‘What now, majesty?’ asked Katana.

  I had no time to answer as a tall man with white hair and eyes like a cobra walked forward to harangue us.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want? We have nothing save the clothes on our backs and paltry food supplies.’

  They may have been poor villagers but they looked healthy enough and their settlement was large, containing numerous animal pens.

  ‘He speaks Parthian, majesty.’

  ‘I am aware of that. State your name and rank,’ I said to the old man.

  He chuckled. ‘My name is Jagat and as to my rank, it is many years since I carried a spear and now I am just an ordinary villager trying to feed my family.’

  He looked at the lines of horse archers either side of me. ‘I assume you are of high rank.’

  ‘I am King Pacorus of Dura, one of the kingdoms of the Parthian Empire.’

  ‘This, lord, is not Parthia.’

  I smiled at him. ‘No, indeed, Jagat, but your emperor has seen fit to invade my empire so I am here to repay the compliment.’

  He looked past me, to the smoke stacks on the horizon. ‘With fire and sword, I see.’

  ‘We show the same mercy to the Kushans as Kujula has shown to my people, Jagat. But we are not murderers. Tell your people they will be allowed to leave the village unmolested. Their homes will be reduced to ashes to send a message to your emperor.’

  Two more elderly men walked forward to converse with Jagat, who must have told them what I intended because they threw up their arms and jabbered something to the villagers. A collective groan came from the group, quickly followed by wailing and screaming as women began sobbing and some held up their infants to us. They implored us for mercy, or at least I surmised they did, as I had no idea what they were screeching.

  ‘We will defend or homes,’ pledged Jagat, turning and barking a command.

  The middle-aged and elderly men – there appeared to be few young men capable of bearing arms present – shuffled forward with their pathetic weapons.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ I warned.

  Katana raised his arm and as one every horse archer raised his bow, though none drew back his bowstring. Not yet.

  ‘Kill one of the cows,’ suggested Katana.

  This prompted Jagat to rush over to the nearest cow and place himself in front of it.

  ‘Barbarians,’ he shouted. The villagers, aware of the imminent danger to the cow, fell to their knees and clasped their hands together, a pleading expression in their eyes.

  ‘Odd,’ said Katana.

  ‘Take my life instead,’ Jagat implored me.

  Katana and his officers burst out laughing but I could see the Indian was serious.

  ‘Take his life and that of the cow, majesty,’ advised Katana.

  Jagat pointed a bony finger at me. ‘Queen Rana will have her revenge on you, barbarian.’

  I was intrigued. ‘Who is Queen Rana?’

  But Jagat sank into defiant silence, his eyes filled with rage. I could have ordered my men to shoot him and the others down. It would have been all over in a few minutes, after which we would torch the mud huts and ride to another village to repeat the ghastly ritual. But the truth was I had no stomach for slaughtering innocents, but I was eager to learn more about Queen Rana, whoever she may be.

  ‘I make you this offer,’ I said to Jagat, ‘come with me now and I will spare your village and all those who live here. I will even spare your cows. Decide now.’

  He was taken aback by the offer and for a moment was lost for words. But his rage disappeared and he turned to speak loudly to the villagers, presumably to convey my offer. A grey-haired woman rushed forward and flung her arms around him. His wife, I assumed. He kissed her, reassured her and the men armed with weapons relaxed, a sign I took confirming he had accepted my offer.

  ‘I have no horse,’ he told me impertinently.

  ‘Fetch him a remount,’ I told Katana.

  My commander was disappointed. ‘We are not going to burn the village, majesty?’

  ‘We are not going to burn the village.’

  He told his officers to stand down their men, who removed the arrows from their bowstrings and walked their horses behind my standard. A spare horse was brought forward for the Indian, who had to be assisted into the saddle.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he lamented. ‘How long will I be away from my wife and grand children?’

  ‘How far away is Queen Rana?’ I asked.

  ‘A day’s ride.’

  ‘Then you will be back in your home within a week,’ I told him.

  He tactfully said nothing about the burning villages whose smoke littered the sky as we continued to ride east. But I did question him on his curious reverence for cows.

