The valley Gordyene’s army occupied was lush and verdant, being watered by numerous streams running into the Araxes some five miles further north. In the middle sat the large marching camp the Immortals had created to house the thousands of men, mules, camels, horses and dozens of carts that accompanied the army. The carts were the only thing missing from the grand parade organised by my nephew to welcome the rulers of Dura and Hatra to his kingdom, though I suspected it was more for Gafarn and Diana’s benefit than Gallia’s and mine. Nevertheless, it was a fine spectacle and showed the army of Gordyene in all its glory.

  Long gone were the days when that army had been nothing more than a ragtag band of men and women armed with a variety of weapons riding anything that could bear their weight. That had been in the days when the Romans had occupied Gordyene and the spirit of freedom had been kept alive by groups of hardy raiders living in the forests and mountains. They had been replaced by professional soldiers, men equipped by the armourers and workshops of Vanadzor, which worked day and night to produce the weapons and armour that kept the kingdom safe. Though like the freedom fighters of yesteryear, it had been a long time since Gordyene had had to defend itself. Now it exported war and its troops were among the finest in the Parthian Empire.

  We rode down the corridor separating the two parts of my nephew’s army, either side of us battalions of Immortals deployed in open order. In front of each company was a scorpion bolt thrower such as used by my own soldiers. The Immortals, like their famed Persian namesakes, were maintained at a strength of ten thousand men, the replacement battalion at Vanadzor ensuring there was a constant supply of new recruits to make up losses. They were to all intents and purposes legionaries, being equipped in a similar fashion – mail armour, helmets and large oval shields faced with hide painted red bearing a white lion’s head motif – and armed exactly the same as Dura’s legions and indeed Rome’s: two javelins, short sword and dagger. Their tunics were even red like their Roman counterparts, though they wore black leggings.

  Either side of the Immortals were companies of medium horsemen, men in helmets, scale armour cuirasses, with pteruges hanging from the waist. They carried round wooden shields faced with red-painted hide and embossed with a white lion’s head motif. Their main weapon was a spear, though each man was also armed with a sword, axe and dagger.

  Outnumbering the medium horsemen were Gordyene’s horse archers: men riding hardy, swift horses, wearing no armour except soft pointed hats. Attired in red tunics and black leggings, their hats also red, each horseman carried two full quivers, a recurve bow and a short sword.

  As we trotted past the horse archers, medium horsemen and Immortals, the élite of Gordyene’s army came into view: the King’s Guard and Vipers. The latter had existed when Surena had ruled Gordyene with his queen Viper, the former Amazon who had died in childbirth. Then they had been called Lionesses, but their name had been changed in honour of the woman who had formed and led them. They now numbered five hundred women and were commanded by Narin, whose name meant ‘delicate’ but who was anything but, and who was as effective on the battlefield as Zenobia. The Vipers were striking for the sex of their ranks, but the King’s Guard would not have looked out of place on the parade square at Ctesiphon. Like the other members of the army they wore red tunics and black leggings, but whereas the medium horsemen wore iron scale-armour, the King’s Guard sported cuirasses of alternating steel and bronze scales that shimmered in the sun like fish scales. Each horseman also wore pteruges at the shoulders and thighs, a burnished helmet and carried a round shield bearing a lion emblem. Originally armed with spears, the King’s Guard were armed with ukku swords, recurve bow, two quivers and a dagger. To finish off his appearance each horseman wore a red cloak and his horse was fitted with a large red saddlecloth.

  Red was the colour of the day and hinted at the blood that would be spilt in the coming days, my eyes being drawn to a huge red banner showing a silver lion fluttering behind the king and his two sons mounted on their horses in front of the camp’s entrance. The Durans and Exiles were already building our own camp a couple of miles away, Lucius and his engineers laying out the dimensions of the ditch and rampart to provide shelter and security for forty-three thousand soldiers, thousands of squires, hundreds of non-combatants and tens of thousands of animals.

  It was a happy reunion between Spartacus and his parents, Diana walking her horse forward to kiss her son on the cheek and share a few private words with him. Spartacus was all smiles as he greeted Gallia and me.

