Six thousand horse archers, arrayed in company-sized columns, trotted forward to try to halt the huge mass of horse and foot that was bearing down on the makeshift battle line thrown across the neck of the river bend. Chrestus and General Motofi, the grim but no-nonsense commander of the Immortals, were desperately marshalling their respective foot soldiers to prevent the Armenians from advancing into our perilous bridgehead. The easy victory earlier had lulled us into a false sense of security, reducing any sense of urgency and giving the quartermasters more time to organise the river crossing. But their plans had turned to ashes.
‘Keep close,’ I said to Klietas beside me, behind us a company of Duran horse archers. Our tactics were tried and tested and every one of my men and those of Karys and Kewab were professionals who knew their task. I glanced at Klietas – he alone was inexperienced. But I hoped all those hours on the training fields with the Amazons would stand him in good stead.
‘Remember your training. Focus. And blot out the noise from your mind.’
‘Yes, highborn.’
Easier said than done. The Armenian army was a vivid splash of colours and the trumpets, drums and horns among its ranks were making a racket fit to raise the dead. Artaxias’ army had deployed into line prior to attacking our forces in the bridgehead, in the centre an unbroken length of foot soldiers carrying spears and shields, with the sun glinting off thousands of helmets and whetted spear points. Fluttering among their ranks were dozens of red banners, the colour being the symbol of bravery in Armenia. As we cantered forward I could see that the banners were actually crimson, with golden stars in the centre flanked by two reverse-looking eagles also in gold – the standard of the Artaxiad dynasty.
Company signallers blew their horns to order their men to break into a gallop, the enemy line becoming more formidable and intimidating as we rode directly at it.
‘Focus.’ I shouted to Klietas.
A hundred paces from the unbroken lines of shields and spears I shot my arrow, releasing the bowstring to send the missile high into the sky. To drop vertically among the dense ranks of the enemy. Then I turned Horns to the right to ride along the Armenian battle line, plucking another arrow from my quiver and again shooting it high into the sky, before turning Horns right again to retrace my steps back to our own army, twisting in the saddle to shoot a third arrow at the enemy before the rider behind me – Klietas – blocked my aim.
The companies of horse archers raked the Armenian army with a hurricane of missiles, each company shooting one arrow every five seconds once the attack commenced – sixty companies discharging three thousand, six hundred arrows a minute in total. The air was thick with black missiles arching into the sky before falling among the enemy’s foot soldiers. Many would hit shields and the ground, but others would strike helmets, torsos and legs, inflicting casualties but, more importantly, stopping the Armenians in their tracks.
The companies withdrew and prepared to gallop forward again to unleash fresh volleys against the enemy, buying our own foot soldiers valuable time to form a battle line. But from the flanks of the Armenian foot soldiers came horsemen, thousands of them. They carried lances and round shields, wore scale-armour cuirasses and helmets and I knew they would slaughter us easily if they caught us.
‘Sound withdrawal,’ I shouted at the signaller behind me.
Seconds later, the sound reverberated through the air and was copied by the signallers in other companies. Kewab, seasoned general that he was, was already leading his men back to the relative safety of the bridgehead – some five hundred paces away. The horse archers of Karys were also falling back, swiftly followed by those of Sporaces. The Armenians were moving slowly, knowing that horse archers armed only with bows and perhaps swords were no match for heavily armed and armoured lancers, and that our men would withdraw out of their way, as indeed they were now doing. Like the foot soldiers, the standard bearers of the enemy lancers were carrying red banners sporting golden eagles. These men were the lesser nobles of Armenia and their retainers, not as rich and powerful as the men around their king who formed his corps of cataphracts, but landowners able to raise sizeable numbers of armed horsemen nevertheless.
‘Highborn, we should go.’
Klietas interrupted my musings. I tugged on Horns’ reins to turn him and dug my knees into his sides to get him to gallop, my squire following, glancing back at the mounted horde pursuing us.
