by Peter Darman
Kuris watched the figures edge closer, every scutum tucked tight to the torso of its owner, the top edge of the shield raised to make the face as small a target as possible. They moved slowly, scanning their front, left and right to try to spot an enemy. Every twig that snapped beneath a hobnailed sandal prompted a halt, frustrated centurions hissing at their men through gritted teeth to keep moving. He drew back the bowstring and let it slip through his fingers, the sharp thwack echoing through the trees, followed by a dead legionary falling to the ground, the arrow point sticking out the back of his helmet after going through his eye socket, brain and skull. He melted back into the fading light of the forest to leave a line of Romans rooted to the spot.
The next day Spadines and his Aorsi attacked, the Sarmatians creeping forward in silence to hurl themselves against the legionaries. They attacked from every direction, not a great swarm of warriors but isolated groups launching hit-and run assaults against the locked shields of the Romans. They attacked at dawn, before the carts and mules of the baggage train had even moved. Once again the forest was filled with the wailing of women, the crying of infants, the war cries of Sarmatians and the groans and shrieks of injured and dying men.
Spartacus held his shield before him and walked forward slowly, around him a score of King’s Guard, behind him the same number of archers. He glanced behind to see Kuris, who nodded to his king. The clatter of battle was all around and yet this stretch of the forest was silent, oppressively so. It was already warm and humid under the forest canopy, the smell of pine intense, overwhelming. Shafts of sunlight came through the forest canopy and one glinted off a helmet.
‘Have a care,’ called Spartacus.
The javelins came from nowhere, hitting two of his men, one going into a shield, the other glancing off scale armour and knocking off two iron plates. As it was intended to do the shaft of the pilum lodged in the shield bent and became a dead weight. Or at least would have been under normal circumstances. Its owner chopped at the pilum’s thin metal shaft with his ukku blade and severed it.
Spartacus bounded forward to battle the nearest legionary who crouched low, the standard stance when endeavouring to get under the guard of an opponent armed with a slashing sword. But Spartacus knew all about Roman fighting techniques and rather than slash with his sword and leave himself open to be stabbed by a gladius, instead used his shield as a battering ram to barge into the legionary with all his weight behind it, knocking the Roman to the ground. Then he did slash with his ukku blade, the keen edge of the sword biting deep into the man’s exposed calf. He yelped, clutched at his wounded leg and died when an arrow thumped into his chest.
The King’s Guard were horsemen, not foot soldiers, trained to fight from the saddle. They were thus at a great disadvantage in the forest against legionaries, so they had been paired with archers, who supported the swordsmen with well-aimed arrows felling half a dozen Romans before the legionaries withdrew. The three injured among the Romans were quickly despatched.
Three King’s Guard had also been injured, one seriously with a nasty gash to his neck. Spartacus told them to return to camp. He and the others moved forward again. All along the line and on all sides of the Roman column small groups of Parthians and Sarmatians were darting forward to try to kill or injure Romans who could not form a battle line or use their javelins to full effect due to the trees. Similarly, the Parthian archers’ field of view was restricted by the foliage. A mutually frustrating battle raged for a distance of half a mile.
The battle continued for hours, men sweating and dying as one side tried to defend the baggage train and terrified civilians and the other aimed to slaughter the dwindling number of their protectors. The fighting became erratic as men tired, much to the annoyance of Spartacus.
‘Up, up.’
He walked along the line of King’s Guard sitting on the ground and drinking greedily from their water bottles, exhausted archers leaning against trees catching their breath. They had been fighting for six hours, their throats were dry and their limbs ached. Only the king seemed devoid of soreness and fatigue. He pointed his sword through the trees.
‘There are Romans still standing and fighting there. Would you let them escape?’
His men would, gladly, but King Spartacus was not a man to be crossed and so they hauled themselves to their feet and trudged forward. Kuris’ shoulder was on fire, not because he had shot dozens of arrows but due to pulling back his bowstring, only to see the target disappear from view.
