Carrhae (41 page)

I ran to the right side of the gatehouse and shouted at those below.

‘Domitus is here! Relief has arrived!’

Gallia and Zenobia looked up at me in confusion and then both peered through their shooting slits and then hoisted themselves onto the battlements and raised their bows in the air and began shouting ‘Dura, Dura’. Soon all the Amazons were chanting the same followed by Asher and his ragged recruits.

Below us the Armenian spearmen, on the verge of forcing their way into Assur, halted their advance as their officers received word that a hostile army had suddenly appeared in their rear. The Armenian archers were already reforming to shoot at the oncoming mail-clad soldiers, but they were short of ammunition, tired and their numbers had been drastically thinned and they were no match for Domitus’ men. They loosed one volley, which thumped harmlessly into the wall and roof of locked shields, and then melted away as the legionaries abandoned their
testudo
formation and increased their rate of advance.

Beneath the gatehouse there was silence as the ram’s crew abandoned their monster and hurried back to what they perceived to be the safety of their spearmen, but not before a few were felled by eagle-eyed Amazons who had some arrows left. There were still five thousand Armenian spearmen remaining and as they shuffled into position to form one great block to face Domitus’ men, half of the latter suddenly veered to their right to swing round the left flank of the enemy spearmen who had been facing the Tabira Gate.

I saw the light catching a golden emblem and knew that it was the Durans who were going to attack the spearmen below us. The latter were now moving slowly towards the legionaries, their densely packed formation resembling a great rectangle. Moving closer towards their destruction.

I stood from my vantage point and thanked the gods that they had given me an opportunity to witness Parthia’s finest soldiers in action. The Durans were drawn up in two lines, each one made up of five cohorts, but it was only the first line that was sent in against the Armenians: two and a half thousand men against twice their number. I felt sorry for the Armenians.

Each cohort was made up of six centuries – three in the first rank and another three behind – each century made up of eight ranks, each rank containing ten men. But on this occasion the Duran front line was reorganised to extend each cohort so that all six centuries were in the first line. Ordinarily this would take some time but Dura’s army was so well trained and drilled that it took only a few minutes before there was a frontage of thirty centuries advancing against the Armenians.

The Duran line was now only eight ranks deep and was mighty thin but it made no difference. A blast of trumpets signalled the attack and the legionaries increased their pace. The first two ranks hurled their javelins at the advancing Armenians at a range of around thirty paces – six hundred long, thin iron shanks attached to a heavy wooden shaft arching into the air before smashing into enemy shields, flesh and bone. These ranks then drew their swords and sprinted at the enemy as the legionaries in the third and fourth ranks behind them, as they had done many times before, launched their javelins over the heads of their comrades in front before also drawing their short swords. Train hard, fight easy.

The first two ranks of the Durans used their shields as battering rams against the ill-equipped and poorly trained Armenians, smashing steel bosses into faces or toppling over hapless spearmen before stabbing at them with frenzy. The Armenians, their front ranks almost annihilated by Duran javelins, began to give ground immediately as
gladius
blades cut through wicker shields with ease and pierced torsos, sliced open bellies, put out eyes and mutilated groins. Then the spearmen ran.

It was as though a collective madness had seized the Armenians for as one those still living dumped their spears and shields and fled in all directions. The Durans maintained their formation as they continued to advance at a steady rate, stepping over pierced and mangled bodies as they did so.

So engrossed had I been in the spectacle that I had not noticed that Gallia had joined me on top of the gatehouse. She smiled as I turned to see her and in my elation was suddenly gripped by a desire to rip off her clothes and make love to her, here, on the top of the tower while death was being meted out to the enemy below. I grabbed her and kissed her long and hard on the lips as below us the Armenians were being slaughtered. I pressed her tightly to my body, clutching her buttocks and forcing her groin into my loins. Surprised, she pulled back.

‘What are you doing?’ she giggled.

‘I want you,’ I said, pulling her back against me.

‘It is a miracle, uncle,’ I heard a voice behind me declare.