  ‘The answer is both religious and practical,’ he replied. ‘Because it supplies nourishment a cow is identified with Aditi herself.’

  ‘Who?’

  He grunted in disapproval. ‘The mother of the gods. No sane person would voluntarily anger the gods. But allied to its sacredness are the products that it produces. Milk, browned butter for lamps and dried dung for fuel. Milk nourishes children as they grow up and dung is used for fuel throughout India. Thus the cow is a carer for the people and a symbol of the divine bounty of the earth.’

  ‘When did you learn our language?’

  ‘I was a soldier and then a trader in pottery before old age made long journeys torture. I travelled across the Indus regularly to visit Aria.’

  ‘I assume many of your young men are also in that kingdom now, as part of your emperor’s army.’

  ‘Some,’ he answered guardedly. ‘Others are closer to home.’

  As the day waned the various columns converged around a huge lake where a great herd of water buffalo was drinking. A hundred at least were killed by arrows to supplement the gazelle that had been hunted and killed in the periods between torching villages. When the kings gathered around a large fire cooking a whole wild pig, faint red glows could be discerned on the horizon. Everyone stared at the gaunt, morose figure of Jagat who sat on the ground, refusing chunks of cooked meat, though accepting the offer of oranges and plums.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked a jubilant Khosrou, meat juices from the pork joint he was chewing dripping onto his beard.

  ‘His name is Jagat, lord,’ I answered, ‘from a village we came across.’

  ‘Is he a man of importance, uncle?’ asked Spartacus.

  ‘He looks like a beggar,’ observed Malik.

  ‘He is a man of no importance,’ I told them, ‘though he does have intelligence concerning a potential threat.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Khosrou.

  ‘Queen Rana, the ruler of a city within a day’s ride of here.’

  ‘What city?’ enquired Malik.

  I called Jagat over and asked him to refresh my memory as to the name of the city he had been telling me about.

  ‘Indraprastha. Queen Rana will have learned of your presence, majesty. I would advise you to withdraw while you still can.’

  ‘Withdraw?’ mocked Khosrou, ‘I will hand over this Rana to my men who will take turns raping her.’

  I winced with embarrassment. ‘We should take care not to spread our forces too widely tomorrow.’

  But the next day there was no time to deploy our columns again because the scouts brought news before we had quitted camp that Queen Rana’s army was approaching.

  I stood with Khosrou, Spartacus and Malik to formulate a battle plan. Fortunately three of us had already faced the Kushans and had been given a bloody nose. Assuming that this queen would fight in the same manner as Kujula, I gave my opinion on the coming clash.

  ‘As soon as battle is joined the Kushans will most probably form their foot soldiers into a square.’

  ‘Like your legions,’ said Khosrou.

  I nodded. ‘But unlike my foot soldiers this square will also contain archers equipped with long bamboo bows, which have great range. This means they can engage our horse archers at long range, so stress to your commanders that they should not venture too close to the enemy square.’

  Khosrou scratched his head. ‘Then how are we going to beat them, assuming we are going to give battle?’

  ‘We should give battle, lord,’ urged Spartacus, ‘to defeat this queen and capture her city.’

  ‘Then we can burn it to the ground,’ said Malik with relish.

  ‘We draw their horsemen away from the square,’ I said. ‘First we destroy their horsemen and then we can reduce their foot at our leisure.’

  It would not be quite that simple, of course, and battles were always risky affairs. But I drew comfort from the fact that all our Parthian horsemen were battle-hardened veterans and the Agraci were the best of Malik’s warriors. In addition, the terrain – a flat plain with few trees – was ideally suited to mobile warfare. It was time to pluck the cobra’s fangs.

  Khosrou looked at Spartacus and Malik. ‘We are agreed, then?’

  They nodded in unison.

  ‘You are commander-in-chief,’ the old king told me, ‘try not to get yourself killed.’

  The day was warm and humid, the afternoon rain a long way off, the sky big, blue and cloudless. The scouts brought news that the Kushans were moving slowly, at the pace of their foot soldiers. Their reports told of horse archers, light horsemen, skirmishers, spearmen and foot longbowmen, but no elephants or heavy horsemen, at least none they could see. For their part, the enemy despatched their light horsemen to chase the scouts away. After an hour, the Kushans could be seen on the eastern horizon, a narrow black line at first but then expanding as the enemy deployed from column into line.

