‘This does not augur well.’

  Kewab put into words what we were all thinking as we saw red enemy banners appear as the Immortals on the left and Exiles on the right give way. They did not break or run away, but the Armenian wedge forced battalions and centuries to face right and left respectively, to prevent the enemy infiltrating between the first and second lines of our battle formation. This meant the tip of the wedge forced its way through the Immortals and Durans, who were still battling to their front against a numerically superior foe. But the deluge of missiles – arrows, spears and slingshots – combined with the number of enemy soldiers thrown against one point in the line, had prised the two sections of our battle line apart.

  Spartacus curled his lip.

  ‘Shamshir, the King’s Guard and Vipers will advance to plug that gap.’

  The sinister commander of his bodyguard saluted and turned his horse to canter to the thousand riders waiting patiently in the sun.

  Spartacus turned his attention to Malik.

  ‘I would welcome your assistance, brother.’

  ‘And you shall have it,’ grinned the Agraci king.

  ‘Karys, Kewab,’ I said, ‘bring your horse archers forward. We will support the King of Gordyene.’

  The breach in our battle line was widening and time was of the essence. Spartacus was already at the head of his King’s Guard, and ahead of him the Vipers were ready to unleash volleys of arrows against the Armenian wedge that was now slowly turning into a column as more and more soldiers were fed into the gap. Gordyene’s medium horseman were cantering behind the King’s Guard, ready to skewer the enemy foot soldiers with their lances, but only if the enemy broke.

  I heard a loud, continuous hissing noise as the Vipers began to shoot at the enemy, columns of female riders unleashing arrows against the enemy column. Then the King’s Guard slammed into the Armenians, Spartacus’ men armed with ukku blades slashing down at spearmen in close order forming an impenetrable wall of shields and spear points. They achieved very little. The Agraci were similarly frustrated as they tried and also failed to hack their way into the Armenian mass. But at least they had halted the enemy column, which appeared to be a minimum of two hundred paces wide. And then saddles were emptied as foot archers within the Armenian column began shooting at the horsemen lapping around the edges of their formation.

  Spartacus and Malik immediately pulled back their troops, which became literally sitting targets for the enemy as they hacked with their swords and jabbed with their lances against the heavy spearmen, to little avail.

  When the medium horsemen, Agraci, King’s Guard and Vipers withdrew, I led six thousand horse archers forward to form a semi-circle around the Armenian column. Both horses and men were tired but if the Armenians were allowed to extend and widen their column they would reach the river to condemn us to defeat. So once more companies formed into columns and attacked the enemy. But the limited space within the bridgehead meant only around ten companies at a time could attack the Armenians, who continued to shoot back with arrows and now slingshots.

  I aimed my arrow at one of the shields bearing a tree of life symbol, released the bowstring and turned Horns sharply right, plucking an arrow from my quiver, nocking it in the bowstring, twisting left in the saddle and shooting the missile. Behind me Klietas also shot his arrow before following me right and then right again to gallop back to the rear of the company. On the way back, I saw a horse archer shout and clutch his face, an arrow lodged in his eye socket, before tumbling from the saddle. The air was thick with missiles. More and more enemy arrows were now being shot at us; an indication the enemy commander was feeding more and more missile troops into the column. I glanced back to see our own arrows had made no discernible impact on the enemy.

  At least the Armenians had halted, which was something, but when I took up my position at the rear of the column to begin the attack process again, I noticed an increasing number of our own horse archers dead on the ground and horses without riders milling around, some with arrows stuck in them.

  ‘You are with me,’ I said to Klietas, turning Horns to direct him towards a small red griffin banner denoting the presence of Sporaces.

  When I reached him, he was issuing orders to his officers to pull the horse archers back out of range of the Armenian column. He saw me and for a split-second appeared hesitant.

  ‘I was going to suggest the same thing,’ I reassured him.

  ‘The Armenian commander knows what he is doing, majesty.’

  ‘With no ground to manoeuvre on we are hamstrung.’

  He pointed to the flanks where both the Immortals and Exiles were slowly giving ground, maintaining their formation and discipline while being assaulted on their front and flanks.