‘They will not harm you,’ I told him, ‘unless you fall off your horse and they catch up with you.’
‘There are many of them, highborn. They will sweep aside our foot soldiers.’
‘No, Klietas, they will not.’
Horsemen cannot break through unbroken ranks of disciplined foot soldiers. But the Armenians would not use their horsemen against the Immortals and Exiles that were now parting ranks to allow our horse archers to pass through them. They would instead use their foot soldiers to batter their way through our defensive line. That line reformed as the horse archers, riding tired horses that had had no rest or fodder since the day before, withdrew to water their mounts in the river. I slid off Horns’ back and handed his reins to Klietas.
‘Take him to the river and water him, your horse, too.’
An impromptu council of war took place behind the Exiles, Chrestus with a face like thunder marching over to me, Kewab and Karys joining my general, the King of Gordyene speaking to a clearly concerned Motofi nearby. When they arrived, Chrestus vented his spleen.
‘We have been well and truly duped. Only the Exiles are across the river and how many Immortals?’
His eyes bored into Motofi.
‘Four divisions,’ replied the general.
‘Four thousand men, in case you are unaware of the organisation of Gordyene’s army,’ smiled Spartacus.
Chrestus ignored him.
‘Any scorpions?’ he asked Motofi.
The general shook his head. Chrestus sighed.
‘So, we have half our foot soldiers on the wrong side of the river, together with all the scorpions and spare javelins.’
‘We still have thousands of horsemen on this side of the river,’ I said.
‘Six thousand blown horse archers and two thousand mounted spearmen of Gordyene, also fatigued,’ Chrestus shot back, ‘plus Malik’s men, who are also riding tired horses. That leaves the Vipers and King’s Guard of Gordyene. A thousand fresh riders.’
‘You are forgetting Prince Spadines and his three thousand Aorsi,’ remarked Spartacus.
Chrestus said nothing but merely tapped the vine cane he was carrying against his leg. Always a bad sign.
I looked back across the river, to where the wagons, mules, squires, camels and rest of our foot soldiers were massed. Lucius, quite rightly, had halted any further crossings of the river and had withdrawn the army away from the river, just in case we had need to ferry soldiers back across the Araxes.
‘We hold until the cataphracts and Hatra’s horse archers arrive,’ I said. ‘We still may prevail.’
A loud cacophony of drums and trumpets signalled the start of the Armenian attack and Chrestus and Motofi departed in haste, Spartacus indicating to the lingering Shamshir he needed his horse.
‘Shamash be with you,’ I said to him.
My nephew looked around, smirking.
‘Shamash? Is an ally, one who has brought more men to reinforce our position?’
‘You know he is not.’
‘Then I have no use for him.’
His blasphemy was something to behold and I prayed the Sun God would not punish him for his insolence. He vaulted into the saddle, Shamshir handing him his reins.
‘You spend too much time praying to man-made idols, uncle. Battles are won and lost by men, not gods, and I do not intend to lose this one.’
With that he was gone, riding over to where his Immortals were arrayed in two lines to the left of the Exiles, also deployed in two lines. Behind the Immortals stood the Vipers and King’s Guard, and to the rear of them Spadines and his raiders, many lolling around on the grass with seemingly not a care in the world. As if reading my thoughts, Kewab voiced his opinion, and mine.
‘A great pity we cannot swap the Sarmatians for the Durans, majesty.’
‘Indeed. Do you think we can hold them?’
He scanned the half-mile gap protected by the Immortals and Exiles, glancing at the horsemen behind our foot soldiers.
‘It will be close. We are deprived of the luxury of manoeuvre, so will have to withstand their assaults until the queen and King Gafarn and Queen Diana arrive. But with Montu’s help we will overcome.’
‘Montu?’
‘The Egyptian God of War, majesty, whose name originally derived from the term for a nomad, which I became until Dura offered me a home.’
‘Egypt’s loss is Dura’s gain,’ I told him. ‘May your god go with you.’
