by Peter Darman
The rampart had held.
I stood and summoned runners – squires – from the bottom of the rear of the rampart, sending them to the other sides of the camp to bring back reports on casualties and the state of our defences. Everyone was standing now, legionaries removing arrows from their shields and archers calling for fresh quivers. I uncorked my water bottle and took a swig. Just one. I had no idea how long the enemy siege would last. Gallia did likewise, speaking to Zenobia who went along the line checking on the Amazons. A few wounded men were being assisted from the ramparts, a tiny number of dead also being hauled away. Outside the camp the hill men had retreated out of arrow range and the horse archers had also pulled back. The ground was littered with enemy dead and dying, the air filled with low groans coming from men whose lifeblood was watering the earth, or were drowning in their own blood after their necks and lungs had been pierced by our missiles.
Gallia sidled up to me. ‘That was easy enough.’
‘It will be the better-trained foot soldiers next, and they will be supported from the off by horse archers.’
She pointed at the stand of banners opposite the camp’s main entrance, in front of which was what I assumed were Tiridates and his fellow rebel leaders.
‘You should send out a column of cataphracts to kill them. Cut off the head and a snake dies.’
‘Tempting,’ I admitted, ‘but as soon as any force left camp they would withdraw rapidly. Besides, there is no time.’
Fresh trumpet blasts announced the advance of the spearmen of Persis. Squires brought fresh quivers to the ramparts and fresh centuries replaced those that had withstood the attack of the hill men. That assault had been disorganised and launched against three sides of the camp, the side that faced the river being as yet unmolested. The attack of the spearmen would be more measured. There were three blocks of spearmen, the one approaching the eastern side of the camp having a front rank containing around a hundred men, with an additional fifty ranks behind it – five thousand men. They marched in step, directed towards a section of the defences away from the eastern entrance, files of horse archers flanking them, ready to saturate the ramparts with arrows and keep the heads of our own archers down. Tiridates knew what he was doing, I gave him that.
The horse archers began riding forward, the head of each file shooting arrows before wheeling right and right again to take him back to the rear of his file, each one numbering fifty or so riders.
‘Arrows!’
The call went up again and as before each archer knelt between two legionaries. The volleys were not striking the whole rampart, only that part of it the spearmen would assault once they had crossed the ditch, but they prevented our own archers directly opposite the phalanx from shooting back. It was a clever tactic, but as I knelt on the earth bank, the occasional arrow hitting one of the shields held above my own and the heads of their owners, I smiled to myself.
I heard the distinctive loud cracks of scorpions shooting, some of the thirty bolt throwers that had been assigned to each side of the ramparts. The bolts were being targeted at the block of spearmen, or rather their flank protection of horse archers. Shooting two bolts a minute, the enemy was struck by a hundred bolts in two minutes, the iron-tipped missiles skewering horses and riders alike. Horses, hideously wounded, reared up in alarm and bolted in all directions, some careering into the phalanx and scattering spearmen. The scorpions momentarily halted the great phalanx, though whether they did the same to the enemy blocks that were assaulting the northern and southern sides of the camp I could not say. But as their crews continued to operate the machines, the enemy horse archers that had been peppering us with arrows ceased their shooting.
‘Archers,’ I called, the two legionaries beside me standing and resting their shields on the rampart to allow me to shoot.
Around me Amazons and Sporaces’ men loosed volley after volley at the front rank of the phalanx, three-winged bronze arrowheads striking shields, faces and legs. Screaming men, hit in the face, collapsed, others suffering dreadful wounds to their shins as arrows struck limbs without the protection of greaves. Out of the corner of my eye I saw masses of enemy horse archers riding forward to shoot at the scorpions to shut them down, which was achieved, their crews huddling under shields as we had done.
I emptied a quiver – thirty arrows – in a frantic five minutes of shooting. My aim was not perfect and perhaps the majority of my arrows struck shields rather than flesh. But the sheer volume of missiles directed at the front of the phalanx killed and wounded enough men to create a wall of bodies a mere twenty paces or so from the ditch, a barrier the spearmen of Persis could not or would not cross. Slowly, they began to edge backwards, keeping their shields facing us, their heads down and crouching low to present as small a target as possible. We were forced once again to take shelter under a scutum roof when the horse archers that had been protecting the spearmen recommenced shooting at the sector of the rampart that had been the target of the phalanx. But their volleys were no longer supporting an assault but covering a withdrawal.
Tiridates’ second attack had failed.
I stood, panting and unable to cheer, my quiver empty and my lungs on fire. It had been a long time since I had shot so many arrows in so short a space of time and my body was complaining about it. I looked at my bow, fashioned all those years ago in Italy.
‘At least you can still perform at the same levels, old friend.’
I uncorked my water bottle and drank the liquid, which tasted like nectar, being careful not to drink too much for fear of getting cramps. Gallia came to me and we embraced warmly, not as king and queen but as two people glad to have survived a battle.
‘You think they will return?’ she asked.
I looked up at the grey sky, which was darkening. At this time of year there was ten hours of daylight and around eight had already passed. In the gathering gloom it would have been possible to launch another attack, but to do so would entail men and horses having to traverse ground strewn with dead men and horses.
