How I envied my mentor, Bozan, the man who had taught me to fight with a sword, to wield a lance from horseback, and to command heavy cavalry. The large scar he had down his right cheek was, to me, a mark of honour, the badge of a warrior, and I wanted one. I had no appetite for the sumptuous meal that was laid before me.
As my mind mulled over the possibilities of what might happen, I hardly noticed an officer race up to where my father sat, kneel and convey a message. At once my father stood and addressed his officers seated at the table. ‘Gentlemen, the camels have arrived. It is time to put these Romans to the test.’
As one the officers stood, saluted and scattered to join their commands. Bozan turned to me. ‘You’d better get your armour on, you will have need of it.’
Where before there had been calm and polite conversation, suddenly there was bustle and excitement as companies of cataphracts began to form up. I was nervous, but tried not to let it show. Bozan, ever vigilant, recognised the change in me.
He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Go and get your horse ready. The two hundred camels have finally got here, each carrying dozens of fresh arrows. I reckon it’ll take about an hour to get them distributed, another to soften up the Romans, then your father will launch his heavies, so you’ve got plenty of time. Report to me when you’re mounted up.’
In the next valley to where the battle was taking place, hundreds of horsemen were preparing their mounts and equipment. Each man was carefully checking his horse’s armour and saddle straps, before moving on to his personal weapons and armour. Servants fussed round, helping when instructed, but it was a Parthian tradition that each soldier checked his own equipment. No one placed his life in the hands of another. As I checked my horse over, Bozan’s words, drilled into me countless times, filled my head. ‘Never trust anyone else with your own life. In some armies slaves or servants prepare a man’s arms and armour, but not in Parthia and certainly not in Hatra’s army. Would you trust someone who might despise you, might wish you dead, with sharpening your sword or saddling your horse? When preparing to fight do even the most menial things yourself, so in battle you can think about killing the enemy and not worrying if your saddle straps are tight enough, or have been cut through by a resentful servant.’
My horse, a white mare of six summers, was called Sura, meaning ‘strong’. She nuzzled her head in my chest as I strapped on the reins and bridle. Then came the saddle, built around a wooden frame with four horns, two at the front and two at the back, each wrapped with bronze plates and padded, they and the rest of the saddle covered in leather. The horns held the rider firmly in place once mounted. I checked Sura’s horseshoes, before covering her head and body with armour. The latter comprised rawhide covered with small, overlapping steel scales, and was able to withstand powerful blows. Even her eyes were protected by small steel grills, those these did limit her vision somewhat.
Each cataphract had two squires to pack his equipment and tend to his horse, but the royal bodyguard was more lavishly provided for. My weapons and armour had been laid on a wooden table beside the temporary canvas and wood stable that had been erected for Sura. To one side stood a rack holding twelve-foot lances, each one tipped with a long, iron blade.
I picked up my suit of scale armour and put it on. The hide was covered with square-shaped segments of steel, which covered my chest, back, shoulders, arms and the front of my thighs. It was heavy and I began to sweat, though whether from the heat and armour or from fear I did not know. I picked up my helmet and examined it. It was steel with cheek and neck guards and a single strand of steel that covered the nose. A long white plume, worn by all of my father’s heavy cavalry, tipped it.
‘Prince Pacorus.’
Startled, I turned to see Vistaspa standing before me. Tall, slim, with cold, dark eyes, the commander of my father’s bodyguard expressed no emotion as he examined my appearance. He had yet to don his armour, being dressed in a simple white silk tunic with loose-fitting leggings.
‘Lord Vistaspa,’ I answered.
‘So, your first battle. Let us hope that all the time and effort invested in your military education has not been wasted’
I sensed a slight note of disdain in his voice. I confess I had very little affection for Vistaspa, finding him cool and aloof at the best of times. This coolness served him well in battle, and twenty years ago he had saved my father’s life in a battle with the Armenians. Vistaspa had been a prince in his own land then, in a city called Silvan on the Armenian border, but the Armenians had destroyed the city and killed his family when his father, the king, had entered into an alliance with Parthia. My father had been part of the army sent to strengthen Silvan’s forces, but had ended up being worsted in battle, along with the Silvan host. So Vistaspa had come to Hatra, a man without a home or a family. His dedication to my father had been rewarded by him being made commander of my father’s bodyguard — five hundred of the best warriors in the army. My father adored the man, at fifty being five years his senior, and would not have a word said against him. In response, Vistaspa gave unqualified loyalty to my father. But it was like the adoration of a vicious dog towards his master. Everyone else was viewed with suspicion. Whereas Bozan was feared by his enemies but loved by his friends, Vistaspa was feared, or at the very least disliked, by all. I doubted he had any friends, which also seemed to suit him. This made him all the more cold and remote in my eyes.
He walked past me and grabbed my sword in its scabbard. He drew the blade and cut the air with it. It was a beautiful, double-edged weapon, with an elaborate cross-guard and a silver pommel fashioned into a horse’s head.
‘I hope to do my father honour.’
Vistaspa cut the air again with the blade. ‘Mmm,’ he placed the sword back into its scabbard and passed it to me. ‘A fine sword. Hopefully, it will taste some Roman blood today.’
With that he nodded his head curtly and strode away.
An hour later I was in full armour and sat on Sura beside my father, along with a thousand other heavy cavalry. We were hidden behind one of the rolling hills that skirted the battlefield, but the noise of men and horses getting wounded and being killed was carried to us by a gentle wind. My father, his helmet resting on his saddle, turned to me.
‘Pacorus, you will lead this charge.’
Bozan, on my right, turned in surprise. ‘Sire?’
‘It is time, Bozan. Time for the boy to become a man. One day, he will rule in my place. Men will not follow a king who has not led them in battle.’
My stomach tightened. I had expected to ride into battle beside my father, but now I would lead his cavalry alone, with all eyes upon me to see if I would pass the test of manhood.
I swallowed. ‘It will be an honour, father.’
‘I would request to ride beside your son, sire,’ said Bozan.
My father smiled. ‘Of course, Bozan, I would not entrust the safe keeping of my son to anyone else.’
With that my father rammed his helmet on his head and wheeled his horse away, followed by Vistaspa and his bodyguard; they would form a reserve. The large scarlet banner, emblazoned with my father’s symbol of the white horse’s head, fluttered as the royal party made its way to brow of the hill, from where they would watch the charge. Bozan reached over and grasped my shoulder. ‘Remember everything that you have been taught. Focus on the task at hand, and remember that you are not alone.’
He fastened his helmet’s cheek guards together to make his face disappear behind two large steel plates, then tuned and gave a signal to his captains. Horns sounded and the entire formation moved as one. Each man had a white plume on his helmet and rode a white horse, though only the beasts’ legs were visible as each one was protected, like Sura, by scale armour.