The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

  He remembered a tale of his father’s daring during the war against the Romans and smiled. It would be a hard fight, with many casualties, perhaps, but it needed to be done. He wracked his brains for a moment to recall the name of the town where his father had achieved the impossible.

  ‘Rhegium.’

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘We wait for snow and then make our move. No fires tonight.’

  ‘It will be a cold night, majesty,’ said Hovik.

  ‘That it will. Assemble the officers.’

  They stood shivering like him in his tent as the light began to fade; outside the air was filled with snowflakes dropping from the grey skies. There would be no frost tonight but it would still be bitterly cold, the wind from the north still blowing. He looked at their faces and suddenly felt very close to his long-dead blood father, a man he had never met but whose fame echoed down the years. May the Horseman protect his spirit.

  ‘I’ll make this short. If the snow is still falling in the morning we attack from the west. It will not be easy. The Romans have established a campaign fort, which if you all remember your training is very strong. In addition to a ditch, rampart and palisade, there are watchtowers at each corner. However, it may fortify your courage to know there are less than two thousand men in the fort, judging by its outer dimensions.

  ‘As with our own camps the ditch is deep and will be filled by stakes, making crossing it difficult. In addition, the rampart is around sixteen feet high, which makes scaling it almost impossible, especially with archers, javelinists and slingers raining down death on any attacker. We go in by the main entrance, which will be bloody but at least relatively quick.’

  He looked at Kuris, whom he had promoted to company commander of horse archers.

  ‘Your job is to get the enemy’s attention and keep it.’

  ‘Diligence will be our byword, majesty,’ said Kuris.

  ‘General Hovik will brief you regarding the specific tasks required of each of you and your men.’

  Hovik, thorough as ever, relayed his plans to the commanders present, each being informed of his exact role in the forthcoming attack. The general stressed there was to be no deviation from the plan, emphasising the need to ensure no Romans be allowed to exit the camp.

  ‘We are here to bring their incursion into Gordyene to an absolute end.’

  ‘Just pray it keeps on snowing,’ said Spartacus in conclusion.

  The gods must have been on his side because it continued to snow throughout the night, tents, men and horses receiving a covering of white so they blended into the terrain they were camped in. The site was west of a large wood shielding the army from prying Roman eyes, the camp of the enemy five miles to the east of the edge of the wood. Roman scouts would have seen the approach of the men of Gordyene from afar, but the snowfall would disguise their advance and muffle the sound of thousands of horses’ hooves, marching boots and the trundling of carts.

  They set off before dawn, Akmon riding off into the snowstorm with Kuris and a thousand horse archers, each one carrying a small hide drum and all with heads down as they cantered into the snow flurries. The winner of three gold arrows had specific orders to protect the crown prince. Should things go awry, it would be the height of folly to lose the king and his heir on the same day.

  The wind picked up as the main force advanced east towards the main entrance to the enemy camp, being buffeted by large snowflakes, making the going difficult. On either flank were two thousand horse archers, in the vanguard two thousand medium horsemen, five hundred of which were the King’s Guard armed with ukku swords. They would be useless this day and had been ordered to refrain from the fighting until the gates to the camp had been breached. Among the horse archers were the carts loaded with what Spartacus hoped would tip the scales in his favour, though he realised the odds were still stacked against him. He marched on foot at the head of the Immortals, equipped in ordinary armour, carrying an oval shield and armed with spear and short sword. His foot soldiers would suffer most of the casualties and it was only right he should be among them to share their risks. It was his plan, after all, so he should shoulder the responsibility. Hovik would direct operations if disaster befell him.

  He glanced behind at the massive ram being pulled forward by a score of horse archers. Such was the scale of the snowfall he could barely see the iron head and front of the ram; the rest was hidden by the whiteout. The ram itself was the trunk of an ancient oak that had been felled, stripped of its branches and tipped with a thick piece of iron. It was suspended by ropes from a thick wooden beam, which formed part of the roof of a giant vehicle with six solid wooden wheels, inside which soldiers walked either side of the ram, pushing it forward. The roof comprised a layer of iron, beneath which was a layer of clay and finally wood, the clay and iron making it fireproof and able to withstand rocks, spears and arrows. The sides of the vehicle were constructed of thick oak beams. The ram itself was festooned with rope handles so men inside the vehicle could swing it against its target.

