Amazon

by Peter Darman

  Cataphracts drew their swords and slashed at any targets within reach, Hatra’s armoured horsemen doing murder with their ukku blades and Spartacus’ King’s Guard severing the arms and legs of any hapless enemy horse archers within range.

  Horns stumbled as his legs got caught on the carcass of a dead horse. I turned him left to steer him around the dead animal killed by a kontus, only for him to rear up on his hind legs as two enemy soldiers fell from their saddles in front of him, pierced by arrows. The missiles of the Amazons and Vipers were adding to the barrier before us, reducing the chances of us breaking through to our troops to almost zero. But it was not a one-way shooting match.

  Tiridates’ mounted archers, bloodied and battered, began shooting back. An Amazon squealed on my right and was toppled from her saddle; another was struck in the face and fell to the ground, dead. Azad, having stayed close to his king and queen, shoved up his helmet and ordered a score of his men to protect us. Prince Pacorus did the same with Gafarn and Diana and soon all thoughts of breaking through to our own troops were forgotten as cataphracts formed a wall of armour against enemy archers. I saw Gafarn and Diana shooting their bows and decided to join them, ramming my sword back in its sheath before pulling my own bow from the case attached to my saddle.

  There were rich pickings, enemy horse archers, all without any armour, milling around beyond the ring of cataphracts defending us. Horns was now stationary so aiming was easy. I shot an arrow that struck a horse archer from Yueh-Chih, his red tunic and leggings aiding aiming immensely. I shot another six of his comrades in quick succession but it seemed to make no difference to the number of enemy horsemen around us. I heard Gallia screaming in frustration. Her daughter was beyond her help and perhaps even dead. The same might be said for the whole army. Our arrows were achieving a great cull but were building a wall of dead men and horseflesh around us. Above us the gods must have been howling with derision.

  The arrow storm abated as men ran out of ammunition and went about their grisly task with swords, the cataphracts also trying to kill their foes with axes and maces. But the twisted, broken, lacerated corpses of men and horses on the ground all around made the task difficult. My quiver was empty and by the look of frustration on Gallia’s face so was hers. I thanked Shamash she was unhurt but a fair number of the Amazons were dead. Zenobia was wounded, an arrow having struck her left leg, though mercifully it had glanced off her leggings to only cut the material and the surface of her skin. But the area around the wound was turning red.

  I nudged Horns so he was adjacent to her horse.

  ‘I need to take some of your arrows,’ I said.

  She still held my griffin banner and as a result had not shot any arrows. I grabbed a handful of the shafts and slipped them into my quiver.

  ‘Lord!’ she said in alarm, her eyes widening.

  I turned to see a cataphract, his back to me, suddenly stiffen in the saddle before a bloody kontus point burst out of his back. I stared in horror as other Durans were knocked from their saddles before signallers sounded the alarm. And then I saw the banners – the tongues of flame of Yueh-Chih, the deer of Aria, the winged horse of Drangiana and the snow leopard of Anauon – and knew that Tiridates and the other kings had come in person to kill us.

  They must have ridden from behind their centre, right around the swirling mass of duelling horse archers, to strike us as we tried to batter our way through to our friends and allies. I remember Talib telling me he had seen cataphracts behind the enemy’s foot soldiers and here they were, skewering hapless men stationary on their horses.

  ‘Strike their faces.’

  I heard Gallia’s voice and saw her stringing an arrow in her bowstring and then shoot it at the man who had just killed the cataphract behind me. Like most cataphracts in the empire, but unlike Dura’s, they wore open-faced helmets and that was their Achilles’ heel. Gallia must also have snatched a few arrows from Zenobia because the Amazons had few arrows between them. But they made them count as they took careful aim and shot missiles into the faces of the enemy, arrowheads shattering noses and penetrating eye sockets to reap a deadly harvest. And then I saw him.

