The humming had given way to the familiar sound of drumming and in the distance, heading from the north between the two mountain ridges that flanked the valley, was a black line – Armenians.

  ‘We must retreat back across the river,’ said Kewab.

  Spartacus glared at him. ‘Impossible, to do so would give the enemy an easy victory and I did not come here to withdraw.’

  He pointed ahead, to the space at the neck of the bend, a span of around half a mile.

  ‘We defend the gap there with our foot soldiers, and once the Armenians have wasted their strength on trying to break through, we unleash the horse.’

  Gafarn looked at the gap, turned to stare at the Immortals and Dura’s legionaries still wading through the water and shook his head at me. His son saw the gesture.

  ‘Perhaps those who are too old and cautious should seek shelter back across the river.’

  ‘Have more respect for your father,’ I reprimanded him.

  He threw back his head and laughed, then spoke with a very loud voice so all nearby could hear.

  ‘Is this the same King Pacorus who won the Battle of Carrhae against a Roman army five times larger than his own, who defeated the Armenians but last year on the Diyana Plain?’

  ‘Are you insane?’ I shouted in a most unseemly manner. ‘We know nothing of the strength of the enemy bearing down us, but we do know less than half of our own army is yet to cross the river.’

  Hovik had ridden over to his lord. His face betrayed his anxiety and I hoped he would voice his concern. But the veteran general knew not to cross his master when his Thracian blood was up. Before he could open his mouth, Spartacus was issuing orders.

  ‘The Immortals will form a line across the neck of this bend.’

  ‘It will be a thin line, majesty.’

  ‘Unless we have assistance,’ replied my nephew, turning to stare at me.

  What could I do? Abandon him and his army to their fate, along with Gafarn, Diana and the thousands of other troops exiting the river to march into what could easily become a death trap?

  ‘I will need your medium horsemen,’ I told him, turning to Gallia.

  ‘Ride to Chrestus and order him to deploy as many Durans and Exiles as possible next to the Immortals.’

  I pointed across the river as I spoke to my wife. ‘Next, you and Gafarn must lead all the cataphracts along the riverbank, cross the river in the same place we used last night and attack the Armenians in the rear.’

  I looked at Gafarn. ‘You agree?’

  He was already turning his horse. ‘Consider it done.’

  I reached over to grab Gallia’s hand ‘Shamash be with you, and in the name of the Sun God hurry.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I am going to buy us some time.’

  I ordered Kewab and Karys to deploy their men either side of Sporaces’ men, in company columns.

  ‘What of us?’ demanded Malik.

  ‘Alas, my friend,’ I said, ‘this is a task for horse archers alone. But comfort yourself that you have no need to sheath your sword. We are about to be deluged by the Armenians.’

  Though the earlier action had been an easy affair, the horses were tired from the exertions of a night march and their riders had had no sleep the night before and should have been looking forward to a day’s rest. Instead, six thousand horse archers cantered across the grass towards the thickening mass to the north, while around them Immortals and Duran legionaries frantically tried to create a battle line. I glanced at my bow, which was still nocked with the original arrow I strung earlier.

  ‘Looks like you will see some use today after all, old friend.’

  ‘We go to kill more Armenians, highborn?’ beamed Klietas.

  Unless we get killed first.

  ‘That’s right, Klietas. Remember your training and don’t waste your arrows. Keep close.’

  ‘Yes, highborn. If I do well, you will tell Haya?’

  ‘I will.’

  He grinned with delight, unaware we were riding into the jaws of a monster. If we survived that, then we would have to fight for our lives to stop the Armenians from pushing us into the river.

  The Battle of the Araxes was about to begin in earnest.

  Chapter 8

  Six thousand horse archers, arrayed in company-sized columns, trotted forward to try to halt the huge mass of horse and foot that was bearing down on the makeshift battle line thrown across the neck of the river bend. Chrestus and General Motofi, the grim but no-nonsense commander of the Immortals, were desperately marshalling their respective foot soldiers to prevent the Armenians from advancing into our perilous bridgehead. The easy victory earlier had lulled us into a false sense of security, reducing any sense of urgency and giving the quartermasters more time to organise the river crossing. But their plans had turned to ashes.

