by Peter Darman
‘He worries about you, son,’ added Diana.
Spartacus rarely smiled but he did so now. His adoptive mother was a kindly woman with an unblemished soul. Friends and foe alike agreed that the world was a better place with Queen Diana in it. Spartacus had little time for the gods but Diana made even him believe that perhaps there were divine beings working for the benefit of mankind, for how else could such a good person prosper in a wicked world?
‘The Aorsi are valued allies,’ he told his parents, ‘just like the Agraci are to my uncle.’ He smiled at Rasha next to him. ‘Just as Dura has had to endure insults because it is allied with the Agraci, so is Gordyene mocked for giving the Aorsi a home. But now my northern frontier is secure and Prince Spadines prospers in his new home.’
‘The Armenians will want their city back, brother.’
Prince Pacorus wore an earnest look that did not spoil his handsome features. Had Spartacus been possessed of a jealous nature he would have grown to hate his younger brother. Tall, handsome, feted by Hatra’s nobility and revered throughout the empire for his exploits during Mark Antony’s abortive invasion of Parthia and at the Battle of the Indus against the Kushans, people who met him believed Pacorus looked like a Greek god. Not that anyone had seen a Greek god. When he had married the daughter of one of the city’s most august families, everyone predicted the gods would bless any children born of their union. And when Arezu duly delivered a handsome boy called Varaz, the infant was indeed hale and hearty. Prince Pacorus lived a charmed life but his disarming nature, inherited from his mother, made people warm to him. It was no different with Spartacus and Rasha.
‘Armenia is no more than a slave of Rome now,’ he told his brother. ‘As is Media.’
Herneus raised an eyebrow and Diana frowned at her son. But the truth was that in signing a treaty of friendship with Mark Antony, King Darius had allowed Roman soldiers into his kingdom.
‘You should guard your eastern frontier, father.’
‘The border is secure, majesty,’ said Herneus.
The border between Hatra and Media comprised the River Tigris, with the city of Assur being the location of the major crossing point between the two kingdoms.
‘We have reinforced Assur’s garrison,’ said Prince Pacorus, ‘though the governor informs me he has yet to see any Romans on the other side of the river.’
Gafarn and Diana knew their son’s visit to Hatra was not a social one; the presence of thousands of Gordyene’s soldiers camped outside their city was testament to that. But they were unaware of the precise intention of their son requesting he be allowed to traverse their kingdom with his army. Until now. He pulled the letter sent to him by Phraates from inside his tunic and handed it to Gafarn, who read it and passed it to Diana.
‘Who else is part of this enterprise?’ asked Gafarn.
‘I do not know,’ replied his son.
Herneus was most eager to read the letter but waited until Prince Pacorus had perused its contents before being allowed to see it.
‘Where is Hatra’s invitation?’ asked Herneus.
‘Where indeed?’ said Prince Pacorus.
Gafarn looked at his two sons. ‘Hatra has been purposely excluded, it would appear.’
‘I thought Gordyene was looked down upon by the high king.’
They all looked at Arezu, who having been raised in a strict, conservative family had been taught that in company women should remain silent unless spoken to. She had been amazed when she had first encountered such forthright and opinionated figures as Queen Gallia, Queen Rasha and the princesses of Dura, wondering why their menfolk did not strike them when they spoke out of turn, just as her father had done to her and her sisters. It took her a long time to offer opinions in mixed company, even when encouraged to do so.
‘It is,’ smiled Rasha, ‘but perhaps the cooling of relations between Media and Ctesiphon has made the high king reassess the position of Gordyene within the empire.’
But Prince Pacorus had a keen mind as well as a god-like physique.
‘He seeks to take advantage of the animosity that exists between Media and Gordyene. You should take care, brother.’
Spartacus picked up another date. Beyond the terrace they sat on, peacocks strutted in the royal gardens and white doves flew from tree branches.
‘Phraates is a manipulative toad, brother. I have no intention of dancing to his tune.’
