Lord of War, page 10
part #11 of Parthian Chronicles Series
I became aware of another presence of the terrace and turned to see Klietas. He smiled, bowed his head and held out my spatha sheathed in its scabbard and attached to a leather belt.
‘All clean and sharp, highborn,’ he beamed, his eyes shifting to stare in wonder at the long line of legionaries across the river. I took the sword and buckled the belt around my waist. I pointed at the soldiers.
‘That, Klietas, is Dura, the thing that keeps it safe and strong. Do you know why Dura’s army is so strong?’
‘Because you command it, highborn.’
I shook my head. ‘No, Klietas, it is because every legionary, every cataphract and every horse archer knows his place on the battlefield and what is expected of him. He knows he has the best equipment money can buy, he knows he has had the best training in the world, and he knows his commanders have been promoted due to their talents. This gives him faith: faith in the man standing beside him in the battle line and faith in the ability of his officers to make the right decisions, which will give the army victory.’
‘What of you, highborn?’
‘What about me?’
‘It is said the King of Dura has never lost a battle, that he is invincible and any enemy he faces in battle will always lose.’
‘Only a fool thinks he is invincible, Klietas.’
‘And when another silver disc is cast to decorate the Staff of Victory, highborn, I can say I was a part of the army that won it.’
He had not been listening to what I had been saying. His mind was filled with dreams of glory and conquest. When I had first encountered him, he had been a half-starved, scrawny urchin. But now he was lean, fit and his thick mop of hair tumbled to his shoulders. He had copied his king in being clean-shaven and he seemed to have grown taller since his arrival at Dura. I noticed the sling tucked in his belt.
‘Old habits die hard, I see, Klietas.’
He went to remove the sling. ‘I will discard it, highborn.’
‘Nonsense, you should carry it with you at all times to remind you of where you came from. I once told another squire of mine a similar thing. He was like you, an orphan from a poor background. Know what happened to him?’
‘No, highborn.’
‘He became a king.’
The answer delighted him, and he gave me a broad grin.
‘If I become a king then Haya will definitely marry me.’
I laughed. ‘I think you can win her over without the aid of a crown.’
‘You do?’
‘Of course, just don’t be too fawning. The Amazons respect strength and perseverance. And no slapping her on the backside.’
He was horrified. ‘It is death to molest an Amazon, highborn.’
I thought of the time when Surena had slapped Viper’s rump.
‘Course it is. Come, then, let us write another chapter in the history of glory.’
Chapter 5
Though I had been reluctant to choose the path of war once again, the army I led across the Euphrates that spring morning was the finest I had commanded. The ten thousand foot soldiers – the Durans and Exiles – were far and above anything the rest of the Parthian Empire could field, and I counted Gordyene in that estimation. Spartacus’ Immortals were good soldiers, but they did not have the superlative heritage and long list of battle honours accredited to Dura’s legionaries. And to add to their potency on the battlefield they were trained to operate closely with Azad’s dragon of cataphracts and Sporaces’ five dragons of horse archers – six thousand professional horsemen. Kalet’s two thousand horsemen had poor discipline and training in comparison, but they were hardy fighters and had proved at Ctesiphon they did not want for courage. Malik’s warriors were also brave and rugged, though lightly armed and having no armour protection aside from their small round shields.
A different proposition altogether was the four thousand horse archers commanded by Karys. Trained to fight in exactly the same way as Dura’s horse archers – Nergal had commanded Dura’s horsemen before he became King of Mesene – they would be able to attach themselves seamlessly to Sporaces’ men. It was true that because Mesene had no professional foot soldiers, aside from Uruk’s palace guard, they had not been trained to work with legionaries, but their discipline was superb. As was that of the horsemen led by Kewab, who were fully conversant with combined battlefield tactics. Being armoured and equipped with spears, they could also be used to augment Azad’s cataphracts if required. In all, I led just over twenty-seven thousand veterans east towards Hatra, and that figure did not include the two thousand squires attached to the cataphracts.
We arrived at Hatra after five days of a leisurely march. The desert was hot and dusty and most of the time the horsemen dismounted and led their mounts on foot, save for parties of horse archers serving as screens for the army. A permanent cloud of dust hung over the entire column, which covered a distance of fifteen miles each day.
‘It’s not going to jump up and bite you,’ said Gafarn, noticing I had been staring at his leg.
It was good to be back at Hatra again, to relax in the quiet opulence of its grand palace, see peacocks strutting around the ornate royal gardens and watch white doves fly among the trees. The gentle sound of bubbling fountains and small waterfalls was both pleasing and comforting. Slaves in pristine white tunics and soft leather shoes served us delicious sweet pastries that melted on the tongue and filled our gold rhytons with fine wine. It was as if the troubles of the world ended at the doors of Hatra’s gilded palace.
‘The leg has fully healed,’ smiled Diana, alluding to the ulcer that had prevented Gafarn from riding to Irbil the year before.
‘The kingdom’s prayers have been answered, majesty,’ said the man who had ridden at the head of Hatra’s horsemen to save mine and Gallia’s hides.
