Thunder of the Gods (33 page)

‘Release our cousin, and then we can negotiate your departure from this place. I am willing to allow you—’

Scaurus raised a hand to stop him, shaking his head in genuine amusement.

‘Let me guess. You’re willing to allow my legion to march back to the west, just as long as I surrender my prisoners to you. Is that it, Your Highness?’

Narsai stood in silence, glowering at the Roman.

‘I’ll take your silence as an affirmation of my surmise, shall I? So, if I’m good enough to hand over the large number of prisoners I currently hold, you’ll be magnanimous enough to let me scurry away back to Zeugma, will you?’

Wolgash opened his mouth to speak, but found himself silenced by Narsai’s raised arm.

‘Take the chance now, while you still have it, Roman. The alternative is—’

Scaurus shook his head emphatically.

‘No. The alternative, Your Highness, is to sit here, eat some more of the excellent horseflesh you’ve been good enough to deliver to my doorstep, and wait to see which of us blinks first. And before you start issuing dire warnings as to what you’re going to do to us all when we eventually surrender, let me point out one or two things to you.’

He waved a hand at the hillside, and the unbroken line of legionnaires resting in their places, ready to defend the position.

‘Firstly, you will note that my legion is still effectively untouched. Your archers were unable to pierce our shields, your cataphracts did no more than ride to their bloody ruin against our defences, and your infantry … gods below man, what were you thinking? You had all the individual elements of victory, but you sent them at us one at a time, and squandered their collective power.’

He looked at the king for a moment with the disgust of a man trained from youth to spend his men’s lives carefully.

‘Your lack of caution has cost many men’s lives today. And not just men …’

He looked along the legion’s line in both directions, shaking his head in genuine regret at the slaughtered beasts that were still being butchered under the watchful eyes of the legion’s archers.

‘Ignoring whatever your motivation for sacrificing your foot soldiers might have been, I’d say you left a third of your strength in heavy cavalry up here, some of them literally skewered on the stakes that you can see are still ready to greet any further attempt to bludgeon your way through to us. Their deaths were hardly what I’d call noble either, their horses baulked by our defences, hemmed in by the riders behind them, then pulled from their saddles and bludgeoned to death by barbarians recruited in the far north. The remainder were taken down as they stumbled back down the hill, when they realised that they were beaten. It’s a sad sight, a war horse dying with a spear shoved up its backside, but fitting, wouldn’t you say, given the mess you’ve made of this battle?’

Narsai glared at him, and the legatus allowed the silence to play out for a moment before speaking again.

‘So, you’ve been bested in battle. And your only consolation is that the moment we stir from this hill you’ll have us at your mercy, on flat ground and open for the usual tactics that have served you so well, volley after volley of arrows until we’re too weak to resist.’

He clicked his fingers, and a soldier carried forward a shield studded with the shafts of arrows.

‘And so I thought this might interest you. Most of my men have cleaned up their shields, and the arrowheads will make a useful contribution to our stocks, but I kept this one as I found it, beside one of the few dozen men who were unlucky or stupid enough to get hit despite having such excellent protection.’

He peeled back the leather cover to reveal the layers of linen beneath.

‘These materials make it almost impervious to arrows, unless they’re loosed from so close a distance that your archers will find themselves with a face full of legion for their pains. And besides being arrow proof, my men have another defence available to them, kindly donated by yourselves.’

Two more men stepped forward with one of the Parthian captives between them, the armour stripped from his body and a roughly fashioned bag over his head. Scaurus nodded, and the centurion standing behind the prisoner pulled the bag away, leaving him blinking in the evening’s sunlight. The black-clad monarch started at the sight of the young rider, his face swollen with the cruel bruising inflicted during his capture.

‘This is your son, I believe?’

Narsai nodded, his jaw clenching.

‘He’ll be treated with all the respect due to a man of royal blood, you can be assured of that. But sadly, should you choose to attempt any attack upon our column,
when
we leave this rather dreary hillside to march on Nisibis, your son, and all our other prisoners, will be placed directly in the places where the arrows will fall the heaviest. I don’t think you’re going to want to order the deaths of that many members of your aristocracy, and even if you are, I’d imagine that the men waiting for news down there might be a little upset at the thought of their sons, brothers, fathers, and doubtless in some cases their lovers, standing unprotected under that storm of iron.’