The sounds of battle had abated now, men dead on their feet having little energy to hurl insults at the enemy. The Sarmatians had suffered many casualties, a constant stream of Aorsi limping back to camp. The Romans had also suffered many wounded, which had been loaded on carts.
The Sarmatians and Parthians were nearly at the track now, having forced the Romans back from the trees. But for the former especially the cost had been high, dozens having been killed by Roman short swords. And now, as the afternoon began to wane, the Romans made their move.
*****
Titus Tullus had had enough. All morning he and his men had been battling an enemy on all sides. But the only side that mattered was the one leading to the west. He knew no relief was coming and if the column stayed where it was sooner rather than later it would be overrun. His centurions provided updates of casualties on the hour and the news was not good. Of the three thousand soldiers who had been fit for duty at the beginning of the day, four hundred were dead and five hundred were wounded. Nearly a third of his force was gone and if he stayed put that figure would rise alarmingly.
It was mid-afternoon when a lull occurred in the fighting, tired men huddled behind their shields as a defence against the infernal Parthian archers who infested the trees. Dead Sarmatians and a few King’s Guard littered the ground, along with Roman civilians hit and killed by stray arrows. There was no safety in any part of the column of carts and wagons strung out for a distance of half a mile. Tullus called his centurions together. They huddled by the side of a cart that had overturned when the horse pulling it broke free of its traces and bolted.
‘We stay here and we all die,’ Tullus stated bluntly. ‘Therefore, I propose we form a wedge and force a passage to the west. Those wounded unable to walk will be left behind, the rest and the civilians will be behind the wedge. We move immediately.’
There were no objections, no arguments, no discussion at all. As one they saluted and returned to their centuries, fortified by the knowledge they had at least a chance to survive the dire predicament they found themselves in. So as not to alert the enemy there were no commands transmitted by trumpet or whistle. Instead, centurions passed the word from century to century to convey the orders of the column’s commander. Men on the verge of giving up suddenly found new reserves of energy at the prospect of survival rather than certain death.
Tullus knew many civilians would die in the attempt but that did not concern him. If they remained rooted to the spot they would die anyway, either that or become slaves. He had no wish to die or be enslaved. But if he was going to die then it would be at the head of attacking soldiers rather than being a target for a bunch of long-haired archers.
The wedge formed quickly, legionaries glad to abandon their allotted place in the defence of the column to join a large group of soldiers who were going to advance instead of stand or retreat. The civilians hurried after the soldiers, mothers hauling young children behind them to gather at the rear of the wedge. Hundreds had already died and hundreds more had fled into the forest in a vain search for safety. Hundreds more, frozen with fear, cowered under carts or by the side of dead mules pierced by arrows. They would be abandoned to their fate. Perhaps three thousand civilians pressed into a tight mass to the rear of the wedge, behind them the debris of a column wrecked by enemy arrows. Most of the horses and mules had been killed, those still living having bolted into the forest along with the carts they were hitched to, their civilian drivers either dead or fled.
It was termed a cuneus, meaning ‘wedge’, but in reality was not a wedge but a deep and narrow-fronted formation. In the front rank, each one of his bravery discs having been knocked off in the morning’s fighting, stood Titus Tullus. He raised his sword to signal the advance and the great breakout attempt began.
*****
Spartacus heard the alarm being sounded and dread went through him; fear the enemy was escaping. He picked up his shield and sprinted to where the alarm was coming from, his legs burning with fatigue. Behind him the units of King’s Guard and archers followed. The latter had used the lull in the fighting to replenish their quivers, which would be fortuitous. The king raced along the line of abandoned carts on the track, realising the Romans had done the unexpected. He cursed himself for not considering the enemy might not just stand and die but attempt to force a path through the ring he had thrown around them. The Romans had literally stolen a march on him and he was furious.
