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by Peter Darman

  The squires were manning the ramparts of the Duran camp, which contained the non-combatants, camels, mules, baggage train and siege engines. And all our supplies.

  The wings of our army had seemingly fled and the centre had collapsed in on itself to form what I hoped the enemy would believe to be a very vulnerable square of foot soldiers. All that was required was for Tiridates to take the bait.

  He duly obliged.

  Trumpets and horns sounded and the legions decreased in height as every legionary and centurion knelt down, the first rank forming a shield wall, the second and subsequent ranks forming a roof of leather and wood. The javelins of the first rank protruded through the gaps between shields to present a row of iron tips to deter any horsemen from getting too close.

  Thousands of enemy horse archers galloped forward to envelop our square, shooting arrows at the kneeling legionaries, the air thick with missiles and an ominous hissing sound as thousands of men took aim and shot their bows. Some arrows overshot the first-line centuries to strike those behind, but their members were also kneeling, protected by their shields, though I worried that such a deluge of arrows might literally shred the men’s shields.

  The hissing was loud and continual and from our vantage point in the middle of the square it appeared to grow in volume and intensity. Arrows at the end of their flight thudded into the ground around us but not among us. But then a new sound was added to the din of thousands of bowstrings launching missiles. While the sides of the square were assailed by thousands of horse archers, the Durans were attacked by Tiridates’ heavy horsemen – camel and horse cataphracts. It was the former that assaulted the legion first, their armoured riders gripping their long lances from their vantage point on a camel’s back and trying to skewer individual legionaries. But the Durans quickly fought back.

  Realising they were not under a deluge of arrows, whistles and trumpets sounded, accompanied by centurions bellowing, to order the legionaries back on their feet. The camel cataphracts jabbed and stabbed and killed some in the front ranks, but they were enveloped by a storm of javelins that knocked many out of their saddles. And then the scorpions began shooting.

  I had first encountered the machines in Italy when I had seen them tear holes in the ranks of Crixus’ Gauls, and had later equipped Dura’s legions with them. Like many things Romans, they were straightforward but effective. In appearance they looked like a large bow lying parallel to the ground on a wooden bolt carrier, the whole on a wooden stand. Just under the height of a man’s chest, the scorpion was actually a complex piece of equipment, the two arms that shot the two-foot-long iron-tipped bolt being pushed through ropes made of animal sinew, which are then twisted to create hugely powerful tension devices that push each arm forwards. The arms are then pulled back by means of a bowstring, the bolt is placed on the carrier and then the bowstring is released. The bolt has a range of around five hundred feet and can inflict horrible damage on densely packed groups of foot soldiers. Each century had one scorpion operated by two men and now the twenty-four centuries in the first line began shooting scorpion bolts into camel’s bodies. In skilled hands a scorpion could shoot three bolts a minute, and the operators in Dura’s army were very skilled.

  After five minutes the corpses of three hundred camels lay on the ground in front of the Durans, their riders unharmed but forced to retreat on foot. The camel cataphracts had killed and wounded at least a hundred legionaries, but now their dead camels formed a barrier over which those behind had to surmount before being able to get to grips with the Durans. The scorpions continued to shoot, ammunition being ferried from the second- and third-line cohorts to ensure they were able to continue striking enemy camels.

  Thus far my plan had worked to perfection. Tiridates had made a mistake launching his camel cataphracts against the Durans, the lumbering beasts presenting large targets to the scorpion crews. As the latter continued to shoot deadly bolts that went straight through the scale armour covering the camels, the enemy attack against the Durans began to peter out. On the sides of the square the Exiles and Romans were holding firm despite the hail of arrows they were being subjected to. Soon our own horse archers would be returning to the field to assault those peppering the legions in the rear.

  But then disaster struck.