  ‘We may have to withdraw back across the river, majesty.’

  ‘There is still time, Sporaces. In the meantime, deploy your men for long-range shooting. We don’t want that enemy column splitting into two with each part wheeling left and right to surround the Immortals and Exiles.’

  Sporaces nodded his head towards the loitering Sarmatians lining the riverbank, seemingly without a care in the world.

  ‘What about them, majesty?’

  ‘Hopefully, if we are forced to withdraw, many of them will drown in the river. Every cloud has a silver lining, as the saying goes.’

  Kewab and Karys, veterans that they were, had also recognised the futility of getting too close to foot soldiers that had been reinforced with missile troops, and they also ordered their men to fall back and shoot at long range, though as our backs were almost against the river, ‘medium range’ would have been a more appropriate term. From a range of over three hundred paces we shot at the enemy column, aiming our arrows high into the sky so they would drop vertically on the Armenians, hopefully striking slingers and archers who carried no shields, wore no armour and were mostly devoid of helmets.

  An irate Spartacus and his equally angry sons galloped over, behind them a huge red banner emblazoned with a silver lion. The King of Gordyene pulled up his horse.

  ‘Why did you order your horse archers to withdraw?’

  ‘The same reason you pulled back your own horsemen, nephew,’ I said slowly, slipping my bow back into its leather case fixed to my saddle.

  I pointed at the now stationary Armenian column that jutted forward in the centre of what had been our line, around it a semi-circle of horse archers taking leisurely shots at it. Their rate of shooting was deliberately slow to conserve their limited ammunition.

  ‘The Armenians have placed slingers and archers within their column, therefore it makes sense to withdraw and shoot arrows on a high trajectory into the column.’

  ‘In the hope they withdraw?’ scoffed Castus.

  ‘That is correct, young prince,’ I shot back, ‘for our efforts are merely secondary.’

  ‘To what?’ demanded Haytham beside him.

  The ground beneath us suddenly began to tremble and an ominous rumble filled our ears. I smiled at Prince Haytham.

  ‘To that.’

  Spartacus cracked a wry smile. ‘Luck is with you, uncle.’

  ‘The gods are with us,’ I corrected him.

  He turned his horse to ride away.

  ‘They are mere fantasies, uncle, whereas cataphracts are real.’

  Two and a half thousand cataphracts – big men wearing scale and tubular armour riding big horses with iron-shod hooves, smashed into the left wing of the Armenian army, supported by fifteen thousand Hatran horse archers. The still-battling Exiles on our right flank and beyond them Armenian foot soldiers in front of Artaxias’ horsemen blocked our view of what must have been a magnificent spectacle. But the results soon became evident.

  The Armenian column of foot soldiers began to withdraw, spearmen in the front ranks shuffling back and maintaining their unbroken shield wall. But no arrows came from behind the red-uniformed wall tipped with glinting spear points.

  ‘Help them on their way,’ I said to Sporaces, my spirits lifted by the sounds of battle erupting on the right where Gallia, Gafarn and Diana were hopefully mauling the Armenians.

  Moments later, Dura’s horse archers were once again riding forward in company-sized columns to shoot at the retreating foe. Karys and Kewab also sent their men forward, though unfortunately their low ammunition stocks resulted in their volleys being sporadic at best. Spartacus led his King’s Guard forward once more, but the discipline of the Armenians was impeccable and for a second time the ukku blades of Gordyene’s finest enjoyed only meagre pickings.

  One by one the companies of horse archers ceased shooting as their quivers emptied, wheeling away to fall back to the river where Spadines and his Aorsi bandits finally gained their saddles.

  ‘A great victory, highborn,’ smiled Klietas, who still had most of his arrows left.

  ‘A great escape, more like.’