  ‘Keep close,’ I said to Klietas beside me, behind us a company of Duran horse archers. Our tactics were tried and tested and every one of my men and those of Karys and Kewab were professionals who knew their task. I glanced at Klietas – he alone was inexperienced. But I hoped all those hours on the training fields with the Amazons would stand him in good stead.

  ‘Remember your training. Focus. And blot out the noise from your mind.’

  ‘Yes, highborn.’

  Easier said than done. The Armenian army was a vivid splash of colours and the trumpets, drums and horns among its ranks were making a racket fit to raise the dead. Artaxias’ army had deployed into line prior to attacking our forces in the bridgehead, in the centre an unbroken length of foot soldiers carrying spears and shields, with the sun glinting off thousands of helmets and whetted spear points. Fluttering among their ranks were dozens of red banners, the colour being the symbol of bravery in Armenia. As we cantered forward I could see that the banners were actually crimson, with golden stars in the centre flanked by two reverse-looking eagles also in gold – the standard of the Artaxiad dynasty.

  Company signallers blew their horns to order their men to break into a gallop, the enemy line becoming more formidable and intimidating as we rode directly at it.

  ‘Focus.’ I shouted to Klietas.

  A hundred paces from the unbroken lines of shields and spears I shot my arrow, releasing the bowstring to send the missile high into the sky. To drop vertically among the dense ranks of the enemy. Then I turned Horns to the right to ride along the Armenian battle line, plucking another arrow from my quiver and again shooting it high into the sky, before turning Horns right again to retrace my steps back to our own army, twisting in the saddle to shoot a third arrow at the enemy before the rider behind me – Klietas – blocked my aim.

  The companies of horse archers raked the Armenian army with a hurricane of missiles, each company shooting one arrow every five seconds once the attack commenced – sixty companies discharging three thousand, six hundred arrows a minute in total. The air was thick with black missiles arching into the sky before falling among the enemy’s foot soldiers. Many would hit shields and the ground, but others would strike helmets, torsos and legs, inflicting casualties but, more importantly, stopping the Armenians in their tracks.

  The companies withdrew and prepared to gallop forward again to unleash fresh volleys against the enemy, buying our own foot soldiers valuable time to form a battle line. But from the flanks of the Armenian foot soldiers came horsemen, thousands of them. They carried lances and round shields, wore scale-armour cuirasses and helmets and I knew they would slaughter us easily if they caught us.

  ‘Sound withdrawal,’ I shouted at the signaller behind me.

  Seconds later, the sound reverberated through the air and was copied by the signallers in other companies. Kewab, seasoned general that he was, was already leading his men back to the relative safety of the bridgehead – some five hundred paces away. The horse archers of Karys were also falling back, swiftly followed by those of Sporaces. The Armenians were moving slowly, knowing that horse archers armed only with bows and perhaps swords were no match for heavily armed and armoured lancers, and that our men would withdraw out of their way, as indeed they were now doing. Like the foot soldiers, the standard bearers of the enemy lancers were carrying red banners sporting golden eagles. These men were the lesser nobles of Armenia and their retainers, not as rich and powerful as the men around their king who formed his corps of cataphracts, but landowners able to raise sizeable numbers of armed horsemen nevertheless.

  ‘Highborn, we should go.’

  Klietas interrupted my musings. I tugged on Horns’ reins to turn him and dug my knees into his sides to get him to gallop, my squire following, glancing back at the mounted horde pursuing us.

  ‘They will not harm you,’ I told him, ‘unless you fall off your horse and they catch up with you.’

  ‘There are many of them, highborn. They will sweep aside our foot soldiers.’

  ‘No, Klietas, they will not.’

