by Peter Darman
‘Put this on.’
She stared in horror at the modified sack.
‘Needs must,’ he said, sheathing his knife and squatting to dirty his hands in the dry ground.
With a look of distaste on her pretty face Lusin slipped the sack over her head, the rough material becoming a makeshift tunic. He rubbed dirt on her perfect cheeks and placed his cap on her head.
‘Much better.’
She could not speak so mortified was she, but followed Akmon nevertheless as he shouldered the bundle of firewood once more and retraced his steps. She did not look back as they threaded a way through the chaos, stink and noise of Phraates’ camp, reaching a group of what looked like bandits grouped around a campfire on the edge of the sprawl, just one such group among dozens hanging around the army like a bad smell.
‘So, you kept your head.’
Akka stood to greet Akmon, the others barely giving the couple a second glance. The Sarmatian leader examined Lusin akin to a slave trader inspecting his goods.
‘You have your prize, what now?’
‘Now we ride south,’ said Akmon.
The Siraki chief placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. One of his men guarding their horses led two of them from the group, another dragging a spitting camel behind him.
‘If you go back to Gordyene, your father will most likely cut off her head and banish you.’
‘We are not going to Gordyene,’ Akmon told him.
The two horses arrived, Akmon’s sword hanging from one of the horns of the saddle.
‘There is a tent, food and spare clothes loaded on the camel. You have money?’
The couple stared at each other in alarm. Akka rolled his eyes. He unhooked a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to Akmon.
‘I thought not. You won’t get far without gold. That will make life more comfortable when you get to wherever you are going. I took it off a fat Armenian. Keep it well hidden on the journey, there’s a lot of dangerous bastards about in Armenia at present.’
Lusin walked over and planted a delicate kiss on the Siraki’s cheek.
‘Careful,’ he warned, ‘I might take you back to my homeland.’
‘You are going home?’ asked Akmon.
Akka nodded. ‘Our business is finished here. Your father paid us well and we have picked up some good loot during our time here, but now that time is ended. You two had better bugger off before you are missed.’
Without hesitation Lusin vaulted into the saddle, Akmon doing likewise. Akka nodded to them both and returned to the fire. The prince was handed the reins of the camel and he and Lusin began their journey. The next day Akka led his Siraki back to their homeland, herding a great number of slaves before them, their saddlebags bulging with silver and gold, their heads filled with enough tales to keep the storytellers busy for a generation.
*****
As the Siraki were leaving Geghard, his son and a score of Armenian soldiers appeared at the entrance to the Gordyene camp, demanding entry. The guards informed the general he and his men would have to wait until the king was informed of their arrival. No one could just wander into the camp of the army of Gordyene, not with its ditch, ramparts and wooden palisade. As it happened the king was more than happy to see Geghard, if only to solve a mystery concerning his missing son. Spartacus met with Geghard at the entrance to the camp, the spiked logs that barred unwelcome visitors being moved aside so the king could ride out to meet the Armenians. Hovik, Kuris and a dozen King’s Guard accompanied him.
‘Where is my daughter?’ asked Geghard.
Spartacus looked at Hovik, who for the previous half hour he had been raging at for his inability to throw any light as to the whereabouts of Prince Akmon.
‘Probably with my son, who is also missing.’
Geghard was unimpressed. ‘And gone where?’
Spartacus shrugged. ‘If I knew that I would not be wasting time talking to you.’
‘He has stolen my sister, just as you did at the Temple of Anahit,’ said an angry Vahan.
‘The girl has something, I’ll give her that,’ admitted Spartacus.
‘I have spoken to the king and he will be speaking to King of Kings Phraates about this,’ threatened Geghard.
‘I tell you what,’ suggested Spartacus, ‘as you obviously have a grudge against me, why don’t we settle matters right here. The old way, single combat.’
‘I accept,’ said Vahan on behalf of his father without hesitation.
Spartacus jumped down from his horse and drew his sword.
‘I see there is still some honour left in Armenia.’
‘Vahan,’ shouted Geghard, ‘stay where you are.’
But his son was already on his feet and facing Spartacus with drawn sword. The two circling each other.
‘Guards,’ shouted Geghard, but in a flash Kuris nocked an arrow in his bow, drew back the bowstring and pointed the missile at Geghard.
‘Any of you move and the general dies.’
No one in a saddle moved as Vahan attacked Spartacus with a well-aimed audacious thrust. Normally an opponent would attempt to avoid such a blow rather than block it edge-on-edge with his own sword, but Spartacus deliberately swung his blade to do just that, the ukku cutting clean through Vahan’s sword. Geghard’s son stared in astonishment at the stump of the sword in his hand. In an instant the point of Spartacus’ sword was at his throat.
‘I beg for the life of my son,’ pleaded Geghard.
Spartacus smiled, withdrew the blade and then slashed it across Vahan’s left cheek, inflicting a nasty gash.
‘I give you his life,’ said the king, ‘a man should not lose a son and a daughter on the same day.’
He sheathed his sword, walked back to his horse and regained the saddle.
‘Send riders south to hunt them down,’ he told Hovik.
‘To where, lord?’
