by Peter Darman
Joro raised his sword and wheeled his horse right, heading for the stationary horse archers who were doing murder among the levy spearmen on the left of the Median battle line. The cataphracts followed. Behind them came ten thousand mounted spearmen ready to brush the paltry number of horse archers aside.
*****
Rasha saw the blocks of levy spearmen dissolving in front of her and her spirits soared. Her Vipers were maintaining a steady rate of volleys against the farmers turned soldiers, replenishing their ammunition with full quivers held on the camel train located around three hundred yards to the rear. She did not know what was happening on the other wing over a mile away, but suspected the same was occurring. There, a thousand horse archers were unleashing volleys of arrows against the levy spearmen. Once the enemy foot soldiers in front of her broke completely, she would turn her Vipers inwards against the flank of the Roman legion. Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood up when she heard the rumble of horsemen.
She knew there were thousands of them before she saw them for such a noise and the tremors they produced were not the product of a few hundred riders. Then she saw them: a line of cataphracts in scale armour, their horses similarly attired, thundering towards the Vipers.
‘Sound retreat,’ she screamed at the signaller next to her.
The frantic trumpet call was repeated along the line and within moments the Vipers had about-faced to flee from the wall of armour-clad horseflesh galloping towards them. She waited until the last of her women was galloping to the rear before turning her mount and following. She looked left and saw the figure of Darius, his dragon banner and the lowering of every kontus as the cataphracts passed the rear battalions of the Immortals. She had barely avoided the line of armoured horsemen, her heart sinking as she looked back to see subsequent lines of cataphracts, who then began to wheel right so they could assault the rear of the Immortals. She comforted herself with the knowledge her husband’s soldiers were trained to repulse horsemen. But then she saw with alarm more enemy horsemen ahead of her as well as on her left side. The Vipers were about to be swamped by a deluge of mounted spearmen.
Where before she had an uninterrupted view of the camels carrying spare ammunition, now she saw only enemy horsemen. They wore a variety of coloured leggings and tunics and most had leather armour cuirasses but no helmets. But they were all equipped with lances and shields and the Vipers would be able to offer little resistance in a mêlée. They lowered their lances and prepared to skewer Rasha’s women.
‘Shoot the horses, shoot the horses,’ the queen shouted, pulling back her bowstring and releasing it to shoot the arrow into the chest of a brown horse directly ahead. The beast’s front legs folded and it collapsed on the ground, spilling its rider, who was trampled by a horse behind. The Vipers need no second prompting, shooting arrows in rapid succession into the bodies of unarmoured horses. The beasts reared up, collided into those next to them and writhed in pain when they collapsed, pinning their riders beneath their bulk, crushing ribs, splitting skulls and bringing the charge to a halt. But only a section of the mounted spearmen had been stopped.
A tidal wave of mounted spearmen wheeled right in a huge arc of horseflesh to slam into the rear of the Immortals, riding around the wall of dead and injured horses and men felled by the Vipers to collide into Rasha’s women. The queen swivelled in the saddle to shoot a man about to thrust his spear into her torso, the arrow thudding into his chest, causing him to drop his lance. Others were not so lucky, being speared multiple times by enemy horsemen on all sides. One by one Vipers began to fall, unable to use their bows and penned in by the enemy on all sides.
Rasha shot another man, the arrow going through his eye socket, killing him outright but leaving him slumped in the saddle. She nocked another arrow and took aim at a spearman about to skewer Narin, releasing the sinew to send the arrow into his unprotected side. Then she was knocked to the ground when a spear was thrust into her horse’s flank. She fell heavily on her left arm breaking the bone and sending a spasm of pain along the limb into her chest. She struggled to get to her feet, the chaos of battle swirling around her, a useless left arm hanging by her side. Narin saw her and jumped from her saddle, grabbing her quivers to rush over to stand beside her queen. Her horse bolted away into the maelstrom.
Other Vipers, seeing their commander and queen standing amid a circling enemy, rode over to stand with them, literally as they stacked their quivers on the ground and slapped the rumps of their horses to urge them away.
The Vipers formed a circle around their injured queen and began shooting arrows at the circling enemy.
‘Don’t waste arrows,’ shouted Narin. ‘Find your targets.’
Those targets now dismounted and formed a circle around the women, shields locked and men crouching low to make themselves small targets. From behind the shields came spears hurtling through the air to hit Vipers; from the latter came well-aimed arrows striking faces, necks and legs. But all the time the circle around them diminished in size as the Medians closed in for the kill.
The battle was lost, Spartacus could see that plainly as his view of the rear battalions of the Immortals was obliterated by the appearance of the enemy cataphracts and mounted spearmen. He focused on one thing only: saving Rasha.
‘Save the queen,’ he bellowed, digging his knees into his horse to urge it forward.
It broke into a gallop, Akmon and the King’s Guard following, heading at what had been the right wing of the army, the flank where Rasha and the Vipers had been doing so much good work. Hovik ordered the commander of the medium horsemen to follow his king, two thousand horsemen charging towards where the queen had last been seen.