  ‘Welcome, aunt, uncle, this is a great day for Parthia; for now the empire’s three greatest powers are united in the defence of Media. I trust my son and daughter are well?’

  ‘Akmon and Lusin are thriving,’ I assured him.

  ‘And you will soon be a grandfather,’ beamed Gallia, ‘and you two uncles.’

  Castus and Haytham were now fine young men, the former with blue eyes and dark blonde hair tumbling from beneath his helmet, the latter’s hair black as night like his dead mother’s.

  General Hovik, dependable, austere and slightly weathered looking, was behind his king, next to the cutthroat Shamshir, commander of the King’s Guard.

  ‘It is good to see you, general,’ I called. ‘How did you find the east?’

  ‘Hot, dusty and humid in equal measure, majesty,’ he replied. ‘I am glad to be back home.’

  I ignored Shamshir who showed disdain in his cold eyes. And the man next to him, the swarthy Spadines, the leader of the Aorsi tribe and the man who had devoted his life to inflicting misery on the Armenian people and anyone else who crossed his path. Rated a valuable ally by Spartacus, I had nothing but contempt for him and his Sarmatian bandits. I turned in the saddle to peer at the immaculately dressed ranks of Gordyene’s army.

  ‘Something troubles you, uncle?’ said Spartacus.

  I turned back to face him.

  ‘Are all your soldiers present?’

  ‘They are,’ he told me, ‘though Prince Spadines’ troops are deployed along the Araxes to keep the Armenians amused until we determine our plan of campaign.’

  I caught a glance of Spadines smirking and nodding knowingly at Shamshir. I wondered if the ugly commander of the King’s Guard was related to the uncivilised Spadines, long-lost brothers, perhaps. I laughed. Quizzical stares were directed at me.

  ‘I must compliment you on your army, Spartacus, it is a credit to both you and all Parthia.’

  It was no lie. Every man and woman who wore a red tunic was a professional and trained to operate with the other constituent parts of the army. Thus the horsemen could operate closely with the Immortals, and vice-versa. This meant the Immortals could form a square with the horsemen inside it, to fight a defensive battle, which could change in an instant if the ranks of the foot soldiers opened to allow the horse archers and medium horsemen to attack. They were the same tactics used by Dura’s army, the only significant difference being that Gordyene possessed no cataphracts, the steel fist of my own army and that of Hatra’s. But that had not prevented Gordyene’s soldiers from tasting victory after victory on the battlefield.

  We rode into camp, passing neat blocks of ten-man tents, each one the campaign home of a company of Immortals, or ten horsemen. In the Roman and Duran armies, troops slept in eight-man tents called a papilio, which was made of oiled goatskin, though the Romans also used calfskin. But to differentiate Gordyene’s soldiers from the Romans’ whose training, organisation and weapons they had copied, ten-man tents were the norm. I thought it churlish but to Spartacus such gestures spoke volumes, as did enforcing a prohibition on calling the short sword, javelin and shield gladius, pilum and scutum, respectively, on pain of a flogging, even though they were exact copies.

  In the centre of camp stood the headquarters tent, a rather dour, functional structure far removed from the exotic pavilions served by armies of slaves used by most Parthian kings, except me, when on campaign. The eating and general reception area of the tent was small, made more diminutive by the stout oak table placed in the centre, around which we all sat on wooden stools, soldiers serving us wine and water. Laid on the table was a hide map of northern Gordyene and southern Armenia, the Araxes the dividing line between the two. Spartacus remained standing to dominate the proceedings, his two sons standing behind him and Hovik and Spadines loitering nearby. After we had been served drinks Spartacus came straight to the point.

  ‘Due to our presence, the Armenians are camped beyond the Araxes, five or six miles from here.’

  He pointed at the map. ‘We are here, and the enemy is here.’

  He moved his finger a few inches to indicate a spot north of the river.

  ‘Now the spring melt waters are abating,’ he continued, ‘the current has slowed, and the level has dropped to four feet.’

  ‘How wide is the river?’ asked Gafarn.

