Chapter 3
After a night’s rest I had breakfast with my mother in the small palace garden that she tended as a hobby. The plants and flowerbeds were immaculate, and the gentle sound of the fountain in the middle of the shallow pond filled with goldfish gave a sense of calm. My mother was dressed in a simple white dress, with a gold chain at her waist. Her shoulder-length black hair was loose, showing its natural waves. She wore little make-up or jewellery and wore simple leather sandals on her feet
Servants served us fruit and bread. Queen Mihri was in a happy mood.
‘How did you find King Sinatruces, Pacorus?’
‘He’s old,’ I replied.
She laughed. ‘He certainly is, but also wise and astute. You don’t rule a collection of kingdoms for nearly fifty years without ability.’
‘I suppose not,’ I said, watching a shapely servant girl walk from the table carrying an empty food tray.
‘Your father tells me that you had a private audience with the king’s sorceress.’
I shuddered. ‘She was a disgusting old hag. It was humiliating.’
My mother laughed. ‘I’m sure she was, but the fact that she picked you out is of note. Some would consider it a great honour to hear her words. The prophecies of Dobbai are famous throughout the empire.’
‘Meaningless drivel, mother. She is clearly insane and no one should pay any attention to her.’
‘You speak with the certainty of youth.’ Her big round brown eyes hinted at gentle mockery. I shrugged. ‘But do not dismiss her words too lightly. I for one believe that she can see the future.’
She could tell by my expression that I had no interest in discussing the old crone any further, so she moved on to another subject.
‘Your father and I think it is time to think of a bride for you.’
‘What?’ my heart sank.
‘You are now a famous warrior, and in any case a prince of Hatra cannot remain single for ever.’
‘I’m too young,’ I protested.
‘Nonsense, you are twenty-two, which is old enough to be betrothed. I hear that Princess Axsen of Babylon is available.’ I suddenly lost my appetite. ‘Perhaps we will arrange for you to see her. The daughter of the Kingdom of Babylon would strengthen the position of Hatra.’
‘I would prefer to marry someone whom I loved.’
‘You are not a farmer, Pacorus. Princes must marry to cement alliances and ensure the safety of their kingdoms,’ she rebuked me. ‘Besides, is there someone who has stolen your heart?’
‘Of course not.’
She smiled. ‘Then surely you have no objection to meeting Princess Axsen, at the very least? I hear that she is a great beauty. I’m sure love could grow from such a match.’
I was about to protest but thought better of it. My mother had the appearance of a softly spoken, acquiescent woman, but she had a will of iron and was not to be crossed lightly. I therefore just nodded my agreement and began thinking of how I could avoid meeting Princess Water Buffalo.
She clapped her hands for the servants to take the food away. ‘Excellent.’
I rose and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, mother.’
Feeling somewhat aggrieved I left her and made my way to the council chamber. The day was hot and airless, but the marble-tiled palace was cool and quiet. I took my place next to my father, who looked refreshed and in a good mood as he chatted with Assur. In fact, everyone was in attendance – Assur, Addu, Bozan, Kogan and Vistaspa.
The doors were closed and my father spoke, his tone stern. ‘We have now been attacked twice by Rome and it is time for us to retaliate. There can be no peace until Rome has understood that Parthia, and especially Hatra, is not a lamb but a lion. To this end I intend to launch an assault across the desert against Syria. I will lead this expedition. Our strength lies in speed and stealth, therefore I will take no heavy cavalry, light horsemen only. To aid us in our little adventure, we will hire some Agraci to accompany us.’
‘But, my lord,’ protested Bozan, ‘the Agraci are scum who would slit your throat in the same breath that they would offer their hand in greetings.’
‘I know that, Bozan, and I have no doubt that they helped the Romans attack Sirhi, but they can be bought easily enough. Offer enough gold and they will sell their own mothers and daughters.’
‘I would rather have their camels,’ said Bozan.