Spartacus passed the retreating camels of the ammunition train and closed on the swarming mass of enemy horsemen, riders turning their mounts to face the new threat. He caught a lance point in his shield, pushing it away, his horse instinctively slowing to avoid crashing into the enemy’s mount. Spartacus raised his sword and brought it down on the shield that the enemy rider had raised, the ukku slashing the hide and wood beneath. He whipped back the blade and slashed low to slice open the man’s left thigh, the Median screaming in pain as blood gushed from the wound. The next strike silenced him as he dropped his shield to expose his body, Spartacus plunging his sword deep into his side. He swivelled to face an attacker armed with a sword on his right side, the Median parallel to him but facing the other way as his horse drew alongside. Spartacus raised his sword to block the blow, the blades clashing edge against edge, a fragment flying off the old iron sword, the ukku remaining untouched. The king slashed diagonally to slice open the man’s throat.
The King’s Guard literally hacked its way through the enemy, ukku blades cutting through sword blades, helmets and armour with ease to force a way through to the queen. Hovik had formed the medium spearmen into a wedge that now gouged a path through the enemy riders, spearing dozens and then going to work with their swords and axes. Hovik and his officers endeavoured to retain a tight control over their companies in the mêlée, but became separated from the King’s Guard as it was swallowed by the mass of enemy horsemen. But their charge had inflicted hundreds of casualties on the Medians, many of Darius’ lords having fallen in their initial assault. Consequently, leaderless men began to lose heart and drift away from the fight.
Spartacus’ heart was pumping venom around his body as he slashed left and right to force his way through, behind him his son, Shamshir and five hundred of Gordyene’s finest trying to keep up with him. Iron scales had been chopped off his scale armour, the pteruges that protected his thighs were gashed but he fought on regardless. The ukku blade was as light as a feather in his hand but deadlier than any sword he had ever wielded. Every blow it landed cut through sword blades, sliced open helmets and pierced mail and scale armour with ease. Then his mount reared up in alarm when it came across a large group of horses being guarded by a handful of men, beyond them the backs of men seemingly engaged in combat. An arro
w flashed past him and he smiled. The Vipers still lived.
He jumped down from his horse, tucked his shield tightly to his left side and raced ahead, cutting down two men who were watching events to their front. Akmon and the King’s Guard followed, though they stayed in their saddles, moving through the standing horses to cut down their guards.
‘Rasha!’ Spartacus called at the top of his voice.
He plunged his sword into the back of a man in front of him, cut down a man next to him as he turned and barged a third aside with his shield to force his way through the throng. The Medians, suddenly aware they were being assaulted from behind, turned to face their attackers. But they were men on foot against horsemen slashing down with razor-sharp blades and became surrounded and outnumbered very quickly. Within minutes it was all over – the Medians dying or fleeing on foot to escape the King’s Guard.
Spartacus ripped off his helmet and shouted in triumph when he spotted the pale face of Rasha being held up by a wounded Narin, around them dozens of dead Vipers, in front of them many more slain Medians, most with arrows in them. The women did not cheer so exhausted were they, but their faces showed a mixture of relief and exhilaration as they realised they might live to see the end of the day.
*****
As soon as the enemy horsemen had arrived the Gordyene horse archers on the other wing had desisted their sport of shooting down helpless levy spearmen. Kuris gave the command for his company to about-face and speedily withdraw as the tide of Median cataphracts and mounted spearmen engulfed the rear companies of the Immortals, which immediately turned about, closed ranks and presented a wall of shields and spear points to the enemy horsemen. But as the Immortals disappeared from view the thousand horse archers reorganised and re-entered the fray.
They rode to within a hundred yards of the mass of now static horsemen and began to shoot men from their saddles. For Kuris it was good sport – shooting a bow from a stationary position against near stationary targets. After the first two volleys had dropped around two hundred men, the Medians charged the horse archers. Kuris and his men wheeled their horses about and galloped away, turning in the saddle to shoot one or two arrows over the hindquarters of their horses. For the Medians it was a futile gesture because when they halted so did Kuris’ men and the other companies, riding back to the huge mêlée to recommence shooting at the enemy.
Faced with an unwavering wall of shields and spear points to their front and being shot at by horse archers to the rear, their own horse archers having seemingly been chased off the field, the Median mounted spearmen began to make good their escape. They did not know if their king lived or had been killed, but they did know they and their comrades were sitting targets at the hands of the archers of Gordyene.
Kuris sensed it and so did the other Gordyene horse archers, a palpable change in the course of the battle as more and more Median horsemen broke contact and rode away. At first just dribs and drabs but then a torrent of riders as their morale cracked under the deluge of arrows. They left hundreds of their comrades lying on the ground, along with dozens of dead horses.
Joro’s gamble had failed.
*****
Darius’ flanks had disappeared: duelling with Sarmatians and horse archers miles away from the battlefield. His reserve of horsemen had been put to flight and the majority of his foot soldiers had been either killed or routed. His best foot soldiers – a thousand of his own foot and a single legion of Romans – were being ground down by ten thousand Immortals. The Medians, greatly outnumbered, were on their last legs. Joro’s attack had partly alleviated the pressure they had been under; the Immortals being forced to halt their advance. But once the general’s reserve began to melt away, the foot soldiers of King Spartacus once more began their remorseless advance, stabbing and hacking with short swords to overwhelm their opponents. As their Roman opponents did the Immortals exchanged tired units for fresh ones to keep the pressure up, aided as they were by companies of horse archers riding forward and then behind the Medians and Romans to commence shooting arrows at a tired enemy.
