The Parthian (13 page)

I felt no elation or sense of victory after our attack. All we had done was assault an undefended town and massacre its inhabitants. A morose Byrd led us south, to Cilicia, the region that lay on Cappadocia’s southern border, from where we would cut east cross-country to the north of the city of Antioch, and then back to Hatra. He hardly spoke to anyone during the journey. He had led us to the town where he had lived before Cappadocia had been conquered by the Romans, and his reward was to witness its destruction. He must hate us now more than he did the Romans, I mused. At least my men’s spirits were rising with the promise of seeing their homes and families again. Gafarn, I noticed, attended to his duties diligently but rarely engaged in conversation and averted my eyes. No doubt he was still sickened by what he had witnessed at Ceasarea. No matter, he would get over it. My own mood lightened as we travelled south. The death of Bozan had been a blow, of course, but, I reasoned, he had been a soldier and soldiers get killed in battle. But we had defeated a detachment of Roman cavalry and had rampaged at will through Cappadocia. We were returning to Hatra as victors. Hopefully Rome would now think twice about raiding Parthian territory, for to do so would invite retaliation. It never occurred to me that the Roman cavalry we had defeated had been but one of the groups sent out to find us. It thus came as a nasty shock when we were pounced upon by Roman legionaries and cavalry on the Cilician border.

Chapter 4

I
t would have been convenient for me to report that I had decided to engage the Roman horse and foot, that I took a command decision after weighing up all the possible outcomes. But the reality was that I was caught totally unawares. Roman scouts had obviously been tracking us for a while, though our own scouts had failed to detect them. Worse, whoever led them had a more intimate knowledge of the country we were travelling through than we did. And so it was, that as we were journeying through Cilicia, moving in column between two widely separated woods through a field of lush grass, that we were confronted by a line of Roman cavalry that blocked our route. They looked the same as the ones we had defeated in Cappadocia. I gave orders to form a wedge, as the woods protected their flanks and we would be unable to sweep around them. No matter. We had beaten them once and we would beat them again.

So I gave the order that we would adopt a wedge formation with four ranks. We would be outflanked but would simply punch right through them. In each rank every other man was armed with a spear and shield to match the weapons of the Roman cavalrymen, but the others were horse archers who would unleash at least one volley of arrows before the two forces clashed. In this way the enemy would be disordered at the moment we hit them. We moved rapidly into formation and I gave the signal to advance. I was at the tip of the wedge, spear in my right hand and shield in the other. As we moved forward I noticed that the Roman cavalry remained where they were, not moving an inch. I found this slightly odd, but saw no reason to interrupt our advance as we trotted forward. As we gathered pace I suddenly heard loud ‘hurrahs’ coming from my right and left, and looked to see Roman legionaries pouring out of the woods to the right and left. My horsemen saw this too, and several pulled up their mounts in surprise. In no time at all our ranks were disordered and we had to halt to redress our lines. Still the Roman cavalry remained rooted to where they stood. I understood now that they were the bait, and we had taken it. My instinct was to charge forward regardless, but as I looked ahead I saw that the enemy cavalry was moving towards us. On the flanks the Roman soldiers were not halting to address their lines, but were closing on us fast — two blocks of iron and steel closing to crush us.

‘Forward!’ I yelled, and kneed my horse towards the Roman cavalry.

My men followed, but we had no time to build up any momentum before we smashed into the enemy, horses rearing in terror as arrows and spears found their mark. A horseman charged at me on my left side, his spear levelled at my chest. His thrust was ill aimed and I glanced away the blow with my shield and aimed my spear at his shield. A wooden shield offers protection against blows, but not the combined weight of a horse and its rider hitting it square on. I gripped the shaft tightly as the point went through his shield and into his body. I let go of the shaft, pulled my sword from its scabbard and slashed at another Roman rider that passed me on my right, the blade hitting the flesh of the neck between his mail shirt and helmet. He dropped from his saddle as I clashed with a horseman in their second line. He tried to jab me with his spear but I easily deflected the blow with my shield and lunged with my sword. His shield was held high to protect his chest and face, so I aimed a blow that pierced his thigh; he screamed in pain and dropped his spear. He tried to pull his horse away from me, but the beast whinnied in terror and reared up on its hind legs. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground, and managed to limp away from me.