‘If Haytham does not kill him I might,’ I whispered in her ear as I reluctantly released her.

Spartacus and Scarab came to my side, both grinning like fools.

‘It is a miracle sent by the gods,’ declared Scarab.

The Durans were close now, the front ranks walking towards groups of Armenians who had halted a few paces from the moat below and were falling to their knees and holding up their arms in a plea for mercy. In the distance I could see the other half of the Durans marching to support the Exiles who were engaging enemy forces at the Western and Southern gates.

In the general excitement I had not noticed that fresh bundles of enemy arrows that had been collected by runners had been deposited on the parapet behind the Amazons and Asher’s men. I heard fresh screams below and saw that Gallia’s warriors were shooting at the hapless Armenians grouped on the other side of the moat. Asher’s men soon enthusiastically joined them and a general slaughter ensued. I did not order a stop to it and neither did Gallia. The Armenians had been on the verge of entering the city and if they had succeeded would have put everyone to the sword, such is the fate of cities that fall to an assault. Every one of the Amazons would also have been raped before being killed so they had little inclination to show mercy.

The Durans halted while the Armenians were cut down, resting their shields on the ground and admiring the archery skills of the Amazons. In five minutes around two thousand men had been either killed or wounded, the survivors being saved only by the fact that once more there were no arrows left.

I saw Domitus, white crest atop his helmet and greaves around his shins, walking up and down the line congratulating individuals and sharing jokes with others. He then walked forward to within shouting distance of the gatehouse.

He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Have you finished your archery training?’

I raised a hand to him. ‘All done, my friend. It is good to see you.’

He pointed his cane at those Armenians still standing, who were rooted to the spot in terror.

‘Do you want them killed?’ he asked.

‘They should join their comrades in the underworld,’ hissed Gallia.

‘Kill them, uncle,’ agreed Spartacus, who drew his sword. ‘I will lend a hand.’

‘No,’ I called to Domitus. ‘Disarm them and bind them. Lord Herneus can sell them as slaves.’

He raised his cane in acknowledgement and then arranged details to secure the prisoners.

‘You show mercy in victory, majesty,’ said Scarab admiringly.

Gallia shook her head but said nothing while Spartacus slid his sword back in its scabbard.

‘Go to the Western Gate,’ I told him, ‘find out what is happening and report back to me when you have found out. Take Scarab with you.’

They raced away and Gallia and I went to ground level to welcome our saviours into the city. When we reached the smashed gates I heard the thunderous voice of Thumelicus hurling abuse at a hundred men manhandling the ram back across the bridge.

‘Put your backs into it, you lazy bastards, its just a sapling tied to a cart. Heave!’

Actually the ram was far larger and more imposing than it had appeared from the top of the gatehouse, and it took a good ten minutes before it had been shifted back over the bridge. It must have weighed tons with its iron-plated roof and great trunk that had forced the gates apart.

‘Even you look small beside it,’ I shouted to Thumelicus as his men sat on the ground panting after their exertions. He smiled and raised his arm in salute.

‘Looks like we got here just in time,’ said Domitus, striding towards us and tapping his cane against his thigh. He looked as though he had just completed a short walk.

Gallia embraced him, eliciting cheers and whistles from those of his soldiers nearby. I extended my hand and he clasped my forearm.

‘You are a most welcome sight, my friend,’ I told him. ‘Where are Demaratus and his Babylonians and the soldiers of Susiana?’

He smiled. ‘Guarding the wagons and mules. About five miles away. Nice and safe and far enough away not to do any damage.’

I put an arm around his shoulders as we turned and walked back into the city.

‘I thought I ordered you to take the foot to Hatra? Not that I am ungrateful that you disobeyed my orders.’

‘I would never disobey your orders, Pacorus,’ he said with a straight face. ‘Truth is we were on our way to Hatra via Assur when we came across this city being attacked and decided to lend a hand.’

Gallia laughed. ‘Very droll,’ I replied.

