the massed ranks of the Parthians. Before the first had landed, a second volley was on its way, instantly followed by a third. Twelve thousand arrows rained down on the Parthian spearmen in the space of twenty seconds. None of the defenders wore armour, few had helmets, and the wickedly barbed points pierced skull, shoulder and back as men crouched to avoid the rain of deadly missiles. Instinctively they sought shelter, pushing back into the unharmed mass behind them, but there was no shelter.
The archers turned away, using the same tactics which had tormented the Romans for the past two days, but they were immediately replaced by Numidian spearmen who added their light javelins to the horror, hurling them one after the other into the cringing mass of Parthians. By now the killed and wounded lay ten and fifteen deep along the length of the Parthian line, carpeting the valley in a twitching mantle of death. Still it was not enough, for the bowmen returned, giving the enemy no respite and firing again and again until their supply of arrows was spent, then turning away once more.
Valerius steeled himself against pity. The killing must go on, for when the Parthians stopped dying the agony of the Romans would begin. He waved the light cavalry forward once more. Their javelins were spent, but they were far from harmless. It was time for the swords.
There was little cohesion to the Roman line, but there did not need to be. Fear was as great a weapon as any blade. The Parthian foot soldiers on the fringes of the great mass that made up Vologases’ rearguard were already demoralized by the carnage caused by the Roman spears and arrows. Now their only thought was to escape these phantoms who had appeared where no enemy had a right to appear. Many had already thrown away their spears in blind panic, and as Valerius’s mounted cohorts urged their horses over the corpses of those already fallen they scrabbled to bury themselves deeper in the illusory safety of the crowd. But there was no escape from the swords.
This was not war. It was slaughter.
The spathae rose and fell with the relentless rhythm of a farmer’s scythe and with similar effect. Valerius cut left and right, carving through terrified, shrieking faces and balding skulls, chopping torsos from shoulder to rib and removing hands and arms raised in desperate attempts to protect their owners. And all along the Roman line men did the same. Though he didn’t realize it, he snarled and grunted and cursed with every blow he struck. He tried not to see the grey porridge of an opened skull, the splintered bone of shattered arms or the pink mess of a sword- slashed lung, but he knew the images would remain with him for ever. Within minutes his left arm was slick with other men’s blood; it coated his armour and he could feel it on his face and taste it on his lips. The sheer scale of Vologases’ army, allied to the narrowness of the valley, protected Valerius’s men from counter-attack, because the Parthian war bands which had retained their cohesion and fighting spirit had to battle their way through the men trying to flee the butchery. Even so, amongst the dead, the dying and the defeated there were still men prepared to fight.
‘To your left.’
Serpentius’s snarled warning gave Valerius the heartbeat he needed to duck away from the spear point that would have taken out his throat. He slashed frantically at the shaft and kicked Khamsin through the cowering bodies towards his attacker, a bearded Parthian with dark eyes and a mouth that snarled hatred. Inside the point he knew he had little to fear from the spearman, but this easterner was no shopkeeper. The long ash shaft came round in a hammer blow to the cheekplate of Valerius’s helmet, almost knocking him from the saddle. As he clung to Khamsin’s side, the men he had been killing saw their opportunity and with a collective howl rose up to haul him from her back, hands tearing at him and gouging at his face. Pinned by four or five bodies he felt a sting in his ribs as a dagger point managed to pierce his mail and the leather tunic beneath. It was only a matter of time before its owner sought out his throat or his eyes. Roaring with fury and with the violence of despair, he lashed out at the men holding him, but they were too many. A man pinned his sword hand and the bearded spearman sat on his chest and spat in his face before drawing the knife that would kill him.
A glint of metal flashed in front of Valerius’s face, swift as any lightning strike, and the spearman’s head spun from his shoulders leaving his still upright body fountaining blood from the neck. Another man shrieked as a blade split him from throat to crotch, spilling intestines in long coils from his torn body. Valerius hauled the dead weight of the headless man from his chest as his attackers scattered from the ferocious assault of a whip-thin madman with a face that was a gory mask of horror.
‘Here!’ Serpentius reached down and with another trooper’s help hauled Valerius to his feet. Miraculously Khamsin still stood over him and he pulled himself back into the saddle. He had lost Corbulo’s spatha, but when he reached over his shoulder the familiar grip of the gladius moulded itself into his hand and he was armed again. His ears rang from the blow to his head and he could feel blood running down his ribs from where the dagger had struck, but he had no time to rest. He forced himself to concentrate on the cacophony of sounds around him and tried to sense the battle. From somewhere he found a moment of calm, though the breath rasped in his throat and his heart hammered as if it was trying to break free from his ribs. Oddly, it was the soft hiss of disturbed air that registered first, confirming that the mounted archers had returned with their quivers replenished from captured Parthian supply camels. That told him Hanno was in control of his operation and, for the moment, he could disregard his rear.
The slaughter of the spearmen continued. There was no let-up in the butcher’s-block smack of edged metal cutting into flesh and bone, but he knew the situation could not continue indefinitely. More and more Parthians were fighting back, and Roman blood now mingled with that of the enemy. Eventually the arms of his auxiliary cavalrymen would tire, the arrows would run out and the attack would lose its momentum. When the killing stopped the Parthians would be able to draw breath, and when they did they would see how relatively few the Roman horsemen were. Panicked or not, someone would organize a counter-attack and that counter-attack could only have one outcome. But Valerius had made his pledge to Corbulo and that pledge was to fight to his last breath, and that of every man with him. The question was, what was happening on the far side of that great army where the Roman line had endured all this long day? It endured still, Valerius was certain of that, or the Parthian foot would have been able to withdraw and reorganize. Vologases was still trapped between two forces, even if those forces were vastly inferior to his own. But this was not Caesar; being trapped did not bring automatic victory. Somehow, the king’s confidence must be destroyed and his vast army demoralized. That could only be achieved by one man.
Valerius raised his sword and urged Khamsin back into the carnage, praying not to any god, but to Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo.
XLIII
Corbulo’s face betrayed no emotion as another shower of arrows fell on his bloodied cohorts, but inwardly he shuddered with revulsion. The Parthians had become braver and more confident, advancing to the very edge of the line of dead horses and dead men which were the only things now keeping the enemy at bay. Unlike the Romans below, the mountain troops on the crags were winning their battle and the signallers kept up a constant stream of information on Parthian movements which were otherwise invisible to their general. It seemed to Corbulo that Vologases’ growing frustration was written clearly in the steady build-up of troops just behind the front ranks of cavalry. Vast numbers now waited for the final order to advance less than two hundred paces from the fragile line of legionaries.
Corbulo could imagine, or believed he could imagine, the scene in the imperial pavilion. Vologases still had his tens of thousands of mounted archers, and eventually those archers could win him victory. But archers were ten to the as. It was the cataphracts which were the symbol of Parthian power. The armoured might of the nation. The warrior elite who kept the King of Kings upon his gilded throne. Now he had lost three hundred and fifty of those petty kings, warlords and clan chieftains and their most trusted retainers in a single afternoon, drawn in by a trick any basilica conjuror would have seen through. Not only had he lost his armoured spearhead, he had lost his key military and political advisers and the confidence of those who remained. The hierarchy which kept him in power had been fatally disturbed. There would be no talk of quick, bloodless victories now. Yet he still had a mighty army and given the right leadership that mighty army could smash its way through the thin Roman line. Already Corbulo could see infantry among the leading horsemen and he knew what would happen next. The archers would keep the embattled legionaries at bay while the foot soldiers manhandled the dead men and horses which barred the Parthian advance clear and filled in the pits. What would stop them then?
