The Parthian (11 page)

‘Follow me,’ I shouted at the riders behind me.

We rode hard along the column, ignoring and staying out of the range of enemy spears that were flung in our direction. The archers were shooting in a haphazard fashion, each man trying to identify and hit a target instead of firing a concentrated volley. I urged my horse into an even quicker pace as I approached the group of archers. My aim was instinctive, honed by years of intensive training in the saddle with a bow. Before I drew level with the archers I wheeled my horse sharply to the right and away from the enemy, at the same time loosing an arrow in a high arch towards them. The riders following did likewise, and in a matter of seconds nearly one hundred arrows were peppering the enemy formation. As we regrouped to make another attack I could see lifeless figures on the ground where our arrows had found their mark. I estimated that we had dropped around a third of them, maybe more.

Bozan rode up. He was sweating and had removed his helmet.

‘It’s almost over. Leave those archers. They’ll run away if given the chance. Up ahead we’ve got about fifty Romans who are sheltering under a wall and roof of shields. We need to break them fast.’ With that he rode away.

The Romans had taken up position in the open away from the line of carts, locking their shields outwards while those inside the small square hoisted theirs over the front ranks to give overhead cover from our arrows. A lull now descended over the scene as officers gave the order for around half our men to dismount and rest. The others were formed into troops of fifty horsemen who were positioned all around the Romans but stood off at a safe distance — the enemy had javelins and knew how to use them. I dismounted, took a swig from my waterskin and strode over to where Bozan was standing alone, looking at the Roman formation. There was a frown across his scarred face.

‘We might have to leave these bastards,’ he spat on the ground. ‘They aren’t going anywhere and I don’t want to hang around.’

Bozan loved a fight, but he was also a commander and he knew that it was not worth wasting time and lives over an insignificant number of the enemy. Even so, I knew that the fact that the enemy stood defiant in good order must be rankling him. Behind us smoke drifted into the sky as the carts and their contents, minus the food that we took, were burned. Some of our men armed with daggers were putting the enemy wounded out of their misery, while Bozan had sent another fifty riders to hunt down and kill those of the enemy who had fled when we first attacked.

‘Have you demanded their surrender, lord?’ I asked.

‘Of course. They declined to accept my invitation. Arrogant bastards. It doesn’t matter. We’ve caused them some damage, and by tonight we will be well away from here.’

‘I would like to try something, lord,’ I said.

‘I’m not wasting any men, or horses, just to prove a point.’

‘What I have in mind won’t cost us anything.’

He looked at me and glanced at the Romans. He nodded. ‘Very well, you have one chance. Don’t waste it.’

I ordered a dozen of our dismounted soldiers to cut the straps of the two dead oxen that were still lashed to one of the carts. The corpses were hauled aside and the carts were pushed towards the Roman formation, halting about two hundred feet from it. We piled enemy shields, broken spear shafts and any other dry wood we could find onto the front of the cart and set the lot on fire. Soon the front of the cart was ablaze. We now had a race against time.

‘Heave,’ I shouted, as ten of us gripped the rear of the cart and pushed it forward with all our strength. Around the cart dozens of horsemen readied their bows. Pain shot through my legs as I helped to haul the burning cart forward. We were now less than a hundred feet away and gaining momentum. The cart was burning fiercely and the heat was searing my face. The Romans now broke ranks to avoid the blazing hulk that was bearing down on them. Ahead I saw legionaries readying their javelins to launch at us. A few managed to throw them, a couple spearing men who were pushing the cart.

‘Back,’ I yelled.

We let go of the cart as it rumbled forward and then came to a halt. The Romans, realising that they were not going to be crushed by a burning cart after all, tried to reform, but they were too late. The air was filled with arrows as our bowmen found their targets. Arrows slammed into chests, arms, legs and faces, filling the air with piercing screams and yelps as iron tips lacerated flesh and shattered bone. The Roman formation was broken. Our horsemen were among them now, hacking away with their swords. Some Romans fought back, slashing horses with their swords or stabbing them with javelins, and bringing riders down and killing them. But for every one of our men who were killed four or five Romans were felled. The enemy group dwindled in number, until there was just a handful left. I saw that the figure with the traverse crest on his helmet was one of them. He also saw me as I unsheathed my sword and hoisted my shield to guard my left side. He came at me at a steady trot, his short sword in his right hand. He was obviously some sort of leader, and I wanted to kill him to seal our victory.