  I nudged Horns forward and he broke into a canter, heading for the rear cohorts of the Exiles. The colour party guarding their silver lion still held their javelins. The signaller sounded his trumpet to indicate the approach of a senior officer, all two hundred men snapping to attention. I raised my hand in salute as I passed and halted Horns a few paces from where a medical orderly was bandaging the arm of a wounded legionary. In front of him tired men had rested their shields on the ground, all of them without javelins but still holding gladius blades in their hands. The nearest centurion spotted me sliding from my horse.

  ‘Stay here, I will return shortly,’ I told Klietas.

  ‘Stand to attention, the king approaches.’

  ‘As you were, rest easy,’ I commanded.

  The centurion, his face beaded with sweat, saluted smartly.

  ‘Hard fight?’

  ‘I’ve known harder, majesty,’ he said without emotion.

  The damaged white crest atop his helmet told a different story but I smiled and walked on, passing the second-line cohorts that had obviously been in the frontline before being relieved, and on to those standing directly opposite the enemy, though the lack of screams and battle cries indicated all fighting had now ceased. I caught sight of Chrestus standing behind a cohort circled by a group of officers and walked over, a sharp pain shooting through my leg causing me to stumble and fall.

  ‘The king is injured.’

  An eagle-eyed legionary had spotted my fall and within seconds had rushed over to assist me, followed by what appeared to be a small army that closed in on me, each member shouting ‘the king is wounded’.

  ‘Make way,’ I was relieved to hear Chrestus’ voice, the general grabbing my arm as I hoisted myself up with difficulty. He looked me up and down and saw no wound or blood.

  ‘The old leg wound, majesty?’

  ‘The old leg wound,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Back to your positions,’ he bellowed, ‘the king is fine.’

  ‘Want to see our handiwork?’ he grinned.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Want a walking stick?’

  ‘I think I can walk a few yards.’

  He escorted me to where the battle had been fiercest, where the Armenians had launched a frontal assault against the Exiles, all around me tired men raising their swords and cheering when they spotted me. I drew my spatha and saluted them in turn, stopping when I saw the ground carpeted with dead men, hundreds of them. Men who had been stabbed with gladius blades, their tunics heavily stained with blood, their faces moulded into grotesque shapes by multiple sword cuts.

  ‘Not a good idea to throw men wearing no armour or helmets with wicker shields and armed only with a spear against the Exiles.’

  ‘Farmers and townsmen,’ I told him, ‘who always suffer the most in war.’

  A loud cheer went up and I turned to accept the accolade. But they were not cheering me but a group of riders approaching from the right, their horses carefully threading their way through the carpet of dead. I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw Gallia and Zenobia, the latter holding my griffin banner, alongside Gafarn and Diana, a red banner showing a white horse behind them. Also with them were the Amazons and at least two companies of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard.

  I walked forward to greet Gallia, my wife removing her helmet and bending down so we could kiss, prompting whoops and whistles from the legionaries behind us. I also kissed Diana and shook Gafarn’s hand.

  ‘You are a sight for sore eyes,’ I told them.

  ‘The river crossing took longer than anticipated,’ said Gallia, ‘but once across the Armenians had no answer to our strength.’

  ‘Azad, Herneus and Orobaz are currently dancing with the enemy,’ Gafarn told me.

  ‘How is Spartacus?’ asked a concerned Diana.

  ‘Like a wolf deprived of his prey,’ I answered. ‘He was hoping to slaughter the entire Armenian army in this river bend, but his hopes have been dashed.’

  ‘The Armenians are retreating in good order,’ said Gafarn, looking around at the horror, ‘what is left of them.’

  ‘We will be before the walls of Artaxata within two days,’ I said, ‘and once King Artaxias has agreed to pay reparations, we will be back home within a month.’

  There was a rumble of thunder overhead and we all looked up to see the sky was suddenly full of grey clouds. But had I realised what the immediate future held, I would have known it was not thunder but the mocking laughter of the gods.

  Chapter 9

  Spadines and his bandits finally roused themselves to pursue the Armenians once they began to fall back north towards their capital. Azad used Dura’s cataphracts to shield our own army, over half of which had yet to cross over the Araxes. Herneus assigned Hatra’s cataphracts to Azad to fulfil the same function, leaving Orobaz to lead Hatra’s horse archers against the Armenians, though with orders not to pursue too far lest they were ambushed by fresh enemy forces. We had given the foe a bloody nose but Artaxias’ army was far from finished, though whether he would offer another battle before we reached his capital remained to be seen.

