The Parthian (2 page)

He walked past me and grabbed my sword in its scabbard. He drew the blade and cut the air with it. It was a beautiful, double-edged weapon, with an elaborate cross-guard and a silver pommel fashioned into a horse’s head.

‘I hope to do my father honour.’

Vistaspa cut the air again with the blade. ‘Mmm,’ he placed the sword back into its scabbard and passed it to me. ‘A fine sword. Hopefully, it will taste some Roman blood today.’

With that he nodded his head curtly and strode away.

An hour later I was in full armour and sat on Sura beside my father, along with a thousand other heavy cavalry. We were hidden behind one of the rolling hills that skirted the battlefield, but the noise of men and horses getting wounded and being killed was carried to us by a gentle wind. My father, his helmet resting on his saddle, turned to me.

‘Pacorus, you will lead this charge.’

Bozan, on my right, turned in surprise. ‘Sire?’

‘It is time, Bozan. Time for the boy to become a man. One day, he will rule in my place. Men will not follow a king who has not led them in battle.’

My stomach tightened. I had expected to ride into battle beside my father, but now I would lead his cavalry alone, with all eyes upon me to see if I would pass the test of manhood.

I swallowed. ‘It will be an honour, father.’

‘I would request to ride beside your son, sire,’ said Bozan.

My father smiled. ‘Of course, Bozan, I would not entrust the safe keeping of my son to anyone else.’

With that my father rammed his helmet on his head and wheeled his horse away, followed by Vistaspa and his bodyguard; they would form a reserve. The large scarlet banner, emblazoned with my father’s symbol of the white horse’s head, fluttered as the royal party made its way to brow of the hill, from where they would watch the charge. Bozan reached over and grasped my shoulder. ‘Remember everything that you have been taught. Focus on the task at hand, and remember that you are not alone.’

He fastened his helmet’s cheek guards together to make his face disappear behind two large steel plates, then tuned and gave a signal to his captains. Horns sounded and the entire formation moved as one. Each man had a white plume on his helmet and rode a white horse, though only the beasts’ legs were visible as each one was protected, like Sura, by scale armour.

We were formed in two lines, each of two hundred and fifty men, with a hundred yards separating each line. We started out at a walking pace to ascend the hill’s gentle slope, my heart pounding so hard that I thought it would burst out of my chest. The sounds of battle grew louder as we topped the brow of the hill, and I gasped as I saw the scene below. The legion, still in its hollow-square formation, was being assaulted on all four sides by swarms of horse archers, but the main effort was being made against the two corners at each end of the side we would be assaulting. Although it was high in the sky, we would be riding with the sun in our faces, which alarmed me greatly.

‘Why do ride against the sun and not with it at our backs?’ I shouted to Bozan.

‘Have faith in your father,’ was all the reply I received.

I could see Parthian foot soldiers running to get into line at the foot of our hill, to our right and left, each one carrying a shield with what appeared to be a silver facing. For what purpose I knew not.

The two hundred camels that had brought fresh arrows were now proving their worth. Each horse archer could fire around ten arrows a minute, which meant his thirty-arrow quiver would be exhausted after three minutes, but now dozens of servants were ferrying bundles of arrows from the camels to where companies of horse archers were reforming after expending their arrows.

We moved forward down the hill at a trot, about half a mile from the Romans. I had done this so many times before that I nudged Sura forward without thinking, my eyes fixed on the wall of enemy shields before me. They suddenly looked very large. My lance was still over my right shoulder as we moved into a gentle gallop. On our flanks light horsemen thundered towards the Romans, each one carrying an earthen pot holding naphtha on the end of a length of rope, a lighted rag secured in each pot. Each one approached the Romans, swinging his earthen pot over his head and then releasing it to smash into the wall of shields. As soon it hit each pot shattered, spilling its black liquid content, which immediately ignited. Naphtha not only burns fiercely, it sticks to what it’s spilled on. Individual Romans, their shields, arms or helmets aflame, tried frantically to put out the fire, breaking their unbroken shield wall. Some clutched burning flesh and writhed in pain, others tried to flee to the rear.

