Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (67 page)

Around us there was great activity as riders slung saddlecloths and saddles on their horses’ backs and secured harnesses. There was an ominous rumble as Dacians grouped around their chiefs in their war bands and headed toward the edge of the forest. Decebal came over to me and proffered his hand.

‘Zalmoxis be with you, King Pacorus.’

I shook his hand. ‘And with you, King Decebal.’

He turned to order over his bodyguard that was holding his horse, hoisted himself into the saddle and trotted away. Surena and Gallia were already in the saddle as I walked over to my mare and untethered her. I adjusted the strap of the quiver that was slung on my back and vaulted into my saddle. Behind us a mass of horsemen were gathering, which I led forward with a wave of my arm. I had forty arrows left, slightly less than Gallia and slightly more than Surena. But in the coming clash it would be the men behind me who would decide the outcome of the battle not a few paltry missiles.

‘Keep close,’ I said to Gallia and Surena. ‘When the fighting begins any semblance of order will disappear.’

‘I wonder if we shall see Burebista again?’ mused Surena.

I wondered the same thing.

There was bright sunlight and no breeze as we broke cover and advanced towards the line of wagons and mules that covered the grassland in either direction as far as the eye could see. The ‘plan’ had been for the various contingents to launch their attacks as soon as they heard the sounds of fighting that signalled that the Getea had locked horns with the Roman vanguard. In this way the Bastarnae and Maedi would hear the sounds of battle and join the mêlée, which in turn would alert us at the rear of the enemy that the time had come to reveal ourselves. I thought I heard the faint sounds of battle to my right as I left the treeline but that noise was soon drowned out by seven hundred and sixty riders screaming their war cries as they bore down on the enemy. We charged in one long line, though it was more a ragged collection of groups because the men stuck to their tribal chiefs as they cantered through the long grass.

Ahead were Roman horsemen, a thinly spread line acting as flank guards for what appeared to be auxiliaries standing nearer the wagons. A few charged our line but were simply brushed aside by the Thracians and Dacians. The wagons were now less than two hundred paces away as I nocked an arrow and shot it at a slinger who had just released his stone. He disappeared into the grass as my arrow hit him but the hisses in the air indicated that his fellow slingers were still a threat as riders were struck and dislodged from their saddles.

We reached the wagons and slowed our mounts, or at least myself, my wife and Surena did. Many of the Thracians and Dacians, possessed by bloodlust, galloped straight at them and either became entangled with the mules that were pulling them or were thrown as their horses reared up in alarm at the obstacles immediately in their path. Those who were thrown and had not been badly injured immediately sprang to their feet and attacked the unarmed drivers, hacking at them with axes.

Within minutes the wagons had been captured, the few enemy archers and slingers being hunted down and killed, though not before they had emptied a sizeable number of saddles. Then, just as I had feared, the horsemen began to loot the waggons. I became the commander of thieves as they acted like excited children while ransacking the transports. I rode up and down the line, shouting at them to stop what they were doing, or at least unhitch the wagons and carts. Their responses varied from ignoring me to outright abuse. In the end I found half a dozen signallers and with a mixture of threats and pleading got them to blow their horns to signal recall.

Gradually a semblance of order was restored as the commanders, now attired in captured Roman helmets, cloaks, mail shirts and carrying entrenching tools, cooking pots and javelins precariously perched on their saddles, mustered to me.

‘Unhitch the mules,’ I shouted to them, pointing left and right at the long column of transports. ‘The mules.’

I gave a huge sighed of relief as they appeared to understand and rode away, then sat in stunned silence as their men began to slaughter the mules. My orders misunderstood, I just watched as they killed every mule within reach, then set about smashing up the carts and wagons.

‘Well,’ said Gallia as she studied the outbreak of destruction, ‘at least the Romans have been denied their baggage train.’

We had achieved a decisive victory but I had no idea what was happening further up the line or with regards to the rear guard. So once more I ordered the signallers to blow their horns and keep on blowing them until the Dacians and Thracians had desisted from their slaughterhouse activities and reformed in their ranks. It took around half an hour for them to do so, by which time the signallers were exhausted and the riders were splashed with blood. The smell of gore soon permeated the air and entered our nostrils, spooking our horses.

‘We will assist King Decebal against the Roman rear guard,’ I said to the leaders. ‘Follow me.’

I turned my mare left and cantered along the right flank of the smashed Roman baggage train, the delighted booty laden warriors following. We rode for half a mile before coming across Decebal and his men, all of whom were either leaning on their falxes or sitting on the ground among piles of dead. I saw no Romans still standing.

I rode over to where the king was riding among his men, reaching down to shake the hands of those he knew and shouting encouragement to others. My robber horsemen dismounted, being careful not to disturb their ill-gotten gains, and took off their stolen helmets to wipe their sweaty brows. The sun was high in the almost cloudless sky now and the temperature was climbing. When I reached Decebal I saw that his tunic was even more blood stained and there were splashes of gore on his saddlecloth.

‘A hard fight, lord king?’ I asked him.

He looked at me with tired eyes. ‘Hard enough. The enemy rear guard comprised slingers, archers, horsemen and legionaries. I have lost a quarter of my men at least. And you?’

I was almost ashamed to give him my report. ‘The enemy baggage train had been destroyed with little loss.’

I did not tell him about the looting, but then as a Dacian he would think it remiss if booty had not been taken.

‘My men can do no more fighting this day,’ he said flatly.

‘We should leave this place of dead flesh,’ I said, ‘and get the men and horses to water and into shade.’

He wiped his sweat-beaded forehead with a dirty rag. ‘Agreed.’

He pointed at a knot of wild-looking men stripped to the waist, their long hair matted to their necks, and ordered them over.

‘Get the men back into the forest,’ Decebal commanded.