  He looked tall in the saddle, his long face framed by a beautiful burnished helmet with a white horsehair crest, beneath which showed his shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. A scale-armour cuirass of polished steel plates protected his torso and in his right hand he carried a long, curved sword. Tiridates looked every inch the king and was surrounded by a phalanx of cataphracts. Gallia saw him too and loosed an arrow in his direction, squealing in frustration when the King of Aria moved and the arrow went into the right eye socket of his banner man. Tiridates spun in the saddle when he saw his standard bearer fall, then faced the front, his eyes settling on me.

  ‘He’s mine,’ he shouted, yelling at his horse to move forward.

  I accepted the challenge, Horns threading his way past a dead horse and a corpse face-down in the dirt. Around us the cataphracts of Dura and Hatra were locked in mortal combat with their counterparts from Aria, Susiana and Drangiana. Susiana! Its satrap was another traitor to add to the lengthening list.

  Tiridates’ long arms were suited to wielding a sword and when we closed on each other he swung the blade at me in a series of scything movements that I had difficulty in deflecting. He was younger and stronger than me and I was soon desperately trying to deflect and avoid his sword that was like a silver blur in the air. He thrust the point at my thigh and would have pierced my flesh had I not hacked down with my spatha at the last moment. He whipped back his sword and attempted a downward strike against my head, which I blocked, the edges of the two blades striking each other. I in turn tried to take the fight to him, feinting the point of the spatha into his face to cause him to brush my blade sideways, but deflecting him from my real target: his sword arm. As he attempted to parry my sword to his left, I had already pulled back the blade to flick it with my wrist to slash his right forearm, only nicking his flesh. He growled in contempt as he came at me with a series of lightning-fast sideways and overhead strikes that I had difficulty in defeating. The mêlée around us disappeared as I realised with horror the injury had had no effect on his stamina or speed, whereas my own reserves of energy were being rapidly depleted. He sensed it too as we moved our horses around each other to gain an advantage. He triumphed when Horns stumbled on something on the ground, causing me to drop my guard for an instant, which was all he needed to cut down with his sword to gash my right hand, knocking the spatha out of my hand.

  I was defenceless and could do nothing to stop the deathblow I knew was coming. But nothing happened as Tiridates turned his horse and rode away. His cataphracts followed him, and I saw the banners of the other kings disappearing and wondered if Claudia had appeared to cast some sort of spell to drive them away.

  It was not a spell but the King of Elymais.

  Silaces had come to our aid and in the process had saved our lives and the Parthian Empire. He may have been older than me but he rode at the head of thousands of his soldiers, his four-pointed star banner billowing behind him as his bodyguard charged directly at the enemy cataphracts. They were bareheaded save for red headbands and their leather back and breast plates were a poor second to cataphract scale armour. But there were several thousand of them and they were supported by thousands more horse archers. I raised my arms and cheered with gusto as my old friend’s horsemen smashed into the rear of the fleeing cataphracts, Silaces’ horse archers shooting their arrows over the heads of his bodyguard.

  The flight of the enemy kings sparked a general rout of the enemy army as men saw the banners of their lords fleeing. Tiridates’ army scattered in all direction and had we the energy we would have pursued them. As it was, our own cataphracts, plus the surviving Amazons, King’s Guard, Vipers and medium horsemen of Gordyene, were content to thank the gods they still lived. The ring of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard around Gafarn and Diana had held, though a good number of Prince Pacorus’ men lay dead on th
e ground. I looked at Gallia and smiled wearily; she returned the gesture and rode over to me. She saw my wounded hand.

  ‘You are hurt.’

  I eased myself out of the saddle to retrieve my sword. My whole body ached like fury and the old leg wound was on fire, making me wince when I put any weight on it.

  ‘It’s nothing, though I may need assistance to get back in the saddle. Thank the gods for Silaces.’

  She removed her helmet and took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, thank the gods.’

  It took two Amazons to assist me back into the saddle, one placing her hands on my buttocks to propel me upwards.

  ‘Apologies, majesty.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ smiled Gallia, ‘it is not your fault the king is old and infirm.’

