The Parthian (12 page)

If we had outnumbered the Romans at the beginning of the encounter, after our volleys of arrows we dwarfed them in numbers, and the survivors had decided that they had had enough. Small groups started to gallop from the battle. Bozan stood waving his sword in the air, shouting as he did so,

‘Let them go. Let them go. Rally to me.’ Horns blasted to signal recall.

I was elated. It was the first time I had fought Roman cavalry and we had won an easy victory. These were not local auxiliaries but sons of Rome, and we had bested them. We had enjoyed victory after victory, and I was beginning to believe that I was becoming a worthy son of Parthia. I felt as though I was unbeatable; perhaps the old crone at Sinatruces’ court was right. I was still dreaming of glory when tragedy struck.

In the flush of victory, when the bloodletting has ceased, those who are left alive are filled with relief, relief that they are still alive. Some men cry and shake, others fall to their knees and give tanks to whatever gods they worship. I always felt as though my body had been freed of a great weight, though for a while my arms and legs shook uncontrollably. But in the afterglow of battle even the best soldiers relax and let down their guard. And so it was, as the last dregs of the Roman cavalry were fleeing for their lives, Bozan was struck down. I did not see it happen, but I was told later that an enemy horsemen who had been knocked from his saddle, and who must have been rendered unconscious, recovered and thrust a spear into him, driving the blade deep into his chest. Bozan, who already had his sword in his hand, managed to split the spear shaft in two with a blow, before the Roman was hacked to pieces by officers who had been attending our commander. But the damage had been done. Bozan sat up in his saddle, before collapsing forward and slumping to the ground. He was dead before his head hit the grass.

The first I knew of his death was when an officer galloped up to me and beckoned me to come in haste. When I arrived there was a crowd gathered around him. I leapt from my saddle to reach his body. I knelt beside the lifeless corpse and stared in disbelief at the man who had been a second father to me. It was Bozan who had taught me to use a sword, a bow and how to fight on horseback. His was the voice that had encouraged, cajoled, threatened and berated me since I was a child. And now, here he was; dead. Gafarn also appeared at my side, observed Bozan’s body and started to weep unashamedly. He never hid his feelings. Why should he? He was a servant. But in the next few moments I would have gladly swapped places with him as I tried to stem the flood of tears that were welling up inside me. I wiped my eyes, aware that all eyes were now on me as well as Bozan. I stood up. My legs were shaking and as I spoke my voice was faltering.

‘We shall burn his body here, and the arms and armour of his enemies shall be laid upon his pyre in honour. Go!’

The officers and others left to build a funeral pyre, leaving Gafarn and I alone. He was sobbing now.

‘Why do you blubber so?’ I snapped

‘I weep for both of us, so you don’t have to. Though I know how heavy this loss is to you.’

I looked away from him as tears streaked down my cheeks. How right he was. A hatred of Romans and all things to do with Rome gripped me. I vowed to avenge Bozan’s death a thousand fold. I posted guards around his body and ordered that the Roman dead be stripped and their heads cut off. The headless corpses were dumped in a heap at the edge of where the battle had taken place — the crows could feast on them. A company — one hundred men — was detailed to build a funeral pyre, scouring the area for any wood they could find. After two hours a large mound of wooden logs and branches, twice the height of a man, had been erected. The Roman shields were stacked around its side and their tunics and capes were laid on top. Bozan’s body was then carried to the top of the pyre and laid there. At his feet were placed the Romans standards we had taken, while his sword was laid along his body, the pommel resting just under his chin and the end pointing at his feet. 

As the sun started its descent in the western sky, we gathered round the pyre to bid our farewells. As a lighted torch was passed to me the men knelt in respect. I lit the foot of the pyre, which after a while began to burn, the wood spitting and crackling as the flames took hold, gradually eating their way up the mound as the heat increased in intensity. Then the mound became a hissing, seething red and yellow fireball as Bozan’s body was consumed and his spirit made its way up into heaven to sit at Shamash’s right hand. 