He winked at Gallia. ‘You gallop off into the desert with a hundred riders heading for Assur, mumbling some nonsense. So I think: “Something’s wrong.” Remember I have known you a long time. So I gave the order to march after you. In any case there are enough troops in Hatra to beat off a dozen armies.’

‘More than you think,’ I replied. ‘Gafarn ordered Assur’s lords and Silaces to present themselves at Hatra, in addition to half the city garrison.’

Within the hour we had all gathered at the palace where Herneus gave a report on the day’s events. It was dark now and the legions, men from Susiana and the Babylonians had made camp a mile west of the city; the Armenian prisoners having been placed under armed guard in the area between the inner and outer walls north of the Tabira Gate. A preliminary head count had put their numbers at eleven thousand.

‘Yours to do with as you see fit,’ I told Herneus.

Of the rest of the Armenians, many had been killed at the Western Gate when they were assaulted by the Exiles and rather less at the Southern Gate, some having given themselves up and the rest having fled over the stone bridge across the Tigris into Media.

‘King Atrax’s forces will deal with them,’ said Herneus.

‘We will wait here for Atrax to arrive with his men,’ I announced, ‘before continuing our march to Hatra.’

The next day I stood on top of the gatehouse at the Tabira Gate and watched the Armenian prisoners collect the bodies of their comrades who had been killed the day before. Under armed guard they had first created funeral pyres from their own wicker shields, the rafts they had used to bring the battering rams down the Tigris and wood from the rams themselves. The bodies were dumped on top and the wood lit. The nauseating stench of roasting flesh soon filled our nostrils as black smoke rose into the sky from the dozen pyres that ringed the city.

‘I never get used to that smell,’ I said to the others.

‘Better Armenian flesh burning than Parthian,’ said Herneus grimly.

‘Clever attempting to take this city, though,’ mused Domitus. ‘If it had fallen then Hatra would have faced being threatened from three directions – Nisibus, Assur and Zeugma.’

I stared at the heaps of black, charred cadavers being licked by flames. ‘Wars are not won by standing on the defensive. It is time to march against the Armenians and defeat them once and for all.’

The next day there was a service of thanksgiving in the city’s temple dedicated to Shamash, at which all those who had volunteered to stand beside the garrison and the Amazons on the city walls were honoured. Almost five hundred had fought on the battlements shooting arrows at the Armenians and a further six hundred had been formed into a reserve at the palace, ready to be committed against any enemy incursions. The Armenians would have made short work of the collection of cripples, old men, young boys and men missing limbs who now stood near the altar being blessed by the high priest for their courage. They were each given five drachmas for their loyalty, paid out of Herneus’ own pocket. He was a rich and powerful man and could afford to do so but I thought it was a nice touch.

The most poignant scenes were the cremations of the runners, the young boys and girls who had been killed while scouring the ground behind the inner wall for enemy arrows. They had thought it great fun and were encouraged by officers of the garrison to collect as many arrows as they could for a reward of sweets and fruit. But many had been hit and killed while doing so and I hated the Armenians for forcing us to resort to such measures.

A touching scene was when an emotional Asher was presented with a silver arrow for his service during the assault. I learned that he had been instrumental in raising volunteers from among the general population that had taken refuge in the temples, and I thanked Shamash that we still had men of iron like him left in the empire.

Afterwards, when everyone had filed out of the temple to return to their daily lives, I sat near the altar next to Gallia as sunlight streamed in through the high windows. She was wearing her white shirt and tan leggings and boots, her hair loose around her shoulders. I held her hand.

‘I am tired, Gallia.’

‘Of course, you have had hardly any sleep these past three days.’

I smiled at her. ‘I did not mean that. I am tired of war, tired of battles and bloodshed. I have been fighting for over twenty years, and for what?’

‘So we can stay free,’ she said, surprised at my despondency.

I sighed. ‘Freedom. We were free when we escaped from Italy, but instead of living in Hatra and being content to wait for my inheritance, in my impatience I took the throne of Dura. I have often wondered if I had not done so whether the empire would have been plunged into civil war, whether Phraates would have been murdered and whether my father would have been killed.’