The nights suddenly turned cool, occasioning individuals to wrap themselves in cloaks when the sun had dropped below the western horizon. A constant light breeze from the north added to the chill, and though the days were largely sunny and bright, it was clear autumn was on its way. The days were uneventful, the army quitting camp just after dawn and adopting its usual marching formation: Talib and his scouts riding far ahead; a screen of horse archers riding ahead of the vanguard, which comprised a mixed force of horse and foot; the command group, which include myself and Gallia, the Amazons, Chrestus, Azad and Sporaces, plus Kalet and Malik, and a century commanded by the redoubtable Bullus; the cataphracts and their squires; the main body of the Exiles and Durans marching six abreast; the baggage and camel train; a strong rearguard of horse archers; and flank guards comprising horse archers. The army was on half-rations, the campaign having lasted longer than anticipated, though at least the horses, mules and camels had enjoyed rich grazing lands and had not suffered unduly.
It had rained the day before, though not enough to soften the ground only cool the air. The sounds of horses chomping on bits, the dull thuds of hooves on ground and behind the crump of thousands of hobnailed boots tramping the earth filled me with reassurance. I looked up at the craggy ridgeline on both sides of the valley we were entering and shook my head.
‘Is your leg playing up?’ asked Gallia.
‘Mm? No, I was just thinking about the last time I was in Cappadocia, when the Romans captured me. It is not a happy memory.’
‘How long ago was that, lord?’ asked Kalet behind me.
‘Over four decades. We lost many good men during that campaign, including my mentor, Bozan, the father of Vata.’
I turned to look at Kalet, Kewab, Chrestus and Azad, only to see a row of blank faces. I doubt they had even heard of Bozan and my boyhood friend Vata. Just another reminder of how old I was. I decided to reminisce some more.
‘Nergal, that is King Nergal, was just an ordinary horse archer at the time and Gafarn was my slave.’
‘King Gafarn, highborn?’ Klietas was astounded.
‘That’s right, King Gafarn. We were all slaves after our capture, so you could say we were reborn after being guests of the Romans.’
‘Do you hate the Romans, highborn, for what they did to you?’
‘Not at all,’ I told him. ‘You should never hate your enemies, Klietas, because it clouds your judgement, and if your judgement is clouded it inhibits your chances of bettering them.’
‘Fog.’
I heard Chrestus’ voice and saw the mist beginning to envelop us. Like a phantom, it had appeared without warning, but in retrospect it was entirely predictable. The combination of a light night-time breeze, a clear night sky, recent rainfall and a cool morning temperature created the ideal conditions for valley fog. And then the fog was all around us, visibility was down to around twenty paces and it suddenly felt very cold. But as we plodded forward, I realised it was not cold that I was experiencing, rather apprehension. A chill ran down my spine and I instinctively pulled my bow from its case and nocked an arrow in the bowstring.
‘Ready,’ hissed Gallia.
Behind us came the sound of scraping as swords were pulled from scabbards. I could no longer hear the sound of marching foot soldiers or the jangling of saddlery. I tugged on Horns’ reins to halt him, everyone else doing likewise, knowing that something was wrong. There was silence, but it was a calm laced with threat. Horns, sensing my concern, grunted and flicked his ears. I patted his neck.
‘Easy, boy.’
Everyone was peering into the white mist, straining to identify something, anything, but saw no movement or shapes. Gallia spun in the saddle and drew back her bowstring when she heard individuals running, she and the other Amazons relaxing when a transverse crest appear out of the fog. Centurion Bullus deployed his men in two files either side of our mounted party, his men facing outwards to form a shield wall.
‘You suspect trouble, Bullus?’ I asked.
‘I can smell it a mile off, majesty.’
His men shouldered their javelins, ready to launch them at the enemy. But there was no sound of anyone approaching: no curses from men tripping on stones or tufts of grass. Nothing. A horse whinnied, another backed away from … from what?
And then they came at us.