He waved a dismissive hand.

‘I suggest that you take a while to consider your options. And don’t make the mistake of taking me for one of those people who won’t follow up on his promises. One thing I am is a man of my word.’

The king of Adiabene stared hard at him for a moment.

‘I will have the skin off you before you die, Roman. Slowly enough that you’ll take days to die. That is my promise.’

Scaurus’s only response was a shrug, but as the fuming king turned away, a hint of mischief touched his face.

‘There is one more thing, Narsai. One question you
didn’t
ask …’

He waited while the two kings turned back, hope in Wolgash’s face, dark presentiment in Narsai’s scowl.

‘I can see you’ve already guessed what I’m going to tell you. It was the one thing you really wanted to know, wasn’t it? After all Narsai, you suddenly find yourself in command of an army far greater than anything you could muster from your own insignificant kingdom. Doubtless you’re already scheming to keep control of it, and perhaps even make yourself king of Media, eh? Of course, that won’t be easy, not given that Media was a gift from the King of Kings to his son Osroes, but you can hardly turn away the chance to try for it, can you?’

He stared at Narsai for a moment with a calculating look.

‘But here’s the thing, Narsai. Osroes isn’t dead. He’s not even properly wounded. He was stunned on the battlefield by an enterprising young tribune of mine, and carried through our line into captivity without having the chance to resist, or to sell his life dearly and die like a king should under such desperate circumstances. And now he’s my captive, entirely dependent on me for his life. So if the presence of your son isn’t enough to inspire a little caution in you – and let’s face it, there’s a calculation there, isn’t there? A son for a kingdom, perhaps?’

He smiled into Narsai’s sudden outrage, patting the hilt of his sword.

‘If you were truly furious with me, we’d have these out by now, wouldn’t we? There’s more calculation in you than meets the eye, I’d say. And remember this. If you attack us before we reach Nisibis, you’ll be responsible of the death of the oldest of the King of Kings’ sons by your own arrows. Do you think Osroes’ father will take that well?’

He clicked his fingers to summon forward the other prisoner, reaching out to remove the man’s hood to reveal Gurgen’s impassive face.

‘And so to make sure that the remaining members of your aristocracy down there get to make a considered decision, I’m returning this man to you, albeit temporarily. He’s undertaken to accompany you back to your army, and to explain to his fellow nobles the condition of their king, and what will result from any further attempt to attack us. After which, as he has sworn to the Sun God, he will climb this hill in the morning and surrender himself to us once more.’

Narsai stared at his comrade for a moment, then turned away wordlessly, mounting his horse and pulling its head round to descend the hill, his escort falling in around him. Marcus and Gurgen exchanged glances, the Roman taking stock of the determined glint in the eyes that followed them down the slope.

‘May your god watch over you. And if I were you, I’d stay away from that one.’

The prisoner nodded in silent reply, turning to follow his comrades down the golden slope.

‘And what the fuck do you pair want?’

Otho’s new chosen man hid a smirk behind his hand as the veteran centurion turned to the two soldiers waiting for him to notice them. Both men saluted with a briskness bordering on the punctilious, and the officer’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

‘Come on, spit it out!’

Sanga took a deep breath.

‘Soldiers Sanga and Saratos, Centurion, sent by First Spear Dubnus—’

Otho snorted at the mention of the cohort’s new senior centurion’s name.

‘What’s young Dubnus sent me now, a pair of men to replace my casualties?’

Sanga ploughed on, still not meeting the big man’s eye.

‘Sent by First Spear Dubnus, Centurion, to act as replacements for your watch officer.’

The centurion raised an eyebrow bisected by a thick white scar, putting both hands on his hips as he looked the two soldiers up and down.

‘Sent to me by Prince Dubnus, are you? Two men to replace one watch officer? Either you’re both something special or so poor that he thinks it’ll take two of you to do the job. Or are you special friends who can’t be separated?’