‘They will soften us up first,’ he said, gaining the saddle of his horse held by one of his officers, ‘and you have no shield to take cover under, majesty.’
I raised a hand in acknowledgement as he trotted back to his own men now withdrawing back to the river, some half a mile distant and well out of range of enemy slingshots and arrows. I began to follow them when I heard the cracks of slingshots hitting shields and the dull thuds of arrows doing likewise. I increased my pace, pain shooting through my leg, forcing me to hobble.
‘Get on this horse, old man.’
I turned left to see a grinning Malik holding a spare mount.
‘Do you want me to assist you into the saddle?’
‘I’m quite capable, thank you.’
I hoisted myself up with difficulty and he tossed me the reins. An arrow thudded into the ground a few yards away. Malik urged his horse forward; I did the same.
‘These Armenians cannot shoot straight,’ he grinned, enjoying the possibility of our imminent slaughter immensely.
But he was wrong. The Armenians could shoot well enough and they were bringing the full weight of their slingers and archers to bear on our battle line. That line comprised five thousand Exiles in two lines, the first made of six cohorts, the second four cohorts, and to their left four thousand Immortals in two lines, both lines comprising two divisions. All the divisions and cohorts – covering a space half a mile in width – were now in testudo formation: all soldiers were kneeling, the first rank forming a shield wall, the second and third ranks lifting their shields to form a forward-sloping roof, and the subsequent ranks holding their shields horizontally above their heads. In this way, the Armenian arrows and slingshots struck leather and wood instead of flesh and bone. But while the cohorts and divisions were battered by the missile storm, the Armenians tasked with breaking through our battle line deployed into formation.
A giant wedge took shape in the centre of the Armenian battle line, composed of the élite soldiers of Artaxias’ army: heavy spearmen and heavy swordsmen. The latter, all professionals, wore mail armour, helmets and carried oval shields faced with bronze. Armed with two spears, their primary weapon was a long sword that they used to attack the enemy after they had thrown their spears. A mixture of mail and scale armour protected the heavy spearmen, and all wore helmets. They carried round shields and long spears and were trained to fight in close order. If their spears broke or got stuck in an enemy, they used their short swords in the mêlée.
Either side of the wedge were blocks of light spearmen: soldiers wearing no armour or helmets and carrying only a wicker shield. Nevertheless, every man was equipped with a heavy war axe and three javelins that they hurled before attacking. The flanks of the Armenian line comprised levy spearmen: civilians impressed into service and armed only with a spear and a knife, though a few may have had swords. Their wicker shields offered poor protection against the gladius carried by the foot soldiers of Dura and Gordyene, but their purpose was to keep the soldiers they faced fixed in the same place, thereby preventing either Motofi or Chrestus from reinforcing the spot the Armenian wedge would strike.
Having retrieved Horns from Klietas, I sat in the saddle alongside Malik and Spartacus, behind us his King’s Guard and Vipers, and waited for the tell-tale sounds that signalled men were locked in mortal combat.
‘They will never break our line,’ said Spartacus.
He was right; they did not. But when the war cries of thousands of men and a horrible rasping sound reverberated through the air, my stomach turned over. The grinding noise was focused in the middle of our battle line, meaning the Armenians had thrown all the momentum of their attack against that one spot. The subsequent incessant clicking sound filling our ears was the cut-and-thrust of close-quarter combat: spears being thrust forward, javelins impacting on shields and bodies, and the hacking and stabbing of swords.
Normally, once the enemy’s slingers and archers had finished their work there would be a lull, akin to a pause for breath, before the foe attacked. This gave the foot soldiers of Dura and Gordyene time to break free of their testudo formations and organise their ranks before unleashing a javelin storm against the onrushing enemy. As they were trained to do, the legionaries and Immortals would not wait to be assaulted while stationary, but would rather advance to meet the enemy, the rear ranks hurling their javelins to slow down or stop the foe. And if given the opportunity, the scorpion crews would shoot one or two volleys for added effect. But today there were no scorpions and the Armenians threw thousands of men against just one spot in our battle line: where the Immortals ended, and the Exiles began. Their light and levy spearmen also launched a frontal assault, but the weight of Armenian arrows and slingshots was brought to bear in support of the huge wedge that now fractured our battle line.