We kept a vigil all night as the pyre burned into nothing but a pile of ashes. In the morning, cold and bleary eyed, I ordered the severed heads of the enemy dead to be placed on captured spear shafts, which were thrust into the ground. The poles with their leering heads were placed in a circle around the ashes in salute to their conqueror. Then we made our way from that place of dead flesh, walking our horses in silence, led by Byrd. He had maintained a deferential silence throughout our vigil. At last, as he walked beside me at the head of the column, he spoke.

‘We go to safe place, lord. No Romani near. You go back to Parthia now?’

I trudged along, my mind indifferent to the direction we were heading. I kept going over in my mind Bozan’s death, and how my father would receive the news. Would he blame me for his friend’s death? Was I to blame? I had no answers. I certainly wasn’t paying any attention to the guide, whose cheerful demeanour was beginning to annoy me.

‘What?’

‘I find a safe place, lord. No Romani.’

Gafarn was walking behind me, and I could feel his eyes on me.

‘He wants to know if we are going back to Parthia, lord,’ he said.

‘I haven’t decided.’

‘Have we not done as your father asked?’

‘Have we?’ I replied. ‘And here was I thinking that you were a servant, not a military strategist.’

Gafarn did not reply and we continued to silence. But in truth I had no idea what course of action to take. The idea of slinking back to Hatra did not appeal, but what else could we do?

That night we camped in a desolate rock- and scree-littered gorge that had little vegetation. I sat round a small fire as the darkness descended, the temperament of the men being like my own: subdued. I was in no mood for company so sent Gafarn away to amuse himself. As the cold encroached I sat on the ground with my cloak wrapped around me, a felt hat on my head. I didn’t notice Byrd approach and sit himself beside me. I ignored him, hoping he would go away. I could have ordered him to go, but was not disposed to speak to anyone. For a long time he said nothing, but then uttered one word.

‘Ceasarea.’

‘What?’

‘Ceasarea, lord.’

I sighed loudly. ‘Am I supposed to make any sense of what you say?’

‘You wish to avenge your friend and master, lord. Ceasarea gives you that opportunity. Small town, no walls, tiny garrison. Many Romani, mostly traders and their families. It will burn nicely.’

I looked at him, interested. ‘Go on.’

He told me that Ceasarea had was a trading centre before the Romans had conquered Cappadocia, and afterwards they had expelled many of the locals and brought in their own people. The town had still prospered, though, and Byrd painted a picture of a ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.

‘How do you know there is no garrison?’

‘Not certain, lord, but the legions are in the north, fighting Mithridates in Pontus.’

That I knew was true. Valiant Mithridates was battling the might of Rome to keep his people free. And we had encountered few enough legionaries during our present expedition.

‘How far is Ceasarea from here?’

‘Three days’ ride, lord.’

‘How do you know of this place,’ I asked.

His expression changed suddenly, a look of utter sadness on his face. ‘ I used to have a life there once, lord. Before Romani came.’

He looked away and stared into the fire. Nothing more was said between us. After a while he rose to his feet and walked away. I mulled over what he had said in my mind, but the possibility of revenge was too strong. I reached a decision: we would attack Ceasarea and make a truly worthy sacrifice to Bozan.

We stayed in camp for two days. As far as I could tell, morale was still good despite the death of Bozan. The evening before we left for Ceasarea, I assembled the officers. They sat seated on the ground around my fire, their faces full of confidence. Byrd was also present.

‘Tomorrow we ride to Ceasarea. Byrd tells me that it has no walls and no garrison. Regardless, we ride in quick, cause as much damage as possible and then get out as fast as we can.’

‘Do we then return to Hatra, lord?’ asked one of the company commanders.

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘after we have burnt Ceasarea to the ground we will have avenged Bozan and fulfilled our orders.’

They seemed pleased by this, and I was glad that they appeared to have accepted me as their commander. I was the son of their king, but I liked to think that they were riding with me out of respect and not begrudging duty. At least that was what I hoped.

We left just after dawn, four hundred horsemen, spare mounts and mules riding hard through a stark landscape. Cappadocia suited our mood — rocky, windswept and barren. Dotted with woods and grassy plains, the mountains and plateaus appeared to be never ending. Byrd told me that he had kept us away from the few towns out of security, and informed me that many people lived in dwellings carved out of the rocks, eking out a miserable existence.