‘They will not return today.’
Tired men were stood down as dusk descended, the sun a pale red ball dropping rapidly in the west. After the tension of battle, limbs that had seemed as light as a feather suddenly ached and became dead weights as muscles relaxed and craved rest. For me it was worse than for men in their twenties and in their prime. Gallia made a good show of pretence but she too was feeling drained as she struggled to remove her mail armour in our tent. I helped her and she helped me removed my leather cuirass, both of us welcoming bowls of hot porridge served by orderlies. Chrestus made an appearance when we had restored some of our physical reserves, looking remarkably fresh after a day of exertions. He gave us a report on casualties, which were light to the point of insignificance, and then suggested a new strategy for the morrow.
‘Standing on the ramparts is all very well, majesty, but we need to take the fight to the enemy.’
I poured him some wine and told him to take the weight off his feet.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘An attack on their camp tonight,’ he answered.
‘Surely the men are tired?’ said Gallia.
‘A hot meal does wonders to restore the constitution,’ he said. ‘Besides, the enemy will not be expecting us and if we get into their camp, we can inflict many casualties. You need to decide now, majesty.’
‘The Exiles and Durans have been fighting on the ramparts all day,’ I said, ‘even good soldiers in their prime need rest, Chrestus.’
‘They won’t be attacking the enemy camp, lord.’
‘Oh?’
‘It will be Kalet and his men.’
‘Kalet?’ Gallia was not impressed.
‘It was his idea, majesty,’ said Chrestus. ‘He believes he and his men can reach the enemy camp unnoticed, slit many throats and disappear into the night unseen.’
‘You support this idea?’ I queried.
He nodded. ‘I do. Even if it fails, it will
throw the enemy off balance and make our task easier tomorrow.’
I looked at Gallia, who shrugged. ‘Might be worth a try.’
An hour later, I stood with Chrestus at the eastern entrance to the camp where Kalet and his men had assembled. All of them were dressed in either black or brown robes, their heads and half their faces covered with shemaghs. At least they would be difficult to spot in the darkness. They would travel on foot, moving silently across the ground to reach the enemy. Their weapons included knives, swords and axes hanging from or tucked into their belts, plus recurve bows slung over their shoulders and one quiver of arrows per man. Arrows were packed tightly in quivers to prevent them rattling on the journey.
‘Try not to get yourself killed,’ I told Kalet.
He gave me a mischievous grin. ‘Nice to know you care about me so much, lord.’
I looked at the horde of men behind him, some of whom were boys and even women. Such was the composition of the fighting force gathered by Kalet to support his king, though I often wondered whether he and the other lords really viewed me not as their liege lord but rather a warlord whose many campaigns over the years had given them the chance to collect loot.
‘This is a very risky operation,’ I told him.
He blocked one of his nostrils with a finger and blew phlegm out of the other.
‘It’s just like a large raid to steal horses,’ he declared nonchalantly.
‘I thought your activities against the Agraci ceased years ago.’
He pulled out his knife in its sheath and examined its blade.
‘The Agraci are our allies but there’s plenty of rich pickings to be had in Syria. You should join us sometime.’
‘I am not a horse thief.’
He slipped the dagger back in the sheath. ‘In my experience, kings are the biggest thieves in this world, second only to your Roman friends.’
‘They are not my friends, Kalet,’ I told him.
‘Just temporary allies,’ said Gallia.
He pulled back his bowstring to test the sinew. ‘Seems strange fighting beside them after we spent years fighting against them. How did they get on today?’
As soon as the battle had ended I sent a courier to Legate Dellius enquiring as to the state of his legion. He sent a very polite note back stating the enemy had not breached his defences and that his slingers and scorpions had proved very effective against the foe. He looked forward to meeting with me the next morning to discuss future strategy.
‘Their camp remains untouched. If you are caught in the open, I will not be able to save you, Kalet. I cannot risk losing men in the confusion of a night battle.’
He was unconcerned. ‘We are used to operating at night, and even without horses we can evade an enemy if need be.’
I held out my arm and he clasped my forearm.
‘May the gods smile on you.’
He placed a finger and thumb in his mouth and whistled.
‘Let’s move.’
He smiled at Gallia, who suddenly grabbed one of the black-robed individuals behind him and removed his shemagh. ‘He’ turned out to be a she, Eszter to be precise. She had covered her face well and with her dark brown eyes and dark complexion she could easily be mistaken for a desert dweller. Dalir hung back as Kalet’s men filed out of camp, the red glow in the distance showing the location of Tiridates’ camp.
‘You will stay here,’ said Gallia firmly, glaring at Dalir. ‘And you will concentrate on killing the enemy. Of you go.’
He looked at her, at me and trudged away, a furious Eszter standing beside her mother with fists clenched.
‘You embarrassed me in front of Dalir, mother.’
I pointed towards the enemy camp on the red horizon.
‘There are one hundred thousand enemy soldiers out there, Eszter, and I have no desire to lose you to one of them.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped, ‘Dalir would have protected me. Besides, I know how to use a bow.’
‘How many arrows in your quiver?’ I asked.
‘Thirty, of course.’