The Agraci were a tribe of nomads who inhabited the Arabian Peninsula. Like all of the tribes in that region, they consisted mostly of thieves and beggars who preyed on the unwary. We spent considerable resources on keeping them away from the trade routes, frequently having to launch punitive raids into the desert. Being wanderers, they were often difficult to find. Occasionally we got lucky and were able to slaughter a lot of them, leaving their bones to bleach in the sun. But, like flies, they seemed to be eternal, and just as irritable. Their only redeeming feature was that their services could easily be hired if you had enough gold.
‘Just make sure you keep upwind of them on the journey,’ added Vistaspa.
‘This raid is only one part of our response,’ added my father. He got up and stood beside the large map of the Parthian Empire that hung on the wall. He pulled the dagger from the scabbard that hung from his belt and used it as a pointer.
‘We will launch a second, smaller raid here, against Cappadocia. Five hundred men mounted on swift horses should be enough to give the Romans a taste of their own medicine. Bozan, you will lead this expedition.’
Bozan grinned and ran his hands across his shaved head. ‘A pleasure, my lord.’
‘Remember,’ continued my father, ‘it’s only a raid. Go in fast, hit them hard and then get out. And to continue his military education, Pacorus will ride along with you.’
I looked at Bozan and grinned, who nodded his approval. This was an excellent development. The chance of fighting again filled me with joy, the more so since it would get me out of the city and away from my mother’s schemes to get me married. Addu cleared his throated rather noisily.
‘You have something to say, Lord Addu?’ asked my father.
‘Er, merely this, majesty,’ Addu replied, gingerly rising from his seat. My father indicated for him to remain seated. ‘Though I am sure that these expeditions will add more glory to your name, they may damage trade. May I remind you that Palmyra, Petra and Baalbek, all towns in the area you intend to assault, are of importance to Hatra. If they are destroyed then our revenues will suffer.’
‘I am aware of the importance of trade to the city,’ said my father. ‘Rest assured that we will not be attacking caravans or trading centres. We will be striking military outposts. There are a number of forts along the desert frontier. It is my hope to surprise one or two and put them to the torch.’
‘But what if the Romans retaliate by halting their trade?’ asked Addu.
My father, who I could tell was losing patience with his treasurer, sat down and stared at him. ‘I can assure you, Lord Addu, that the last thing the Romans want is to stop trading with the East.’
‘That’s true,’ added Bozan, ‘the bastards have an insatiable demand for lions and tigers to slaughter in their arenas, and they can’t get enough silk.’
Assur winced at Bozan’s coarse language, but nodded in agreement. ‘Lord Bozan is correct in what he says, even if the words he uses to express his opinion are somewhat vulgar. We cannot allow Roman outrages to go unpunished.’
‘But, your majesty,’ said Addu.
‘Enough,’ snapped my father. ‘The decision has been made, we will leave in seven days.’
A crestfallen Addu stared at the table in silence.
‘There are Romans in the city, majesty.’ It was first time that Kogan had spoken. ‘If they hear of any expeditions they will surely send word back to their masters.’
There were nods around the table.
‘You are right, Lord Kogan,’ said my father. ‘No one is to speak of this matter outside of this room. As f
ar as the city is concerned, we are merely carrying out training manoeuvres. When we have left the city I will send riders to the Agraci to see if they want to earn some gold. Hopefully, I will be able to get a lot of them killed in battle before I have to pay them anything. That is all.’
Everyone stood, bowed and then left the room. My father called me over.
‘Pacorus, say nothing of what you have heard to Gafarn or Vata. Is that understood.’
‘Yes, father.’
‘The Romans have spies everywhere. We cannot be too careful.’
‘Will there be war between us and the Romans?’ I asked.
My father sighed and considered before giving his reply. ‘What we have now is an armed peace. The Romans are testing us, seeking to discover our strength.’
‘We have a strong army,’ I said, proudly.