On both sides of the track Sarmatians and Parthians were hurrying to catch up with the great press of civilians and soldiers marching to the west. Spadines, tired, dirty, his eyes bloodshot, met up with Spartacus once they had left the carts behind. Ahead was the tail of the Roman mass, shuffling its way west.
‘We did not think to block the track, lord.’
‘No indeed. Kuris,’ called Spartacus, ‘get your companies in order.’
They followed at walking pace while Kuris organised the archers and brought them forward, forming them into five files, each one containing sixty men. King’s Guard and Sarmatians stepped aside to allow them to walk forward.
‘Shoot at the rear of the Roman column,’ Spartacus told him.
He had seen no soldiers at the rear of the column, only worried civilian men, women and children who kept glancing nervously behind. They were perhaps two hundred paces away.
‘Forward,’ commanded Kuris, breaking into a gentle run to close the gap between him and the Roman civilians.
The files of tired archers followed, halting when Kuris stopped and raised his bow aloft. He nodded to a signaller who blew his horn to sound ‘loose’. Seconds later the air was filled with a multitude of cracks as three hundred arrows shot through the air. Their trajectory was not high and they were funnelled into a narrow corridor through fear of hitting the trees on either side of the track. But when they slammed into the ground or bodies they sparked a frenzied panic among the civilians. A second and third volley only increased the chaos as the civilians panicked and pressed forward in an effort to escape the missiles. Straight into the rear of the tightly packed centuries.
‘Move!’ shouted Spartacus, leading the charge to pass the files of archers.
Spadines and the Sarmatians followed, exhausted King’s Guard struggling to keep pace with their monarch. Ahead civilians were trampled underfoot and legionaries were pushed aside as frantic individuals suddenly became possessed of superhuman strength as they sought to get away from the onrushing enemy. Roman soldiers were also barged to the ground as terrified civilians literally threw themselves on to the shoulders and heads of the legionaries in a mad scramble, followed moments later by Spartacus and his soldiers.
The king hacked left and right with his blade, inflicting hideous wounds on defenceless civilians, treading on their bodies to get to the legionaries beyond. The Sarmatians flanked the cuneus to hurl themselves at Romans soldiers from the wings. And suddenly the formation had dissolved into a series of disconnected fights.
Spartacus, alone among the enemy, split open a helmet, a spurt of blood shooting upwards as the legionary flopped forwards. He sliced open the neck of a second legionary who turned to glance behind, then plunged his blade into the chest of a third unable to turn due to being wedged between two comrades. He roared with delight as he killed a fourth and fifth Roman, his sword becoming a black blur of vengeance.
The King’s Guard also cut deeply into the Roman formation, stepping on and over dead women and children to get to the legionaries who were now turning to face their attackers. But they had lost many men in the initial Parthian assault and now they began to falter.
It was only a matter of time before the Roman soldiers and civilians were overrun and killed. The fighting had taken the combatants to the edge of a small lake, its waters pure blue under the summer sun. Spartacus thrust his sword into the guts of a legionary, the razor-sharp blade easily penetrating the mail armour. He turned in triumph to see his son standing on the far side of the lake.
‘Haytham?’
The battle disappeared as he beheld his youngest child standing by the water’s edge, an innocent smile on his face. Suddenly a hooded man appeared from the trees behind the boy, a knife in his right hand.
‘Run, Haytham,’ he screamed.
The boy kept smiling until the hooded figure grabbed his hair and drew the knife across his throat.
‘Noooooooo,’ Spartacus wailed.
‘Father?’
Blood sheeted from Haytham’s throat and he collapsed to the ground.
Your victories will seem hollow and your conquests irrelevant when you lose what you hold dear.
Spartacus fell to his knees and howled in despair, not feeling the blow to the side of his head that rendered him semi-conscious.
‘The king is wounded.’
‘Rally to the king.’
‘Fall back.’
The voices were muffled as he was grabbed roughly and hauled back, a circle of King’s Guard closing around him. And so it was that Titus Tullus and around two hundred legionaries and a thousand civilians managed to escape from Armenia to Cappadocia, making it all the way to Mazaga to tell their tale.