  Such was its weight the horses moved slowly to pull such a monster, inside which fifty men waited to swing the ram against the gates. In the poor visibility it was impossible to estimate the distance so far covered, but then the wind carried the sound of drums and men cheering. Akmon, Kuris and a thousand horse archers had reached the northern side of the enemy camp.

  Shooting arrows with the wind behind them and the snow blowing in the Romans’ faces, the horse archers would be relatively safe from Roman missiles as they would be able to shoot from a long range, the wind helping to propel their arrows over a great distance. But they would only be shooting intermittently; their task was to hold the enemy’s attention. To the west, the main bulk of the army continued its slow crawl unseen and in silence.

  ‘The wind is dropping.’

  Spartacus looked up at Hovik on his horse and then into a sky still filled with snowflakes. His general was right; the flakes were no longer swirling in the air like angry bees. He glanced behind and could make out the ram, the horses pulling it and beyond a column of Immortals marching six abreast. Visibility was improving, which meant the chances of them reaching the gates unseen were diminishing.

  ‘We keep moving,’ he declared.

  The sounds to the north suddenly became fainter as the wind continued to drop, the amount of flakes in the air decreasingly substantially to reveal a white-covered landscape and a dark shape to the fore – the Roman camp. It was perhaps half a mile distant and the shrill sounds of whistles being blown reached his ears. They had been spotted!

  Spartacus turned to the riders pulling the ram. ‘Move!’

  Horses whinnied as their masters dug their knees into their sides and commanders among the Immortals barked orders. The camp looked small on the plain but as the column of men and horses got nearer it became big enough.

  ‘The gods be with you, majesty,’ said Hovik, wheeling his horse away to organise support for the ram.

  Spartacus faced his shield to the front and halted, the ram and the horse archers passing him as it trundled relentlessly forward. He took up position in the front rank of the column of Immortals following the ram, every soldier having hoisted his shield above his head to form a roof of wood and leather as defence against enemy missiles. Those missiles began to be directed at the ram around two hundred paces from the gates, lead shots from slingers hitting the wooden sloping shield mounted on its front. The horse archers that had been pulling the vehicle released their tow ropes and withdrew, but their mounted comrades on either side of the Immortals began shooting volleys at the Roman defenders on the camp’s ramparts. Hundreds of arrows hissed through the air to strike the rampart, palisade and men standing behind it. Saddles were also emptied as Roman archers and slingers shot back. But then a new element entered the fray.

  It was called ‘dragon fire’, though no one alive had ever seen one of the mythical beasts so it was impossible to tell if its effects resembled the fiery breath of the fabled
winged monsters. It was a highly flammable, sticky liquid produced in Vanadzor’s armouries, though kept well away from the other workshops and housed in stout stone buildings on the edge of the city so volatile was it. It had taken the scientists an age to perfect the formula, a few being incinerated along the way in a series of unfortunate accidents. But eventually the ‘recipe’ was perfected. The main ingredients were quicklime and bitumen, the latter used as waterproofing for ships, which aided the ‘staying power’ of the flames and helped increase their spread. ‘Dragon fire’ also contained sulphur, sourced from the volcanic region of Cappadocia, ironically under Roman control, which was combined with another highly inflammable material – naphtha – that was insoluble in water. Finally, resin sourced from plants was the glue that bound all the ingredients together.

  The carts were loaded with small clay pots filled with ‘dragon fire’. Specially dedicated companies of horse archers were trained to ride up to a target and release them using large slings propelling them over a range of up to two hundred paces. The other horse archers rode forward and began shooting at the slingers, archers and legionaries manning the ramparts and two watchtowers either side of the gates. Dozens of clay pots, burning rags attached to the cork seals, began impacting the towers and ramparts either side of them. They shattered to disgorge the white resin-like liquid and then white turned to red as the ‘dragon fire’ ignited.