The Medians fought and died on the battlefield. Atrax would have been proud. They did not rout and break but traded their lives for a high price. But when that price had been paid the Immortals they had faced wheeled right to smash into the weakened cohorts of the legion.
To add to their perilous position, Kuris and the other horse archers appeared in their rear, shooting arrows at tired and thirsty men who were now surrounded. Legate Cotta was dead, his tribunes were dead and half the legion’s centurions were dead or injured. And still the Immortals, themselves wavering under a hot sun after hours of combat, staggered forward, stabbing opponents and stepping over their dead bodies to fight those in front of them.
More exhausted were Darius’ cataphracts, encased in scale armour and sweating in helmets. They had failed to break the shield wall of the Immortals and now Spartacus’ King’s Guard and his medium horsemen were assaulting them. The latter were fended off with relative ease, but the former were a different prospect, armed as they were with strange swords that cut through their own blades. After what seemed like an age battling with the Immortals, two thousand fresh horsemen had struck them. They forgot the Immortals to concentrate on protecting their king, conspicuous in his shimmering silver dragon-skin armour.
It was Prince Akmon who spotted him, surrounded by King’s Guard who were busy hacking through swords, arms and helmets. The Median cataphracts were falling like ripe wheat under a scythe in a scene never before witnessed in the empire. As the cream of Median nobility was cut down Akmon saw Darius and his standard bearer behind him.
‘To me,’ he shouted, digging his knees into the flanks of his horse to urge it forward.
Only half a dozen of the King’s Guard heard him but they too directed their horses towards the dragon banner still fluttering proudly in the breeze. Darius, bloody sword in hand, attempted to turn his horse to present a narrower target to the pale-faced young man galloping towards him. But instead of attempting to draw alongside, Akmon sheathed his sword, jumped up on to his saddle and launched himself at the King of Media, flying through the air to knock him from his saddle.
Joro turned in horror to see his king face-first on the ground, a young man standing over him with his sword drawn, about to kill his king.
Akmon held the point to Darius’ neck.
‘Order your men to throw down their weapons, majesty.’
Akmon then took away the sword point and assisted a shocked and winded Darius to his feet. The king looked at Joro with pleading eyes but the general could do nothing to save his liege lord. Rage replaced fear in Darius’ eyes as he began screaming at Joro.
‘Would you see your king killed? Give the order to stand down.’
Joro did so bitterly, ordering a signaller nearby to sound stand down. And then the sounds of battle began to diminish and ebb away as men desisted fighting each other, Medians pulling away from their foes to rally to their king, or at least his standard that was still being held aloft. The King’s Guard rallied to their prince who still held a sword to Darius, though no longer to his neck.
‘No more killing,’ shouted the prince in a desperate effort to prevent further bloodshed.
But the reality was the combatants, until a few moments before locked in a deadly contest, were all too willing to desist fighting. Both sides were tired, battered and not a little bloody. Ukku blades may have been untouched by the frenzy of face-to-face combat but those who wielded them were mere mortals on the edge of exhaustion.
‘Fetch the king,’ ordered an exhausted Hovik, sweat streaming down his face.
Akmon, surrounded by King’s Guard and Median cataphracts, felt out of his depth and was unsure what to do next. He was relieved to see his father appear, helmetless, angry with fury in his eyes. He had nearly lost the only woman he had ever loved, the battle and his army, and he was in no mood for magnanimous gestures.
He walked up to Darius, snatched his sword fro
m his hand and tossed it to the ground.
‘Take him to Mepsila,’ he ordered.
Two King’s Guards dismounted and escorted a crestfallen Darius to his horse, one holding the reins when all three were in the saddle. Joro threw his own sword at the feet of Spartacus.
‘I request you treat my lord with the respect a Parthian king deserves.’
Spartacus looked up at the Median general.
‘Interesting word, respect, Lord Joro. When your king and his poisonous mother had the ear of Phraates they delighted in pouring scorn and ridicule on Gordyene and its rulers. They showed little respect to my queen or me and yet you ask me to treat him with leniency. Why? Why should I not kill him, you and every Median in my possession?’
‘Because if you do it will confirm everything those in Media, and the empire, think of you. King Spartacus the low-born barbarian who has no manners, no breeding and no decency.’
He spat out the last few words with contempt, unconcerned they might cost him his head. And yet the old general was wise as well as brave and he had the measure of Spartacus, who suddenly felt many pairs of eyes on him, both King’s Guard and captive cataphracts. He scanned their faces and that of his son who looked most disappointed in his father. The king picked up the sword and handed it back to the general, then retrieved Darius’ sword and handed that to Joro.
‘For safekeeping,’ he smiled.
‘What about the king’s camp, majesty?’ asked Joro. ‘It is full of civilians and many women and children.’