  Horsemen cannot break through unbroken ranks of disciplined foot soldiers. But the Armenians would not use their horsemen against the Immortals and Exiles that were now parting ranks to allow our horse archers to pass through them. They would instead use their foot soldiers to batter their way through our defensive line. That line reformed as the horse archers, riding tired horses that had had no rest or fodder since the day before, withdrew to water their mounts in the river. I slid off Horns’ back and handed his reins to Klietas.

  ‘Take him to the river and water him, your horse, too.’

  An impromptu council of war took place behind the Exiles, Chrestus with a face like thunder marching over to me, Kewab and Karys joining my general, the King of Gordyene speaking to a clearly concerned Motofi nearby. When they arrived, Chrestus vented his spleen.

  ‘We have been well and truly duped. Only the Exiles are across the river and how many Immortals?’

  His eyes bored into Motofi.

  ‘Four divisions,’ replied the general.

  ‘Four thousand men, in case you are unaware of the organisation of Gordyene’s army,’ smiled Spartacus.

  Chrestus ignored him.

  ‘Any scorpions?’ he asked Motofi.

  The general shook his head. Chrestus sighed.

  ‘So, we have half our foot soldiers on the wrong side of the river, together with all the scorpions and spare javelins.’

  ‘We still have thousands of horsemen on this side of the river,’ I said.

  ‘Six thousand blown horse archers and two thousand mounted spearmen of Gordyene, also fatigued,’ Chrestus shot back, ‘plus Malik’s men, who are also riding tired horses. That leaves the Vipers and King’s Guard of Gordyene. A thousand fresh riders.’

  ‘You are forgetting Prince Spadines and his three thousand Aorsi,’ remarked Spartacus.

  Chrestus said nothing but merely tapped the vine cane he was carrying against his leg. Always a bad sign.

  I looked back across the river, to where the wagons, mules, squires, camels and rest of our foot soldiers were massed. Lucius, quite rightly, had halted any further crossings of the river and had withdrawn the army away from the river, just in case we had need to ferry soldiers back across the Araxes.

  ‘We hold until the cataphracts and Hatra’s horse archers arrive,’ I said. ‘We still may prevail.’

  A loud cacophony of drums and trumpets signalled the start of the Armenian attack and Chrestus and Motofi departed in haste, Spartacus indicating to the lingering Shamshir he needed his horse.

  ‘Shamash be with you,’ I said to him.

  My nephew looked around, smirking.

  ‘Shamash? Is an ally, one who has brought more men to reinforce our position?’

  ‘You know he is not.’

  ‘Then I have no use for him.’

  His blasphemy was something to behold and I prayed the Sun God would not punish him for his insolence. He vaulted into the saddle, Shamshir handing him his reins.

  ‘You spend too much time praying to man-made idols, uncle. Battles are won and lost by men, not gods, and I do not intend to lose this one.’

  With that he was gone, riding over to where his Immortals were arrayed in two lines to the left of the Exiles, also deployed in two lines. Behind the Immortals stood the Vipers and King’s Guard, and to the rear of them Spadines and his raiders, many lolling around on the grass with seemingly not a care in the world. As if reading my thoughts, Kewab voiced his opinion, and mine.

  ‘A great pity we cannot swap the Sarmatians for the Durans, majesty.’

  ‘Indeed. Do you think we can hold them?’

  He scanned the half-mile gap protected by the Immortals and Exiles, glancing at the horsemen behind our foot soldiers.

  ‘It will be close. We are deprived of the luxury of manoeuvre, so will have to withstand their assaults until the queen and King Gafarn and Queen Diana arrive. But with Montu’s help we will overcome.’

  ‘Montu?’

  ‘The Egyptian God of War, majesty, whose name originally derived from the term for a nomad, which I became until Dura offered me a home.’

  ‘Egypt’s loss is Dura’s gain,’ I told him. ‘May your god go with you.’

  ‘They will soften us up first,’ he said, gaining the saddle of his horse held by one of his officers, ‘and you have no shield to take cover under, majesty.’