I was supremely confident as we closed and hacked at each other with our swords. My confidence soon started to disappear as I realised that I was in a life-and-death struggle with a man who was an expert fighter. His grizzled visage glared at me from under his brightly polished steel helmet. I charged at him, shield against shield and tried to hack down with my sword to split his helmet, but he anticipated the move, parried the blow with his sword and then slashed with his blade aiming for my neck. Only my reflexes saved me, as I instinctively jumped back to avoid the blow. He attacked again and again, forcing me back and battering my shield with heavy hacking blows that splintered the wood. His speed was amazing as he tried to deliver a killer blow with his sword. I caught one blow with the cross-guard of my sword and tried to press one end of it into his neck, but in a trial of strength he was the stronger, and he pushed my right arm down. While our swords were still locked he smashed the edge of his shield into the side of my face. A searing pain went through my skull as he jumped back and began circling me. I thought I was strong, but this man seemed superhuman. I was sweating profusely and panting hard. Then he came at me again.

He must have decided that he was going to die and so he was going to sell his life dearly, because he screamed and attacked me with scything strokes of his sword. I parried as best I could, but one blow cut my right forearm before I could get it out of the way, the blood soon covering my arm. I lunged at him with all my weight using my shield, but it was like hitting a rock. He stopped my attack and then tried to rip open my stomach with an underhand stabbing attack, though I was able to parry the blow with my shield at the last moment. But my legs had got tangled around his and he gave a low grunt as he pushed me back over his right leg, sending me crashing to the ground. I was finished, I knew that as I saw him draw back his sword to deliver the final blow. Then I heard several whooshing sounds and then saw two arrows slam into his side. He groaned but remained standing. Incredible; was he a god? Then another arrow hit him, then another and another. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he collapsed sidewards onto the ground.

Shaken and bloody, I staggered to me feet. He was dead and I was alive. My mouth was dry and I called for some water. A soldier ran up and gave me his waterskin as I raised my sword in thanks at the archers who had saved me. Then I saw Bozan marching towards me, with a face like thunder.

‘You stupid little idiot. The next time you fancy being a hero don’t do it under my command.’

‘Lord?’

He stood before me and pointed at the dead Roman at my feet. ‘You know what that is, boy?’

‘A Roman,’ I said, somewhat smugly.

Bozan grabbed my hair and forced me to look at the dead Roman. ‘Insolent brat. That is a Roman centurion, boy. They are among the best soldiers in the world. You’ll need to be a lot better if you want to kill one face to face. Stick to firing arrows. I didn’t bring you along to play gods and heroes. Grow up, Pacorus. This is war, not some game.’ He let go of my hair. ‘Get your servant to patch up your arm.’

I hung my head in shame. I was crestfallen, but I knew Bozan was right. But for those archers I would be dead by now. I was angry with myself, but was determined that I would not make the same mistake again.

We made a funeral pyre for own dead, who numbered nineteen, and left the Roman dead to rot. Bozan was eager for us to be away from the ambush site as quickly as possible, and so as the sun was sinking in the western sky we rode hard towards the east. The guide led us for three hours along winding paths through rocky terrain, across stone-strewn plains and finally into an area of curious, minaret-shaped rock formations that resembled cones with hats on top. It was dark when we made camp in a small valley among the strange rocky shapes. Bozan allowed us to light fires as the night grew cold, posting guards a half mile in each direction, though Byrd assured us that we were far from any dwellings.

After we had eaten a warm meal of plundered Roman broth, which I had to admit was extremely tasty, Gafarn stitched the wound in my arm. The pain was bearable, more so than his irksome comments that I was forced to endure.

‘I heard a Roman nearly killed you.’

‘Did you?’

‘I can just imagine your mother’s face as your corpse was taken back to Hatra. Poor woman.’

‘Just get on with stitching,’ I said, wincing as the through my flesh again.

‘And your poor sisters, weeping uncontrollably at your funeral.’

‘You may have noticed, Gafarn, that I am not, in fact, dead.’

He tied off the last stitch with a knot and then bit through the thread with his teeth. ‘Not yet.’