In the next few minutes fifteen hundred men, some of them hobbling from wounds, slowly began to make their way back to the forest where we had lain in wait for the Romans. I was about to return to the horsemen when I saw that one of them was Burebista, looking tired but appearing to have no visible wounds. I jumped down from my horse and rushed over to him, embracing him and giving thanks to Shamash that he was unharmed.

‘It took us a while to break them, lord,’ he said. ‘They had stiffened the rear guard with three centuries of legionaries that proved tenacious foes.’

‘It is ever so.’

He looked in the direction that the Roman army had marched. ‘And the other tribes, have you heard how they have fared, lord?’

I shook my head. ‘No word as yet.’

But as we stood among the sweet-smelling long grass we heard a noise that we both recognised. A barely discernible noise of tramping feet marching in unison, interspersed with the sharp sounds of trumpet blasts. We had both heard those sounds many times and said nothing as we stared at each other. There was no wind and so the noise was not being carried on the breeze, which meant that it would not be long until we saw the source of the sounds that had sent a shiver down our spines.

‘Get into the forest,’ I told him before vaulting back into the saddle.

‘Romans,’ I shouted, ‘Romans approaching.’

The Dacians turned to stare at me with disbelief, looking around at the dead auxiliaries and legionaries, thinking that some were still alive. But then they too heard the noise, craning their heads to hear more clearly. Decebal heard it too and began riding up and down with sword in hand, shouting for them to make haste.

‘We will cover you, lord king,’ I shouted to him.

He raised his sword in acknowledgement as I told Burebista to stay alive and then headed back to where the horsemen were regaining their saddles.

Gallia’s face was a mask of concern. ‘Surely they can’t have destroyed all the other tribes?’

‘We shall know soon enough.’

Amid much complaining my recalcitrant horsemen followed their leaders as we headed back towards the smashed wagons and dead mules that were now crawling with flies. We cantered along the line of wrecked, stationary transports and their slaughtered drivers, mostly unfortunate slaves that might have expected liberation but instead found death at the hands of undisciplined barbarians. The latter, having reaped a great bounty, were now less willing to re-engage the enemy. Their surliness increased when we came upon the main body of the Roman army and even my spirits sank when I saw a long line of red shields marching slowly towards us.

I called a halt as I watched what appeared to be a giant square of legionaries advancing towards us. I sent riders ahead to discover if the Romans were being assaulted on the flanks, but warned the horsemen to be wary of getting too close to the enemy. There might still be archers and slingers within their ranks who could pick off lone horsemen with ease. They galloped away but I knew the answer when the Romans came nearer, marching in perfect step and at a pace that suggested that their army was not being assaulted from the flanks.

‘Have a care,’ I shouted to commanders grouped behind me, ‘their ranks may part so horsemen can sally out against us.’

They were around half a mile away now, and I gave the order for the majority of our horsemen to withdraw into the forest and ride to link up with King Decebal. I remained with Gallia, Surena and a score of Dacians and waited for the scouts to return. When they did my fears were confirmed: there was no sign of the Maedi, Bastarnae or Getea.

‘They are all dead?’ said Gallia, dumfounded.

‘I do not know,’ I replied before giving the order to retire, the din of Roman trumpets in our ears as we did so.

The Dacian foot reached the sanctuary of the forest before the Romans arrived. I sat on my horse in the trees with Gallia and Surena and watched them pass, a great mass of red shields and tunics retreating crab-like towards the site of their previous night’s campsite. They halted to relieve the wagons and carts of anything useful, which meant they tarried only briefly. I saw few horsemen among their ranks, though the legate and his senior officers were surrounded by upwards of fifty riders. I also saw a glimpse of the legion’s eagle, the sun catching its wings as it passed.

‘So, your plan has failed,’ said Gallia, staring with contempt at her mortal enemies. ‘They must have destroyed the foot soldiers of Akrosas, Radu and Draco.’

I said nothing as I tortured myself with thoughts of Domitus, Arminius and Drenis lying butchered somewhere. Surely they could not have perished having survived all the travails at Ephesus and afterwards? I heard the mocking laughter of Dobbai in my head and her sharp words.

‘The gods are above all cruel, son of Hatra, and delight in the miseries of men.’

‘Then why have they protected us thus far?’

Gallia turned to look at me. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. We must return to what’s left of our army.’

With a heavy heart I wheeled my mare around and headed into the forest. It was now late afternoon and the temperature in the trees was stifling. Sweat was pouring off my face and my tunic was drenched. Gallia had tied her hair into a long ponytail that hung down her back but was sweating nevertheless, her cheeks pink as she perspired. Only Surena, who had been born and raised in the heat-ravaged marshlands south of Mesene, seemed unaffected by the high temperature.

Decebal had retreated at least a mile into the forest’s interior, having posted sentries on foot at regular intervals to ensure he was not surprised by a Roman incursion. Small groups of falxmen eyed us warily as we approached them, waving us through when they recognised our attire and our horses’ saddlery, if not ourselves. Eventually we came across a great lake in the middle of the forest where the Dacians and horsemen were camped. Hundreds of naked men were splashing around in the water and others were leading horses to the lake’s edge to drink. Saddles and saddlecloths littered the ground along with sleeping warriors lying under trees and others, wounded, propped up against their trunks. Some had horrific injuries, half their faces torn away or their bellies sliced open, but they did not cry or moan; they just stared with vacant eyes at the waters of the lake. Many would be dead before nightfall.

We slid off our horses and led them with our heads down to the water so they too could drink. Afterwards we took off their saddlery beneath a huge oak tree and I was about to take the weight off my feet when Decebal himself arrived with his mounted bodyguard. Both he and his horse looked tired.

‘A rider has come from King Akrosas,’ he said. ‘He asks that he joins us to discuss the recent battle.’