  ‘Around fifty yards, perhaps more. It is an ideal crossing point where the river flows south and then east to create a bend just over a mile in length. The bend in the river slows the current, making it safer for an army to cross.’

  I studied the map. ‘The Armenians will also be aware of this, and to undertake a river crossing in the face of enemy resistance is no small thing, Spartacus. Foot soldiers and horsemen wading through water are very vulnerable to enemy slingshots, arrows and spears. And they can be struck when they are just exiting the water, when they will be disorganised and at their most vulnerable. It could quickly turn into a disaster.’

  ‘Pacorus has a point, son,’ said Diana.

  Spartacus gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘Which is why, mother, we will not be crossing at that point. Rather,’ he indicated a spot to the east, ‘the horsemen will cross five miles downstream. The current is stronger and the water deeper, but it is possible to get horsemen across without too much difficulty. Is that not true, Prince Spadines?’

  The wild man of the north gave a leer and nodded.

  ‘True, lord.’

  I groaned when Spadines walked forward to speak.

  ‘We have used this crossing place many times to raid Armenia.’

  ‘Small parties of horsemen, I assume?’ I said.

  He smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Ever seen a camel swim, prince?’

  His smile disappeared as he looked at me warily.

  ‘I do not understand, lord.’

  I drank a mouthful of wine. ‘Horses can swim if they get into difficulties, but I have never seen a camel swim, which is unfortunate as we will need camels to supply the horse archers with spare arrows.’

  ‘We can leave the camel train behind, uncle,’ said Spartacus. ‘The horse archers can carry additional quivers. The most important thing is that our horsemen get across the river while the rest of the army holds the attention of the Armenians in the bend of the river. Then our horsemen will strike the enemy from behind and push them into the river.’

  I took another mouthful of what was a most excellent wine.

  ‘It is a good plan, my congratulations,’ I told Spartacus, which elicited smug smiles from Spadines and the two princes. ‘Fixing the enemy’s attention by a secondary operation while the most important element marches to envelop the foe’s rear, thereby severing his lines of communication and making his position untenable. If it is successful.’

  ‘The army of Gordyene has never tasted defeat,’ boasted Spadines, making Hovik wince with embarrassment.

  ‘The risks are high,’ agreed Gafarn. He looked at his son and the Aorsi chief. ‘I assume the Armenians also have scouts who are monitoring our own movements?’

  ‘It is a good plan,’ insisted Spartacus.

  ‘It is a risky plan,’ I corrected him, ‘but one that we should adopt in the absence of an alternative. Having marched all the way here, we cannot now dither. I will get my scouts to undertake a thorough reconnaissance of the two crossing points to satisfy myself the river is at least fordable.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ insisted Spadines, ‘my men know the river like the backs of their hands.’

  ‘Crossing a desert at night under a full moon requires much concentration,’ stated Malik, who thus far had remained silent, ‘but fording a river is fraught with risks. What about rocks and boulders on the riverbed?’

  ‘The riverbed is just mud and sand at that point,’ Spadines told him.

  I ignored him, as I did not want to waste my time arguing with a bandit. I looked at Hovik, the careworn commander of Gordyene’s army who looked like an over-worked shop owner but who had forged that army into a war-winning instrument.

  ‘General, I would hear your opinion on this operation.’

  Hovik’s red tunic had seen better days and his boots could have done with a clean, but he was one of those individuals who garnered instant respect, not only for his keen mind but because he had been a common foot soldier when Balas had ruled Gordyene, a mere teenager armed with a spear. In a career spanning four decades he had fought the Romans, Armenians and indeed other Parthians when Orodes had defeated Surena before the walls of Vanadzor. He cleared his throat.

  ‘One way or another, we have to cross the Araxes, defeat the Armenian army and encircle the city of Artaxata to bring this campaign to a successful conclusion, or at least exact reparations from the Armenians for what they did in Media last year. We are all agreed on that.’

  He looked at Gafarn and me in turn. ‘I understand your misgivings, majesties, but we must strike now, while the iron is hot, so to speak. Therefore, and to reduce the risks involved, I propose the horsemen should cross the river in two days’ time. At night.’