She was nodding and smiling at individuals trooping out of camp, associates of either Dalir or Kalet. I realised she had spent too long in the desert rather than at Dura. I would rectify that after the campaign was over. I called over Chrestus.
‘Please have my daughter escorted to our tent, general, and see to it she stays there until Kalet returns.’
She gave me a fierce glare and stormed off, Chrestus ordering two legionaries to escort her.
‘I blame myself,’ I said. ‘She was given too much free rein as a child.’
‘Then let’s encourage her marriage to Dalir. You approve of him, do you not?’
I shrugged. ‘I would have liked a prince but the chances of Eszter marrying the son of a king are almost non-existent, especially after the scandal at Sigal. Knowing my luck, Dalir will get himself killed tonight.’
But he did not. In fact, Kalet lost no one because when he and his warriors arrived at the enemy camp they found it empty. Or rather, there was a myriad of campfires but no tents. Tiridates had created a vast deception that had fooled us totally.
‘Bastards must have run away as soon as they quit the battlefield.’
Kalet, tired, cold and irritable, his eyes black ringed, sat in our tent as the cold light of dawn was breaking in the east. I ordered hot porridge to be brought.
‘And wine,’ he called to the orderly.
‘At this hour?’ I said.
‘I haven’t been to sleep yet,’ he complained, ‘so it’s still night for me.’
I drew my cloak around me. It had been a bitterly cold night and the morning threatened to be both bleak and cool.
‘Why would Tiridates retreat?’ said Gallia. ‘He had us pinned against the river and outnumbered us by at least four to one.’
‘What sort of king runs away?’ asked Kalet, his eyes lighting up when handed a bowl of hot porridge and a cup of warm wine. ‘It took us an hour of walking to reach his camp, all for nothing.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, it must have been galling for you. Still, at least you did not lose anyone.’
Kalet slurped at his wine and shovelled porridge into his mouth with his fingers. I sighed as I observed my daughter’s future father-in-law.
‘There are two reasons why Tiridates would have retreated,’ I said. ‘Either he decided that he did not want to waste any more of his soldiers’ lives on fruitless attacks against our camps, or he has been compelled to withdraw.’
‘Compelled by who?’ asked Kalet, spitting out bits of porridge as he spoke.
Chapter 14
I sent Talib and his scouts north to follow the enemy, Chrestus ordering the army to quit camp and prepare to march. As the legions filed out of camp, Karys and Legate Dellius leading the Romans and soldiers from Mesene out of their own camp to join Dura’s soldiers, I sat on Horns and watched the cremation of our own dead. Gallia was beside me as the wood harvested from the date palms growing beside the river ignited to consume the dead wrapped in white sheets. Yesterday they had been young men in their prime but now they were lifeless corpses, their souls in the care of Shamash. The fire crackled and spat as the flames grew in height and intensity to burn the bodies of those who would never see their families or friends again. They had fought and died for me and the least I could do was pay my respects as they were cremated.
For the thousands of enemy dead there was no dignified end, just the horror of being eaten by ravens, vultures and hyenas. Because it was cool the rotting corpses would remain on the ground for days, perhaps weeks, until they were picked clean by scavengers. Thereafter their bones would scar the landscape for months, being bleached by the sun before being eventually covered by shifting sands to finally erase all traces of the bloodbath that had taken place.
Gallia beside me coughed. The wind had changed to blow the sickly sweet smell of cooking human flesh into our faces.
‘I will never get used to that smell.’
‘It is a curious thing,’ I said. ‘After all the battles we have taken part in, and all the dreadful aftermaths we have witnessed, there is still a part of us that is revolted by the killing and suffering of war.’
‘That is what makes us civilised, Pacorus, unlike barbarians who live to inflict war and suffering on other peoples.’
It was odd. Normally she would use any excuse to criticise the Romans but now she merely referred to ‘barbarians’. I wondered if she was softening with age. I rubbed my aching leg. My body was certainly softening as the years advanced.
The flames were roaring now, heating our faces even though we were thirty or more paces from the pyre.
I nodded at the raging inferno. ‘Do you think they will be waiting for me, when I die, I mean?’
‘Who?’
‘The dead. All those killed at my hands or as a result of my orders. Thousands upon thousands of them. Perhaps they wait for me, all of them.’
‘You have only killed those who have tried to kill you,’ she tried to reassure me. ‘You have never used Dura’s army as an instrument of aggression. The underworld is reserved for individuals such as Mithridates, Chosroes, Crassus and Tiridates.’
I turned my gaze away from the flames. ‘Crassus?’
‘The greediest man ever to have lived,’ she sneered. ‘He was responsible for the deaths of Spartacus and Claudia, for thousands in the Silarus Valley and the thousands more nailed to crosses to satisfy his avarice for human blood. Even as we sit here the gods of the underworld are torturing his flesh and mind.’
That was Gallia: unyielding. Everything in her world was black or white, with nothing in between. Not softening at all, then.
‘I never developed your taste for holding grudges,’ I teased her.
‘That is because you have never known real hardship,’ she shot back, the fire still hissing like an angry viper.
‘May I remind you that we met in Italy when I was a slave.’