  It was good to see her smile but in truth there was little to provide mirth on this field of dead flesh. I had seen the face of battle on many occasions but this fight before the hallowed walls of Ctesiphon had been a bloodbath. As far as the eye could see the ground was covered with dead and dying horses and camels, some looking like pin cushions so many arrows were stuck in them, and human corpses, thousands of dead men with glazed eyes and cold flesh. Among them were spear shafts standing vertical, having been thrust into the earth, arrows lay thickly on the ground, tens of thousands of them. Already a stream of wounded men was making its way back to camp to receive treatment from Alcaeus and his orderlies. I called Azad to me.

  The commander of my cataphracts looked like he had been in a one-man war. He had been struck by several arrows that had knocked off several plates of his scale armour, the thick hide beneath saving his flesh from being pierced. His helmet was badly dented from what looked like a mace strike, fortunately the weapon failing to pierce the steel. I thanked Arsam for the skill of his armourers.

  ‘Go and find Chrestus,’ I told him, ‘if he still lives. And Sporaces, too. Take a company with you, just in case there are groups of enemy horsemen nearby.’

  He looked at his helmet. ‘That was the hardest fight I have been in. I thought we were finished when those cataphracts hit us. The gods have been good to us this day.’

  He bowed his head, turned his tired horse and barked a command to one of his company commanders to follow him with his men.

  ‘Pacorus.’

  I heard Gallia’s voice and turned to see her pointing at a group of riders cantering towards us. Their blue tunics and white leggings identified them as being from Elymais so no one reached for bows or swords. But as they drew near I looked at Gallia and the concern in her eyes confirmed what I feared. Silaces himself would have ridden to greet us if he could have. The fact he was not here meant only one thing.

  The officer pulled up his horse and bowed his head. ‘Greetings, majesty, King Silaces has been wounded. He requests your presence.’

  My heart sank and I wilted in the saddle. The officer’s face told me Silaces had been grievously wounded.

  ‘Lead on,’ I said.

  Gallia and a score of Amazons came with me, a party of Hatra’s cataphracts following with Gafarn and Diana at their head. The news of Silaces’ injury must have reached my friends as well. After half a mile of riding northwest towards the bridge across the Tigris, we came across a large group of dismounted horsemen, upwards of five hundred, the banner of Elymais being held by a standard bearer in the centre of the throng.

  ‘Let us through,’ bellowed the officer who had brought the sad news to me.

  The moment I saw Silaces I knew he was dying. I forgot about my own aches and pains to vault from the saddle and kneel beside him. His senior officers had fashioned a headrest from two rolled-up cloaks and had bandaged his belly wound, which looked as though it had been inflicted by a kontus. Blood was already seeping through the bandage and the king’s face was ashen. His eyes lit up when he saw me, my own filling with tears as I beheld my broken friend.

  ‘I am sorry, Pacorus,’ he said faintly, ‘sorry for not coming sooner.’

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for, my friend,’ I told him, my voice breaking with emotion. ‘You have brought us victory when we had been facing certain defeat.’

  A spasm of pain shot through his body and he gripped my hand tightly.

  ‘You remember your promise, to look after Cia?’

  ‘I will honour it, my friend, I swear by all that is holy.’

  That seemed to please him. His face was calm and his breathing regular, albeit shallow.

  ‘Make sure that little bastard Phraates does not rob my son of his birth right.’

  ‘I will.’

  Gallia stood nearby with a distraught Gafarn and Diana, Prince Pacorus removing his helmet and bowing his head in respect at the passing of a great king, friend and warlord. Silaces was a piece of Parthian history, a man who had fought beside the great Surena, a man who had been rewarded by Orodes for his courage and loyalty with his own kingdom. He had ruled Elymais well, being a fair and just king despite his gruff nature and frequent outbursts.

  ‘It should have been you, Pacorus,’ his voice was growing fainter.

  ‘What was that, my friend?’

  ‘You should have been high king, not Phraates. Much blood would have been saved if you had taken the high crown. It doesn’t matter now.’

  His eyelids were closing.

  ‘Stay with me,’ I pleaded.

  A faint smile creased his lips. ‘I will see you again, my friend. We will be waiting for you, all of us. Tell Cia I loved her.’