A soldier tittered audibly behind him, and he turned to face his men with unexpected speed.

‘I heard that, and I know who it was! If I hear it again you’ll be out here for a short demonstration of keeping your mouth shut in the ranks.’

The century’s men stared to their front with an apparent fixation on the horizon that spoke volumes for their belief that whatever Otho threatened was only ever a heartbeat from actually happening. He turned back to Sanga and Saratos with a questioning look.

‘Well then, which is it? Are you future centurions or just the scrapings of another century’s latrine sponges?’

Sanga spoke again, his face held in rigid lines despite an almost overwhelming urge to laugh at Otho’s goading.

‘Centurion sir! First Spear Dubnus and Two Kni … Tribune Corvus decided that we are two soldiers who are not entirely without merit, and has decided to assign us to your command in the hope that you’ll beat some sense into us both! His exact words, sir!’

A slow, evil smile spread across the centurion’s face.

‘Did he now? He’s a good judge of character, the prince. My character, that is, because beat some sense into the pair of you is exactly what I’ll do, if either of you so much as farts in the wrong direction. Won’t I?’

The question was directed at the newly promoted chosen man behind him, and the man’s answer was both swift and crisp.

‘Yes Centurion!’

Otho stepped forward, looking Saratos up and down.

‘Nothing to say for yourself? Your mate here doing all the talking?’

The Dacian held his brace position, speaking at the empty air behind the officer’s shoulder.

‘I nothing to say, Centurion sir! When I something to say, I say it, Centurion sir!’

Otho nodded slowly.

‘Good boy. You’re the fighter who won the cohort boxing prize, aren’t you, the Dacian animal?’

‘Yes, Centurion!’

The grin returned.

‘Well that
is
good news. I haven’t had a decent sparring partner for so long I’ve almost forgotten how to hit a man.’

He swivelled and scanned the ranks of his century, but nobody was unwise enough to take the bait dangling before them. Slapping a big hand down on the Dacian’s shoulder, he hooked a thumb behind him at the waiting ranks.

‘Looks like I’ve got a new sparring partner. Welcome to the Seventh Century! Your mate can stay too - for the time being.’

‘None of you can meet my eye.’

Gurgen spat in the dust at his feet.

‘And it’s just as well that none of you has the balls to try.’

He looked around the fire where the surviving men of his house were gathered, shaking his head in disgust at them. Their joy at his survival had been fleeting, as his fury at being the only man to have stayed with his king had become apparent. Most of his knights were still armed and armoured for fear that the Romans would mount a night attack, their numbers grievously reduced by the battle’s horrific outcome, but the bidaxs had more presence than any of them despite the fact that he was dressed in nothing more impressive than the padded jacket that he had worn beneath his armour before its confiscation.

‘Your
king
fell. Your king’s
bidaxs
dismounted to make a stand over his body. And you
women
rode for your lives! At least the peasants showed the Romans that they know how to fight and die.’

He lapsed into silence and stared into the flames.

‘How many men fell in total?’

His master of horse answered, his voice gruff from the day’s exertions.

‘Three hundred and forty cataphracti, my Lord, and three times as many horse archers. The foot soldiers lost as many as both put together.’

Gurgen looked up at the stars and allowed a long breath to escape his lungs.

‘One third of our knights? The holy fire must be flickering on the altars of Media tonight.’

He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again with a sudden note of curiosity.

‘And do I need to ask which fool ordered the infantry to attack unsupported?’

‘King Narsai, my Lord.’

Gurgen laughed hollowly.

‘I should have known as much. The king’s gundsalar would never have been that eager to see his men die for no good reason. Whereas Narsai …’

He left the thought unspoken, standing in brooding silence.

‘Spread these words to the men of Media. The king lives, and it is our sworn duty to protect his life. These Romans will march east tomorrow, I am sure of this, and they will use him as a living shield, so tell our countrymen that the first of them to loose an arrow before Osroes is freed will pay for it with his life, with my knife to open his belly and my fist to rip his guts out through the bloody hole. And now you can get out of my sight.’