Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (75 page)

‘I’m waiting,’ the commander called as the gangplanks were fixed in place and I walked to the top of one of them.

‘I think that is your signal, ladies,’ I said loudly.

The Sakastani commander looked at me quizzically as two arrows thudded into his chest. He collapsed as Gallia, Praxima and several Amazons stood at the prow and shot down the other soldiers as I calmly walked down the gangplank in the company of Orodes, Nergal, Malik and Yasser, the latter two armed with curved swords and carrying small round, black shields.

As soon as the last enemy soldiers had either been shot or had fled for their lives there were whistle blasts and the ship’s occupants began to pour down the gangplanks. Gallia, Praxima and the Amazons ran forward to provide a defensive screen as Drenis, Arminius and the other centurions marshalled their centuries. Those enemy soldiers wounded but still living were finished off by Yasser who went among them with a satisfied grin, lopping off their heads with expert swings of his sword. The other hundred horse archers ran down the gangplanks and formed up behind the Durans as I led the charge into the city.

We ran along the wharf, sailors and dockers scattering before us, some throwing themselves into the muddy brown water of the harbour to avoid the phalanx of soldiers racing towards them. The harbour itself was large but not packed with shipping, testament to Charax’s fading fortunes as a port. We reached the main storehouses – mud-brick structures painted white with tiled roofs – and then headed into the city itself. It was difficult to estimate its size as we trotted long a dirt road that led towards the centre of the sprawl of mud-brick buildings, but it appeared to be smaller than Dura.

Nergal’s fifty archers were left on the ship to guard it and secure Hippo who had been left in the care of Athineos. When I had told him of my plan to assault Charax he was unimpressed but as he had been paid a king’s ransom for his services went along with it.

‘Don’t worry,’ I had told him, ‘if anything goes wrong you will be able to make your escape on the ship.’

‘And who is going to row it out of the harbour, great king,’ he remarked sarcastically, ‘fifty archers and a high priestess?’

I had smiled at him. ‘Then you had better pray that my plan works, Athineos.’

Our target was the
agora
, the ancient place where all freeborn Greek citizens gathered to hear civic announcements, muster for war or debate politics. It was also the place where traders and craftsmen conducted their business, though today when over three hundred mailed soldiers and two hundred archers appeared in their midst they ran for their lives. Most had already packed up their wares before we had arrived, our presence having been announced by the screams of alarmed women and the wailing of their children. The
agora
itself was a large square patch of hard-packed dirt, its northern and western sides enclosed by a peristyle. We had entered the Greek square on its open, eastern side that led to the temple complex housing the sanctuaries of Apollo Delphinios, the patron of sailors and ships, and Nike. On the southern side of the
agora
was the
prytaneion
, which many people fled to on our arrival.

There were more whistle blasts and the centuries deployed into square formation: each century taking a side of the square and deploying into four ranks, each one of twenty men. Behind each century stood fifty archers. Around the
agora
stood abandoned stalls, and on the iron-hard dirt smashed pots and a handful of sandals. A stray dog peered around one of the stone columns of the peristyle, cocked its leg, barked and then scampered off. The doors of the
prytaneion
were slammed shut and an eerie silence hung over the
agora
. I stood in the centre of the square with Nergal, Orodes, Malik and Yasser, the latter looking around at the seemingly empty city.

‘Perhaps they have fled, Pacorus.’

‘I think not,’ I answered, ‘beyond the walls of this city there is nothing save a patchwork of fields and beyond them marshlands. There is nowhere to flee to.’

The legionaries rested their shields on the ground as they stared ahead, swords in hand, ready for the coming fight. Behind them the archers sat on the dirt, out of sight.

‘Perhaps we should find the palace,’ suggested Orodes, his scale armour cuirass looking like polished silver in the bright sunlight, his helmet also shining.

I shook my head. ‘This is the spiritual heart of the city, is that not correct, Cleon?’

Our young Greek firebrand, attired in a mail shirt and carrying a Duran shield sporting red griffin wings, nodded curtly. His love had wanted to accompany us but I had said no; I only wanted those who could fight to be standing with me this day. I smiled when I caught site of Praxima’s red hair poking out from beneath her helmet, sitting next to Gallia. Now there was a woman who could fight.

‘We should fire some of these buildings,’ said an impatient Yasser, ‘to smoke them out.’

Patience was never a virtue rated highly among the Agraci.

‘It will not be long now, have patience,’ I said.

The sound of distant shouts and chanting resulted in a ripple of tension shooting through the legionaries and archers. The former immediately lifted their shields without being commanded while the latter pulled arrows from the quivers they had placed on the ground and casually nocked them in their bowstrings. But they remained seated.

Then the enemy appeared at last.

They poured into the
agora
from the northeast corner, a great mass of Sakastani warriors brightly dressed in yellow leggings and red tunics. Some carried great two-handed axes that could cleave a man in two with a single mighty swing; others were armed with curved swords similar to those carried by Yasser and Malik. But the majority were spearmen armed with a thrusting weapon that had a large, leaf-shaped blade and hoisting a wicker shield covered with ox hide. The latter offered good protection, with several layers of bull’s hide being glued to the wicker inner side. Many had leather caps for head protection that might deflect a glancing blow but would not stop an arrow or determined sword thrust.

There were hundreds of them, flanking left and right to fill the northern and western sides of the
agora
and then the southern side in front of the
prytaneion
. More and more came from the northeast to fill the eastern side of the square and completely surround us, the distance between the horde of red and yellow and each side of our square being less than fifty paces. As the Durans stood silent in their ranks there was some frantic shuffling among our opponents as the axe men were shoved to the fore to face the legionaries, ready to attack and hack us to pieces.