‘It is not just a question of spears and horses. It is also one of will. The Romans are strong because they never give up. Their army is like a machine that chews up everything in its path. Many kingdoms lack the will to fight the Romans. They are not unbeatable, we have proved that, but to fight them year in, year out, takes an iron will. Few possess that quality. There are many like King Darius who want to live a life of luxury. But here’s the clever thing about the Romans. They offer individuals like Darius the opportunity to be a client king. Be our friend, they say, and you can rule your kingdom in peace, unmolested as long as you pay your dues to Rome. But a client kingdom is a slave kingdom, which eventually will be filled with Roman soldiers and civilians, who build garrisons, towns, roads and ports that bring in yet more Romans. And then Rome annexes that kingdom and it is swallowed up, to become just one more province in the Roman Empire.’
‘Parthia is strong, father,’ I said, though partly to reassure myself as well as him, for the image of an all-powerful Rome did little to fortify my courage.
He slapped me on the shoulders. ‘If we keep it that way, then the Romans will think twice before they try to conquer us. But always remember, Pacorus, the old saying, “it is better to die on your feet than live on your knees”. For even the richest ally of Rome is in reality no more than a slave dressed in fine clothes.’
We left the city at dawn on the seventh day. Two columns of horsemen, one heading west into the Arabian desert, the other going north back towards Zeugma, though we would swing sharply west before we reached Darius’ kingdom. I wondered if the bodies of those we had slain were still lying where they fell. I dismissed such trivia from my mind. Before we left I had gone to see my friend Vata. I found him in the royal stables. He grinned when he saw me. He was always smiling, that was one of the reasons I liked him, that and his loyalty to his friends. He would be riding with my father into Syria.
‘Why can’t we take our own horses?’ he asked.
I knew the reason, of course: heavy cavalry horses were too valuable to be risked on raiding parties. That was the reason I could not take Sura with me. I felt bad about lying to Vata.
‘I know not, my friend.’ I walked over to him as Gafarn entered the stables.
‘We are ready to ride, highness.’
‘Thank you, Gafarn. Meet me outside.’
I walked over to Vata and embraced him. ‘Keep safe, my friend.’
‘You mean try not to fall off my horse.’
‘No, I mean. It doesn’t matter. Just return safely.’ This could be the last time I saw him, and I wanted to tell him so but could not.
‘You’re getting too soft, my friend,’ he said, slapping me on the back. ‘That’s what happens when you spend too long in the palace dreaming about Babylonian princesses.’
I left him and walked to the waiting Gafarn, who was mounted on a horse and held the reins of mine. We trotted from the stables.
‘Do you feel bad, highness?’
‘What?’
‘About lying to your friend, I could see it in your face.’
‘Shut up. What do you know?’
‘I know nothing, highness, he said, ‘except that you were not telling the truth to him and it must have hurt lying to your friend.’
‘Be quiet.’
‘To lie to a friend can be unpleasant, I agree.’
I drew up my horse sharply. ‘I could have you flogged.’
He was unconcerned. ‘You could, but that would not make you feel any less remorseful.’
I kicked at my horse and he sprang forward. Gafarn was right, as usual, which made it even more irritating.
Three days out from Hatra we reached the town of Nisibus where we picked up extra provisions. These along with our spears, enough to sustain us for a month, were loaded onto mules that would accompany us on our expedition. Each of us carried a sword, shield, bow and fifty arrows, while for protection we wore helmets only, no body armour. In Nisibus we also picked up a guide who said he knew Cappadocia intimately, though by the look of him I suspected he was more intimate with the town’s whores. He had a sullen look, with dark, brooding eyes and lank black hair. He was unclean, unshaven and dressed in what appeared to be rags.
‘Are we to trust this man?’ I asked Bozan.
‘The garrison commander says he was once a soldier in the army of Mithridates when he was a teenager, who fought the Romans in Cappadocia. If that’s true then he could be useful. Says he knows which roads the Romans use to send their supplies to Pontus. It could all be true.’
‘And if it isn’t?’ I asked.