Lord Orobaz, tall, slender, intelligent and one of the wealthiest men in the Kingdom of Hatra, took a bite of lemon cake. He was the governor of Nisibus, the kingdom’s second city located in a huge fertile plain of the same name that in the spring is covered with white roses. He was used to sitting in the company of kings, as was Kewab who shared our company, though unlike Karys who said little as he stared into his rhyton. Gafarn had insisted they both be invited to the intimate gathering because as satraps they had been like kings, and he believed, as did I, that Karys should have been made King of Mesene. It was one of many grievances I harboured against Phraates. Malik, dressed in his black robes, looked like a cobra about to strike as he shared our company.
‘How is the level of the Tigris, lord?’ Kewab asked Gafarn.
Gafarn pointed at me. ‘Pacorus’ man at Irbil has built a pontoon bridge to span the river at Assur, so crossing it won’t be a problem.’
‘Good man, Lucius,’ I stated, ‘he will soon be joining us to take command of the siege engines.’
‘As we are all here,’ said Gafarn casually, ‘what is the objective of the campaign we are about to embark on?’
‘To punish the Armenians,’ replied Gallia instantly.
‘And how is that punishment to manifest itself?’ Gafarn shot back. He had clearly returned to full health, which meant his tongue was as mischievous as ever.
‘I assume the presence of Dura’s siege engines means Artaxata is going to be besieged,’ opined Orobaz.
‘Correct,’ I said savouring the taste of wine in my mouth. ‘We cross the Araxes, crush the Armenian army and lay siege to the Armenian capital.’
‘And then?’ probed Gafarn.
‘And then we force the submission of the city and take Artaxias, his family and senior officials into custody,’ I announced, to the surprise of all those present.
‘You have said nothing about this to me,’ said Gallia.
I sipped at my wine.
‘That is because I have just thought of it. Either that or occupy the Armenian capital and exact reparations from the Armenians to compensate Media for the damage done to it by Atrax and his Armenian allies last year.’
‘Phraates might object to us interfering in the grand strategy of the Parthian Empire,’ cautioned Gafarn.
I finished my wine and indicated to a waiting slave my rhyton should be refilled.
‘Ah, yes, Phraates. I had forgotten about him, just as he forgot about Akmon and Lusin when he encouraged Atrax to invade Media.’
‘She’s pregnant, by the way,’ interrupted Diana.
We all looked at her.
‘Lusin,’ she continued, ‘such a lovely girl. They were here a few weeks ago, along with your Roman, Pacorus.’
‘Indeed, well,’ I said. Diana held up a hand.
‘Lusin is an Armenian, Pacorus, as you know, so I do not think it is advisable to humiliate the Armenian people if you are desirous of peace with our northern neighbours.’
Malik now spoke. ‘What Queen Diana says has merit. But there is no point in going to war unless you intend to win that war. We are not here to punish Armenia but to exact revenge for the death of Rasha.’
He fixed each of us in turn with his cold stare.
‘Retribution is a bloody business and should be so if it is to deliver the proper message.’
‘Would you care to elucidate further, Malik,’ said Gafarn.
Malik tipped his head at me. ‘Dura has brought its siege engines, so I assume they will be used to batter down the walls of the Armenian city and put its inhabitants to the sword. As for the Armenian king, he should be the first to die.’
There were sharp intakes of breath from Orobaz and Kewab, to say nothing of the look of horror that spread across Diana’s face.
‘Hatra will not sanction the wanton murder of innocent women and children,’ she stated firmly. ‘We have known each other a long time, Malik, and Rasha was our daughter so you do not have a monopoly on grieving for her. But while I am queen of this kingdom, I say to you all that its soldiers will not become butchers and enslavers of people. We are not Romans, after all.’
They were fine words and rather than erupt in anger at her naïve view of warfare, Malik merely smiled and nodded in submission. And Orobaz was delighted.
‘I know the Agraci way is not the Parthian way,’ admitted Malik, ‘but if you are not going to raze the Armenian city to the ground, I see little point in dragging siege engines a further how many miles for nothing.’
‘Around four hundred, majesty,’ said Kewab.
‘There is another way,’ teased Malik.
‘We are all ears, my friend,’ said Gafarn.
Malik emptied his rhyton. ‘Leave the foot soldiers and siege engines here. Take the light horsemen and let us spend a summer enjoying the hospitality of the Armenians. That should persuade them to refrain from invading Parthia.’
Diana was not amused. ‘They say the Agraci are an uncouth people, unfit to share the company of civilised races, but that is entirely wrong. King Malik has given us a perfect demonstration of saying one thing and meaning another, which would not be out of place in the court of Ctesiphon itself.’
The Agraci king watched a slave refill his rhyton.
‘I am a simple desert lord, Diana, I know not what you mean.’
Diana fixed him with her brown eyes.
‘Oh, I think you do. You submit to my objection to butchering the entire population of Artaxata, yet at the same time propose turning the whole of Armenia into a charnel house, reasoning it is the better option.’
Malik took a slow sip of wine.
‘I am just a brother seeking justice for my murdered sister.’
