The Horse Changer (34 page)

Phasael was the wiser of the two brothers. He ought surely to have made the better king, for he was a creature of court life and knew to kill the weakest when necessary; but only Herod could have forced his will on us that night and by doing so saved everyone, from the most ancient to the very youngest.

When we could no longer carry the injured or fit them all on the wagons, I ordered our cavalry to let those who needed to ride take their horses. This meant most of my men walked at the side of their animals for the sake of one whose strength had given out. I meant to stay mounted so that I might supervise the column with Herod, but I soon discovered a young woman limping and in obvious pain. As it happened this was Salome, Herod’s sister, though I did not realise it until she was atop Hannibal and we had begun talking.

Salome was my age, a decade younger than Herod, and naturally already married, though yet without children. I expect Salome thought we had only a few hours more to live; I know I did. This escape was moving too slowly for us to have any hope of getting clear of Jerusalem. Knowing our lives had likely come to an end, we spoke of anything but that. I would have thought I had nothing in common with this girl from the orient, but Salome was quite well travelled and thoroughly acquainted with a number of the great cities I had seen. So we talked about architecture, of all things. Throughout our exchange Salome betrayed no fear of what might come next, though as a young woman of high station she had to know what happens to women before they are killed. ‘I do not care for the gigantic proportions of it,’ she said, ‘but there is no temple in all the world as perfectly made as the one dedicated to Serapis in Alexandria.’

‘Not even in Ephesus?’ I asked. I did not like the simple lines and massive stones of the temple dedicated to Serapis, but I had been overawed by the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus.

‘There is no art in Ephesus,’ Salome answered. ‘It is all a grand mishmash of columns and porches put together over centuries. There is no order to any of it. I prefer the tiny Temple of Vesta in Rome. I know it is not the popular opinion, but a thing perfectly proportioned is far grander than a heap of stones covering acres of ground.’

Talking so earnestly about the wonders of our world, I kept recalling with a jolt of dread that I was likely going to be dead in a few hours, but before I could dwell on such matters, the young woman drew me back from my despair. It was one of those peculiar nights that makes for a lifelong friendship, for though I might not marry Salome without first submitting to circumcision, nothing at all prevented us in later years from an intimate friendship that served us both. All because of a bruised heel.

At dawn we found a road, and Herod ordered us to march at double-time. The carts and wagons rumbled more quickly. The riders, often two per horse, bumped along uncomfortably as the animals were pushed into a trot; the cavalrymen jogged beside their mounts. I sent scouts to look for the cavalry coming from Masada. I ordered others back to watch for the enemy coming from Jerusalem. We passed Bethlehem, some eight miles from Jerusalem. We needed to cover another twelve miles before we could hope for the Masada cavalry to relieve us of our party of civilians.

Of course in Bethlehem there were partisans of the rebels who would send word to Prince Antigonus that we were fleeing Jerusalem. Eight miles by road to the city on foot would give us two hours. If someone went by horseback we might see the first Parthian archers within the hour.

Three miles more passed without incident, but at that point a great many of us had begun looking to our horizons: rescue from the south, attack from the north. Herod, on horseback, moved from the front of our line to the back, calling to everyone on foot to keep pace. He feared we might need to form our defences quite suddenly. And then finally one of my scouts came from the north. The Parthians, he reported, had not yet left Jerusalem.

Herod called a halt. We ate and drank our fill, resting a full hour. Those departing from the city had been moving for over twelve hours. My cavalry and I had been travelling for eighteen. I rested like the others, but I did so in the company of my officers, that we might arrange our forces for the coming fight.

Back to our feet, sated and sore. Hard work even persuading the horses to move. Two, three, four miles slipping by.

Finally we came to the base of the hill Herod intended to use for his camp. Infantry and civilians alike began digging a trench along the edge of the plain. Behind the trench others brought stones down the mountain to build a low wall. To the back of the camp the mountain rose up steeply enough that very little was needed in the way of defensive works; our wagons and carts and carriages created enough of a barrier.