Spartacus remained in camp for several days recovering from the blow to the head, which would have been fatal had it not been for the helmet he had been wearing. Ironically the blow with a hammer had been delivered by an irate woman, which did not improve the king’s humour. He did not reveal what he had seen at the lake, but when he was sufficiently recovered issued orders to his men they were returning to Gordyene forthwith. But not before he was presented with a dilemma. Kian came to him while his head was still bandaged and the stench of burning bodies tickled the back of his throat. The Aorsi were cremating their dead, as were the King’s Guard, fifty of whom had died in the fighting.
‘What do you want to do with the Roman wounded, majesty?
‘What?’
Around the camp dozens of men were nursing cuts and bruises, others were having broken arms set in splints and those with more serious injuries were being made as comfortable as possible before they died. It did not feel like a victory. Kian, looking more miserable than usual, pointed back to where the battle had taken place.
‘During the fighting the Romans loaded their wounded on carts, majesty. They are still there, guarded by Kuris and a company of archers.’
‘Fetch my horse.’
They rode back to the track, Roman dead still littering the forest floor. They would be carrion for animals. At the track, bodies piled high in places, they threaded a path through the slain to arrive at a dozen carts loaded with wounded, a few physicians trying to treat the injured legionaries. Kuris and his men stood impassively watching them go about their work, the air alive with buzzing flies gorging on the blood of the dead, accompanied by the sound of men groaning in pain.
Spartacus slid off his horse and walked up to a broad-shouldered man with a blood-splattered leather jerkin.
‘Are you in charge?’
The clean-shaven man looked at his bandage. ‘If you want a new dressing you will have to wait.’
He spoke in Greek and Spartacus was suddenly reminded of Alcaeus, the Greek who commanded the medical corps in his uncle’s army.
‘No, it is fine. Can I assist you in any way?’
The Greek, his face drawn, looked at him. ‘Water, fresh bandages and horses to pull the carts, if we are not to be killed first.’
He nodded at Kuris and his archers. Spartacus turned to Kian.
‘See hi
s needs are met.’
‘Yes, majesty.’
The Greek registered surprise. ‘Majesty? You are King Spartacus?’
Spartacus nodded. ‘And you?’
‘Philocles, chief physician to Governor Quintus Dellius.’
The two studied each other in silence. One a man of war, the other a healer, but both covered in blood.
‘You speak Greek well.’
‘I was tutored in Hatra, which has many Greek scholars.’
‘Your father killed Romans and now you are doing the same.’
‘If the Romans did not invade Parthia I would not have to kill them.’
Philocles looked around at the pines. ‘This is Armenia, not Parthia. Perhaps it is you who desire to be a conqueror.’
‘The difference between me and Rome is that I shall be returning home rather than absorbing Armenia into my own kingdom.’
‘The Romans fear you, King Spartacus,’ Philocles told him, ‘they believe you are the reincarnation of your father who caused them so much distress.’
The thought pleased Spartacus. ‘When you get back to Cappadocia, tell them I will always be their enemy.’
‘Perhaps you are indeed your father returned to haunt them.’
‘I hope you reach Cappadocia safely, Greek.’
Those civilians who had fled into the trees during the battle were not so lucky. Spadines and the Aorsi conducted a sweep of the forest to gather up all the Roman fugitives who had fled from the column, collecting dozens of women with small children and infants, who would be taken back to Van to become slaves or sold in the slave markets. Spartacus told Spadines not to interfere with the carts carrying the Roman wounded west, which dumbfounded the Aorsi chief. But with a hoard of slaves to take back to Van and his prestige bolstered by his participation in a number of victories, he was happy to obey.
Spartacus rode south with half a dozen men, including Kuris, leaving Kian to follow with the rest of the soldiers. The Aorsi took a more leisurely journey back, having first stripped the Roman dead of weapons, armour and anything else of value and afterwards herding their captives back to Van.