Avenger of Rome

XXXIX

Tiberius winced as another Parthian arrow thudded into his shield with the sound of an axe biting into a tree trunk. It could only be a matter of time before one found a gap in his defences and he would join the growing number who crawled to the rear groaning in agony and coughing up blood. Two hours, and already the legion was bleeding to death.

Corbulo had deployed the Tenth Fretensis in a double line of cohorts, each eight men deep and with a front of sixty, which stretched across the valley. Behind them, ready to be rotated into the line, waited the seven full cohorts of the Fifteenth, plus the auxiliary spearmen, slingers and archers who had marched alongside them. He had spaced his forces at intervals to allow room between them for his cavalry to launch counter-attacks. It was a tactic that had worked since the time of Caesar and Pompey and he had used it to hurt the Parthians at Tigranocerta. He was gambling that Vologases would be wary of those cavalry who now raised a constant dust cloud in the valley at the rear of the Roman line. What the Parthian King of Kings did not know was that the dust was being created by a single ala of five hundred men, barely enough to provide patrols, scouts and couriers for Corbulo’s force.

Tiberius had watched the auxiliary mountain troops from Noricum scale the precipitous valley walls to take their positions on the heights above. With them went a unit of signallers, and the hillmen’s job was to protect them and ensure Corbulo’s dispositions stayed secret from Vologases while the Parthian movements would be communicated to the Roman general by flag. It would give him a small advantage, but advantages were few and far between.

‘Bastards. Bastards. Bastards.’ The man crouched behind the next shield muttered his profane mantra to the rhythm of arrows which fell like hailstones on a drum. ‘Just come a dozen yards closer and I’ll stick this pilum so far up your arse…’

But Tiberius knew they wouldn’t come close, because they didn’t have to.

Instead, massed ranks of mounted archers charged to within bow-shot of the Roman line to loose their arrows before withdrawing like surf from a beach and disappearing into their own dust, only to be replaced by the next wave of howling barbarians. Again and again they came, flaying Corbulo’s snarling, impotent legionaries with clouds of missiles from a seemingly never-ending supply. In the front rank of the left-hand cohort, Tiberius’s suffocating world was reduced to the rear panels of his curved shield, the only thing that was keeping him alive, and the sweating contorted face of his neighbour, packed close enough to share the stink of their combined fear that vied with the reek of voided bowels from someone nearby. Behind him, Tiberius could feel the presence of the man in the next rank whose aching arm held aloft the shield that covered them both from the aerial threat. His belly ached and his throat was filled with dust; heat, thirst and hunger were his constant companions. All around, above the constant rattle of falling arrows, he could hear the cries of the wounded and the dying to the accompaniment of the continuous thunder of the Parthian drummers urging the next wave forward. Cocooned within the claustrophobic protection of the shields he fought a rising tide of anger. The composite bows of wood, bone and sinew outranged any javelin and the general had ordered his auxiliary archers to hoard their precious arrows until they were needed most. It meant the Parthian bowmen could do their work unhindered and unthreatened. He imagined he could hear them laughing and prayed for the moment Corbulo would let loose his spearmen. A quick dash and a single volley of the heavily weighted pila would teach them to laugh at Rome. But Tiberius had seen what happened when a man broke ranks. Through a gap between the shields he had watched as a legionary tormented beyond reason had dropped his shield and run into the arrow-flayed no-man’s-land screaming for a proper fight. In the time it had taken to draw his sword a hundred Parthian arrows had transformed him into a human porcupine. No, he must listen for the trumpet call that would signal Corbulo’s next order. And endure.

‘Shit.’ Tiberius winced at the sting of splinters on his cheek as the barbed point of an arrow punched through three layers of seasoned ash to stop less than an inch from his nose. He struggled to control an involuntary loosening in his guts and exchanged a shamefaced grin with the legionary at his side. His neighbour grinned back, but in the same instant the grin became a teeth-baring grimace and an animal groan escaped from his throat. Tiberius looked down and saw that the legionary’s sandalled foot had been pinned to the ground by an arrow, with only the flight and a few inches of shaft showing above the shattered bone and spurting scarlet. Careful to keep the shield level, he reached across with his right hand to try to pull the foot free and allow the soldier to stagger or crawl back to where the medical orderlies struggled to deal with a steady stream of casualties. The barbed Parthian arrows were almost impossible to remove without proper surgical tools and any attempt was likely to leave a gaping hole that would condemn the man to a slow death.

‘No,’ the legionary rasped through gritted teeth. ‘Here I am and here I’ll stay. Just let the bastards come.’

But the bastards would not come. Not until the Roman line was a shattered, reeling shadow of what it was now. Only when Corbulo’s proud legions had been humbled would Vologases loose his champions, the armoured cataphracts led by men like Sasan, invulnerable to arrow, sling and spear and wielding the twelve-foot lance that could smash through a shield to pin a legionary like a cockroach. They would scythe through the thinned ranks the way he had once seen a runaway cart smash through a market crowd, leaving broken bodies in their wake for the Parthian infantry, the poorly armed dregs of Vologases’ army, to finish off. Then the way would be open to Tigranocerta and Artaxata and the King of Kings would sit upon his brother’s throne and dare Rome to evict him.

But Corbulo had not come here to lose, just as Tiberius had not come here only to fight and die.