‘If I know Akmon, he’s gone back to his mother,’ Spartacus told him.
He turned his horse and re-entered his camp, leaving Vahan holding a cloth to his bleeding face. He was unconcerned about Geghard’s threat to inform Phraates, who no doubt would summon him to his pavilion to be publicly chastised. But for that to happen the King of Gordyene would have to be present, which he would not be for he had other matters to attend to. He would serve justice on Akmon when he returned to Vanadzor. The army of Gordyene struck camp the next morning, the king sending word to Phraates he was leaving Armenia, which was a lie. Phraates did not reply to his missive.
*****
For the Roman column that left Artaxata, the days after exiting the city were ones of sleepless nights and terror-filled days. Three thousand soldiers, eight thousand civilians and a hundred horsemen were permanently shadowed by the horsemen of King Spartacus as they tramped across mountain plains, stopping many times when it appeared the Parthians were going to attack them. At least at night the civilians could take shelter behind the ramparts and palisade of the camp that was constructed at the end of every march. But sleep was difficult with the sight of dozens of campfires and the sounds of revelry surrounding the camp during the hours of darkness. In the morning the Parthians seemingly vanished and everyone prayed they had gone for good. But around midday they reappeared to hang around the column like wolves.
The Parthians never got close to the column but they did make a great deal of noise and carry out the unnerving tactic of galloping towards the Romans, before wheeling left or right and riding along the length of their column. This resulted in the Romans halting, the legionaries forming defensive shield walls and the civilians cowering behind the very thin lines of soldiers. But though nerves were frayed no blood was spilt.
And then, on the eighth day, the Parthians seemingly vanished.
‘They’re out there.’
Titus Tullus was marching at the tip of the Roman vanguard, behind him thousands of civilians approaching the forests of western Armenia. Most tramped along on foot, some were able to afford carts and a minor
ity of the wealthy, mostly merchants, rode on horses, their slaves following on foot. The few Roman military horsemen acted as scouts to ride ahead and keep watch on the flanks, as well as following the rearguard. The legionaries marched on the outer flanks of the civilians, ensuring they kept up the pace to avoid the column being strung out over too great a distance. Quintus Dellius rode with an escort of six men.
He nodded at the trees blanketing the slopes of the mountains ahead.
‘The going will be slower when we reach the forest, but at least the Parthians will not be able to use their horses among the trees. If they were going to attack us they would have done so on the plain, where they could fully utilise their mobility.’
‘Perhaps,’ sniffed Tullus, ‘but I don’t trust them.’
‘You don’t trust anyone. But only an idiot would use horsemen among trees and King Spartacus is no idiot.’
He pointed ahead. ‘Over that mountain range is Cappadocia and safety. We are in touching distance of Roman territory, Tullus.’
By the end of the day the column had entered the trees, following the centuries-old track that led to Cappadocia. The pines sheltered the soldiers and civilians from the sun but the temperature was still hot and overpowering. The pace was slow, soldiers weighed down with furcas moving gingerly through the trees on the flanks of the column of civilians, mules and carts. Men strained every nerve to detect signs of the enemy, hearing only the occasional bird and mammal. But with every step taking them nearer to Cappadocia and safety, the mood of the column began to lift. Sanctuary was in touching distance.
That night every soldier stood to arms for there was no suitable terrain to construct a camp. Titus Tullus finished his rounds and gathered his comrades, all centurions, in his tent, the single oil lamp casting their tired, unshaven faces in a pallid light.
‘The governor is leaving tomorrow with the horsemen,’ he told them.
They said nothing but their collective look of disgust revealed their opinion of the governor.
‘He told me he has to get back to Mark Antony as quickly as possible.’
‘Why?’ asked one.
‘He probably wants to get back to the whores of Alexandria. Who knows? The important point is he will be riding west with all the horsemen and I want you to ride with him, Sextus.’
One of the centurions, with a gaunt face and scarred lip, looked at him with surprise.
‘Me? Why?’
Tullus smirked. ‘Because you among us are the most honest, or the least dishonest. That is why I want you to take all our gold with you.’
The others were most unhappy about this but Tullus was insistent.
‘We have made a tidy sum out of Armenia and Gordyene but it all amounts to nothing if we can’t get it to safety. Mazaga is safe.’
Mazaga was the capital city of Cappadocia, a Roman client kingdom fully assimilated into Rome’s orbit.
‘Look,’ said Tullus,’ if there is any trouble between now and when we reach the border, you can bet your last sestertius the gold will be lost on the way.’
They said nothing but shrugged in tepid agreement. They had known Titus Tullus for years and trusted him, up to a point. But the fact he was staying with the column and would be giving Sextus all his own gold, convinced them the plan was sound.
Quintus Dellius left the column the next morning, together with a hundred horsemen and Sextus with saddlebags filled with gold. It was a beautiful sunny day, but the temperature in the forest was already hot and oppressive. Free from the encumbrance of civilians on foot, Quintus would reach the border by nightfall. Those he left behind faced a further three days in the trees, following the narrow path meandering through pines and a sprinkling of juniper and aspen. The forest was an ancient one, dotted with canopy openings where old trees had collapsed, the rotting timbers slowly decaying on a forest floor littered with fungi, brown pine needles, also brambles and ivy where the sun reached the ground.