  The busiest men on what would be the battlefield were the scouts who were sent to gather intelligence on the enemy while the rest of our army checked their mounts, quivers, armour and saddlery. The mood was calm, relaxed, everyone knowing that if things turned against us we could withdraw speedily to the west, back to the Indus if necessary. We did not need to fight this battle, but the desire to inflict a defeat on the Kushans was hard to resist. Slowly our battle line formed, Khosrou’s ten thousand horsemen forming our centre, Spartacus and his twelve hundred riders comprising the left wing and Katana’s eight hundred Durans deployed on the right wing. I held Malik and his two thousand Agraci in reserve, much to his chagrin. But as he had few horse archers it made perfect sense: I wanted his men to deliver the final blow when the time came; either that or cover our retreat if it all went terribly wrong.

  I sat with Malik and Khosrou in front of the Margianan horsemen and watched the enemy line lengthen and thicken, red flags dotted among the Kushan host, the sound of drums and horns filling the air. Our own men sat in silence and watched the enemy line form. Riders galloped towards us and pulled up their horses on the lush grass. I recognised the flat face of Kuban under his padded helmet.

  ‘It is as King Pacorus stated, lord,’ he said, swinging in the saddle to point at the Kushans, ‘foot soldiers in the centre, men equipped with shields in two blocks, skirmishers in front of them, with horsemen on the wings. I saw no archers.’

  ‘They are behind the spearmen,’ I told him, ‘waiting for their moment.’

  I turned and waved forward Jagat mounted on a horse and guarded by two of my men. All three trotted forward.

  I pointed to the Kushans. ‘Is your queen there?’

  He looked horrified. ‘On the battlefield? No, majesty. Women do not fight.’

  I looked at Malik but said nothing.

  ‘Who commands the army?’ demanded Malik.

  ‘I do not know, lord,’ came the answer.

  ‘Well, whoever it is, he will be pissing his leggings in fear by this afternoon,’ said Khosrou, ‘let’s get things started. Kuban, signal the advance.’

  The distance between the two armies was upwards of a thousand paces, which diminished rapidly as the centre and two wings cantered towards the Kushans. The ground trembled as twelve thousand horsemen advanced across the grassy plain, every man with his reins wrapped around his left wrist and clutching his bow in his right hand.

  ‘Get him back to a safe distance,’ I said to the men guarding Jagat.

  The air was suddenly filled with war cries and hollering as Khosrou’s men closed on the enemy foot soldiers, the horse archers on the flanks also making a lot of noise as they approached the enemy horsemen. Khosrou and Kuban had already turned their companies before the Kushan bowmen behind the spearmen had the opportunity to shoot a volley. But I saw what appeared to be a flock of birds suddenly appear in the sky before falling to earth, Khosrou’s men cantering towards us.

  ‘Time to withdraw, my friend,’ I said to Malik.

  His black banner fluttered next to my griffin as we rode our horses back to the black mass of Agraci warriors waiting patiently. Malik issued a command and they began to turn their horses to retreat west. For seasoned killers eager to wash their sword blades in enemy blood, it stuck in the craw but was essential if our plan was to work. We pulled back perhaps eight hundred yards before about-facing to see Margianans slowly wheeling around to face the east. The flat terrain at first made it difficult to discern what was happening on the wings, but the fog of confusion soon cleared when I saw my Durans retreating rapidly leaving Khosrou’s men in the centre behind. I clench my fist and shouted in triumph. It could only mean one thing: enemy horsemen were pursuing them.