  In the corner of the square where the Durans linked up with the Romans, a gap had developed. Insignificant at first but widening alarmingly as the Roman centuries instinctively gravitated towards their compatriots to the right. It was nobody’s fault. In the opposite corner there was a seamless continuity between the centuries of the Durans and those of the Exiles standing at right angles to them. Standing! It could only mean only thing: Sporaces was assaulting the rear of the enemy horse archers. I also noticed that the number of arrows being shot at the Exiles had diminished to insignificance. It was a similar story on the other side of the square. But it would count for nothing if the enemy broke into the square and ran riot.

  I saw banners in the endangered corner of the square, men in armour on horseback and long lances being held vertically – enemy cataphracts. Tiridates had been made aware of the weak spot in our defences and was throwing in his armoured horsemen to create a breach.

  I turned to Azad at the head of the cataphracts. ‘Sound charge!’

  I drew my sword and turned to Gallia. ‘You stay here.

  ‘No chance,’ came the reply.

  Trumpets blew behind me and within seconds a thousand cataphracts were cantering towards the gap, around four paces ahead. Azad joined me at the tip of the wedge, his head enclosed by a full-face helmet, kontus gripped with both hands on the right side of his fully armoured horse, its head and neck protected by armour and its eyes protected by metal grilles. The ground was shredded as a thousand horses thundered towards the gap now filling with enemy cataphracts that had prised apart the Durans and Romans. The Amazons had ridden ahead to shower the enemy with arrows, which had little effect as missiles glanced off men and horses encased in armour. One or two arrows struck faces and toppled riders, but the brief arrow storm temporarily stalled the enemy advance, companies halting to redress their lines, just as we hit them.

  It was not a clash of line against line but the Duran wedge smashing through one of the many gaps in the enemy line of cataphracts, Azad and myself leading the way. He thrust his kontus into the chest of a horse in front of him, the beast collapsing as the point and at least six feet of the shaft went into its body. Around us a hideous scraping sound filled the air as other kontus points were driven into flesh. A cataphract at speed is a fearsome killing machine; stationary he is vulnerable.

  Dozens were knocked from their saddles as Azad’s men drove through the enemy ranks, those riders who had skewered opponents with the kontus now slashing left and right with ukku blades. Azad pulled up his horse, leaned over to grab Horns’ reins and shouted at me, his voice muffled by his full-face helmet.

  ‘Turn around and withdraw, I don’t have time to babysit you.’

  They were harsh and seditious words and totally correct. I was in the midst of a developing mêlée involving hundreds of cataphracts, being armed with only a sword and bow. I nodded meekly, he tossed me the reins and I went to turn Horns. To be confronted by dozens of purple-clad lancers who were swarming forward to get to grips with the enemy cataphracts. Silani had added the weight of his Babylonians to the mêlée, the additional five hundred riders tipping the scales in our favour.

  His charge cut deeply into the ranks of the enemy, and though his lancers and their unarmoured horses were at a disadvantage against fully armoured riders and horses, their momentum was enough to make Tiridates order a withdrawal. Trumpets sounded retreat among the enemy cataphracts and Azad, his companies under tight control, did not order a pursuit. Within minutes the fighting had ceased as the enemy pulled back and Azad’s company commanders deployed their men into a long line to plug the gap between the Durans and Romans. Silani also pulled back his men, riding up and down their ranks with s
word in hand to urge they stay alert for the return of the enemy. But the enemy was falling back.

  I rode with Gallia to where Azad, helmet pushed on his head, his face beaded with sweat, was drinking greedily from a water bottle. His breathing was heavy and at first he just tipped his head at us, unable to speak.

  ‘You did well,’ I told him, ‘Tiridates has tried and failed to break us, and in the process has lost many men.’

  Silani rode up, composed and looking immaculate in his dragon-skin armour. He removed his helmet and bowed his head.

  ‘The enemy still has many mounted spearmen, majesty, which he may use to test us further.’

  ‘Not today, Silani,’ I told him, ‘he will retire, hopefully back to Babylon.’

  ‘And we will follow him,’ pledged Gallia.

  Great numbers of enemy horsemen were now withdrawing north, back to Babylon that lay some forty miles distant. There were still four hours of daylight left and with fresh horses Tiridates and the other kings might dine in the city’s palace tonight. We would share simpler fare but victory always made even the most basic food taste like ambrosia.