  It was just past midday when the Armenians commenced their withdrawal, which meant the army had eight hours of daylight in which to cross over the river, evacuate the battlefield and find a place to camp. Lucius, who had prevented any forces from crossing over to the northern side of the river while the battle was going on, including an incensed Kalet and his lords, selected a place two miles upstream of the river bend, which would ensure a supply of fresh water untainted by dead bodies, while also being close to the river should we be forced to withdraw over the Araxes if the Armenians returned in strength. Spartacus derided the notion.

  ‘There is no Armenian strength,’ he boasted. ‘We beat them today with half our army.’

  We sat on blown horses while behind us thousands of Immortals and legionaries, thousands of camels and mules, thousands of horsemen, and dozens of wagons navigated their way across the Araxes and then headed west to the camp being established by our engineers.

  ‘We mauled the Armenians, son,’ said Gafarn, ‘I will grant you that. But they are far from beaten.’

  The King of Gordyene looked around at the enemy dead.

  ‘I estimate there are perhaps ten thousand enemy dead on this ground. What are our own losses?’

  ‘What I have garnered thus far, majesty,’ said Lucius, ‘is that our own losses number around two thousand, including wounded.’

  ‘Tomorrow, we must conduct a forced march to reach Artaxata,’ demanded Spartacus, ‘there to lay siege to a city that will be filled with enemy soldiers as well as the population.’

  ‘There will be no storm,’ I emphasised. ‘We are here solely to exact reparations from the Armenians and deter them from launching any more wars against Gordyene and Media.’

  ‘Levelling Artaxata will do that,’ smirked Spartacus.

  ‘We are not butchering innocent civilians,’ Diana reprimanded him.

  Lucius’ concern was of a more immediate nature.

  ‘If I were King Artaxias, I would send my army away from the city while I defended it. In this way, he would know there is a relief force being organised, which would force us to dilute our own forces to guard against such a relief.’

  ‘Artaxias is a weak figure, Roman,’ said Spartacus, ‘with little talent for war.’

  ‘The enemy’s battle plan today would suggest otherwise,’ I opined.

  Spartacus sighed with annoyance.

  ‘The commander of the Armenian army is a man called Geghard, who has more backbone than his king, I’ll grant you.’

  He looked at Gallia. ‘You might be interested to know, aunt, that Geghard is the father of Lusin, now Queen of Media, who arranged for his daughter to marry Nabu Egibi before my son stole her away.’

  His words elicited the response he desired.

  ‘This Geghard deserves to be punished,’ growled Gallia.

  ‘Regrettable though the arranged marriage between Lusin and Nabu Egibi was,’ I said, ‘which never took place anyway, it is irrelevant to the current situation.’

  But Gallia’s blood was up. ‘Irrelevant? How would you feel if one of your daughters was sold into slavery? This Geghard needs to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘He will, aunt, that I promise,’ said a smug Spartacus.

  ‘I’m sure we would all feel better able to make rational decisions after a good night’s sleep,’ interrupted Gafarn. ‘I know I would.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  Everyone turned to look at Klietas who had uttered the words. He blushed with embarrassment as Spartacus and Gallia glowered at him and Gafarn gave him a bemused look.

  ‘My squire echoes my own thoughts,’ I said.

  I sent Talib north with his men to scout the terrain and shadow the retreating Armenian army, ignoring Spartacus’ dubious claim that Spadines would provide timely and accurate intelligence regarding the enemy.

  Parties of Immortals and Durans were tasked with the grisly duty of collecting our own dead for cremation, the fuel to do so being provided by the thousands of wicker shields left on the battlefield by the Armenians. Enemy dead would be left to rot, their corpses picked clean by the flocks of ravens that would descend on the area once human activity had ceased. At least a couple of miles away we would be spared their grating croaks as they feasted on dead flesh.