Peter Darman - Parthian Dawn

I could see Dura’s Citadel shimmering in the distance now; we were only around half an hour away from our destination. I slowed the column and then halted it, and called together the commanders. Kuban may have been good at torturing the helpless and he certainly looked like a warrior, but he and his men were an unknown quantity when it came to the battlefield, so I placed them on the right wing. My own men and the Amazons I deployed in the centre, with Atrax and the Medians on the left. I wanted Gallia close to me when we attacked so I could keep an eye on her and try to prevent her from doing anything rash when we reached the city. Then we moved forward at a canter.

Dura was plainly visible now, its yellow walls and towers set against a blue sky. Rising above the walls was the Citadel standing defiantly. I could see the enemy camp as well, scores of brightly coloured tents of various sizes filling the plain directly in front of the city, plus hundreds of camels that transported provisions for the army of Chosroes. Hundreds more horses were tethered in compounds. Curiously, they had made no use of the walled camp that usually housed Domitus’ legionaries and which now stood empty.

‘Open order,’ I commanded, which was passed along the line. We would have to move through the horses, camels and tents before we reached the enemy’s troops. And then I saw the siege towers looming above the tents. It was difficult to tell, but it appeared that their sides were covered in hide as protection against arrows. Not that there appeared to be any arrows being fired from the walls.

We flanked Domitus’ camp, then rode into the enemy’s compound and threaded our way between the camels, horse compounds, wagons, campfires and tents. The enemy army may have been drawn up in front of the city but there were still many people milling round, mostly camp followers — wives, whores, the deranged and hawkers — a veritable army of non-combatants who trailed every army, though I tried to discourage such hangers-on in Dura’s army. A half-naked woman, a whore no doubt, came out of a tent with her breasts exposed. She froze when she saw us, and then died when one of my men put an arrow through her throat. It was a good shot.

‘Ignore them,’ I shouted, ‘save your arrows.’

I nocked an arrow in my bowstring as we left the camp, infirm enemy soldiers and civilians scattering before us. We rode on towards the rear of the enemy army. I saw few horsemen save officers riding up and down with swords in hand berating their men to move forward. The army of Mesene was as ragged as I remembered it, but it made for an imposing sight. Archers, spearmen with shields, slingers and men armed only with axes and clubs filled the area in front of Dura’s western wall. We fanned out into a long line of two ranks and moved into a canter, then a gallop. I saw the towers ahead, archers packed on their top platforms searching for targets on the walls or towers, but I could see none of Dura’s garrison.

At a range of five hundred paces we began loosing our bows, firing at a rate of five arrows a minute as we quickly closed the distance between ourselves and the enemy’s rear ranks. The shouts and war cries of the Mesenians, expecting the walls to be conquered by the siege towers, drowned out the sounds of our horses’ hooves, so that the first they knew of our arrival was the sight of their comrades collapsing on the ground, their bodies pierced by arrows. Most wore no armour and more than a few had no helmets, so our arrows easily found flesh and bone. Around twenty thousand arrows had been fired before they realised what was happening. Then we were less then fifty paces from them, loosing arrows as we abruptly wheeled our horses’ right and then retreated, shooting a final shot over the rear quarters of our animals. A line of Mesenian dead bore testament to the success of our first charge. As we had done a hundred times in training, we halted five hundred paces from the enemy and then wheeled right once more, before commencing another charge against them. By this time the enemy had realised what was occurring and their officers were frantically trying to realign their ranks to form a wall of shields and spears against us. I strung an arrow and shot it, and then shot another and another as we hurtled towards them, then yanked Remus to the right once more, but this time enemy arrows were being shot back at us. Horses and riders went down as we pulled back. I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach as I desperately sought out Gallia. There she was, leading her Amazons, shooting arrows and for the moment safe.

Relief.

Back we went, loosing arrows and taking more casualties, and then we fell back once more to regroup. I reached into my quiver. Empty! I looked left and right and saw other riders similarly out of missiles. In front of us the Mesenian line, battered and littered with dead, still held. I ordered a halt to be sounded and considered our next action. And then I saw a wondrous sight. From within the city what appeared to be black rocks arched into the sky and fell on and around the siege towers. One, two, three and then a fourth, hurtling into the sky and then smashing into the wooden towers. When they struck a tower or crashed onto the earth they turned into a fireball. How was this possible? Then I realised that they must be clay pots filled with the Chinese liquid that was kept in the armoury. But how were they being launched? In minutes one of the siege towers was ablaze, burning figures hurling themselves from the top platform, then a second caught fire and exhilaration swept through me.

‘What is causing that?’ Gallia was at my side, pointing at one of the burning towers with her bow.

‘I have no idea,’ I replied. ‘But I thank Shamash for his miracle. I am out of arrows.’

She shoved her bow back in its case. ‘Me also.’

Around us men and women began cheering as a third tower was hit by two Chinese fireballs and erupted into flames. We might have failed to break the enemy line, but the attack on the city had been stopped in its tracks.

Then I heard frantic horn blasts and looked to my left, to see a line of horsemen armed with spears, protected by round shields and wearing helmets hurtling towards Kuban’s men. The latter in turn charged them and they smashed into each other with a sickening crunching sound that echoed across the battlefield. Enemy cavalry had hit us with a devastating counterattack against our left wing. I placed my bow in its case. I forgot about the enemy foot soldiers in front of us — we had to help Kuban or our flank would be rolled up.

‘Form column,’ I shouted, ‘follow me.’

I tugged on Remus’ reins with my right hand to turn him left, then shouted at him to move. He knew every inference and tone of my voice and broke into a gallop. I wrapped his reins round my left wrist and drew my sword with my right hand. Horns blasted and Gallia, the Amazons the rest of the horsemen careered after me. We formed a loose wedge as we closed the gap between the enemy horsemen that were going to work with their spears, parrying the swords and spears of Kuban’s men with their shields. Already they were cutting their way through the northern horsemen, who to their credit were fighting back and giving ground reluctantly. Then we hit the flank of the Mesenians and in no time a frantic melee erupted. I swung my sword at the neck of a passing horseman, the blade biting deep into his flesh and knocking him from his saddle. I felt a searing pain in my left arm and turned to see a spear blade had brushed my flesh. I yanked on Remus’ reins and he turned away from my assailant, who directed his own mount in an attempt to skewer me with his lance. I raised my sword and brought it down to cut through the wooden shaft, then brought it up and thrust the point into the man’s thigh. He yelped in pain and turned his horse away to beat a retreat. And so it went on, stabbing, slashing and thrusting at fleeting targets as they came within range. Screams, shouts and obscene language filled the air. My men tried to stay close to me, tried to maintain some semblance of discipline, but it was hard as individuals became locked in combat and absorbed in their own private battles. Riderless horses, wild-eyed and bleeding, bolted from the carnage while others, too hurt to move, stood still and then collapsed on to the ground.