  The legionaries were all standing now, many cheering as centuries moved aside to allow Sporaces, Karys and their horse archers to enter our somewhat ragged, battered but still extant square. The plan had worked to perfection, our horse archers returning to the battlefield to attack their enemy counterparts from behind. Each horse archer had been equipped with three quivers – a total of ninety arrows – and the soldiers of Sporaces and Karys had used nearly all their missiles as they drenched the enemy with arrows. It had been a short, devastating assault that inflicted many casualties and stopped the enemy assault on the Exiles and Romans in its tracks and forced the withdrawal of Tiridates’ horse archers. The slain lay in heaps around the edges of the square: men, horses and camels intertwined to create grotesque tableaux of death. Already legionaries had been sent forward to finish off horribly wounded men and animals, and to strip the enemy dead of anything useful: weapons, helmets and armour. The beasts were also being butchered to provide fresh meat for the evening meal. The victors would eat well tonight.

  It was dusk before I arrived at my tent to shed my armour and change out of my sweat-drenched clothes. Everyone had been pulled back into camp, the Romans doing likewise, but I extended an invitation to Legate Dellius and Tribune Tullus to dine with Gallia and me and our commanders to celebrate our victory. With the coming of night, the northern horizon was filled with a red glow where the army of Tiridates was camped. His army was obviously in bad shape and needed time to repair itself, because otherwise he would have endeavoured to put as much distance between him and us as possible, knowing that contrary to accepted Parthian practice, the army of Dura did fight at night.

  But my soldiers and their horses also needed rest, and in any case I wanted to indulge their desire to celebrate their victory. Another silver disc would be added to the Staff of Victory and in the morning the advance on Babylon would recommence, the morale of the army sky high. I requested all my senior commanders attend their king and queen in my tent, but Alcaeus declined, stating he had his hands full attending to the wounded. Our losses numbered fifty dead and three times that wounded so the physicians and their orderlies of his corps would hardly be rushed off their feet. But he had learnt I had asked the Roman commanders to dine with us and I knew he disliked formal occasions, so I did not press the matter. He was also a Companion and I had no wish to clash with one of my oldest friends.

  Ironically, all notions of formality disappeared when Kalet and his son entered the tent, together with two of the former’s closest associates, both hardened desert lords who lived life to the full, and drank their own bodyweight in alcohol when given the opportunity.

  ‘Try not to offend our guests when they arrive,’ I cautioned them as they were served wine.

  ‘Don’t you worry about us, majesty,’ grinned Kalet, ‘and don’t you fret over our grievances. All is forgotten.’

  I sat at the table, frowning at my daughter who was already draped over the frame of Dalir, sipping at wine and waiting for our guests to arrive. Azad and Sporaces had brought their deputies, as had Zenobia, the shaven-headed Chrestus deep in conversation with Quintus Varsas. The new quartermaster general glanced around the table nervously, clearly feeling out of place among veteran commanders and his king and queen. But Gallia had greeted him warmly when he arrived, his white tunic pristine and the dagger awarded to graduates of the Sons of the Citadel in a sheath attached to his belt.

  The tent was warm, the wine was flowing and the conversation was lively, Kalet boasting that had he been allowed to attack the enemy with his lords, the head of Tiridates would now be decorating the outside of my tent. A declaration met by the others rapping their knuckles on the table, all except for Quintus who looked embarrassed. But the din ceased abruptly when the legate and his tribune were shown into the tent.

  Both stood in the entrance, helmets in hand, orderlies smiling and inviting them to take their place at the table, two seats being left vacant next to my own chair at the head of the table. The orderlies showed the legate to his place beside me, Tullus next to him and sitting beside Sporaces, a native of Dura who had no specific reason to dislike Romans, aside from having spent a good portion of his career trying to kill them in battle. All eyes followed the pair as they walked to their seats, Quintus Dellius suddenly raising his right arm in salute.

