There must have been at least three thousand foot and two hundred horsemen coming at us, at first walking and then breaking into a gentle trot as they got within five hundred paces of our position. The men on horseback were trotting a few paces beyond their front ranks, shouting behind them to encourage those following. The foot soldiers were widely spaced and I could see that in addition to their spears many had axes tucked into their belts. But they wore no armour and most had nothing on their heads.
‘Someone is going to get a nasty surprise in a minute,’ said Orodes, nocking an arrow in his bowstring and aiming it at the oncoming mass.
When they had advanced to within four hundred paces we began shooting. In the saddle a horse archer can lose around five to six arrows a minute, but now, standing and with spare quivers, we shot one every six seconds to create an arrow storm into which the Armenians ran. We did not bother to aim but rather shot and then strung another arrow, one after another, filling the air with deadly raindrops as the arrows arched into the air and then pelted the enemy.
Within a minute eight thousand arrows had been loosed at those ragged ranks, the bronze arrowheads hissing in anger as they struck wicker shields, flesh and bone. At first the Armenians did what all soldiers do when they encountered the unexpected in battle — they halted. It was an added bonus for us that these were not soldiers but hill men, warriors used to fighting as individuals around their chiefs rather than as part of a disciplined unit. So they halted as arrows dropped from the sky to thin their ranks, and when they did so more arrows fell on them to inflict further casualties. A few arrows struck eye sockets as the stupid ones looked into the sky; these men died instantly. Others struck necks and even hearts to kill their victims but most lodged themselves in arms, feet, legs and thighs to wound and disable.
I had emptied two quivers when I heard the shrill sound of whistles being blown and took a few steps back to see legionaries pouring from the wagons.
‘Time to go, Orodes,’ I shouted, picking up another two quivers.
The other archers shooting from behind their camels left their beasts and similarly sprinted towards where the legionaries were forming up by the side of the column of wagons and camels. The plan was for them to deploy in five centuries, each one made up of four ranks of twenty men. They had no javelins as the archers that were now running as fast as they could to take up position behind the centuries would provide missile support. I arrived sweating and panting at the left flank of our makeshift battle line, while in front of us the chiefs were screaming and cursing at their men to move forward to attack us.
The Armenians had spread out to envelop the whole of the caravan to ensure nothing escaped their greedy clutches, but now they had to compress themselves into a tight mass to attack our force that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. As they did so I saw that the grass to left and right was littered with dead and wounded men, some of the latter crawling and limping back towards the tree line.
I heard a deep voice ahead bellowing orders.
‘Keep tight, keep tight. Wait for the order to attack.’
I recognised Thumelicus’ voice.
‘I will be back,’ I said to Orodes and then pushed my way through the century that stood on the far left of the line to see the Armenian throng around three hundred paces away. I ran over to where Thumelicus was standing a few paces beyond his front rank, gladius in hand. He was so big and bulky that his helmet always looked too small for his head and his shield, which normally covered three-quarters of the body, appeared inadequate to protect his great frame.
He acknowledged me and then went back to staring at one of the Armenian chiefs directly ahead, a huge man draped in a black bearskin cloak and armed with a great sword who was jabbing it at Thumelicus and shouting something, no doubt promising to send him to the afterlife.
‘He’s making a lot of noise,’ he said calmly.
‘Too much,’ I agreed, then pulled an arrow from my quiver and nocked it in my bowstring.
The chief was pulling on his horse’s reins to turn the beast so he could scream at his men behind, then he dug his knees into its sides to move him along his line of warriors. Then he faced front again to point his sword at Thumelicus to hurl more abuse.
‘Do you think he is asking me to marry one of his daughters?’ asked Thumelicus.
‘I doubt it,’ I replied, then released my bowstring.
It took the arrow around four seconds to strike the chief, hitting him in his right shoulder and causing him to wilt in the saddle and drop his sword.
Thumelicus beamed with delight. ‘Nice shot.’
Behind us the legionaries cheered and whistled with delight.
‘That will stir them up,’ I said. ‘Stay alive, Thumelicus.’
‘You too, Pacorus.’
I left him to return to Orodes as a great roar came from the Armenian ranks. And then they charged. It was not a disciplined advance but a wild rush of enraged, feral men with axes and spears seeking only to get to grips with those they faced as quickly as possible to exact revenge for their friends who had been felled by arrows, and now their chief who had been wounded.
At a range of two hundred paces from Thumelicus’ front ranks the arrows began striking them again, shot by the men standing behind the centuries. We loosed four volleys before the two lines clashed, at the last moment the front ranks of legionaries charging at the oncoming Armenians rather than waiting to be hit by the wall of axe-wielding savages hurtling towards them.
A brutal mêlée began as the Armenians hacked with their weapons at the tightly packed ranks in front of them, as more and more of their comrades behind them pressed forward and forced those in front against the Duran shields. And from below and above the latter came gladius thrusts, like hundreds of hornet stings, stabbing into groins, thighs, guts and through shields. I heard terrible screams as Armenian bellies were sliced open, eyes were put out and genitals were reduced to bloody messes.
I smiled when, above the horrible cries, I heard the chant ‘Dura, Dura’ as Thumelicus and his men turned the front ranks of the enemy into a heap of dead flesh. The enemy dead, held upright by the Duran shields to the front and the press of Armenians from behind, now formed a barrier between the two sides. The Armenians resorted to throwing their axes at the heads of the legionaries, but the ranks behind the first had hoisted their shields above their heads to form a roof of leather and wood to defeat missiles.
Some groups of Armenians, seeking to take advantage of their greater numbers, attempted to sweep around our flanks but were spotted and felled by arrows. After dozens of them were shot in a matter of minutes the rest fell back. And then, above the screams, curses, shouts and moans, I heard a new sound and then felt the ground rumble. To my right I heard horns being blown and knew that Vata had come.
The Hatran horsemen had actually been trailing the caravan on a parallel route some five miles to the south. Any Armenian scouts in the forest would have confirmed that the caravan was not being followed but would not have seen Vata’s men at such a distance — and the latter were under orders to light no fires at night — thus the surprise was complete.