasha.

  Akmon slid from his horse, the prince threading his way through the dead and wounded, his mouth open and his eyes wide at the awful scene around him. This was his first battle and he wavered unsteadily on his feet.

  ‘Congratulations, father, on a splendid…’

  He pitched forward and threw up on his trousers and boots. The Immortals nearby clapped and cheered in a display of gallows humour. The mortified prince wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tried not to blush. But his cheeks were showing a combination of red and green. His father put an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘You will get used to it in time.’

  Hovik trotted up at the head of fifty lancers, all wearing red tunics, black leggings and scale armour with pteruges protecting their thighs. Each horseman carried a round shield faced with red-painted hide, each embossed with a white lion’s head.

  The general bowed his head and looked with concern at the exhausted Immortals and their apparently substantial losses.

  ‘The battle is won, majesty. The enemy horsemen have all retreated into Van. My congratulat
ions.’

  ‘Thank you, Hovik.’

  ‘The Aorsi are plundering the enemy camp outside the walls,’ said Hovik with barely concealed contempt. ‘But there is one enemy formation still extant, majesty,’

  Spartacus had a horse brought to him and he rode with Rasha and his son to where the Armenian heavy foot soldiers were still marching towards Van, having escaped the Vipers and horse archers who were still hunting those enemy soldiers that had scattered in panic. The discipline of the professional spearmen had saved them. Until now.

  ‘Recall the horse archers,’ commanded Spartacus, his lancers surrounding the phalanx with a thin screen to bring it to a halt.

  Hovik sent riders to recall his horse archers, the queen doing likewise. The Vipers were answerable solely to her and were separate from the rest of the army.

  ‘We could demand their surrender,’ suggested Akmon.

  ‘We could,’ said Spartacus, ‘but these are fine soldiers and if allowed to escape we will have to fight them another day. That is not a risk I am prepared to take.’

  So the recalled horse archers were marshalled into their ranks and as the sun began to wane in the west, framing the high citadel of Van against a blood-red background, volley after volley was shot at the Armenians until every spearman was dead. Akmon was close to tears as hundreds of brave men died and Hovik’s face registered grim resignation. It was ghastly, bloody and entirely necessary to bring the Battle of Van to an end.

  The dead Immortals were burnt on a great pyre built where the square had fought, its flames leaping high into the night sky as fire greedily consumed the five hundred dead men. They were stripped of their armour and weapons before being consigned to the fire, another five hundred wounded hobbling back to the camp in the forest at the foot of the mountains. The Immortals had lost one in ten dead or wounded but they had won a great victory, the first victory won by the Kingdom of Gordyene alone since King Balas had been on the thrown thirty-five years before. Spartacus’ horsemen had suffered almost no losses and Spadines’ raiders counted their dead in single figures. These sums paled into insignificance compared to the twenty thousand Armenian dead being picked over by ravens on the fertile plain around Van.