  I raised a hand in acknowledgement as he trotted back to his own men now withdrawing back to the river, some half a mile distant and well out of range of enemy slingshots and arrows. I began to follow them when I heard the cracks of slingshots hitting shields and the dull thuds of arrows doing likewise. I increased my pace, pain shooting through my leg, forcing me to hobble.

  ‘Get on this horse, old man.’

  I turned left to see a grinning Malik holding a spare mount.

  ‘Do you want me to assist you into the saddle?’

  ‘I’m quite capable, thank you.’

  I hoisted myself up with difficulty and he tossed me the reins. An arrow thudded into the ground a few yards away. Malik urged his horse forward; I did the same.

  ‘These Armenians cannot shoot straight,’ he grinned, enjoying the possibility of our imminent slaughter immensely.

  But he was wrong. The Armenians could shoot well enough and they were bringing the full weight of their slingers and archers to bear on our battle line. That line comprised five thousand Exiles in two lines, the first made of six cohorts, the second four cohorts, and to their left four thousand Immortals in two lines, both lines comprising two divisions. All the divisions and cohorts – covering a space half a mile in width – were now in testudo formation: all soldiers were kneeling, the first rank forming a shield wall, the second and third ranks lifting their shields to form a forward-sloping roof, and the subsequent ranks holding their shields horizontally above their heads. In this way, the Armenian arrows and slingshots struck leather and wood instead of flesh and bone. But while the cohorts and divisions were battered by the missile storm, the Armenians tasked with breaking through our battle line deployed into formation.

  A giant wedge took shape in the centre of the Armenian battle line, composed of the élite soldiers of Artaxias’ army: heavy spearmen and heavy swordsmen. The latter, all professionals, wore mail armour, helmets and carried oval shields faced with bronze. Armed with two spears, their primary weapon was a long sword that they used to attack the enemy after they had thrown their spears. A mixture of mail and scale armour protected the heavy spearmen, and all wore helmets. They carried round shields and long spears and were trained to fight in close order. If their spears broke or got stuck in an enemy, they used their short swords in the mêlée.

  Either side of the wedge were blocks of light spearmen: soldiers wearing no armour or helmets and carrying only a wicker shield. Nevertheless, every man was equipped with a heavy war axe and three javelins that they hurled before attacking. The flanks of the Armenian line comprised levy spearmen: civilians impressed into service and armed only with a spear and a knife, though a few may have had swords. Their wicker shields offered poor protection against the gladius carried by the foot soldiers of Dura and Gordyene, but their purpose was to keep the soldiers they faced fixed in the same place, thereby preventing either Motofi or Chrestus from reinforcing the spot the Armenian wedge would strike.

  Having retrieved Horns from Klietas, I sat in the saddle alongside Malik and Spartacus, behind us his King’s Guard and Vipers, and waited for the tell-tale sounds that signalled men were locked in mortal combat.

  ‘They will never break our line,’ said Spartacus.

  He was right; they did not. But when the war cries of thousands of men and a horrible rasping sound reverberated through the air, my stomach turned over. The grinding noise was focused in the middle of our battle line, meaning the Armenians had thrown all the momentum of their attack against that one spot. The subsequent incessant clicking sound filling our ears was the cut-and-thrust of close-quarter combat: spears being thrust forward, javelins impacting on shields and bodies, and the hacking and stabbing of swords.

  Normally, once the enemy’s slingers and archers had finished their work there would be a lull, akin to a pause for breath, before the foe attacked. This gave the foot soldiers of Dura and Gordyene time to break free of their testudo formations and organise their ranks before unleashing a javelin storm against the onrushing enemy. As they were trained to do, the legionaries and Immortals would not wait to be assaulted while stationary, but would rather advance to meet the enemy, the rear ranks hurling their javelins to slow down or stop the foe. And if given the opportunity, the scorpion crews would shoot one or two volleys for added effect. But today there were no scorpions and the Armenians threw thousands of men against just one spot in our battle line: where the Immortals ended, and the Exiles began. Their light and levy spearmen also launched a frontal assault, but the weight of Armenian arrows and slingshots was brought to bear in support of the huge wedge that now fractured our battle line.