At around four hundred paces we broke into a gallop and levelled our lances, holding the long shafts with both hands on our right sides. At the same time our foot soldiers slanted their shields towards the Roman line, the burnished surfaces reflecting sunlight into the enemy’s faces, blinding them as we closed the gap. In front of us stood a ragged line of legionaries. I screamed my war cry as Sura raced forward, the air filled with the shrieks of frightened horses and men gripped with bloodlust. When we hit the Romans, the sound was like a loud crack of thunder as our first line drove into the disorientated enemy. Time seemed to slow as I aimed my lance at the centre of a Roman shield. The momentum of horse and rider was enough to drive the iron-tipped lanced through the shield, into the legionary and then out through his back to spear another man standing behind him. The shaft broke and I let it go, reaching across with my right hand to draw my sword from its scabbard.

Then I was in the midst of a herd of Romans, and I slashed left and right with my sword. A spear jabbed at Sura’s chest, but failed to penetrate her armour. I slashed at the man’s helmet as I rode forward. To my left, Bozan was screaming his war cry as he brought his sword down with all his might, splitting a Roman helmet and the skull beneath. For the first time I experienced battle, that and the sensation that my armour and sword were as light as feathers. I seemed to be able to see everything that was happening around with matchless clarity, somehow detached from events, yet at the same time an intimate part of them. So this was combat; this was the supreme test of manhood. I felt like a god: invincible, immortal, the bringer of death to my enemies. These thoughts filled my mind for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than a few seconds. A spear flew through the air and glanced harmlessly off my armoured left forearm.

‘Reform, reform,’ Bozan’s shouts and the blasts of horns brought me back to reality. I glanced behind me and saw our second line pouring through the gaps that had been made in the Roman line. The legion’s square had lost one of its sides.

‘They’re finished,’ I shouted.

‘Not yet, boy.’ He gestured to our front with his sword. ‘See that eagle. Capture that, then they’re finished.’

Our second line of cataphracts came up and we formed into one body. These men still had lances, and they moved through us and towards the Romans who were trying to form a defence around the legion’s eagle and senior officers in front of their wagons and wounded. Then we launched our second attack, not as disciplined as the first as some were wounded and many horses were blown. But it was enough. The Romans closed around their officers and their standard — a silver eagle mounted on a long pole — but within seconds we had them encircled and were jabbing at the legionaries with our lances. There was no charge, just violent thrusting with the lances. Horse archers came up to join the cataphracts, pouring a withering fire of arrows into the thinning ranks of the enemy. The latter, now surrounded and hemmed into an ever-decreasing circle, could do little except wait to die. Occasionally a rider would be felled by a Roman javelin, but most of the legionaries now only had their swords, which were useless, as they could not get close enough to the horses to stab them or their riders. As our cavalry formed an iron ring around the enemy, I could see the eagle in their midst, held by a soldier whose armour and helmet were covered in a lion skin and who carried a small circular shield. I felt as though I could reach out and touch it. I don’t know what madness gripped me, but I decided that I wanted that eagle.

My father’s white horse banner was being held by a rider behind me now, signalling to all that a royal son of Hatra was in battle. Cataphracts pulled back and gathered round me, around fifty or so, forming into a single line. I held up my sword and ripped off my helmet. I shouted as loud as I could: ‘Aim for the eagle, take the eagle.’

I put my helmet back on and nudged Sura forward with my thighs. The other riders closed up tight either side of me, their lances levelled one more time. Thirty seconds later we hit the Roman shield wall, and as before legionaries were speared on our lances, their pierced bodies being trampled under iron-shod hooves. A Roman ran up and tried to stab me in the leg, but I brought down my sword to knock his weapon out of the way. The blow shattered the hand gripping his sword, knocking the weapon to the ground and severing several fingers. He screamed in pain and collapsed onto his knees. I moved past him, Sura barging a legionary to the ground as a rider behind me speared him with his lance. Then, suddenly, the legion’s eagle was before me. I lifted my sword to bring it down on its holder, but this man was experienced and he moved expertly aside so I cut only air. My left hand was gripping Sura’s reins as I swung wildly at the standard bearer with my sword. But then he rammed the eagle into the ground, drew his sword and sprang at me, smacking his round shield into my side. It was enough to send me sprawling from the saddle and crashing to the ground. Sura bolted away. Bozan’s words came flooding into my mind. ‘If you’re on the round you are already half-dead. Get to your feet as quickly as possible, otherwise you’re finished.’