‘And Rome wants this land?’

He shrugged. ‘Rome wants all lands, lord.’

After three days we reached our target — Ceasarea. I observed the town from the top of a nearby hill. Ceasarea stood in the middle of a wide plain that was flanked by low-lying hills. A single road ran through it from the south, running parallel to a small river that also flowed through the town. There was no cover to hide our approach, so we would have to cross at least a mile of open ground before we reached it. There was traffic doted along the road, passing both ways, mule trains, carts and travellers on foot, going about their everyday business. I could see no soldiers, no camp, no walls and no watchtowers. Byrd was beside me, lying on the ground watching the town. The afternoon was sunny, with a fresh northerly wind.

‘You were right, I can’t see any troops.’

‘No soldiers, lord.’

We made our final checks — weapons, saddles, straps and horses — before we moved out to attack the town. Our tactics were simple: we would advance in one long line and gallop through the town firing flaming arrows. This necessitated halting before we attacked, as the arrows had rags that had been dipped in pitch wrapped around the shaft, just below the point. They would have to be lit before they could be fired. Each of us had only one such arrow, because once buildings were set on fire the flames would soon spread to other dwellings. So we trotted across the plain until we were around five hundred paces from the outskirts. As we halted, I heard screams and shouts being carried on the wind. We had been spotted. Soldiers dismounted and lit torches, and then went from horse to horse so the riders could light their arrows. I cast a glance at Byrd, who sat stony faced in his saddle; Gafarn was beside him. I strung the arrow in my bowstring and shouted ‘For Bozan!’ at the top of my voice, then kicked my horse forward. My men cheered and followed. In less than a minute we were flooding through Ceasarea’s streets. Men. Women and children fled before us as we fired their town. Soon buildings were burning as our flaming arrows set alight wood and other flammable materials. I packed my bow in its leather case tied to my saddle and drew my sword. A man, wild-eyed, ran at me with a pitchfork. He died as my sword came down with full force and hacked half his face away. As the flames took hold, people forget about the mounted soldiers in their midst and tried to save themselves and their families from the inferno that was engulfing their world.

My men were now out of control. All discipline had gone as they cut down any who offered resistance and killed others who simply got in their way. Horses trampled screaming women and children, and I watched in horror as a man, his clothes burning on his back, ran from a house clutching a small child in his arms. Flames leapt into the sky and the sickening smell of burning flesh filled my nostrils. Gafarn rode up and halted in front of me.

‘This is slaughter, highness. You have to stop it.’

I stared at him, unsure of what to say. Behind me a multi-storey building collapsed, which spooked my horse. It reared up on its back legs and almost threw me.

‘Highness!’ shouted Gafarn.

But it was too late. Men possessed by a blood lust had been unleashed and were now visiting death and destruction on Ceasarea. They were scattered throughout the town, and in the confusion and terror no one man could stop it. Gafarn saw this in my eyes, spat on the ground in front of me and rode off. The killing continued for what seemed like an eternity, but then suddenly ceased abruptly, for the simple reason that there was no one left to kill. Those who could had escaped from our swords and arrows, but many had been killed or had perished in the flames. The heat was so fierce in some streets that it was impossible to ride down them, and many horses refused to go near the flames. I eventually found two officers and we moved in a group down the main road that ran through the centre of the town, shouting ‘rally, rally,’ to gather our horsemen. Small groups of riders, their faces blackened by soot and their horses streaked with sweat, appeared and dropped in line behind us. I ordered them to muster on the plain from where we had launched our attack and there await orders.

It took a long time to gather all the men. By now the blood lust had subsided and exhausted men lay on the ground beside their equally tired horses. Men gulped from their waterskins as their officers moved among them to determine who had failed to return. They reported to me half an hour later. We had lost twenty dead and thirty wounded. More than fifty horses had also died and a further twenty had to be put out of their misery due to their severe burns. The town formed a glowing red backdrop as the evening approached and we led our horses from the horror. The town of Ceasarea no longer existed.