We stayed at the camp for a few days, dressing our wounds, mending our weapons and attending to the horses. There was a small lake nearby, and we all took the opportunity to bathe in its ice-cool waters. On the third day I was called to an officers’ meeting under a canvas shade that had been erected in the lee of a rocky outcrop. The guide, Byrd, was also present, looking as shabby and untrustworthy as ever. Bozan was in a relaxed mood, obviously pleased by what he had been told by the guide. As we sat on the ground in a semi-circle around him, Bozan outlined our plan of campaign.

‘We’ve made a good start. Our guide, here,’ he nodded towards Byrd, ‘tells me that there is a town called Sebastia to the north of us that contains a Roman garrison. It’s two days’ ride from here. So that is our next target. Byrd assures me that the Romans have a camp that has wooden walls, so it should burn nicely.’

‘How many troops?’ I asked.

‘Not more than one hundred,’ said Byrd, smiling at me and nodding his head. ‘Easy target.’

‘We cannot attack stockades,’ said one of the officers.

‘I know that,’ replied Bozan, ‘but they don’t know we are here, so I’m counting on surprise aiding us.’

‘They might know raiders are in the area after the attack on the supply column,’ I said, concerned. ‘They might be out looking for us.’

Byrd shrugged, as if unconcerned. Bozan noticed his gesture.

‘We will scout the area thoroughly beforehand,’ he said. ‘If their guard appears to be down, we will ride in, kill as many as we can and burn their camp. Then we are gone. Any more questions?’

There was silence. ‘Very well,’ said Bozan. ‘We leave in two days.’

The raid was a success. Bozan and I went forward alone to scout out the target the day before the attack. The town garrison in fact consisted of local recruits, not Romans, and their discipline was poor. Guards stood hunched at the camp gates and those on watch in sentry towers appeared to be more interested in gossip than on observation. We could have walked into the camp through the gates there and then; in fact, that’s what we did when we attacked: galloping into the stockade and shooting down everyone in sight. The camp was positioned just outside the town, so we approached from the north and left the town alone. Within minutes the camp was ablaze, is wooden huts and walls burning brightly, the ground littered with bodies. We lost ten killed and eight wounded.

Over the next two weeks we attacked a number of enemy outposts, most of them staffed by local auxiliary units. In the second week we clashed with a detachment of Roman cavalry that had obviously been sent to find us. They numbered around two hundred men, all dressed in mail shirts and armed with red painted shields, spears and swords. They looked impressive enough, and when they deployed on a wide, grassy plain a neutral observer might have assumed that they were going to slaughter us. We offered them battle, fanning out into three long lines to overlaps their flanks. They levelled their spears and trotted forward; we did the same. Bozan was in the centre of our line, while I was on the right flank. We carried no spears and had our shields strapped to our backs to offer protection from sword thrusts. The Romans increased their pace and we strung our bows. The two lines closed and the Romans broke into a canter. I kicked my horse into a gallop and veered to the right, heading beyond the Romans’ flank. Our horsemen on the left flank did the same, while those in the centre also broke left and right. This meant that the Romans were charging into an empty space as our horsemen formed into two columns that passed by the Roman left and right flanks. A Roman horseman at the extreme edge of their line attempted to turn his mount to face me as I thundered past, but I released my bowstring and put an arrow into his chest. The man behind me also loosed an arrow, as did those following as they passed by the Roman line. Now I wheeled my horse hard to the left and then turned him left again, so that I was now in the rear of the Roman line and following the enemy formation. Our cavalry on the opposite flank were doing the same. I strung another arrow and shot it into the back of a Roman trooper who had halted his horse. He fell to the ground, dead. We had charged, swept around their flanks and were now in their rear, firing arrows at an enemy who was completely dumbfounded by our tactics. Some Romans in their first line had continued their charge, but those in the second line had halted in an attempt to turn and face us. They were too late: we killed over half of them and then wheeled away. The survivors tried to mount a ragged charge but there was nothing to charge at. We simply moved to the flanks once again and swept past them. Meanwhile, their first line had halted and turned about face, just in time to receive our arrows as we swept into the wide gap between their first and second lines. I loosed an arrow at a standard bearer, who looked shocked as the point went through his neck; I strung another arrow and bent over my horse’s hind quarters as I galloped past another Roman horseman, and shot him in the back.