Bozan shrugged. ‘Then I’ll slit his throat personally.’
‘He could be leading us into a trap.’
‘Listen, Pacorus,’ he said, ‘war is always a gamble. You never really know what the enemy is doing, what’s on the other side of the hill. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, as my old dad used to say.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘An Armenian skewered him with a lance in an ambush, poor bastard.’
I was filled with doubt, but then again the guide could be telling the truth. King Mithridates had been fighting the Romans for years. The ruler of Pontus, he had been gradually pushed back through Greece to his kingdom in the north. He was still fighting Rome, but now there were Roman legions on his borders. It was possible that this man had fought for him. Whatever the truth was, he led us north from Nisibus into the wild country that was Cappadocia. A barren, arid region, it was bordered to the north by the peaks of the Black Sea mountain range and in the south by the Taurus Mountains. We rode through gorges and canyons with steep sides, passed through valleys criss-crossed by streams and gazed at dazzling rock formations fashioned by wind and water. We saw few people, and I was beginning to think that the whole area was uninhabited when our guide suddenly pulled up his horse. I was riding beside Bozan when he galloped up to us.
‘We camp here tonight, lord,’ he said. ‘Fresh water nearby, lots of cover. Very safe.’
‘What about the Romans?’ I asked.
‘No Romani, lord.’
He rode away to show our scouts where we could camp for the night. I had to confess that the spot he chose was a good one: near fresh water and high in the hills, giving us excellent views of the surrounding terrain. If we were attacked there were also avenues of escape through the rock formations. So as not to advertise our presence, Bozan forbade the lighting of any fires that night. As the sun went down the temperature fell, but fortunately the wind that had been blowing all day disappeared as well. Gafarn and I fed and watered our horses before we ate our own meal. While we were attending to our mounts our guide ambled up to observe us, accompanied by two guards (it appeared Bozan didn’t trust him, either). Yet he appeared unconcerned by being almost a prisoner, no doubt content to have the first payment of gold in his saddlebag. He would get the rest at the end of our mission.
‘You Parthians love your horses,’ he said, smiling.
‘A Parthian without a horse is like a man without a right arm,’ replied Gafarn. I glowered at him, but he continued to engage the man in conversation. ‘We are busy,’ I snapped.
> The man bowed. ‘Of course, lord. Did not mean to cause offence.’
I laid my horse’s saddle and saddlecloth on the ground, Gafarn watching me all the time. ‘What?’ I asked.
‘You do not like him?’
‘I do not trust him. There is a difference.’
‘Why, because he does not wear fine clothes?’
‘No, because he takes gold.’
Gafarn laughed. ‘Why shouldn’t he? He has to put food in his belly. He does not have a fine palace to live in and servants to do his bidding.’
‘He could also be taking Roman gold, have you thought of that? He might be leading us into a trap.’
‘Or he might hate the Romans and want revenge on them for murdering his family.’
‘How do you know that?’ I asked.
‘I spent some time talking to him. You should try it sometime.’
‘I don’t have time for idle gossip, that’s for servants.’
‘Then you won’t be interested to hear about Merv.’
̒What about Merv?’
̒Burnt to the ground, I hear,’ he said, nonchalantly examining his scabbard.
̒You're lying.’
He looked hurt. ̒Why should I lie?’
̒To annoy me,’ I replied.
̒There are easier ways of doing that, believe me.’
̒Enough! Tell me what you know.’
̒When we were in Nisibus I was idly talking to a dispatch rider, who told me that a horde of Scythians had attacked the city and set fire to it. Didn’t that old woman at Ctesiphon say something about a burning city?’
̒I can't remember,’ I lied.
̒Oh, I think you can. Makes you think, though.’
̒Enough, Gafarn. My ears are aching.’
̒Yes, highness,’ he said, smiling mischievously.
I hardly slept that night, thinking about what Gafarn had told me. He must have been mistaken. Towns and outposts were always being attacked along the empire’s eastern frontier, especially from the north, the land of the nomads of the steppes. But still...