The Romans called the wild frontal attacks launched by the Gauls the furor Celtica, but these Gauls approached stealthily, treading carefully to get as close as possible without alerting us to their presence. And they were far removed from the ‘naked swords’ and ordinary warriors commanded by Amyntas. These were nobles in red, blue and green tunics, wearing leather armour cuirasses and colourful wool leggings. The majority carried longswords in addition to their round shields and cone helmets decorated with horsetails and feathers. A few carried spears, one of which thudded into an Amazon to announce the beginning of the battle.
‘There!’ screamed Minu, shooting her arrow at the horde of dark shapes emerging from the mist.
There was a groan when her arrow found flesh and then a mighty roar as the Gauls ran at us. Multiple hisses signalled the release of bowstrings, but the Gauls were close and holding their shields in front of them in anticipation of the volley, the one volley they knew would be shot before they got close to the women warriors of Queen Gallia.
To run straight into Bullus’ legionaries.
The Gauls had planned their ambush well, infiltrating into the valley and waiting until it filled with fog, no doubt advised on the weather conditions in this particular spot by their Cappadocian allies. But they had not factored in that the King and Queen of Dura would also be protected by a century of their foot soldiers led by a veteran centurion. Nevertheless, as more and more Gauls came rushing from the mist, it became apparent that the century was heavily outnumbered.
I released my bowstring at a Gaul about to swing his sword at a legionary, the arrow striking him in the shoulder, penetrating his leather armour to knock him to the ground. The legionary leapt forward, stabbed the point of his gladius hard into his face, and then pulled back. Another Gaul jumped over his prostrate companion, hollering a war cry, his sword held high so he could chop it down on the legionary. Klietas put an arrow into his eye socket and I put another one into his chest, which stopped him dead.
The legionaries were acting as a breakwater, halting the onrushing Gauls to allow us to shoot our arrows. But Bullus had only a hundred men – a reinforced century – whereas the Gauls numbered hundreds.
‘Hold them!’ shouted Bullus, dozens of Gauls chopping and slashing at the thin line of legionaries with their swords, deflecting gladius thrusts with their shields.
More Gauls came from the mist, these armed with spears that they threw at the riders behind our foot soldiers. Most missed but high-pitched squeals signalled that some hit Amazons, who tumbled from their horses, mounts also being struck and felled.
A legionary went down under the blows of two or more enemy swords. Into the gap raced the Gauls who had felled him. Arrows killed two but the third plunged his sword into the belly of an Amazon and dragged her from the saddle. Malik rode forward and slashed down hard with his sword with a sideways blow that almost took the Gaul’s head off.
I shot arrow after arrow at any targets that presented themselves – and there were a lot of targets. A legionary was cut down. I killed his slayer. Haya’s horse collapsed, its belly opened by a spear thrust.
‘Haya!’ screamed Klietas, jumping down from his own horse and racing over to where a leering Gaul was about to disembowel his beloved. I tried to shoot the Gaul but in a flash Klietas leapt on his back, dagger in hand, and began stabbing at the man’s neck again and again. I saw a fountain of blood and the Gaul go down, Haya jumping to her feet to shoot another Gaul bearing down on Klietas with a war hammer. The Gaul stopped, an arrow in his chest, but continued to stagger forward, gripping his hammer with both hands to bludgeon my squire to death. Klietas spun and slashed his dagger across his throat, showering him with more enemy blood and killing the Gaul.
The mist was still thick as the battle degenerated into a series of isolated fights, Bullus trying to retain some sort of order among his men but failing. Half of them were dead or wounded; the rest were clustered around Gallia and myself, both of us running short of arrows. Chrestus was on his feet, shield in one hand, gladius in the other, cutting down Gauls with aplomb as he stood in the rapidly dwindling circle of legionaries. Sporaces and Kewab were loosing arrows like men possessed, some striking faces and chests, others glancing off shields and helmets. Azad, on his feet after his horse was cut down by two Gauls, gripped his sword with both hands to parry the strike of an enemy longsword, defeating the blow before replying with his own downward strike, which cut through the enemy sword. The Gaul, perplexed why this should happen, stared incredulously at his broken weapon, before dying when Azad thrust his ukku blade through his chest.
‘Dismount, dismount!’ I shouted, aware that we were literally sitting targets as the circle of Gauls around us thickened and the number of Amazons was whittled down.