Night must arrive soon, and with it respite, and somewhere out there in the darkness was Valerius with the Roman cavalry. Thoughts of Valerius made him ponder the nature of friendship. For a few blessed moments he allowed his mind to wander. Tiberius Claudius Crescens was a young man whose upbringing had made friendship difficult, if not impossible. Discipline had been beaten into him from the beginning and with discipline came responsibility. He was a personable child and people warmed to him, but whenever he became close to the men of his father’s command, or the bastard children who swarmed the village outside the fort, something always seemed to happen. He would see a rusty sword which must be reported. A boy’s mother might have stolen an egg or another woman’s ragged blanket. He called it honesty. They called it betrayal. Gradually they had learned not to trust him, and eventually to avoid him entirely. Even his brother had not been his friend, for he had been engineered to exhibit the same qualities. Eventually he had doubted that he would ever know the true meaning of friendship. Yet when he had met Valerius he had felt an unexpected warmth for another human being that surprised him. It was not only admiration for the scarred tribune’s fighting qualities and the battle honours he had won. From the first, Valerius had treated him with respect and an affection that was almost brotherly. He remembered the epic fight on the ship and the contest of minds that was as intense as that of the swords. Somehow there was a bond between them that transcended mere acquaintance. He knew he didn’t lack courage, far from it, but sometimes the battlefield could be a lonely place and he wished more than anything that Valerius could be here by his side. A weary sigh escaped him. What would tomorrow bring? For the moment, he was beyond caring. All he knew as the great drums thundered, the arrows fell and the men died, was that he must endure. And survive.

From his position behind the Roman line Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo watched his soldiers suffer and die. This was his plan, his decision, and there was no place in his mind for uncertainty. Yes, he could feel pride, even compassion for the men under his command who were bleeding out on the plain, but wars could not be fought without casualties. These men were legionaries and sometimes it was a legionary’s duty to suffer and die, just as it was a commander’s duty to stand and watch them do so. He studied the ebb and flow of the attacks with intense concentration. Somewhere in the centre of that immense throng the King of Kings wrestled with his own version of Corbulo’s Caesar. He could almost feel the other man’s frustration. More than ever, he was certain time was the enemy of Vologases. The Parthian army was composed of a volatile mix of the followers of power-hungry warlords and petty kings from all over his empire. They were impatient men with estates to work and harvests to gather. Flattery and bribery were the only diplomacy they understood. The King of Kings had promised them swift success and all the plunder they could carry. He could not afford to be blocked for long. Vologases’ dispositions opened up his mind to Corbulo as if he was reading a map. The Parthian needed a quick victory, but was wary of the heavy casualties it might require. So far there was nothing new, and despite the losses Corbulo was suffering he found that reassuring. Vologases’ horse-archers came in their thousands all along the Roman line, and with each wave a hail of arrows poured down on the wall of shields. Many of those shields must now be twice as heavy as when the day started because of the sheer weight of arrows embedded in them. But some of the arrows found gaps. Men bled or died in their ranks or crawled away between their comrades’ feet to be replaced by those to the rear.

Behind the archers waited the heavy cavalry so central to the Parthian war machine. Magnificently armoured warriors, the cream of the Parthian nobility, mounted on big horses bred to take their enormous weight. They would not be used until Vologases was certain of victory. Behind them and forming the great mass of the army were the infantry, peasant conscripts dragged reluctantly from their homes and farms by their overlords. Poorly equipped and poorly led, they were of use only once the enemy was broken and on the run. Against a determined legion they were little more than fodder for his men’s swords, but their sheer numbers made them a threat and Corbulo knew he could not discount them from his plans. Furthest back, out of Corbulo’s sight, would be the Parthian baggage train, from where the long lines of camels ambled forward to resupply the archers. There, far beyond his reach, lay the vast supplies required to keep an army of this size in the field.

He looked to the sky. Another hour before darkness. He doubted that Vologases would send his cataphracts now. Darkness was Rome’s ally. It would give the soldiers of the Tenth Fretensis respite from the storm of arrows they had endured for most of the long afternoon. But respite did not mean rest.

It was not the Parthian way to attack at night, but that might not always be so. If he were Vologases he might risk a massed attack of heavy cavalry riding shoulder to shoulder beneath a sky filled with fire arrows. A guard must be set and a line maintained. He studied his battered cohorts. They had borne their torment well, perhaps too well. Tomorrow, timing would be everything. Vologases must be tempted by his enemy’s weakness.

He called the commander of the Tenth Fretensis to him. The grey-haired legate’s face was lined with exhaustion, but his salute was brisk. ‘Are the screens ready, Traianus?’

‘Another hour, I believe, sir.’

It would have to do. ‘I want them in place as soon as darkness falls. Once it’s done remove every second century behind the pit line. At first light they are to lie down behind the auxiliaries where the Parthians can’t see their shields. The Fifteenth will also withdraw behind the pits and form a new defensive line there. Vologases must be enticed by our weakness, but we cannot be so weak that he thinks he is being drawn into a trap.’

‘Then may I make a suggestion?’

Corbulo nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Place the remaining cavalry ala in the front line in two wings protecting the flanks. Vologases will believe you have been forced to use every man to hold it.’

It was a sensible idea and Corbulo pondered it for a few moments before deciding against. ‘Either we lose too many horses when we withdraw through the pits, or they take the diagonal paths and risk the enemy identifying them and using them as well. No, the shields will hold the line.’

So tomorrow the legionaries would again suffer and die beneath the arrow showers until they were reduced enough to invite the twelve-foot spears of Vologases’ cataphracts to annihilate them.

And unless Gaius Valerius Verrens and his cavalry could do the impossible, the army of Corbulo would die with them.