I looked around and saw Roman legionaries closing in from both flanks. The first ranks had already thrown their javelins and had drawn their short swords to hack and slash at our horses. My men could not manouevre as they were trapped in the middle of a Roman vice, so they tried to shoot down as many of the enemy as they could. It was a savage battle; the Romans tightly packed and jabbing at our horses with underhand sword blows as they held their shields high; our men trying to control their horses as they searched for targets with their bows. Horses, maddened by sword cuts, reared and kicked out with their hooves. Roman soldiers had their helmets crushed by an iron-shod hoof or were trampled underfoot as their comrades in the rear ranks shoved them forward to get at us. I sheathed my sword and began to shoot my bow. A Parthian is an expert with a bow even at long ranges; at short distances he cannot miss. Gafarn was next to me as we put arrow after arrow into the enemy. After a while no Roman horsemen would come near us, and we were free to shoot at the legionaries. I thought we might yet save ourselves, but more infantry were assembling to our front and many of our men had fallen. Then I reached into my quiver to string another arrow and felt that it was empty. As the air was filled with less and less arrows I realised that others, too, had exhausted their ammunition. We were beaten. Then a javelin slammed into my horse’s left shoulder and he went down, throwing me to the ground. I tried to get up but received a blow to the side of my helmet. Then all was night.

When I came to the fighting had ended. I was next to Gafarn, who was sat on the ground beside me. When I regained consciousness he was sat with his knees drawn up to his chin looking at the earth.

I tried to rise, but the pain in my head forced me to abandon the idea.

‘Gafarn?’ I muttered, weakly.

He turned and looked at me, his face full of misery.

‘Try to rest, highness. We are captives of the Romans.’

I didn’t take in what he was saying at first. I was only interested in the battle’s outcome, which, had I considered my position more closely, would have seemed obvious. Gafarn helped me to sit up, and glancing round I realised that I was on the edge of a large group of my men, who were all sat on the ground. We were guarded by legionaries, who stood facing us with their javelins levelled. My wrists hurt and as I looked down I saw why — I had been manacled. My sense of outrage expelled all feelings of pain. That I, a prince of Hatra, had been shackled like a common criminal was an insult to all I held dear. The anger began to well up inside me. A hundred paces away, the Romans were hurling our bows, quivers and shields onto a raging fire. Gafarn was watching me.

‘They put the shackles on while you were unconscious.’

‘And you didn’t protest?’ I said, naively.

‘Oh yes, highness. I insisted that they should not wrap me in chains, but then they held a sword to my throat and a spear at my belly, so I changed my mind.’

‘All right, all right.’ I was thoroughly dejected, as were those of my men who still lived, though for how long I did not know. After a few minutes a small group of what I assumed were officers came towards us. I noticed that one had a transverse crest on his steel helmet, in the same style as the man who had nearly killed me before Bozan had saved me. I tried not to think of Bozan, for it would only serve to increase my despondency. The group of Romans halted a few paces in front of us and observed our motley band. The leader, a senior officer of some sort I assumed, began to speak. He was of average height, dressed in a white tunic that ended just above his knees, with a highly polished steel cuirass and a rich white cloak edged with purple hanging from his shoulders. He was bare headed and bald, aside from two thinning bands of grey hair above his ears. I put his age at around fifty. He turned to the soldier wearing the transverse crest on his helmet.

‘So, centurion, how many have we taken?’

‘Two hundred and fifty, sir, though some are wounded and may not survive.’

So the man with the crest was a centurion, who must command one hundred men. They obviously thought none of us understood what they were saying. The older man continued.

‘Well, they will have to do. Add them to the others and send them south.’

The centurion was shaking his head. ‘We should crucify a few, sir, to set an example.’

His superior got annoyed at this suggestion, which I was grateful for. The older man, his skin pale and his body running to fat, shook his head, which wobbled his flabby chin. ‘No, no, no, centurion.’ He looked directly at the Roman soldier, whose lean, scarred face was in stark contrast to the chubby visage of his commander, who started to wag his finger at the centurion.