The clanking of cooking utensils hanging from carts, the crying of infants, the rumbling of dozens of wheels on the hard earth track and the curses of legionaries tramping through the forest parallel to the column of civilians, carried far into the forest, spooking animals and causing birds to fly from branches.
*****
Shooting a bow from the saddle was easy enough; indeed, one with only a cursory knowledge of archery could do it. On the battlefield, a horse archer was more concerned with listening out for the company signaller and commander to ensure he obeyed orders and moved his horse accordingly from column to line, into wedge formation, to advance or retire, or fall into single-file formation. A horse archer controlled his mount with his knees, reins and voice, the four-horned saddle locking him onto the horse’s back to leave him free to shoot his bow. In battle he was just one of hundreds, thousands, of mounted archers whose task was to deluge enemy formations with arrows, loosing up to seven arrows a minute to cut down the foe. In such an environment, individual accuracy was all but impossible, especially when making passes against an enemy formation at speed. But when shooting on foot it was a different matter entirely.
Trained from an early age in the use of a bow, Parthian boys knew instinctively the stance to adopt before taking a shot: feet shoulder-width apart, left leg slightly forward if right handed. Grip the bow with the left hand with the wrist and arm in alignment. The arrow was nocked underneath the nocking point – usually a small metal ring pressed into the sinew – with the arrow rested on the back of the left hand. The bow was canted to the side at an angle to allow the arrow to ‘sit’ on the hand without falling off.
The bowstring was gripped by the first three fingers, with one finger gripping the string above the arrow and two below. The sinew was gripped with the tips of the fingers on the fleshy part of the finger pads, between the tip of the finger and the first joint. Kuris remembered his father berating him when he had been a small boy.
‘Don’t let the string fall into the first joint. The release will not be smooth and it will affect accuracy.’
For good measure he often struck his son’s draw hand with his cane to emphasise the point. He and his father spent hours and hours outside, in winter and summer, practising with the bow his grandfather had made, which had been passed down to son and then grandson.
‘Recite what I taught you,’ instructed his father.
The boy replied. ‘The hand that is drawing the string should be kept in a straight line behind the arrow from my fingertips through my wrist and out to my elbow.’
‘What else?’
‘The bow should be drawn with a combination of pushing with the hand that is gripping it and pulling with the other holding the string.’
He smiled when he first learned of the ‘anchor point’, the spot on his face where his middle finger touched his face when the bow was at full draw. He felt the middle finger touch the corner of his mouth – his anchor point.
‘Don’t aim at the whole target,’ his father always told him, ‘focus instead on the smallest point on it.’
Kuris did so now, staring intently at the legionary around fifty paces away, treading slowly through the forest. He stopped and turned to his right and saw Kuris, just at the moment when the archer let the bowstring slip through his fingers. There was a sharp ‘thwack’ and a groan when the narrow-tipped iron arrowhead penetrated the legionary’s mail armour. Kuris saw him collapse and strung another arrow, around him the forest suddenly filling with sharp cracks as the other archers commenced shooting.
There were only three hundred archers, the rest having gone back to Gordyene, together with four hundred and fifty King’s Guard and two thousand Aorsi. They had ridden ahead after breaking contact with the Romans given safe passage to Cappadocia to infiltrate the great forest they knew those fleeing would have to travel through. They had selected their place of ambush and now they sprung it.
There were no mass volleys, no rain of arrows; rather, targeted shots against solitary targets. The horses were well back from the
track, safely out of harm’s way and guarded by every tenth man.
As arrows flew through the air whistles sounded among the Romans followed by screams and cries of alarm as the civilians realised they were being attacked. Centurions marshalled their centuries with aplomb to present a series of testudo formations to the Parthians, leaving the civilians to seek shelter behind carts or throw themselves on the ground.
‘Move forward,’ shouted Kuris, promoted to command all horse archers.
The bowmen did so, using the trunks of trees as cover in case there were slingers or archers among the Romans. They ignored the blocks of locked shields to cut down any mules or horses in their field of view, prompting more shrieks and wails among the civilians.
Kuris turned to the signaller behind him, who blew his horn. The archers fell back to leave dead and wounded legionaries and slain animals along the length of the column. The cries and sobbing of women and children was suddenly drowned out by feral war cries as the Aorsi hurled insults at the Romans, blew trumpets and horns and hollered at the tops of their voices.
‘That should shake them up,’ grinned Spartacus to the deputy-commander of his guard, a dour individual named Kian who rarely smiled.
The forest reverberated to the taunts and war cries of the Aorsi, which not only struck fear into the hearts of the Roman civilians but also ensured they would not be going anywhere. Which was precisely the aim of the exercise.
The Parthians and their Aorsi allies made no more attacks that day, the noise suddenly desisting as the Parthians retreated back to their camp, leaving Roman testudos rooted to the spot and hundreds of civilians clinging to the earth. After an hour the Roman centurions blew their whistles to break up the formations, sending parties of men into the forest to scout for the enemy.