Without hesitation everyone slid off their horses’ backs, sheltering behind perhaps sixty legionaries. All except Kalet. He shouted abuse at the Gauls as he rode forward to slash at them with his sword. But his decision to leave the circle made him suddenly isolated, and he was immediately surrounded by a host of enemies. He cut down one, a second and a third, Gallia frantically shooting arrows at those Gauls near him in a vain attempt to save his life. But he was dragged from the saddle and disappeared from view, his Gaul killers howling with delight at his bloody demise.
‘He’s mine.’
My anguish over the death of Kalet was interrupted by the loud voice of King Amyntas, two-handed war hammer in hand, who pushed aside one of his lords to face me. Or would have done had not Bullus been between us. He was as big and loud as ever, ginger hair showing beneath his helmet sporting eagle wings, his eyes bulging with rage. His was hammer was smeared with blood, as was his scale armour.
‘Just you and me,’ he roared. ‘Here. Now.’
I gently laid a hand on Bullus’ broad shoulders.
‘This one’s mine, centurion.’
I stepped out from behind him, spatha in hand, the sound of men and women dying and the clash of weapons clashing slowly fading as both sides drew breath after the frenzied outburst of bloodletting. Dead Amazons and their horses lay all around, those beasts still living, including Horns, having been released to escape the horror. I prayed to Shamash that my horse, a gift from Silaces, still lived in the mist that showed no signs of budging. But the ring of dead Gauls that surrounded us dwarfed our own losses. Our arrows had reaped a rich harvest, the short swords of Bullus and his men having added to the number of enemy dead. I heard muffled shouts, horns being sounded and drums being beaten and surmised the whole army was under attack.
‘Your life ends now,’ shouted Amyntas, pointing his hammer at me.
He was bigger than me, stronger than me, younger than me and fitter than me. Apart from that we were evenly matched.
‘Don’t do it, majesty,’ pleaded Chrestus, weighing up each opponent and coming down on the side of the big Gaul.
‘Sometimes, Chrestus,’ I told him, ‘the life of one man can save many.’
I walked forward, skirting a dead Gaul with hideous facial wounds, and stepped over a slain legionary whose head had been crushed by a war hammer, perhaps the one carried by Amyntas, which would soon be wielded against me. I glanced behind at a worried Gallia, her face enclosed by the cheek guards of her helmet. Amyntas was waving his hammer around, displaying a handling dexterity that was intended to intimidate me. It worked. I suddenly felt very old and uncertain, though knew I could not back down. Amyntas roared with glee at the prospect of slaying me, but fell silent when two of his burly warlords rushed forward, grabbed his arms and hauled him back.
His face went red with rage. ‘Release, release me at once. I will have your heads for this, you maggots, you traitorous bastards.’
But they did not let go and suddenly a horn sounded and the Gauls began to withdraw. I looked behind at a line of confused but grateful legionaries and a beaming Gallia.
‘What in the name of Shamash?’ I muttered.
Then I heard the sound of boots pounding the earth and knew our salvation was at hand. Out of the mist, which was finally dissipating, came Lucius Varsas at the head of what appeared to be a full cohort of Exiles, its centurions immediately deployed their men around our bedraggled group. Lucius searched me out, stood to attention before me and saluted.
‘You are a sight for sore eyes,’ I told him, throwing my arms around him in a gesture of familiarity that took him by surprise, prompting him to become as stiff as a stone statue. I released him.
Chrestus came forward. ‘How fares the rest of the army?’
‘As far as I can tell, sir, bearing in mind the lack of visibility, it remains untouched.’
‘Untouched?’ I said.
‘A clever ruse by the enemy, majesty,’ said Lucius. ‘In the mist the enemy made a lot of noise but did not attack us or, as far as I can tell, any other part of the army save your segment. But they made a lot of noise, banged many drums and blew many horns to keep us rooted to the spot.’
‘Clever,’ said Kewab admiringly. ‘The Gauls, having lost many men at Corum and Kayseri, knew they would fare poorly in a battle against Dura’s army, so they used the weather to mask their approach and probable weak numbers in their aim to kill the king. No offence, majesty.’