Gafarn clapped his hands. ‘My friend, we will make a diplomat of you yet. So, by way of compromise, may I suggest that when we have Artaxias and his family in our hands, they stay here until such time as we deem fit to let them return to their homeland.’
‘Here?’ queried Gallia.
‘They would find Dura dreary and I dread to think what would happen to them if they fell into Spartacus’ hands, so Hatra makes perfect sense.’
‘Talking of Spartacus, where is he?’ I enquired.
‘He said he would link up with us at Lake Urmia,’ replied Gafarn.
‘I hope he will wait for us,’ I said in hope.
Kewab reassured me. ‘It will take us another month to reach the Araxes, majesty, by which time the current and level will have ebbed. To try to cross the river when it is bloated with spring melt water would be to invite disaster.’
‘Geography comes to our rescue,’ quipped Gafarn.
Malik glanced at Orobaz. ‘You are concerned about Malik the Agraci barbarian, but you should be more worried about Spartacus, whose rage will be difficult to control once unleashed against those who killed his wife.’
It was what everyone was thinking, though no one said as much. And in truth one of the reasons for joining the war against Armenia was to try to restrain Spartacus, who had the capability to launch a war against his northern neighbour without the assistance of Dura or Hatra, or Media for that matter.
‘He is very distant since the death of Rasha,’ lamented Diana.
‘Well, we’ll make sure he stays close to all of us in this war,’ said Gallia.
I glanced at Karys who had remained silent throughout.
‘This war is not only to punish Armenia, but also to remind Phraates that the empire is not a box of toys that he may pick at and discard some according to his will.’
‘If only Pacorus of Dura had taken the high crown when he had the chance,’ lamented Gafarn.
‘That’s ancient history,’ I told him.
‘And history has a habit of repeating itself,’ he grinned. Diana was right: he was back to his old, irritating self.
The mass of tents, camels, wagons and soldiers that ringed Hatra, like a huge besieging army, was on the move the next day, striking east for the city of Assur. General Herneus, the commander of Hatra’s army, arranged a parade through the city of the kingdom’s soldiers to display its military might. In the vanguard was the Royal Bodyguard: five hundred cataphracts riding white horses fully encased in scale-armour suits, the torsos of their riders protected by the same armour, on their arms and legs tubular steel armour. They wore open-faced helmets adorned with white plumes and a red pennant decorated with a white horse head motif fluttered from every kontus. They were the cream of Hatra, nobles and the sons of nobles who had sworn to defend to the death their king and queen. Behind them came their squires: a thousand teenage boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen in half armour – scale-armour cuirasses and helmets – riding horses also protected by scale armour, though not covering their heads or necks.
Next came a thousand cataphracts, armed and equipped exactly the same as the Royal Bodyguard, each man carrying a kontus and being armed with sword, mace and axe, the latter two highly effective in a mêlée with enemy horsemen. Behind them rode two thousand squires, without armour but equipped with bows and swords and capable of fighting both as cataphracts and horse archers as circumstance dictated. The last contingent was a long column of horse archers led by Orobaz, who had been appointed their commander for the duration of the campaign. Five thousand were professional soldiers based at Hatra itself, the other ten thousand being raised in Nisibus and the surrounding villages.
Hatra had a population of one hundred thousand and every one of its citizens appeared to be on the streets to bid their soldiers farewell and to wish them good luck. At the same time as the military parade was taking place, Dura’s army was marching east across the desert. Gafarn and Diana and over sixteen thousand soldiers would join it later. Forty-three and a half thousand troops were heading for Assur to link up with the army of Gordyene, which I hoped was still south of the Araxes River.
We reached the city of Assur in three days, the weather curiously overcast and a northerly breeze making marching less arduous than tramping across the desert under a blazing sun. When we reached the stronghold and thriving commercial centre on the western bank of the Tigris, now swelled by the melt waters from the mountains in the north, I smiled when I saw a pontoon bridge spanning the waterway. I recognised it from the one Lucius had constructed during the campaign against Tiridates – a row of boats, or pontoons, secured by anchors to the riverbed arranged side-by-side, over the top of which was a roadbed comprising wooden beams lashed together and topped by a road of wooden planks nailed to the framework. It made perfect sense to replicate Dura’s pontoon bridges across the Euphrates and I wondered why no one had thought of it before.
The governor of Assur, a nephew of General Herneus, was like his relative, albeit with a full head of hair. When we were shown into his mansion after arriving at the city, he came straight to the point.
‘I have received a demand for half the costs incurred building the pontoon bridge, majesty,’ he said to Gafarn after accosting him as soon as the formalities of welcoming royalty were over. ‘It was not our idea, so why should we pay for it?’
Gafarn laughed. ‘I don’t think we should highlight our lack of foresight. Who makes this demand, the King of Media?’
We had left the mansion’s courtyard to enter the cool of the building, its floors covered with white marble tiles, its rooms and corridors spacious and airy.
The governor shot me a glance. ‘General Varsas, majesty, a Roman.’
‘A Roman who is Dura’s quartermaster general,’ I told him, ‘and a man of many talents.’
The governor, his ire obviously aroused, was going to respond but Herneus beside his king glared at him to remain silent.