‘You see, what you don’t understand is that I have to think about the wider picture.’

‘The wider picture, sir?’

‘Indeed, centurion. How long have been in the army?

‘Twenty years, sir.’

‘You see, twenty years killing barbarians and all and sundry with a sword has blinkered you. I, on the other hand, have responsibilities, both to myself and to Rome. I have considerable estates in southern Italy. Estates that have to be worked to produce a profit. And who is going to work my estates, for they don’t work themselves?’ He gestured towards us. ‘Slaves, centurion. Slaves are the key. These are valuable chattels that I intend to put to good use on my land. You want to nail them to crosses, whereas I want them to produce a healthy profit before they leave this life. Have I explained myself clearly enough?’

The centurion looked bored and resentful. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied curtly.

The elderly Roman turned to his other companions, who had been eagerly listening to his little lecture. By the look of them, all appeared to be in their early twenties, clean-shaven and well dressed, I surmised that they too were officers of some sort.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘after our victory I think we deserve a celebratory banquet.’ He waved over another soldier who was standing a few feet behind the group. The soldiers stood before the man and snapped to attention.

‘Legate.’

So the old man was a legate, though I knew not what this was, but of some importance for certain as he was the centre of attention.

‘Arrange a banquet for this evening in my tent.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The soldier turned and marched away. The legate and his group followed in the same direction. The legate then stopped and looked back at the centurion.

‘And feed them something,’ he nodded at our group. ‘I don’t want any of them dying before they even reach Italy.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the centurion. Then the legate was gone. The centurion scowled at his back. ‘The sooner you’re back in Rome, playing with your boy slaves, the better,’ he spat he words with bitterness.

He turned to look at us. His sword was sheathed, and in his right hand he carried some sort of cane, which he was tapping lightly against his thigh. He walked slowly up to us and halted in front of me. We were still all seated on the ground, with all eyes on the centurion. As I looked at him he placed the tip of his cane under my chin.

‘You long-haired little bastard. If I had my way, you and your all bandit friends would be nailed to crosses by now. That’s the penalty for killing Romans where I come from. But the barrel of fat who commands this legion has decided that you are going on a little journey.’ He then drew back his cane and hit me across the face with it. The blow had a vicious sting that sent me reeling. Gafarn made as though he was going to spring at the Roman, but I shook my head at him.

‘Who’s this, then,’ the Roman said, looking at Gafarn, daring him to attack him, ‘your lover?’

He spat on me and then squatted down so his face was near mine. ‘There’s a long way between here and Italy, and I guarantee that the route will be littered with your corpses. Savages. You don’t even understand what I’m saying, do you?’

He stood and marched away. I was somewhat demoralised, but tried to hide my despondency.

‘Are you hurt, highness?’ asked Gafarn.

‘No,’ I said, feeling the side of my face, which was throbbing with pain.

‘What was he saying?’

‘He’s annoyed that he can’t execute us.’

‘What are they going to do with us, highness?’

‘We are going to Italy, apparently, to do some sort of work.’

‘Where is that?’ asked Gafarn.

‘A long way from Parthia.’

Surprisingly, the Romans fed us that night. The food was a sort of thick porridge, and I passed orders that everyone was to eat as much as they gave us, as I didn’t know when we would get fed again. They also gave us copious amounts of water, which I was glad about as I had had nothing to drink since early that morning. Then the Romans threw us loaves of bread, which were hard and stale. Again, I ordered that we should eat as much as we could. The centurion was stalking around like a wolf, delivering the occasional kick to one of my men but generally keeping away. I could see that he was an individual who was full of anger. Later that evening, as we were preparing to get some rest, he stomped over and squatted before me. For some reason, he had picked me out as a target of his wrath, which unnerved me I had to admit. For a few moments he just glared at me, and I was aware of Gafarn fidgeting next to me, which made me even more nervous. I sat up and tried to match his stare, though I was in a position of helplessness and he had supreme power over me. He reeked of ale.