Arezu’s beautiful brown eyes opened wide in amazement. Spartacus saw her astonishment.
‘It will take more than a begging letter to erase the years of hostility shown by Ctesiphon to Gordyene.’
‘Then I have to ask,’ said Gafarn, ‘why are you marching to the toad’s aid?’
‘All will be revealed, father, in time.’
Spartacus and Rasha slept in the opulence of Hatra’s palace that night, a place of white marble floors and columns, white-painted walls and ceilings, fountains and bronze statues. Set in the centre of the city’s Royal Quarter, it was a world away from the dour streets and buildings of Vanadzor. The next day they both walked from the palace across the Great Square to the temple, the stone slabs a brilliant white in the sunlight, causing them both to squint. Like most days the square was almost empty, being the exclusive preserve of Hatra’s royalty, nobility and the priests who served in the Great Temple dedicated to Shamash.
‘It always fills me with awe when I am here,’ said Rasha, looking around at the beautiful buildings. ‘Everywhere is so clean and gleaming.’
‘Servus,’ he said absently.
She looked at him quizzically.
‘It’s what they used to call me,’ he told her, ‘the sons of the nobles I grew up around.’
She had heard the story a thousand times but she let him tell it again as they strolled to the temple.
‘I was the son of the king and queen but I might as well have been a slave because that’s how I was treated. They knew the circumstances of my birth and never let an opportunity pass without reminding me.’
He clenched a fist. ‘I repaid their mocking but I can still see their faces and hear their sarcastic voices. You see splendour and beauty; I see scorn.’
‘You are a king now,’ she told him.
He was not listening. ‘They are serving in Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard now, those who mocked me. Everyone swoons when they see their gleaming armour and white plumes, but good soldiers are not defined by how pretty they look.’
She linked her arm in his. ‘You are a great warlord who leads a formidable army. There is no need to compare yourself to anyone.’
They reached the temple and walked up the steps, two priests descending bowing their heads at they passed.
‘Sitting on their white horses and in their steel armour they still look down on me. I will show them all.’
The temple, huge, high ceilinged and flooded with light, appeared empty, though guards stood at pillars near the altar where the great prize they had come to see resided. It was situated in front of the altar, the sunlight glinting off its silver wings.
‘It looks smaller today,’ said Spartacus.
He looked at Rasha and remembered another Roman eagle, one he had taken at Carrhae, which had been the price her father had demanded for the hand of his daughter in marriage. The one before them had been taken years before, by a young prince of Hatra named Pacorus, now King of Dura.
‘I’m surprised Phraates hasn’t demanded it so he can put it in his ridiculous Hall of Victory,’ said Spartacus. ‘We should have kept the eagles we took at Urmia for ourselves.’
Rasha was growing irritated by his mood. ‘What do you want, Spartacus? For Phraates to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness for not treating you as one of his favourite courtiers?’
He continued to stare at the eagle. ‘Phraates will come to appreciate Gordyene more, that I promise.’
‘Do you wish me to speak to my brother concerning returning the eagle that was my bride price?’
He turned to look at her
. ‘No, why? You are worth a thousand Roman eagles. I do not wish Roman totems to pollute my palace.’
Outside the temple a slave was waiting for the pair, bowing to them and keeping his head down as he passed on a message.
‘General Hovik requests your presence outside the city, highness.’
As much as he loved his parents and brother he was glad to be out of the city and among his soldiers. He could tell they were getting itchy, the camp heavy with the expectation of battle and further glory. The Battle of Van had been a great victory and they wanted to taste the same heady elixir. They would not have long to wait.
Hovik was waiting for him at the command tent in his tatty tunic and weathered armour. He looked like an impoverished mercenary. Spartacus jumped down from his horse and went inside with his general.
‘The men you sent south have returned, majesty.’
The two scouts stood when they entered, bowing to the king. Covered in dust and sweating, Spartacus told then to sit down and ordered more wine to be brought. Hovik poured him a drink and he sat at the table with them.
‘Well?’