‘This does not augur well.’
Kewab put into words what we were all thinking as we saw red enemy banners appear as the Immortals on the left and Exiles on the right give way. They did not break or run away, but the Armenian wedge forced battalions and centuries to face right and left respectively, to prevent the enemy infiltrating between the first and second lines of our battle formation. This meant the tip of the wedge forced its way through the Immortals and Durans, who were still battling to their front against a numerically superior foe. But the deluge of missiles – arrows, spears and slingshots – combined with the number of enemy soldiers thrown against one point in the line, had prised the two sections of our battle line apart.
Spartacus curled his lip.
‘Shamshir, the King’s Guard and Vipers will advance to plug that gap.’
The sinister commander of his bodyguard saluted and turned his horse to canter to the thousand riders waiting patiently in the sun.
Spartacus turned his attention to Malik.
‘I would welcome your assistance, brother.’
‘And you shall have it,’ grinned the Agraci king.
‘Karys, Kewab,’ I said, ‘bring your horse archers forward. We will support the King of Gordyene.’
The breach in our battle line was widening and time was of the essence. Spartacus was already at the head of his King’s Guard, and ahead of him the Vipers were ready to unleash volleys of arrows against the Armenian wedge that was now slowly turning into a column as more and more soldiers were fed into the gap. Gordyene’s medium horseman were cantering behind the King’s Guard, ready to skewer the enemy foot soldiers with their lances, but only if the enemy broke.
I heard a loud, continuous hissing noise as the Vipers began to shoot at the enemy, columns of female riders unleashing arrows against the enemy column. Then the King’s Guard slammed into the Armenians, Spartacus’ men armed with ukku blades slashing down at spearmen in close order forming an impenetrable wall of shields and spear points. They achieved very little. The Agraci were similarly frustrated as they tried and also failed to hack their way into the Armenian mass. But at least they had halted the enemy column, which appeared to be a minimum of two hundred paces wide. And then saddles were emptied as foot archers within the Armenian column began shooting at the horsemen lapping around the edges of their formation.
Spartacus and Malik immediately pulled back their troops, which became literally sitting targets for the enemy as they hacked with their swords and jabbed with their lances against the heavy spearmen, to little avail.
When the medium horsemen, Agraci, King’s Guard and Vipers withdrew, I led six thousand horse archers forward to form a semi-circle around the Armenian column. Both horses and men were tired but if the Armenians were allowed to extend and widen their column they would reach the river to condemn us to defeat. So once more companies formed into columns and attacked the enemy. But the limited space within the bridgehead meant only around ten companies at a time could attack the Armenians, who continued to shoot back with arrows and now slingshots.
I aimed my arrow at one of the shields bearing a tree of life symbol, released the bowstring and turned Horns sharply right, plucking an arrow from my quiver, nocking it in the bowstring, twisting left in the saddle and shooting the missile. Behind me Klietas also shot his arrow before following me right and then right again to gallop back to the rear of the company. On the way back, I saw a horse archer shout and clutch his face, an arrow lodged in his eye socket, before tumbling from the saddle. The air was thick with missiles. More and more enemy arrows were now being shot at us; an indication the enemy commander was feeding more and more missile troops into the column. I glanced back to see our own arrows had made no discernible impact on the enemy.
At least the Armenians had halted, which was something, but when I took up my position at the rear of the column to begin the attack process again, I noticed an increasing number of our own horse archers dead on the ground and horses without riders milling around, some with arrows stuck in them.
‘You are with me,’ I said to Klietas, turning Horns to direct him towards a small red griffin banner denoting the presence of Sporaces.
When I reached him, he was issuing orders to his officers to pull the horse archers back out of range of the Armenian column. He saw me and for a split-second appeared hesitant.
