Peter Darman - Parthian Vengeance

I ran to the northern wall where the attack was heaviest, the air filled with screams and shouts as I neared the rampart. I had ordered Gallia to stay with Domitus, who with Kronos was organising reserves of legionaries to be deployed all round the inside of the perimeter, to the rear of the rampart, in case the enemy broke through. She ignored my order and led her Amazons behind me as I ran up the bank of earth to join those fighting on its summit. The area beyond the ditch was heaving with the enemy, many of whom had been felled by arrows before they reached the ditch. The latter was now choked with the twisted bodies of the dead and dying as archers around me poured volley after volley into the seemingly endless mass of hill men that stretched far into the distance.

Legionaries were holding their shields above the stakes on the rampart as the enemy archers on their stationary horses shot at us from a range of around four hundred paces. As more and more of our own horse archers came onto the wall parties of squires were ordered to fall back to bring more ammunition to the rampart.

I dumped my quiver on the floor and stood beside a legionary whose shield had been struck by two arrows. A squire beside me released his bowstring and then beamed with delight when he saw me.

‘We are holding them, majesty.’

‘You are doing well,’ I told him.

I bent down to pull an arrow from my quiver and heard a dull thud and then a groan, and turned to see an axe imbedded in the squire’s skull. He collapsed on the ground, dead.

Despite their furious efforts the enemy could not breach our defences because the ditch was too wide and they had no scaling ladders to climb up our wall of earth, so they brought forward those carrying light javelins and throwing axes and launched them at us, reinforced by the arrows of horse archers positioned to the rear. I gave the order for everyone on the wall to kneel to present a smaller target to the enemy as we had already lost too many squires, who wore no armour on their bodies or heads. More legionaries came to the wall and formed an unbroken wall of shields along its top, behind which we could shoot our own arrows at the enemy below. The hill men had suffered enormous casualties by now and their bloodlust was starting to abate, especially when the archers on the walls poured volley after volley against the javelin throwers standing just to the rear of the ditch. The latter, half-naked, were slaughtered and so the rest of the hill men withdrew into the night, leaving their dead behind them. The assault against the northern wall had failed.

I heard my name being called and saw Domitus standing behind the rampart with Kronos and Marcus. I slapped the shoulder of the legionary whose shield had protected us both and then walked down the earth slope.

‘The southern wall is being assaulted,’ said Domitus.

‘More hill men?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘These are professionals and they have killed quite a few of our men.’

‘They are standing behind shields the height of man,’ added Kronos, ‘and wear scale armour, helmets and mail face masks.’

‘Royal foot archers,’ I said. ‘How many?’

‘About two thousand,’ said Domitus. ‘Do you want me to send out some cohorts against them?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Marcus, this is a task for your shield piercers, I think.’

He nodded and scurried off.

‘I will get some of my men to assist him,’ said Kronos, saluting and then following Marcus.

‘Pull as many men off the wall as is safe,’ I called after him. ‘Don’t give them any easy victories.’

Gallia joined us as the bodies of two horse archers were carried from the wall.

‘I heard about your father,’ said Domitus. ‘I grieve for you.’

Gallia embraced me. ‘He was a great man, Pacorus. We will miss him.’

I had no time for grief, though, not with what was left of the army penned in camp and surrounded on all sides.

‘Where are the kings?’ I asked.

‘With their men,’ replied Domitus.

‘Go and see that the threat against the southern wall is dealt with. I will gather the kings so we can decide our plan for tomorrow.’

I pointed at Gallia.

‘You are with me.’

Domitus paced away as I began to walk towards the command tent. My father’s body had been placed in the tent that usually housed the griffin standard, which had been temporarily relocated to stand beside the Exiles’ lion.

‘Surena warned us about this,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘That we were walking into trap. Narses has out-foxed us once again.’

‘What will you do now?’

I shrugged. ‘That will be for Orodes to decide.’

‘And how are you, Pacorus?’

I stopped and faced her. ‘My father is dead, our army is half-beaten and the enemy appears as strong as when we first engaged them yesterday. I cannot believe it has come to this.’

Her expression hardened. ‘You must remain strong. We can still achieve victory.’

‘You really think so?’

‘I have never doubted it.’

Fortified by my wife’s certainty that we would emerge victorious I decided to conduct a tour of the camp before I met the kings, which unfortunately served only to dampen my spirits once more. In the hospital Alcaeus and his medical staff were working tirelessly to stitch wounds, bind broken limbs and extract arrows from flesh. Gallia went among the wounded and tried to comfort them with soft words. We came across one of the injured, a squire lying in a cot, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped round his stomach.

‘Javelin in the stomach,’ remarked Alcaeus. ‘He won’t see the dawn.’

This boy had barely begun his life and now it was to end in a few hours, far away from his family, alone and in pain.

‘No,’ said Alcaeus, ‘not in pain. He has been given morphe to ease his journey.’

On the royal estates in Dura Alcaeus oversaw the cultivation of herbs and flowers to make medicines for his corps. The most remarkable was the milky liquid of the unripe fruit of the green poppy. Mixed with wine it produced a drink that could take away pain, the liquid being named after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams and sleep. It had the power to numb even the most severe pain and could also be used to hasten the end of those who would not survive their wounds. It was so now as Gallia knelt beside the cot and gently stroked the face of the youth with the far-away stare, taking his hand in hers while I stood with Alcaeus watching the scene.

‘It will not be long now,’ he said softly as Gallia spoke to the boy.

‘How many squires have you treated?’

‘Dozens,’ he replied, ‘most with arrow or javelin wounds.’

‘They saved the camp. One day bards will write about how a few boys held off an army of barbarians with their bows.’

‘Let us hope we all live to see that day.’

Gallia, pale and downcast, came to us. ‘He’s gone.’

Alcaeus signalled to one of his orderlies to take the body to where the others were laid out in neat rows behind the hospital, nodded to us both and continued with his duties. The low moans and occasional screams added to the overall frightfulness of the scene and though I thanked Shamash for Alcaeus and his healers, I was glad to leave them.

In contrast I was delighted to see Domitus two hours later when he informed me that Marcus and his ballista had forced the enemy’s royal archers to retreat, the latter having discovered to their cost that their shields offered no protection against his ‘shield piercers’. With their retreat the enemy’s assault against the camp finally ceased. It was now two hours past midnight and still the kings had yet to meet. Dawn was four hours away.

We finally gathered in my tent half an hour later, all of us tired, dirty, unshaven and listless. None of us had slept much over the last two days and now we faced yet another day of combat. Even Domitus appeared drained. We drank water out of fear that consuming wine would induce sleep, chewing on salted mutton and hard biscuit as we considered our parlous position. Only Marcus appeared jovial, once again delighted that his machines had exceeded all expectations.