They were members of a small, select band of men Spartacus had recruited to provide him with intelligence on what was going on beyond Gordyene’s borders. They were not members of the army and answered only to him, much to the annoyance of Hovik. All of them were literate, fluent in several languages and had knowledge of foreign and Parthian customs. Such men were a rare commodity, hence the small size of their band.
The taller of the two spoke. ‘A great army gathers at Ctesiphon, lord, one drawn from Susiana and Babylon. Word is Phraates wants to crush the Romans and Media on his own.’
‘Of the other kingdoms,’ said the other, ‘only Atropaiene and Gordyene have been called upon.’
‘How many men from Atropaiene?’ asked the king.
‘Prince Ali is at Ctesiphon but not Aschek, lord. He leads perhaps six thousand men.’
‘That few?’ Hovik was surprised.
‘Aschek may be old and unable to ride a horse,’ said Spartacus, ‘but he is no fool. Why should he sacrifice his army for Phraates?’
‘In Seleucia,’ continued the taller man, ‘I got speaking to an officer of Phraates’ Babylonian Guard who had drunk too much wine. He told me the son of Artavasdes is at Ctesiphon and Phraates intends to put him on Armenia’s throne after he has defeated Mark Antony and King Darius.’
‘He fancies himself as the new Alexander of Macedon,’ scoffed Spartacus. ‘But why has he invited me and Aschek to take part in his personal war of conquest?’
‘Because both Gordyene and Atropaiene border Media,’ said Hovik, ‘and the high king knows there is no love lost between you and King Darius.’
‘And he thinks I will fight harder for him,’ mused Spartacus. ‘I suppose there is a certain logic to his thinking.’
He looked at the scouts. ‘You have done well.’
He tossed each a pouch of gold. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves in Hatra.’
When they had departed Spartacus instructed Hovik to pull up a chair, pouring him a cup of wine.
‘In the morning we will strike camp and march west to the city of Assur,’ he told his general. ‘We will cross the Tigris there and march down the eastern bank of the river.’
‘We will be in Median territory,’ cautioned Hovik, ‘and if cornered will not be able to get back across the river.’
‘We will send scouts ahead of the army to the east and south as a precaution. But I am gambling on the Romans and our friend King Darius being occupied by the great army of Phraates to the south.’
Hovik stared into his cup. ‘Doesn’t seem right marching against Parthians, majesty.’
‘Forget Media and its army,’ replied his king, ‘just remember it is the Romans who are on Parthian soil, from which they need to be speedily ejected. They are like a poisonous weed that is quick to take root and hard to get rid of.’
*****
‘What a magnificent sight.’
Mark Antony was dressed in his finery: white tunic with narrow purple stripes denoting his social rank, ornate boots decorated with flaps in the form of lions’ heads, a magnificent muscled cuirass made of hammered bronze and embossed with silver, and a helmet of polished steel with a huge red crest. His horse flicked its tail with annoyance at the sound coming from the army opposite, its trumpets, kettledrums and drums appearing to make the ground shake so many were there. Beside him a concerned Quintus Dellius scanned the massed ranks of Phraates’ army, while King Darius on his other side looked ashen.
Phraates had marched his army north into Media, the large number of natural springs being sufficient to water a host of over forty-five thousand men and thousands of horses and camels. The fact many of his foot soldiers had been inadequately supplied with food did not unduly concern him, because he had no concern for soldiers recruited from the lower rungs of society. He had mustered ten thousand foot soldiers from the Kingdom of Babylon, a great phalanx of purple on the parched plain. Beside them stood another ten thousand spearmen – sent by the satrap of Susiana – splendid in their red tunics and tan leggings, the sun glinting off thousands of whetted spear points to present a formidable spectacle of might and colour.