‘I was going to suggest the same thing,’ I reassured him.
‘The Armenian commander knows what he is doing, majesty.’
‘With no ground to manoeuvre on we are hamstrung.’
He pointed to the flanks where both the Immortals and Exiles were slowly giving ground, maintaining their formation and discipline while being assaulted on their front and flanks.
‘We may have to withdraw back across the river, majesty.’
‘There is still time, Sporaces. In the meantime, deploy your men for long-range shooting. We don’t want that enemy column splitting into two with each part wheeling left and right to surround the Immortals and Exiles.’
Sporaces nodded his head towards the loitering Sarmatians lining the riverbank, seemingly without a care in the world.
‘What about them, majesty?’
‘Hopefully, if we are forced to withdraw, many of them will drown in the river. Every cloud has a silver lining, as the saying goes.’
Kewab and Karys, veterans that they were, had also recognised the futility of getting too close to foot soldiers that had been reinforced with missile troops, and they also ordered their men to fall back and shoot at long range, though as our backs were almost against the river, ‘medium range’ would have been a more appropriate term. From a range of over three hundred paces we shot at the enemy column, aiming our arrows high into the sky so they would drop vertically on the Armenians, hopefully striking slingers and archers who carried no shields, wore no armour and were mostly devoid of helmets.
An irate Spartacus and his equally angry sons galloped over, behind them a huge red banner emblazoned with a silver lion. The King of Gordyene pulled up his horse.
‘Why did you order your horse archers to withdraw?’
‘The same reason you pulled back your own horsemen, nephew,’ I said slowly, slipping my bow back into its leather case fixed to my saddle.
I pointed at the now stationary Armenian column that jutted forward in the centre of what had been our line, around it a semi-circle of horse archers taking leisurely shots at it. Their rate of shooting was deliberately slow to conserve their limited ammunition.
‘The Armenians have placed slingers and archers within their column, therefore it makes sense to withdraw and shoot arrows on a high trajectory into the column.’
‘In the hope they withdraw?’ scoffed Castus.
‘That is correct, young prince,’ I shot back, ‘for our efforts are merely secondary.’
‘To what?’ demanded Haytham beside him.
The ground beneath us suddenly began to tremble and an ominous rumble filled our ears. I smiled at Prince Haytham.
‘To that.’
Spartacus cracked a wry smile. ‘Luck is with you, uncle.’
‘The gods are with us,’ I corrected him.
He turned his horse to ride away.
‘They are mere fantasies, uncle, whereas cataphracts are real.’
Two and a half thousand cataphracts – big men wearing scale and tubular armour riding big horses with iron-shod hooves, smashed into the left wing of the Armenian army, supported by fifteen thousand Hatran horse archers. The still-battling Exiles on our right flank and beyond them Armenian foot soldiers in front of Artaxias’ horsemen blocked our view of what must have been a magnificent spectacle. But the results soon became evident.
The Armenian column of foot soldiers began to withdraw, spearmen in the front ranks shuffling back and maintaining their unbroken shield wall. But no arrows came from behind the red-uniformed wall tipped with glinting spear points.
‘Help them on their way,’ I said to Sporaces, my spirits lifted by the sounds of battle erupting on the right where Gallia, Gafarn and Diana were hopefully mauling the Armenians.
Moments later, Dura’s horse archers were once again riding forward in company-sized columns to shoot at the retreating foe. Karys and Kewab also sent their men forward, though unfortunately their low ammunition stocks resulted in their volleys being sporadic at best. Spartacus led his King’s Guard forward once more, but the discipline of the Armenians was impeccable and for a second time the ukku blades of Gordyene’s finest enjoyed only meagre pickings.
One by one the companies of horse archers ceased shooting as their quivers emptied, wheeling away to fall back to the river where Spadines and his Aorsi bandits finally gained their saddles.
‘A great victory, highborn,’ smiled Klietas, who still had most of his arrows left.