While the camp was still being fortified, my scouts returned from the road to the south. The Masada rescuers had not yet left the mountain. If they were coming they were still more than two hours away.

At that point I ordered seven hundred of my Spartan cavalry behind the crest of the mountain. The others remained at Herod’s camp. I put scouts high on the mountaintop to watch for the enemy’s approach. At their signal I came forward to see what we faced. Because it was a Sabbath, the Jewish regiments under the command of Antigonus had remained in Jerusalem. That meant we were fighting only the Parthians, a thousand cataphracts and some three or four hundred mounted archers, those same archers we had decimated at Jerusalem.

Our numbers and position gave us a slight advantage, but cataphracts are ultra-heavy cavalry, impervious to light missiles and even swords. They cover themselves and their horses with chainmail; they encase both their heads and the heads of their horses with iron masks. In our only fight against these faceless iron monsters some weeks earlier we had suffered heavy losses. Afterwards, I did everything I could to avoid engaging with them. But this time, like it or not, we had to fight them.

As per their custom, the archers came forward while the cataphracts waited a furlong behind them. My tribunes at Herod’s camp ordered our cavalry to attack the archers, two hundred Spartan lancers against twice that number of archers. We were practiced at this game and knew to use tight formations so that one rider might cover another. In that manner we chased them down, breaking our phalanxes apart as they scattered and tried to regroup at our flanks.

As soon as we began winning this fight the cataphracts came forward. On pre-arranged orders, our riders refused to engage and fell back to either side of Herod’s defensive works. With cataphracts now holding a position close to Herod’s camp, the archers returned. For Herod’s makeshift wall to provide any shelter, his infantry were obliged to stay down. As for the civilians, they found cover under the wagons and carts. For the moment no one cared about harming them. Some of the Parthian archers tried to flank our camp; most contented themselves with lofting their arrows high overhead, letting the missiles rain down on the camp. A few of Herod’s men were wounded, but most kept themselves covered with their shields.

The moment the Parthian attack commenced, I sent my forces to either side of the mountain. At the beginning we were unseen by the enemy. Once we broke from cover we formed into six long columns and pushed the horses into a gallop as we swept around the enemy and came toward the backs of the cataphracts.

Each column was comprised of one hundred twenty riders, four abreast and thirty deep. The idea, in the abstract, was to drive eight columns into the midst of the cataphracts, our six columns plus the cavalry at either wing of Herod’s line. Hitting all sides simultaneously, we hoped to break through the outer perimeter and drive toward the centre.

This was not utterly suicidal. By the concentration of force a few dozen men can soon crash through any line. It is an especially effective technique against cavalry, where animals under the stress of assault quite naturally panic and give ground. Once in the midst of the enemy, I hoped our superior quickness would neutralise the advantage of the enemy’s heavier armour. The trailing riders in each of the eight columns had orders to close down the perimeter, that we might keep the fight contained.

Before we hit the cataphracts, the archers came for us. Every man leaned close to his mount, covering himself with his shield. Because of our formation, the archers had some play at only one-in-four riders. Men and horses were hit but very few went down. An arrow scorched my thigh early in the charge. I had been intercepting another with my shield and simply did not see it coming. With a screaming curse I pulled the dart free. I saw blood seeping from the wound, but there was no spurt, which is the real danger. No matter. There was nothing to be done for it. I had either to fight or get trampled by my own men.

Foam gathered at Hannibal’s bit; the pure white froth of a racing horse covered his neck. I hugged down close and tried to ignore the searing pain in my thigh. I was in the vanguard of my column, first to crash into the enemy. The man I came against pierced my shield with his lance. The force of the impact ripped the thing from my grip. My own spear slipped under his shield as I had intended but accidentally caught the pommel of his saddle. At impact, the shaft of my spear shattered.