‘Now!’ I shouted.

The four centurions blew their whistles and as one the legionaries kneeled, at the same time the archers rising to their feet to shoot at the closely packed ranks of the enemy. The Amazons and horse archers aimed at the faces of the enemy, all maintaining a steady shooting rate of five arrows a minute – fifty arrows every twelve seconds being loosed from each side of our defensive square and over the heads of the legionaries. Two hundred and fifty arrows each minute striking eyes, noses, teeth and necks. A thousand bronze-tipped missiles every sixty seconds in total. The result was a continuous and horrifying high-pitched squealing sound that reverberated around the
agora
as hundreds of men were struck by arrows.

The lucky ones died.

Arrowheads sliced through eyes and necks to pierce brains and windpipes, other missiles went through men’s mouths, the points emerging from the back of their throats. In two minutes the archers had loosed two thousand arrows and the Sakastanis had had enough. The first to break were those on the open, eastern side of the
agora
who promptly turned tail and ran. Those on the southern side, in front of the
prytaneion
, promptly fell back into the courtyard of the latter, their commanders frantically trying to erect a shield wall between the columns of the portico. They succeeded, though not before arrows had felled dozens more. The Sakastanis that filled the western and northern sides of the
agora
made their way towards the eastern side, those with shields being shoved by irate commanders into the front to form a shield wall to protect the rest. But they tripped over dead and dying men as they inched their way towards safety, the archers taking their time to find targets. Their rate of shooting decreased markedly but their aim was still accurate and almost every arrow found flesh.

After four minutes the enemy had departed the
agora
and I ordered the archers to cease shooting. All that was left was the miserable sounds of men whimpering and groaning and the sight of bodies twitching and jerking among those that were absolutely still.

‘Scan the rooftops,’ I shouted, pointing at the tiles of the peristyle, ‘look out for enemy archers.’

There was no movement on the roof but there was a loud smashing noise coming from the
prytaneion
. Between the columns the row of shields was still in place but behind it troops were desperately trying to smash down the doors to the city’s main function hall.

‘What now?’ asked Yasser, staring admiringly at the dead that carpeted the ground around our square.

‘Now we finish what we came for,’ I said. ‘Prepare to march.’

The centurions blew their whistles and the legionaries snapped shields to their sides. At the
prytaneion
the row of enemy shields melted away as the desperate soldiers behind them finally forced the doors and gained entry to the hall.

‘You let them go, Pacorus?’ asked Orodes.

‘If we get to the palace and kill or capture Sporaces then they will lay down their weapons readily enough, my friend.’

‘It would be preferable to kill him,’ remarked Yasser.

We moved out of the square at speed, the archers deployed outside the square on all sides to shoot any enemy stragglers or enemy bowmen lying in wait. There were none. We marched through the temple quarter, through the Sanctuary of Apollo Delphinios, a marvellous open-air enclosure with an altar in the centre and surrounded on three sides by a portico. The sanctuary was empty but the enclosure was littered with discarded shields that showed the path the Sakastanis had taken. We followed the trail, passing the Temple of Nike, a colonnaded structure constructed on an artificial terrace and accessible via two rows of steps on its north and south sides.

Beyond the Temple of Nike, on a stretch of brown dirt in front of the squat and rather austere palace, stood a phalanx of soldiers. Most were from Sakastan but in the centre was a small block of soldiers wearing bronze scale armour, bronze helmets with yellow plumes and carrying rectangular wicker shields, on which had been painted Simurgel motifs. Obviously from Persis, they were armed with thrusting spears and attired in black tunics and leggings. They presented a most professional appearance but there were few of them, perhaps a hundred at most.

I did not have to issue any orders as Arminius, Drenis and the two other centurions barked their commands and the centuries deployed into attack formation. Each one formed into eight ranks, each one of ten legionaries. A hundred archers moved to stand behind the centuries while the Amazons split into two groups to cover our flanks. Gallia commanded one flank, Praxima the other. The latter was having the time of her life back among those she had commanded.

I wandered to stand in front of my men, Nergal, Orodes, Malik and Yasser accompanying me. Across no-man’s land a figure also pushed his way through the enemy ranks, a man mountain with a wild beard and thick black hair. His head appeared too small perched on his over-sized shoulders, as did the sword with a curved blade that he held in his bear-like paw.

‘I would speak with your commander,’ he bellowed in a deep voice.

‘Tell your archers to kill him first,’ advised Yasser, licking his lips at the prospect of more slaughter.

I walked forward a few paces. ‘Who dares to address the conquerors of Charax?’

Behind me the legionaries rapped their
gladius
hilts on the inside of their shields.

Narses’ human mountain took several steps forward, his huge boot-encased feet kicking up dust as he did so.

‘I am Sporaces, lord of Charax and loyal servant of High King Narses.’

He too was dressed in black, indicating that like the soldiers similarly attired behind him he was also from Persis.

I walked closer to him, my sword in its scabbard while he brandished his weapon.

‘
High
King
Narses? Has he murdered Mithridates just as Mithridates murdered his own father?’

He looked at me with callous brown eyes. ‘Do you have a name?’

‘It is customary,’ I said casually, ‘that when two commanders meet neither unsheathe their swords, which not only could be interpreted as a threat but is also most impolite.’

He sniffed contemptuously but did slide his sword back in its scabbard.

I smiled at him and removed my helmet. ‘I am Pacorus, King of Dura, son of King Varaz of Hatra and sworn enemy of Mithridates and Narses.’