  Absolute silence met his words and I wondered if he was attempting some sort of levity.

  ‘It will be a full moon,’ continued Hovik, ‘and visibility will be adequate. More to the point, even if they are watching the river, the Armenians will not be expecting us to attack at night.’

  ‘Crossing a river at night is risky at the best of times, general’ said Gafarn.

  ‘That it is, majesty.’

  ‘And yet you still propose it?’ I asked him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Dura, Hatra and Gordyene have the best trained troops in the world, majesty,’ he told me, ‘and it makes sense to make the most of their talents. Speed and surprise will get us across the river.’

  ‘And then?’ I asked.

  ‘The road leads directly north to the Armenian capital,’ said Spartacus.

  ‘We do not desire the deaths of Artaxias or his family,’ stated Gafarn bluntly, ‘or the annexation of Armenia by Gordyene. We are here to enforce the territorial integrity of Media.’

  ‘And to avenge Rasha,’ said Gallia, to the satisfaction of Spartacus and his sons.

  ‘I do not covet any Armenian territory,’ declared Spartacus, ‘but rather desire to see the Armenians respect others’ borders.’

  ‘I think General Hovik’s plan is a good one,’ said Gallia. ‘We have all fought at night before.’

  ‘But I still insist my scouts carry out a reconnaissance of the area beforehand,’ I added, ‘so they may familiarise my commanders with the terrain.’

  Spadines was going to say something but Spartacus shook his head.

  ‘As you wish, uncle.’

  ‘There is one more thing,’ I said, ‘I wish to be overall commander during the campaign. I say this not out of a desire to order anyone about but rather because I have had experience of being the leader of armies composed of disparate elements.’

  I expected Spartacus to argue that he should lead the expedition, but he merely shrugged.

  ‘As you desire, uncle.’

  Malik nodded.

  ‘I always knew you would make lord high general again, Pacorus,’ joked Gafarn.

  Spadines, his nose put out of joint, insisted his men accompany Talib and his scouts during their reconnaissance. So, for the remainder of that day and the next, small parties of scouts rode up and down the river, on the opposite bank parties of Armenian horsemen shadowing their movements. It was clear the enemy was very aware of our presence, though unless they had troops across the Araxes they would have no idea of our numbers.

  There were now sixty thousand Parthian soldiers massed five miles south of the Araxes, three thousand more if one counted the Aorsi, which I did not. With their shabby appearance, wild assortment of weapons and armour, most of it either stolen or gifted, they presented a sorry spectacle. The fact their ranks included many women did not concern me, but their lack of tactics, discipline and training did. They were born raiders, thieves, cutthroats and brawlers good only for mopping up after victory had been secured. If that.

  ‘That Sarmatian was right, majesty, the river is shallow enough for a man on a horse to wade across, though at night the risks are magnified many times.’

  I gestured to Talib he should sit on one of the stools arranged by Klietas around the table in my command tent. The light was beginning to fade outside and Talib looked tired. He and his men had spent the afternoon carrying out a detailed reconnaissance of the southern shore of the river. Klietas filled a cup with water and handed it to him.

  Karys, Chrestus, Kewab and Lucius were also in attendance, along with Gallia and Malik. Klietas hovered over us like a hornet, water jug in hand ready to refill empty cups. Everyone ignored him as he did so.

  ‘Did you see any Armenians?’ asked Chrestus.

  ‘Yes, lord. A few horsemen, scouts, I assume.’

  The general looked at me. ‘I don’t like it, majesty, any general worth his salt would know the river is fordable in many places and would plan accordingly.’

  ‘We must make a lot of noise and a great display at the main crossing point,’ said Kewab, ‘to focus the enemy’s attention on that spot rather than further downstream.’

  ‘How many horsemen will be crossing at night?’ asked Malik.

  ‘Ten thousand,’ I answered, ‘divided equally between the Agraci, Kewab’s soldiers, the horsemen of Mesene, Duran horse archers and Gordyene’s medium horsemen.’