  ‘Hail to you, King Pacorus, whose victory today will be spoken of by generations to come. I salute you, my legion salutes you and all Rome, when it hears of what has occurred today, will salute you. To have divided your army into three separate sections in the face of a foe possessing overwhelming superiority and to still emerge victorious elevates you to the pantheon of the great warlords of history. You are, majesty, a military genius and a true son of Mars.’

  Dalir had been translating for his father and as soon as Kalet understood what the Roman had said, he sprang to his feet and raised his silver cup.

  ‘To the son of Mars,’ he roared before downing his wine.

  The others shouted their approval and also emptied their cups, calling for more wine, as I stood and beckoned the Romans to sit. Servants brought platters heaped with sizzling meats, bread and cheese, side dishes placed on the table containing pickled raisins, almonds, mustard and honey.

  ‘You are most generous, legate,’ I beamed, raising my cup to him.

  ‘You are most able, majesty,’ he replied, ‘I now realise how foolish Crassus and Mark Antony were in engaging you in battle.’

  Gallia snorted contemptuously on my other side but the legate did not hear, or at least pretended not to.

  ‘I could not help but notice, majesty,’ he continued, Tullus next to him gorging on meat, ‘that you wear Roman armour and helmet on the battlefield.

  ‘They were given to me by a dear friend many years ago, legate, a German named Castus who was one of Spartacus’ commanders in Italy.’

  ‘I see. I have to say, majesty, you are somewhat of an enigma. You dress like a Roman, your army has copies of Roman legionaries and fights like a Roman army. I am sure Octavian would welcome the services of a man who is more Roman than some Romans.’

  ‘A man who has been enslaved by Rome’ smiled Gallia, ‘will never crawl back to his former oppressors.’

  Dellius’ generous veneer did not crack as he lifted the cup to his lips.

  ‘Excellent wine, majesty.’

  I had to admit I liked him. I knew Gallia was an intractable enemy of the Romans but I had learnt long ago that to hate one’s enemies was to cloud one’s judgement. And so we engaged in polite conversation and I told him about my upbringing, my capture in Cappadocia, and my time with Spartacus and subsequent return to Parthia. He in turn informed me of his long association with Mark Antony and how he had deserted his friend on the eve of the Battle of Actium. Remorse was written all over his face as he stared into his wine.

  ‘They say I betra
yed my friend and they are right. But he was no longer the man I had known for over a decade. That bitch Cleopatra had corrupted his mind. You have heard of her?’

  ‘I have heard of her. She sent her assassins to kill one of my officers, an Egyptian who had fled to Dura in the aftermath of her seizing the throne. His father was an opponent of hers.’

  The corner of his mouth curled into a sneer.

  ‘She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen and the most poisonous. Her ambition was boundless. In Rome they think it was Mark Antony who wanted to rule the world, but in truth it was Cleopatra. It was she who forced him to divorce his wife and marry her. He was content to have her as a mistress but she wanted the world and everything in it.’

  He shot me a glance. ‘She abandoned him at Actium; did you know that?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘She made no secret she wanted me dead. Jealous of my closeness to Mark Antony, you see. Only she could possess him, and in the end her poison had killed any trace of the man I had once known. Have you ever been to Alexandria, majesty?’

  ‘Sadly, not.’

  ‘The biggest brothel in the world. It’s no wonder the Egyptian pharaohs came to an end, making such a cesspit of humanity their capital.’

  He gave me a bitter smile. ‘At least I will be able to return to Rome now your war is at an end.’

  But the war was not at an end, far from it.

  Chapter 13

  I woke with a throbbing head and at first thought the incessant banging was a result of too much wine the night before. But I was disabused of that notion when a guard interrupted my morning ablutions to inform me Chrestus was waiting for me in the tent’s reception area. I pulled on my boots, Gallia doing the same, and we left our bedroom to see the commander of Dura’s army pacing up and down, outside horns and trumpets sounding alarm. I could see something was wrong by the concerned look on his face but let him inform me anyway.