‘The southern wall is being assaulted,’ said Domitus.
‘More hill men?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘These are professionals and they have killed quite a few of our men.’
‘They are standing behind shields the height of man,’ added Kronos, ‘and wear scale armour, helmets and mail face masks.’
‘Royal foot archers,’ I said. ‘How many?’
‘About two thousand,’ said Domitus. ‘Do you want me to send out some cohorts against them?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Marcus, this is a task for your shield piercers, I think.’
He nodded and scurried off.
‘I will get some of my men to assist him,’ said Kronos, saluting and then following Marcus.
‘Pull as many men off the wall as is safe,’ I called after him. ‘Don’t give them any easy victories.’
Gallia joined us as the bodies of two horse archers were carried from the wall.
‘I heard about your father,’ said Domitus. ‘I grieve for you.’
Gallia embraced me. ‘He was a great man, Pacorus. We will miss him.’
I had no time for grief, though, not with what was left of the army penned in camp and surrounded on all sides.
‘Where are the kings?’ I asked.
‘With their men,’ replied Domitus.
‘Go and see that the threat against the southern wall is dealt with. I will gather the kings so we can decide our plan for tomorrow.’
I pointed at Gallia.
‘You are with me.’
Domitus paced away as I began to walk towards the command tent. My father’s body had been placed in the tent that usually housed the griffin standard, which had been temporarily relocated to stand beside the Exiles’ lion.
‘Surena warned us about this,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That we were walking into trap. Narses has out-foxed us once again.’
‘What will you do now?’
I shrugged. ‘That will be for Orodes to decide.’
‘And how are you, Pacorus?’
I stopped and faced her. ‘My father is dead, our army is half-beaten and the enemy appears as strong as when we first engaged them yesterday. I cannot believe it has come to this.’
Her expression hardened. ‘You must remain strong. We can still achieve victory.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I have never doubted it.’
Fortified by my wife’s certainty that we would emerge victorious I decided to conduct a tour of the camp before I met the kings, which unfortunately served only to dampen my spirits once more. In the hospital Alcaeus and his medical staff were working tirelessly to stitch wounds, bind broken limbs and extract arrows from flesh. Gallia went among the wounded and tried to comfort them with soft words. We came across one of the injured, a squire lying in a cot, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped round his stomach.
‘Javelin in the stomach,’ remarked Alcaeus. ‘He won’t see the dawn.’
This boy had barely begun his life and now it was to end in a few hours, far away from his family, alone and in pain.
‘No,’ said Alcaeus, ‘not in pain. He has been given morphe to ease his journey.’
On the royal estates in Dura Alcaeus oversaw the cultivation of herbs and flowers to make medicines for his corps. The most remarkable was the milky liquid of the unripe fruit of the green poppy. Mixed with wine it produced a drink that could take away pain, the liquid being named after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams and sleep. It had the power to numb even the most severe pain and could also be used to hasten the end of those who would not survive their wounds. It was so now as Gallia knelt beside the cot and gently stroked the face of the youth with the far-away stare, taking his hand in hers while I stood with Alcaeus watching the scene.
‘It will not be long now,’ he said softly as Gallia spoke to the boy.
‘How many squires have you treated?’
‘Dozens,’ he replied, ‘most with arrow or javelin wounds.’
‘They saved the camp. One day bards will write about how a few boys held off an army of barbarians with their bows.’
‘Let us hope we all live to see that day.’
Gallia, pale and downcast, came to us. ‘He’s gone.’
Alcaeus signalled to one of his orderlies to take the body to where the others were laid out in neat rows behind the hospital, nodded to us both and continued with his duties. The low moans and occasional screams added to the overall frightfulness of the scene and though I thanked Shamash for Alcaeus and his healers, I was glad to leave them.
In contrast I was delighted to see Domitus two hours later when he informed me that Marcus and his ballista had forced the enemy’s royal archers to retreat, the latter having discovered to their cost that their shields offered no protection against his ‘shield piercers’. With their retreat the enemy’s assault against the camp finally ceased. It was now two hours past midnight and still the kings had yet to meet. Dawn was four hours away.
We finally gathered in my tent half an hour later, all of us tired, dirty, unshaven and listless. None of us had slept much over the last two days and now we faced yet another day of combat. Even Domitus appeared drained. We drank water out of fear that consuming wine would induce sleep, chewing on salted mutton and hard biscuit as we considered our parlous position. Only Marcus appeared jovial, once again delighted that his machines had exceeded all expectations.
‘Well, Marcus, perhaps you would give us a summary of our present condition.’
He rubbed his hand across his scalp and began reading from a parchment of his notes.
‘There are in camp two thousand, two hundred cataphracts fit for duty, sixteen thousand horse archers, two hundred of Babylon’s royal guard,’ he bowed his head to Orodes, ‘nine and a half thousand legionaries and two thousand Babylonian foot soldiers. Plus three thousand squires and the camel and wagon drivers, medical staff and so forth.’
No one said anything but all realised the sobering nature of these figures. In two days of fighting our combined forces had lost over eight thousand foot soldiers killed and wounded, over a thousand cataphract dead and casualties of eight thousand among the horse archers, to say nothing of Babylon’s three hundred royal bodyguards killed and three thousand squires slaughtered when the camps had been overrun. The only ray of sunshine was that the legions’ losses were light.
‘At least the enemy’s losses are greater,’ offered Surena in an attempt to brighten the mood.
‘We must march out of camp when it is light to fight the enemy once more,’ said Orodes. ‘Either that or withdraw north back to the bridge and return to Ctesiphon.’
‘I would advise against withdrawing, Orodes,’ I said. ‘The hill men may have gone but the remnants have probably fallen back to the bridge, which means we may have to fight our way across while conducting a rearguard action at the same time.’
‘I also do not wish to retreat,’ added Atrax. ‘It is dishonourable to flee thus before the false high king.’
Gallia rolled her eyes at his notion of honour but Surena was nodding his head in agreement.
‘The enemy will think that we are almost beaten,’ he said. ‘As such they will not be expecting us to attack, which may give us an advantage.’
Domitus was more sobering in his assessment. ‘Whatever the decision taken here, you all should know that this army has only one fight left in it.’
‘There is something else,’ remarked Marcus, ‘we are running short of arrows.’
I was astounded. ‘How can this be? Dura has its own camel train carrying spare ammunition, as does Hatra, Gordyene and Media.’
‘I am sorry to report that during the last two days of fighting we have expended a great many arrows and we also lost a great many camels carrying ammunition when the camps were attacked.’
Orodes looked at him with weary eyes. ‘How much is left?’
‘Two quivers for each horse archer, more or less.’
‘That will last about ten minutes,’ said Gafarn.
‘Our odds lengthen,’ remarked Atrax flatly.