I sprang to my feet and faced the standard bearer. I was at a disadvantage as he had a sword and shield whereas I had only my sword. He lunged at me and I parried his blow. I could see that he was sweating. So was I. He charged forward, his shield in front of him, and crashed into me. The blow caught me on my left arm and a pain shot through my shoulder. He tried to thrust his sword into my neck but I caught the blade with my sword’s cross-guard and pushed it aside. I suddenly felt tired and was breathing heavily. He came at me again and once more I parried his blows.

Then I attacked, gripping my sword with both hands and raising it above my hand. I brought the blade down to split my opponent’s shield and shatter the bone in his arm. He screamed in pain but still managed to swing his sword, which hit one of my helmet’s cheek guards. He stumbled in pain, I swung my sword above my head again and brought it down again, screaming as I did so. The blade was a blur as it found my enemy’s exposed neck. The blade cut down at an angle, cutting through the flesh and spine to send the head spinning onto the earth.

I stepped over the headless corpse and wrenched the eagle standard out of the ground, holding it aloof for all to see. The battle that had been raging all around seemed to cease instantly as I waved the silver eagle in the air. It was as if it was a magic charm, which to the Romans, I suppose, it was. Their senior officers dead, individual legionaries began to ram their swords into the ground, discard their shields and kneel as a sign of submission. Our men, most of them having fought all day under a merciless sun, gladly accepted their surrender. Soon, whole groups of Romans were giving up, the loss of their legionary eagle having shattered their morale.

Bozan, his armour missing many steel plates from the blows he had received in the fight, walked over and embraced me.

‘I knew you wouldn’t fail me, Pacorus. Well done.’

He winced as he let go of me, blood showing around his armpit.

‘You’re wounded.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he replied.

Around me cataphracts were dismounting and walking over to me, offering their congratulations. Among them was Vata, the son of Bozan and my best friend. Like his father he was squat and stocky, a barrel of muscles, and like his father he had a carefree attitude to life. But, like me, he wore his hair long, his black locks falling to his shoulders. He embraced his father then grinned as he gripped me in a bear hug.

‘You’re not saying much.’

‘That’s because you’re crushing me,’ I managed to say. He burst into laughter as he released me.

He slapped me on my left arm as he stared at the eagle.

‘So, this is what we’ve been bleeding for. Haven’t seen many of them in my travels. I reckon the Romans will be mightily aggrieved when they discover we’ve got it.’

‘Let them come and get it,’ I said, trying to sound impressive.

‘Yes,’ spat Vata. ‘We’ll beat them a second time.

Then I felt a curious sensation in my arms and legs, as they began to shake. I suddenly felt afraid. Was I dying; had I been wounded? I sank onto all fours and looked at Bozan in despair. He knelt beside me.

‘Easy, boy. It’s just the shakes.’

‘The shakes?’

He grinned and handed me his waterskin. ‘Drink. A lot of men get the shakes after battle. When you fight the muscles get tense, like tightly wrapped rope, and when it’s over they unwind, so to speak. You’ll be fine in a few minutes.’

He was right. After a while the shaking stopped and my limbs became my own once more. As groups of disarmed Romans were escorted to a main holding area, the squires and servants were brought forward to tend to their masters. Water wagons began arriving, too, their drivers filling buckets for our exhausted cataphracts and their mounts, while the squires pulled off the horses’ armour.

My squire, Gafarn, rode up on his horse. Dressed in his simple white linen tunic and baggy trousers, he helped me off with my armour then attended to Sura, who had been retrieved and returned to me. Gentle mare as she was, she waited patiently as the head guard and armour coat were removed. He then threw a silk coat over her as she was sweating profusely and the sun was beginning to set, its colour changing from gold to a light red. The heat of the day was abating.

‘Your cloak is in the saddlebag, highness,’ he pointed to the eagle that I was holding. ‘What’s that, highness?’