  I could not see but knew that the rear ranks of the Durans would be shooting arrows at the enemy over the hindquarters of their horses to both inflict casualties and goad the enemy into continuing their pursuit. I heard a chorus of horn calls and saw the rear ranks of Khosrou’s horsemen wheel right, to take them behind the Kushan horsemen pursuing my Durans. I craned my neck and peered over to the left where Spartacus and his men had also beat a hasty retreat, which had now halted as the King of Gordyene about-faced his companies to attack the Kushans who found themselves suddenly surrounded by his men and the horsemen of Margiana. Half of Khosrou’s men had wheeled right, half had wheeled left and suddenly our army had no centre as a deadly struggle broke out on the wings. Between them was empty space and I could see the long line of enemy foot soldiers in the distance. I knew the enemy skirmishers would be running to support the Kushan horsemen engaged in the mêlée, behind them the spearmen and archers. The latter in particular would be able to wreak havoc if they got within range.

  ‘Now is the time, my friend,’ I said to Malik, ‘we must ride forward to halt the enemy’s foot.’

  The Agraci needed no second prompting and within a couple of minutes two thousand men armed with lances and swords and carrying round black shields were cantering forward, the sounds of close-quarters battle coming from either side as Parthians battled Kushans. I nocked an arrow in my bowstring when I saw the swarm of skirmishers dashing towards us, lightly armed men wearing no body armour or helmets who were focused on supporting their own horsemen. Instead they were faced with a line of black-clad Agraci hollering war cries. Trained to fight widely spaced and fleet of foot, they had no defence against horsemen. There were thousands of them but their wicker shields were useless as Malik’s warriors rode through them and scythed scores down.

  Upwards of two thousand were killed or wounded in the initial clash, the rest turning tail and fleeing in a desperate attempt to reach the sanctuary of their spearmen who were already halting and forming a defensive square. I slowed Tegha , took aim with my bow and shot a Kushan in the back, strung another arrow and cut down another skirmisher, hitting him in the stomach. One man charged at me, holding his shield in front of him and raising his javelin to throw it at me. I released the bowstring and saw my arrow go straight through the wicker shield into his chest. He staggered and fell to the ground, looking up forlornly as an Agraci horse trampled on him.

  Malik was in his element, his bodyguard around him as he hacked left and right to cut down Kushans. Other Agraci speared skirmishers with their lances before drawing their swords to cut down more. It was turning into a massacre and would have been a bloodbath had it not been interrupted by cane arrows falling like rain among horsemen and skirmishers alike.

  ‘Sound retreat,’ I shouted at Malik, around us friend and foe alike being struck by arrows.

  Malik heard my plea and seeing the arrows thudding into the ground, men and horses, shouted at his signaller to sound withdrawal. It seemed to take an age for the order to be conveyed but, like the raiders they were, the Agraci needed no second prompting and were already disengaging from the enemy. The retreat was a mad gallop to take us beyond the range of the Kushan arrows that were now falling in dense volleys, cutting down more skirmishers than Agraci warriors. The Kushan commander had swatted the Agraci away but in doing do had destroyed his own skirmishers. Had he known what was happening on the flanks he would have ordered a speedy withdrawal back to his queen’s city. But he was a man not an eagle and had no way of knowing that the majority of his light horsemen and horse archers were dead, the remnants fleeing for their lives.

  ‘The enemy commander is a madman,’ said Malik, his sword blade smeared with gore.

  A courier arrived from Khosrou to inform us that our right wing had been victorious and the Kushan horsemen were fleeing.

  ‘Now is your time, my friend,’ I said to Malik, ‘give pursuit to prevent them reforming and returning to the battlefield.

  It was a gamble because fighting was raging on the left where Spartacus and his men were still involved in a mêlée with the Kushans, but now Khosrou could send reinforcements to tip the scales in favour of my nephew. Malik offered me his hand and I shook it, then he was riding among his men, steeling their resolve for more slaughter. They needed little encouragement but they did need steering away from the now immobile Kushan foot soldiers that had formed an impenetrable square. As groups of Khosrou’s leather-armoured warriors began riding over to support our left wing, Malik and his Agraci skirted the enemy square to pursue the fleeing enemy horsemen.

  The second phase of the battle was about to begin.

  There was a pause as both sides drew breath. A red flag showing a silver lion fluttered in the humid air as the King of Gordyene rode to converse with the rest of us. Some of the iron scales on his scale armour were missing and he looked like he had been in a hard fight. He raised his hand to Khosrou and myself.