‘A great escape, more like.’
I nudged Horns forward and he broke into a canter, heading for the rear cohorts of the Exiles. The colour party guarding their silver lion still held their javelins. The signaller sounded his trumpet to indicate the approach of a senior officer, all two hundred men snapping to attention. I raised my hand in salute as I passed and halted Horns a few paces from where a medical orderly was bandaging the arm of a wounded legionary. In front of him tired men had rested their shields on the ground, all of them without javelins but still holding gladius blades in their hands. The nearest centurion spotted me sliding from my horse.
‘Stay here, I will return shortly,’ I told Klietas.
‘Stand to attention, the king approaches.’
‘As you were, rest easy,’ I commanded.
The centurion, his face beaded with sweat, saluted smartly.
‘Hard fight?’
‘I’ve known harder, majesty,’ he said without emotion.
The damaged white crest atop his helmet told a different story but I smiled and walked on, passing the second-line cohorts that had obviously been in the frontline before being relieved, and on to those standing directly opposite the enemy, though the lack of screams and battle cries indicated all fighting had now ceased. I caught sight of Chrestus standing behind a cohort circled by a group of officers and walked over, a sharp pain shooting through my leg causing me to stumble and fall.
‘The king is injured.’
An eagle-eyed legionary had spotted my fall and within seconds had rushed over to assist me, followed by what appeared to be a small army that closed in on me, each member shouting ‘the king is wounded’.
‘Make way,’ I was relieved to hear Chrestus’ voice, the general grabbing my arm as I hoisted myself up with difficulty. He looked me up and down and saw no wound or blood.
‘The old leg wound, majesty?’
‘The old leg wound,’ I confirmed.
‘Back to your positions,’ he bellowed, ‘the king is fine.’
‘Want to see our handiwork?’ he grinned.
‘Of course.’
‘Want a walking stick?’
‘I think I can walk a few yards.’
He escorted me to where the battle had been fiercest, where the Armenians had launched a frontal assault against the Exiles, all around me tired men raising their swords and cheering when they spotted me. I drew my spatha and saluted them in turn, stopping when I saw the ground carpeted with dead men, hundreds of them. Men who had been stabbed with gladius blades, their tunics heavily stained with blood, their faces moulded into grotesque shapes by multiple sword cuts.
‘Not a good idea to throw men wearing no armour or helmets with wicker shields and armed only with a spear against the Exiles.’
‘Farmers and townsmen,’ I told him, ‘who always suffer the most in war.’
A loud cheer went up and I turned to accept the accolade. But they were not cheering me but a group of riders approaching from the right, their horses carefully threading their way through the carpet of dead. I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw Gallia and Zenobia, the latter holding my griffin banner, alongside Gafarn and Diana, a red banner showing a white horse behind them. Also with them were the Amazons and at least two companies of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard.
I walked forward to greet Gallia, my wife removing her helmet and bending down so we could kiss, prompting whoops and whistles from the legionaries behind us. I also kissed Diana and shook Gafarn’s hand.
‘You are a sight for sore eyes,’ I told them.
‘The river crossing took longer than anticipated,’ said Gallia, ‘but once across the Armenians had no answer to our strength.’
‘Azad, Herneus and Orobaz are currently dancing with the enemy,’ Gafarn told me.
‘How is Spartacus?’ asked a concerned Diana.
‘Like a wolf deprived of his prey,’ I answered. ‘He was hoping to slaughter the entire Armenian army in this river bend, but his hopes have been dashed.’
‘The Armenians are retreating in good order,’ said Gafarn, looking around at the horror, ‘what is left of them.’
‘We will be before the walls of Artaxata within two days,’ I said, ‘and once King Artaxias has agreed to pay reparations, we will be back home within a month.’
There was a rumble of thunder overhead and we all looked up to see the sky was suddenly full of grey clouds. But had I realised what the immediate future held, I would have known it was not thunder but the mocking laughter of the gods.