On his flanks the high king had placed the bulk of his horsemen. On the right wing ten thousand horse archers from Susiana and Atropaiene, and two thousand mounted spearmen from Susiana carrying round, red-painted shields and protected by leather armour and helmets. Prince Ali from Atropaiene commanded that wing, being surrounded by five hundred of his father’s cataphracts. The horsemen from Atropaiene looked splendid in their yellow tunics and red leggings, among their ranks many red banners showing a golden shahbaz, the mythical bird from Persian fables and the symbol of King Aschek’s kingdom. On the left wing were ten thousand horse archers recruited from Babylon and Susiana plus a further two thousand mounted spearmen recruited from the latter kingdom. The array of reds, purples and yellows was in marked contrast to the parched ground around them. It was autumn now and the harvest had been gathered in, but it was still very hot and the thousands of men kicked up a great dust cloud that tickled the back of the throat.
‘They outnumber us at least two-to-one,’ remarked Quintus, causing Darius to swallow.
‘At least,’ said Antony. ‘Still, numbers are only part of the equation.’
On his advice Darius had allowed Phraates to invade his kingdom from the south as Irbil was an excellent supply base and all the villages and their precious harvested crops and livestock could be evacuated before the high king overran them. A capable commander, such as Pacorus of Dura, would have moved quickly. But Phraates’ lumbering army advanced ten miles a day at most, some days not even that, which allowed Mark Antony to engage the Parthians with fully rested troops. Darius thought it madness to fight the enemy near his capital but Antony overruled him using a combination of flattery and sound military advice.
Either side of the king and Roman triumvir stood the two legions, each one numbering four thousand men and drawn up in three lines in the so-called triplex acies formation. The first line comprised four cohorts and the second and third lines three cohorts each, with gaps between each cohort to allow it to advance or retreat according to circumstances. The second-line cohorts could also advance past those in the first line through those gaps if required to do so. Antony also had a smattering of slingers and archers that he deployed among the two legions.
On the wings were Darius’ horsemen: on the right his five hundred cataphracts and beyond them the lords of his kingdom with five thousand horse archers. There were also five thousand horse archers on the left wing, bolstered by a thousand mounted spearmen. But both flanks of Phraates’ army extended well beyond the wings of the Median horsemen, giving the appearance that the Roman-Median army was about to be enveloped with ease.
‘The men know their orders?’ asked Antony.
Quintus nodded.
‘Then let us commence this poetic drama.’
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Darius looked at the two Romans and shuddered. It was all a great game to them but for him his kingdom, his life and those of his family were at stake. As the rumble of drums and trumpets enveloped him, he began to regret taking his mother’s advice. His mouth was dry, his heart was pounding in his chest and his bowels felt as though they would empty at any moment. And then the legions began advancing.
They moved slowly, menacingly, in perfect unison as they traversed the space between them and the two great phalanxes of Parthian foot soldiers, one purple and the other red. Darius forgot his trepidation as he stared in admiration as the second-line cohorts closed up on those ahead to fill the gaps between the cohorts in the first line. He and the two Romans were on a slight rise that gave them an elevated view of the battle about to erupt. There was a squeal of whistles and a roar of men’s voices and then the legions charged.
The legionaries hurled their javelins, drew their swords and then smashed into the already wavering front rank of Parthian spearmen. They had been given just one order – ‘kill Phraates’ – and now they did their utmost to fulfil that order as they stabbed at the poorly armed and equipped soldiers in front of them, grinding relentlessly forward as they butchered those standing in their way, stepped over dead corpses and carried on killing.
Phraates’ foot soldiers, already tired and hungry after going without food due to the inadequacy of logistical preparations, many having been impressed in the backstreets of Susa and Babylon, faltered and then broke. They could hear the screams and cries of men dying in the ranks in front of them and had no wish to join their comrades in the afterlife. As the Roman legions hacked their way forward the Parthian horsemen on the wings, seeing the centre of the army collapse, wheeled left and right to strike the legionaries in the rear. These men were led by the lords of Babylon and Susiana, plus the riders under Prince Ali, and they were made of sterner stuff than the back-street scrapings in the centre. They nocked arrows in their bowstrings and cantered to position themselves in the rear of the two legions, ready to shoot the Romans to pieces and save their high king.