  They were his final words. His eyes closed, his breathing stopped and his grip on my hand was gone. Diana came forward and placed her hands on my shoulders to comfort me. Spartacus and Rasha arrived in a cloud of dirt as their horses careered to a halt and they vaulted from their saddles, too late to bid farewell to a man who had been a great servant of Gordyene in the past. There was genuine distress in Spartacus’ eyes as he knelt beside the body, his wife’s eyes filling with tears, her head cast down. Around us the soldiers of Elymais stood in abject misery. We had won a great victory but were in the pit of despair.

  Chapter 16

  It took three days to cremate the dead. Intelligence collected from prisoners, of which there were many, revealed Tiridates had fielded over one hundred thousand troops against us. Added to our own numbers, there had been one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers trying to butcher each other before the walls of Ctesiphon. Even the gods’ seemingly insatiable appetite for mortal blood must have been sated for a while. Eszter lived, though her expensive horse had been killed from under her during the battle. Her beloved Dalir also survived the bloodletting, though a few of his men had been killed. Kalet emerged without a scratch on him. He had the luck of a demon, though a good few of his friends had fallen. Ironically, when the horde of horse archers had flooded from Ctesiphon to envelop our army, its massed volleys of arrows cut down Tiridates’ mounted spearmen when they closed on our flanks, as well as our own riders. It was the same on the right wing where Hatra’s horse archers had fared better than expected.

  But those who had fought to restore Phraates had still suffered one in ten dead or wounded, Alcaeus and his medical staff being deluged with a small army of injured that pushed them to breaking point. To alleviate the crisis, I organised the walking wounded to be treated in Ctesiphon itself, which had dozens of slaves, temple slaves and its own physicians who could clean and bandage cuts and treat broken wrists and ankles. Or at least they could if the wounded were allowed into the palace complex.

  Chrestus, who happily survived the battle along with Sporaces, sent me an urgent note to come to the entrance to the sprawling residence of the high king. The gates were open when I arrived with Gallia, a long line of walking wounded, tired, weak and in need of urgent medical attention, stood behind the commander of Dura’s army as he paced up and down in front of a small group of white-robed priests. At their head was Timo, his round, piggy eyes regarding Chrestus with barely concealed contempt as he barred his entry to Ctesiphon. The general was
not alone, a century of Exiles standing in closed order to one side, but the high priest was not intimidated. I eased myself from the saddle and paced over to him, Chrestus fit to burst with anger.

  ‘King Pacorus,’ Timo’s tone was haughty, contemptuous even.

  I jerked a thumb behind me. ‘These men need medical attention.’

  ‘This is the residence of the king of kings of the Parthian Empire, King Pacorus, not a hospital.’

  ‘Then fetch the high king,’ said an angry Gallia, ‘and let us speak to someone who has authority to treat with monarchs.’

  Timo smiled and bowed his head to her. ‘Queen Gallia, I am glad to see you alive and well. Alas, the high king is not here. In his absence I have full authority to speak in his name.’

  ‘And what name is that, Timo?’ I demanded. ‘It is Tiridates or have you gone back to serving Phraates? How quick your allegiances seem to shift.’

  The priests behind him glared at me but Timo was used to duelling with words.

  ‘I serve the gods who elevate individuals to the high throne, King Pacorus. I am the bridge between mortals and the immortals. I serve both the gods and the empire. But I must remind you we priests pledge our lives to the gods, not to mortal men.’

  ‘How convenient,’ sneered Gallia.

  ‘These men need treatment and Ctesiphon houses many slaves that can tend to them.’ I nodded to the century of Exiles. ‘I can take Ctesiphon by force if need be.’

  ‘The gods are watching your every move, King Pacorus,’ he replied tersely. ‘I would advise doing anything rash.’

  I was going to order Chrestus to take possession of the gates and the huge gatehouse around them when I heard horses’ hooves and turned to see Spartacus and Rasha arrive, both vaulting from the saddle to pace over. Behind them were the loathsome Shamshir and a party of his King’s Guard looking magnificent in their red cloaks, newly returned from where I did not know. The King of Gordyene smiled at Gallia and gave me a curt nod. He also glanced at the hundreds of wounded men, among them some of his own, wilting under a warm sun.