  It not only burned fiercely but also stuck like glue to anything it touched – wood, mail, leather and flesh. The hail of arrows, sling shots and javelins shot at the battering ram and its operators abruptly ceased when the clay pots began shattering around the Roman legionaries, the horse archers filling the air with their missiles as they desperately tried to protect their king.

  Spartacus felt a surge of excitement race through his body when the ram smashed into the gates and the men inside heaved the iron-tipped trunk back before launching it forward into the wooden barriers once more. He barely noticed the man beside him collapse, a javelin embedded in his thigh. Another slammed into the ground a mere foot from his right boot. As it was designed to do the javelin’s metal shaft in the man’s leg bent, making it difficult to extract from the wound. The man groaned in intense pain, Spartacus hauling him back.

  ‘Get him to the rear.’

  He turned to face the ram. An Immortal behind him was struck in the neck by an arrow, blood sheeting over him as the man pitched forward.

  ‘Shields, keep your shields up!’ the king shouted.

  The ram was smashed forward again and again, the gates being forced ajar. Above them the watchtowers were now wreathed in flames, those unlucky enough to be standing on them also enveloped by fire. The ramparts were also aflame, mercifully ending the hail of Roman missiles. A final effort by the ram forced the gates open, the tops of the barriers now aflame as ‘dragon fire’ dripped down on them.

  ‘Forward,’ shouted Spartacus, short sword in hand.

  The ragged, battered roof of shields broke apart as the Immortals surged forward around the ram, which had been pulled back to allow the soldiers to get inside the enemy camp. Spartacus was the first to enter, racing past the burning gates to be greeted by two centuries of legionaries in perfect order, each one of eight files and ten men in each rank. The first two ranks of each century threw their pila and raced forward with swords drawn. The forty javelins lanced through the cold morning air to land among the dozens of Immortals attempting to form up, half hitting a soldier. The Romans in the third and fourth ranks paused momentarily to hurl their pila, those in front already closing on Spartacus’ men. There was no time for deployment.

  ‘Follow me!’ screamed the king, bounding forward to smash his shield into the nearest Roman scutum, knocking the legionary to the snow-covered ground. His own shield was identical, save for the colouring of the hide covering.

  He stabbed the sword down and whipped it back. No need to thrust the blade deep inside the body of the Roman, just three inches was enough to eliminate him from the battle. He saw another Roman closing on him, a legionary in the century’s second rank, his scutum in front of his body, his gladius held horizontally, ready to thrust it into his torso, neck or face. Spartacus ducked low and literally scooped the Roman off his feet, using his brute strength to heave him up and over, slamming him down on his back to knock the wind out of him. He stomped down his right heel hard on the legionary’s neck, snapping the spinal cord. A scutum was smashed into his side, making him stumble, and suddenly he was surrounded by Romans. He jabbed his sword forward at a hate-filled face in front of him, the strike being parried by the legionary’s shield. He whipped the blade back just in time to deflect a gladius primed to stab his side. He swung his shield to keep away at least three Romans on his left side but knew within seconds he would be hacked to pieces. Then the Romans were swept away by a screaming wave of Immortals. The two centuries had cut deep into the Immortals surging through the smashed and now burning gates. But Spartacus had brought two thousand of his foot soldiers and as some battled and were bested by the legionaries, the rest, the majority, had time to form up and move methodically through the camp, Hovik marshalling them expertly to undertake a sweep of the tents and stables. As they did so Spartacus waged his personal war against Rome.

  The centuries, disciplined as ever, closed ranks as Immortals swarmed around them, using their shields as battering rams to try to get among the enemy. Spartacus stabbed his sword forward against the determined face of a centurion, the veteran soldier using his scutum to deflect the blow, at the same time launching his own thrusts on either side of his shield. The king grew frustrated at being unable to land a blow, the centurion grinning with relish at his annoyance. His smile disappeared when a spear thumped into his shoulder, thrown by an Immortal behind the king. The centurion faltered, Spartacus stabbed his sword forward into his neck and the veteran died as the point bit deep into his flesh.