The next day we were led across a wide, grass-covered plain, with the northern mountains capped with snow on our flank. The guide led us into a small wood where we tethered the mules and left guards to watch over them, while the others checked their weapons, saddles and mounts. The guide, Bozan and I then made our way on foot to the other side of the wood, which looked out onto another, smaller plain bordered on the far side by a low-lying rock plateau. A dirt track ran across the plain. The sun was now at the midpoint in the sky, which was dotted with white puffy clouds. The air in the wood was still and humid; sweat formed on my brow and ran down my face. Bozan peered at the flat terrain in front of us.
̒You're sure this is the way they come?’
̒Sure, lord,’ replied the guide, whose name Gafarn told me, was Byrd.
̒When?’
̒Two hours.’
Bozan turned to me. ̒Pacorus, he says there will be a Roman supply column coming through here, on its way to Pontus, so I intend to stop it here. Being so far from the fighting there should be only a light escort. Nevertheless, we hit them hard and then get away fast. No looting.’
̒Yes, lord,’ I replied. The thought of battle made my pulse race with excitement.
We made our back to the men, which was a ten-minute walk through widely separated poplar trees. The passage through the trees would be easy enough for horsemen, but if we placed our cavalry too close to the edge of the wood, the enemy would see them. Bozan organised us into companies of just under a hundred men each, with a few men left behind at the camp to look after the food, spare weapons and the mules. I would lead one company, he another and the other three by appointed officers. The guide remained at the camp. He wanted to fight with us but Bozan said no. If he had betrayed us, the thought of having to fight hundreds of Roman infantry and cavalry cooled my passion somewhat. I told Gafarn to stay at the camp, though he wanted to ride beside me. He may have been a servant, but he was as skilled as I in the use of a bow, perhaps more so, and could also handle a sword if need be. Despite his protests I insisted that he remain behind. We were making our last equipment checks when a soldier ran up to Bozan with the news that the enemy had been spotted.
Bozan gave the signal that the cavalry were to mount up, then he pointed at me and indicated that I should follow him as he and the guide ran towards the edge of the wood. Minutes later I was kneeling beside Bozan peering across the plain towards black shapes that had appeared in the distance. Bozan must have heard my heavy breathing.
‘Calm yourself, Pacorus, there’s plenty of time.’
As the minutes passed the shapes began to take on recognisable forms. Ahead and on the flanks of the column were horsemen, I estimated around a hundred, though there was probably more at the rear of the column. Then came a phalanx of infantry with their red rectangular shields, steel helmets and mail shirts, though some were carrying long spears and green, round shields – auxiliaries. At their head marched a figure with a transverse crest and a legionary carrying a red, square-shaped standard mounted atop a long pole. Then came the four-wheeled wagons, each one pulled by a pair of oxen. The pace of the column was slow, both men and beasts maintaining a leisurely pace. I estimated that they would be level with us in around twenty minutes, maybe less. It took us half that time to get back to our troops, issue orders to the columns and make our way back to the far side of wood. Byrd stayed with Gafarn and the reserve.
I, Bozan and three other officers were at the head of our respective companies, all eyes on Bozan. The Roman flank horsemen were getting close now, though their riders were not really scouting, merely maintaining the regulation distance from the wagons. Bozan plucked an arrow from his quiver and placed the feathered end on the bowstring; everyone else did the same. Each of us held the bow with our left hand and the drawstring with our right. My heart was like a hammer pounding against my rib cage, waiting for the sign. Waiting, waiting. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional snort of a horse. Bozan’s gaze was fixed on the enemy. Then we charged.
