The Assyrian (47 page)

By noon of the eighth day, while the men
rested, outriders returned to report they had seen the Bohtan River
over the next line of hills, and that there were encampments with
wagons and much livestock on the meadows on both sides. So the Lord
Lutipri had not lied—everyone knew that the Scythians, alone among
the nomadic peoples, traveled by wagon.

I gave orders that we would make camp where
we were. The men were exhausted and would be in no condition to
fight for at least two days. I would not have the enemy know of our
presence before then. There were to be no fires lit, and no one
except lookouts would approach the crest of the hill. We would
wait, and rest, and stay quiet.

I could restrain my soldiers easily
enough—most of them were quite content to stay in one place and not
move—but I could not restrain myself. I would see this new
adversary, so much talked of and so little known, for the Scythians
were new to these mountains, so long plagued by wandering tribes,
each pushing the next before it in successive waves, and all always
moving farther west. Where the tribes had come from, and what had
set the pattern of their migrations, no man knew, not even they
themselves.

Leaving my horse behind, I walked to the
crest of the last hill and, for the rest of that afternoon, sat in
the shadow of a great rock and watched as they grazed their animals
in the heavy meadow grass and went about the routines of their
curious existence.

The Scythians, like the Cimmerians, the
Mannaeans, the Medes, the Uqukadi, the Sapardai, and all the rest,
are a herding nation—their lives are bound up in a ceaseless search
for new pastures for their oxen, horses, and sheep. For the rest,
they are bandits, preying on the settled people whom they
dispossess. They practice no farming and hold in contempt all who
do. Any manner of living that obliges them to stay in one place
they abhor worse than death, maintaining that it leads to womanish
softness, that only among the nomads are there true men. Naturally,
since they seek only to plunder other nations and must constantly
defend their own grasslands against other tribes, they put the
highest value on the martial virtues—higher even than do the men of
Ashur, since among the Scythians every man must be a warrior. They
are fine horsemen and fight only as cavalry. Their weapon is the
bow, with which they are marvelously proficient, and the lance.
They carry no swords, only a rather long dagger which they wear in
their belts. They prefer to retire before a formidable adversary,
but in battle they are courageous to the point of folly, disdaining
even to wear body armor. It is the greatest misfortune to fall into
their hands as a prisoner, for their cruelty is a matter of
legend.

All of this I had heard at one time or
another, and from my mountain vantage there was really little more
I could learn—except for two things. The first of these was the
very curious manner of their dress; above they wore a heavy quilted
jacket that came down almost to their knees, but below they covered
themselves with a strange garment the like of which I have never
seen among any other peoples. This garment was forked at the
crotch, and each leg had its own tube of cloth that covered it
almost like a second skin all the way down to the foot. It seemed a
very practical way of dressing for a horseman, but I cannot imagine
anyone could be very comfortable in such an outfit.

The other thing which excited my curiosity
was that there seemed to be no women about. Men and boys alone
tended to the animals, but even in their camp—the one which was
closest to me—I could see no women. They appeared to do their
cooking on their wagons, which were large and covered with a kind
of tent that was open at the top to let the smoke escape, so
perhaps. I concluded, the women stayed in the wagons.

By rough count, there were close to four
thousand men in the two encampments on either side of the river.
Assuming that half of these would be fit to fight, that gave them a
three to one advantage over us in numbers.

Already then I had made my plans, and when
the light began to fade I returned to camp to a cold meal and a
conference with my officers.

“They are not even bothering to put out
patrols,” I told them. “They do not expect an attack. We can wait
until the morning after next, when our men will be fresh again.
Then we will march over the crest in seven battle squares, three in
front and four behind. The cavalry and the chariots we will hold in
reserve. We shall wait until the second hour before giving them any
sign of our presence, that they may have dispersed their herds too
widely over the plain to be able to collect them quickly—that way
they shall be forced to stand and fight. Let the drums wait until
we have nearly engaged, since I think there is little enough chance
of frightening the men, but the horses may not be accustomed to the
noise.”

That night I slept like the dead.

All the next day the men reassembled the
chariots and otherwise prepared themselves for battle. I did not
concern myself with such matters. I had issued my orders, and that
would have to be enough. These soldiers must believe that I
entertained no doubts about their will or their abilities. I
returned to my lookout and studied the ground upon which this
battle was to be fought.

The hill sloped too quickly to the plain to
allow chariots to be driven straight down, but there was a path,
perhaps just wide enough, that followed the slope at an angle. They
would have to proceed in single file, and their wheels would have
to be damped, but we had brought only ten, so this would present no
problem. I would send them down after the infantry and cavalry had
already reached level ground.

The process by which the Scythians were
crossing over from one side of the river to another seemed a
gradual one, and the Bohtan, while it probably carried less water
now than at any other time of year, was still a formidable
obstacle. How long their forces would remain thus divided I knew
not—it would be at most a momentary advantage—but these men would
have no choice but to offer battle. They would have no retreat.

That was my only fear, that somehow they
would slip away from me. I had no other doubts. This engagement was
as clear in my mind as if it had already been fought. I might die
on this grassy plain—this being no more than the chance taken by
every soldier—but, dead or alive, I would be victorious.

And the thought of death held no terrors for
me. If I perished, then my body would be covered in honey and taken
back to Nineveh, where I would be mourned over by those who cared
for me. I would be free of remorse and suffering, having died as a
soldier ought, and in triumph. And the dead do not endure the pangs
of abandoned love. If I died here, tomorrow. . . The idea appealed
to me more than I could say.