  Spartacus stepped forward and rammed his shield into the scutum of a legionary who had been behind the centurion, the Roman jabbing his gladius over the top rim of his shield to strike Spartacus in the face. But the king ducked, slashed at the man’s left leg and cut deep into his calf muscle. The Roman yelped, faltered and went down on one knee, whereupon Spartacus slashed left to right across the man’s throat to sever his windpipe. He did not get up.

  He did not hear the whistles so wrapped up in his own private battle was he, thrusting forward in a desperate attempt to kill another legionary in front of him. But his feet were entangled in the corpse of the dead centurion and beyond that the body of the Roman he had just killed. He screamed in frustration and then rage when arms grabbed him and he was hauled back from danger.

  ‘Let me go, how dare you touch me. I will have you executed.’

  ‘You may do, majesty,’ said the officer with the black transverse crest on his helmet calmly, ‘but first we have a battle to win.’

  He wrenched his arms free to take stock of the situation and catch his breath. His scale armour was missing pieces of metal, his leggings were torn and he was splattered with blood, none of it his own. He was shocked to discover what was left of the two Roman centuries, now a ragged square, was surrounded by dead legionaries and Immortals. Half a division of the latter – five hundred men – now ringed the Romans, behind them horse archers ready to unleash volleys of arrows against the square. He sniffed the air and detected the sweet, sickly smell of roasted flesh, turning to see the gates, watchtowers and ramparts either side of them still on fire, along with charred bodies of those struck by ‘dragon fire’.

  ‘We could demand their surrender, majesty,’ suggested the divisional commander.

  ‘Kill them all,’ ordered Spartacus.

  The command was relayed to the Immortals who about-faced and withdrew so the horse archers had an uninterrupted field of view. Mounted trumpeters sounded their instruments and seconds afterwards the archers began shooting, loosing up to seven arrows a minute at the Romans. The latter formed a testudo but th
e horse archers, shooting from close range and sitting stationary on their horses, were able to find gaps in the wall of shields. And when one shield dropped after its owner had been struck, other arrows were directed into the gap. After two minutes it was all over, the Romans lying in a great heap, a few groans breaking the silence. The commander of horse archers gave the order for his men to organise into companies to assist those already sweeping the camp.

  ‘Fetch me a horse,’ said Spartacus.

  Hovik appeared at the head of a column of medium horsemen, among them the banner of Gordyene fluttering in the wind that had suddenly picked up again, bringing more snowflakes. The general looked down at his blood-covered king.

  ‘Are you hurt, majesty?’

  One of the horsemen dismounted to allow Spartacus to gain the saddle.

  ‘No, the camp is secure?’

  ‘It is, majesty, the Romans are either dead or prisoners.’

  Spartacus gripped the horse’s reins. ‘All prisoners are to be crucified. Use the crosses the Romans built to murder my people.’

  Hovik was horrified. ‘That seems harsh, majesty.’

  Spartacus nudged his horse forward to take him further into the camp.

  ‘What would you have me do to them? Release them so they can return and kill more of my people?’

  ‘Perhaps they could be put to work repairing the damage they have done in this region.’

  ‘That would require guards to keep an eye on them. No, killing them is better all round.’

  The wind was blowing away the smoke from dozens of burning tents, parties of horse archers and Immortals undertaking detailed searches of those shelters still intact and the command tent in the centre of the camp. The straight avenues between the neat blocks of tents were littered with bodies where men had been cut down by Parthian arrows and horsemen after the gates had been breached. At the eastern entrance to the camp there were no bodies but the gates were open. Spartacus pulled up his horse and stared at the white terrain outside the camp. He looked down and saw hoof marks in the snow. He jumped down to examine them more closely.