Peter Darman - Parthian Vengeance

She was unconvinced. ‘More time for what? If more hill men return then my Amazons and a few hundred demoralised Babylonians will not be able to stop them. I would prefer to fight by your side today.’

She looked at me with sad eyes. ‘In case we do not see each other again.’

I grabbed her shoulders. ‘Do not think such thoughts. Thinking them may make them come true. Think instead of Narses skewered on the end of my lance.’

She handed me my helmet. ‘A pleasing enough thought. Just ensure you are not hurt yourself.’

I tried to ruffle the battered crest on my helmet, to no avail. ‘That is in the hands of Shamash.’

She shook her head. ‘You and your gods. There are so many of them with so many names, but I have often thought that perhaps there is only one, like Aaron’s people believe.’

I looked aghast at her. ‘Only one god?’

She shrugged. ‘Shamash is your lord of the sun, but the Gauls also have a god of the sun called Lugus. I wonder how many other peoples have a name for the sun god? But there is only one sun, so perhaps there is only one god.’

I held her face and kissed her on the lips. ‘What a strange idea. I’m sure the Gauls have many gods.’

‘Nearly forty as far as I can remember.’

‘Well, then, wouldn’t you prefer to have them all on your side instead of just one?’

She was clearly in a reflective mood. ‘I suppose.’

We walked from the tent towards the stable area, around us hundreds of men putting on armour and checking their weapons before mustering in their companies and centuries.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘Surena doesn’t believe in any gods at all.’

She smiled wryly. ‘I can believe that. He’s so cock-sure of himself he probably thinks he is a god.’

‘But very able. It is gratifying to know that one of the Sons of the Citadel has become a king. It should act as an inspiration to others.’

She gave me a sideways glance. ‘Let us hope that he is as talented as he thinks he is.’

The sun was a perfect yellow ball surrounded by orange hues as we rode east from the camp’s entrance, the banners of Susiana, Babylon, Media, Hatra and Dura fluttering behind us, and behind them twenty-two hundred men going forth for the final clash with Narses and Mithridates. Immediately after leaving camp we swung north to avoid the wreckage of the Babylonian camp that had been thoroughly pillaged and set alight by the hill men the day before. The temperature was already warm and there was no wind and so the putrid stench of death met our nostrils as we skirted the northern side of the Hatran camp and then the charred remains of the encampments of Media and Gordyene. The camps themselves and the ground to the south, where much of the fighting had taken place, were covered with thousands of dead men and slain horses and camels. Some of them had been lying on the ground for two days and already were starting to rot in the heat. The smell of death is an aroma that could only have been concocted in the underworld — an odour akin to mixed dung, urine and vomit. That is what I smelt now as we cantered east towards the rising sun.

The legions followed us out of camp and after them came the horse archers who would fight on their left flank. The last to leave would be Surena and his men to form our northern screen, while inside, straining at the leash, would be Gallia with the meagre reserve. I felt pity for Domitus and his men, who would have to march across a carpet of dead flesh to get to grips with the enemy, unless the enemy decided to assault them first.

On we rode, leaving the harvest of dead behind as we cantered further east and the sweet smell of grassland entered our nostrils. The black smoke that still hung in the air over the torched camps had fortuitously masked our exit from camp, increasing our chances of achieving surprise when we struck the enemy’s flank. After five miles or so we headed south and then west before Orodes called a halt so we could deploy into our attack formation — three ranks of cataphracts spread over approximately two-thirds of a mile. Due to losses in both men and equipment over the preceding two days only the front rank was fully equipped with the kontus . Only around half of the second rank had lances and the third rank carried none at all. Much of our leg and arm armour was dented and many scales had been torn from their thick hide suits, but at least every man and horse was wearing some sort of armour protection.

It took only a matter of minutes for the contingents to deploy into formation. On the right flank of our depleted formation was Orodes’ bodyguard — two hundred men — in the place of honour. Next came my seven hundred Durans and to the left of them nine hundred and fifty Hatrans, now led by Gafarn as Vistaspa was lying in a cot in the hospital. Finally, on the left flank, were Atrax’s three hundred and fifty men. As they had done many times before my men had their helmets pushed back on their heads as they waited for the signal to advance, many sharing jokes with their comrades, others checking their weapons, their reins wrapped round their left wrists.

We had gathered a hundred paces in front of the centre of the line as the final preparations were made, the sky once again an intense blue.

‘I wanted to thank you, my friends,’ said Orodes, ‘for your support and faith in me. Our journey has been a long and difficult one and now it comes to an end, for good or ill.’

‘It is just the start of your journey as the high king of Parthia, lord’ I said.

‘A new dawn for the empire,’ stated Gafarn.

‘And an end to tyranny,’ added Atrax.

Orodes raised his lance. ‘A new dawn.’

‘A new dawn,’ we replied in unison.

We then shook hands and wished each other well before rejoining our men.

‘Time to avenge our father,’ I called to Gafarn as he veered away to join his Hatrans. He turned round and raised his left hand in acknowledgement.

Horses scraped at the ground and men pulled their helmets down over their faces as Orodes raised his kontus to signal the advance. Horns were sounded and a wall of horseflesh moved forward into a walk.

Whatever was in the drink that Alcaeus had given us had worked for I felt invigorated, intoxicated even, my senses heightened to make me aware of every small detail around me — the heavy breathing of my horse, the clattering of maces and axes hanging from saddle horns against scale armour, the thud of Remus’ iron-shod hooves on the turf. But he and the other horses were tired from the previous two days of battle and their advance was laboured. To conserve their strength we trotted in the direction of our target for a distance of around three miles, maintaining our formation, before breaking into a canter. We cantered for a further ten minutes to bring us within striking distance of the enemy’s right flank.

I could see them now: two great blocks of horsemen, one behind the other, the front one seemingly expanding and contracting — horse archers. The front ranks were obviously advancing to shoot their arrows before retreating to allow the rear ranks to ride forward and shoot their missiles. And once they had used up all their ammunition they would be replaced by the second formation massed behind them, waiting patiently to take their turn in the front line. And on the extreme right of the scene being played out before my eyes there was another group of horsemen — Dura’s horse archers — locked in a duel with their adversaries.

Orodes rode out in front of our formation and signalled a halt, horns blasting to convey his command through the ranks. I slowed Remus to a trot and then a walk and then rode forward to join Orodes, Atrax and Gafarn who had also left their men.

Orodes was highly animated. ‘We must destroy those horse archers on their right wing but it will not require all out forces. Pacorus, your men will combine with mine to attack the horse archers. Atrax and Gafarn, take your men around them to attack the rear of the enemy’s centre.’