‘They nearly succeeded,’ I said. ‘I doubt I would have lasted long against that big brute.’
‘You should let me take some horsemen and hunt him down, majesty,’ said Sporaces.
‘An excellent idea,’ agreed Chrestus.
I discounted the notion. ‘No, our main aim, our only aim, is to get back to Dura as quickly as possible and draw a line under this sorry, irrelevant campaign.’
‘Pacorus!’
I heard the alarm in Gallia’s voice and turned to see Zenobia collapse into my wife’s arms. I rushed over as she comforted the commander of the Amazons, whose left side was soaked in blood. An enemy blade, perhaps a spear point, had obviously grievously wounded her. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow and a knot tightened in my stomach. I had seen too many similar wounds and knew it was a mortal one. I knelt beside Zenobia and held her hand, Gallia cradling her head.
‘Water,’ I shouted.
Klietas thrust a water bottle into my hand. I held the opening to Zenobia’s mouth so she could take a couple of sips. She did not speak but her brown eyes were filed with gratitude. Gallia gently stroked her hair as the commander of the Amazons stared into the sky, which was now clearing as the sun burnt away the last vestiges of the mist, to reveal a vivid blue dotted with small white, puffy clouds.
‘Shamash bless you, Zenobia.’ I said softly as life left her and her soul departed to join the immortals in the afterlife.
Gallia closed her eyes and for a long time she and I remained by Zenobia’s side. She had carried my banner for many years, like the griffin statue at the Palmyrene Gate becoming a permanent fixture of the army. She had never married, and as far as I knew had never even had a suitor, dedicating her life to the Amazons and Kingdom of Dura. It was a cruel fate to end her life in some nameless valley in Cappadocia, far from her home. But at least she died surrounded by her comrades and comforted in her final moments by her king and queen.
The whole army stood to attention later as the bodies of Zenobia, Kalet and the others who had fallen fighting the Gauls were cremated on a great pyre. Gallia told me that the Gauls regarded the head as the source of life, emotions and the soul, and that he who captured the head of an enemy attained the strength of the fallen enemy. So I ordered Chrestus to organise the beheading of every dead Gaul, the trophies arranged around our fallen on the pyre before it was set alight. As the flames took hold of the great pile of wood and began to consume the bodies, I closed my eyes and prayed to Shamash that he would accept our offerings and welcome the souls of Dura’s dead into heaven.
Seven days later we entered Hatran territory, crossing the Euphrates a hundred miles north of Zeugma and marching along the eastern bank of the great waterway. After the heat of summer it was now low and slow moving, which matched our spirits. The army marched each day and built a camp at night, officers, men and civilians going about their duties as they had done that day, the day before and would so on the morrow. But there was no elation that accompanied a winning campaign, no boasting at night around campfires and no smiles on the faces of soldiers who had tasted victory. Only a determination to be as professional as possible, to ensure standards did not slip and the army marched back to Dura in the same manner as it had left. But everyone knew that when it did return there would be no new silver disc to decorate the Staff of Victory, for this was one campaign no one would choose to remember.
When we first saw the yellow walls of Dura and the Citadel, the black pall that hung over the army was banished. The Durans and Exiles once more had a spring in their step and the spirits of the horsemen rose. Azad ordered the cataphracts to don their armour and Chrestus commanded that the red and white plumes that had been purchased prior to the visit of Phraates to Dura, adorn the helmets of legionaries. Every kontus was decorated with a white pennant with a red griffin motif when the cataphracts rode through the Palmyrene Gate, cheering crowds on both sides of the road that led to the Citadel throwing flowers to create a carpet of foliage on which we rode. We waved back at the people, Minu behind us, promoted to command the Amazons, carrying my banner that fluttered in the breeze.
In the Citadel, Rsan, Almas and Aaron waited in line at the foot of the palace steps, while at the top of them stood Eszter and Dalir, both looking royal in fine silk robes and expensive footwear. They both smiled at us and then looked for Kalet among the other riders entering the courtyard.
The pall of blackness suddenly returned.