Bozan gave a shout and kicked his horse into the attack; nearly five hundred horsemen followed. In any assault the first two or three minutes are crucial. The enemy is temporarily stunned, and even the best-trained soldiers in the world cannot react in the blink of an eye. But these were not the best-trained troops; they were a mixture of legionaries and auxiliaries, and they were strung out in a long line. Our five columns of horse archers lapped round the column like waves crashing against a spit of land. As my horse raced towards the rear of the column I saw one of the drivers stand up on his cart with a spear in his hand. I released my bowstring as I neared him, the arrow slicing through the air and hitting him in the stomach. He collapsed back into the cart as I galloped past him. The enemy outriders were already dead, pierced by arrows before they had a chance to react.
The air was filled with screams, curses and shouts as my company reached the end of the column, which consisted of two overloaded carts. Some of my men put arrows into the oxen as others fired at the auxiliaries protecting them. These men tried to form a shield wall, but their shields were round not oblong like those of the legionaries, and it was easy for us to shoot at exposed heads and torsos. Within seconds the line had broken. I shot an arrow that slammed into a man’s throat, sending him spinning backwards onto the ground. We kept moving around the column, for a man on a horse presents a large target to a spearman when he is stationary. I strung another arrow as I turned to make another pass at the column. Within minutes the ground was littered with dead and dying men and oxen. I could see no enemy cavalry at all; the survivors must have fled.
I wheeled to make another pass at the enemy and strung another arrow. Some archers had taken up position next to a cart in the middle of the column and were shooting at our horsemen. But their bows had less range compared to ours and their arrows were falling short. I decided we had to destroy this threat.
‘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 releasing 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 water skin 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 had removed, 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 vehicle 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 that was 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 transverse 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 sideways 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 water skin 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 shooting 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. ‘Ge
t 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 our 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 he pushed he needle 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, its 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, releasing 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.
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 thanks 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 horseman 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 alr
eady 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 me 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 at a small fire as the darkness descended. The temperament of the men was like my own: subdued. I was in no mood for company so sent Gafarn away to amuse himself. As the cold encroached I remained sitting 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.
‘Caesarea.’
‘What?’
‘Caesarea, lord.’
I sighed loudly. ‘Am I supposed to make any sense of what you say?’
‘You wish to avenge your friend and master, lord. Caesarea 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 Caesarea 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 Caesarea 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 Caesarea 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 Caesarea, I assembled the officers. They were seated on the ground around my fire, their faces full of confidence. Byrd was also present.
‘Tomorrow we ride to Caesarea. 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 Caesarea 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 – Caesarea. I observed the town from the top of a nearby hill. Caesarea lay in the middle of a wide plain 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 dotted 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 shooting 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 shot. 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 Caesarea’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 into 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 Caesarea. 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, their horses streaked with sweat, appeared and dropped into line behind us. I ordered them to muster on the plain from where we had launched our attack and there to 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 water skins 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 Caesarea no longer existed.
I felt no elation or sense of victory after our attack. All we had done was assault an undefended town and massacre its inhabitants. A morose Byrd led us south, to Cilicia, the region that lay on Cappadocia’s southern border, from where we would cut east cross-country to the north of the city of Antioch, and then back to Hatra. He hardly spoke to anyone during the journey. He had led us to the town where he had lived before Cappadocia had been conquered by the Romans, and his reward was to witness its destruction. He must hate us now more than he did the Romans, I mused. At least my men’s spirits were rising with the promise of seeing their homes and families again. Gafarn, I noticed, attended to his duties diligently but rarely engaged in conversation and averted his eyes. No doubt he was still sickened by what he had witnessed at Caesarea. No matter, he would get over it. My own mood lightened as we travelled south. The death of Bozan had been a blow, of course, but, I reasoned, he had been a soldier and soldiers get killed in battle. But we had defeated a detachment of Roman cavalry and had rampaged at will through Cappadocia. We were returning to Hatra as victors. Hopefully Rome would now think twice about raiding Parthian territory, for to do so would invite retaliation. It never occurred to me that the Roman cavalry we had defeated had been but one of the groups sent out to find us. It thus came as a nasty shock when we were pounced upon by Roman legionaries and cavalry on the Cilician border.