I decided, there and then, that I would drive
one of the chariots myself. The men, knowing this, would take
courage, and they would not need me after tomorrow. I had no taste
for watching this fight from a safe distance. I would ride into the
very mouth of death, and snatch out her tongue that it might be
forced to sing of my glory to the last days of the world.

That night I did not sleep, but my mind was
calm. What should I know of fear? What terrors should tomorrow
hold, when I had resigned myself to death? I had but to close my
eyes, and Esharharnat was with me. Once I had disentangled myself
from the net of my living flesh, it would be thus forever. We had
never parted, not really. My unhappiness had been nothing but the
confusion of things seen and felt—I had been blinded by the
nearness of life. Death was nothing, only the loss of a man’s last
few illusions. I could see that quite clearly now.

. . . . .

The next morning, the twenty-sixth day of
Elul, I ranged the seven companies of infantry just below the crest
of the hill, where they would not be seen until the last instant.
It was a fine, bright dawn, and a light breeze blew toward us that
the sound of our preparations would not carry nor would the horses
of the enemy smell us. I watched the Scythian riders herd their
animals out onto the meadow. I waited until the grass at my feet
had lost the last of its dew, and then I raised my arm to signal
that the advance might begin.

“Is it not a fine day, Rab Shaqe? Is it
not?”

It was my driver, Gadi, his eyes beaming his
pleasure. The beard on his face was like down, he was such a baby.
This would be his first battle.

“Yes—it is a fine day,” I answered, forcing
myself to smile.

The lines of soldiers poured down the slope,
one after the other, walking slowly that the battle squares might
remain intact. The only sound was the crunch of their sandals
against the stony ground. The sight of them made my heart
swell.

From the crest to the river was perhaps
fifteen hundred gar, the distance a man might walk in an hour if he
kept a brisk pace. In a quarter of that time my infantry would be
upon the plain, for this hill did not rise to any great height.
Unless the enemy would be content to have themselves backed
straight up to the water’s edge, they would have no more than an
hour in which to engage us—and they would need every minute of that
to rally themselves from the first shock of surprise. By then, with
good fortune, our cavalry and chariots would be on level ground.
Mine would be the last chariot down.

I watched—with some admiration—how the
Scythians conducted themselves when at last they saw what had been
prepared for them. There was no evidence of panic. Riders went back
and forth, giving the alarm, and then some hundred men began to
herd the animals together to drive as many as they could across the
river to safety. By the time we were ready, they were ready, their
lines of cavalry formed and waiting. There were more of them than I
had expected, very nearly 2,500 mounted men. They were arranged in
four ranks and would attack in waves.

I stepped onto my chariot, which was
surrounded by the six riders who would carry orders for me, and
told my driver to start down the plain. We had hardly reached level
ground when the war drums began their booming. The enemy was
engaged.

The first waves of the Scythian riders
attacked, screaming like hawks and shooting their arrows with
greater accuracy than I would have imagined possible from men on
horseback. At the last moment our forces halted and let the paling
of long iron lances drop into place around all four sides of their
formations. It was not something the enemy had expected, that
soldiers on the field of battle could convert their ranks into an
impenetrable fortress, and those who were not spitted like rabbits,
or who were not tumbled to the ground by horses mad with fear,
retired in confusion. I saw the corpses of only a few of our own
troops, so at least we had won the first skirmish.

What would they do next? What could they do?
That was up to them, and I did not care to give them leisure to
consider the problem at length.

“Continue the advance!” I shouted, and a
rider turned his horse and raced off in the direction of our
formations. He reached the front of the first square, ducked down
to say a word to the corner man and, as he straightened up, took a
Scythian arrow in the neck and toppled over—it had served him
right. Only a posturing fool would ride to the front like that,
exposing himself to the enemy. Soldiers at the back of a square
have as good ears as those in front.

The second wave of enemy cavalry did not even
attempt a direct assault on our formations—they had learned the
folly of that. Instead, they split into two halves and harried our
lines with arrows. It was what I should have expected.

The Scythians wore no armor, but they were
moving targets and difficult to hit except with massed clusters of
arrow and javelin. We, of course, were almost stationary but better
protected, but we were killing them only very little faster than
they were killing us. And there were many more of them. Clearly
they planned to wear us down with their numbers—they did not seem
to care how many of them died. It would not do.

I ordered the chariots forward—my last order
of this battle; the time for orders was over—and picked a javelin
from one of the wicker holders that lined the sides of my car. From
this moment on I was merely a soldier, no different from any other.
It was a release from bondage. As the horses gathered speed, I
could feel the blood pounding in my veins like a hammer.

A chariot is a terrible weapon, especially
when the horses are protected by an armor of copper scales sewn
onto leather. It bears down on an enemy like the hand of heaven,
striking terror into men’s hearts, and its wheels are fitted with
blades, slightly longer than the length of one’s arm, which turn
with the axle and can cut a man or a horse to pieces with the
slightest touch. All soldiers, mounted or on foot, fear a chariot
above any other force that can be turned against them.

But there are dangers. A man in a chariot is
no less exposed than he is on horse; it takes no more than a lucky
hit to fell him, and he can be certain enough that many darts will
be turned in his direction. Or if a horse is lamed, or the driver
hits a stone and breaks a wheel or is thrown—to have that headlong
rush stopped is to become helpless, and to become helpless is to
die.

Or one’s driver can be killed. That is what
happened to me.

He was hardly more than a boy, was poor
little Gadi, so eager for glory, and an arrow pierced his side,
just under the arm, and found his heart. He turned to me as he
died—I am unlikely ever to forget the expression on his face, his
look of pain and something almost like remorse, as if he imagined
he had failed me—and he just had time to put the reins into my
hands before he pitched over backward, already dead, and tumbled
onto the field.