Shaken and bloody, I staggered to me feet. He was dead and I was alive. My mouth was dry and I called for some water. A soldier ran up and gave me his waterskin as I raised my sword in thanks at the archers who had saved me. Then I saw Bozan marching towards me, with a face like thunder.
‘You stupid little idiot. The next time you fancy being a hero don’t do it under my command.’
‘Lord?’
He stood before me and pointed at the dead Roman at my feet. ‘You know what that is, boy?’
‘A Roman,’ I said, somewhat smugly.
Bozan grabbed my hair and forced me to look at the dead Roman. ‘Insolent brat. That is a Roman centurion, boy. They are among the best soldiers in the world. You’ll need to be a lot better if you want to kill one face to face. Stick to firing arrows. I didn’t bring you along to play gods and heroes. Grow up, Pacorus. This is war, not some game.’ He let go of my hair. ‘Get your servant to patch up your arm.’
I hung my head in shame. I was crestfallen, but I knew Bozan was right. But for those archers I would be dead by now. I was angry with myself, but was determined that I would not make the same mistake again.
We made a funeral pyre for own dead, who numbered nineteen, and left the Roman dead to rot. Bozan was eager for us to be away from the ambush site as quickly as possible, and so as the sun was sinking in the western sky we rode hard towards the east. The guide led us for three hours along winding paths through rocky terrain, across stone-strewn plains and finally into an area of curious, minaret-shaped rock formations that resembled cones with hats on top. It was dark when we made camp in a small valley among the strange rocky shapes. Bozan allowed us to light fires as the night grew cold, posting guards a half mile in each direction, though Byrd assured us that we were far from any dwellings.
After we had eaten a warm meal of plundered Roman broth, which I had to admit was extremely tasty, Gafarn stitched the wound in my arm. The pain was bearable, more so than his irksome comments that I was forced to endure.
‘I heard a Roman nearly killed you.’
‘Did you?’
‘I can just imagine your mother’s face as your corpse was taken back to Hatra. Poor woman.’
‘Just get on with stitching,’ I said, wincing as the through my flesh again.
‘And your poor sisters, weeping uncontrollably at your funeral.’
‘You may have noticed, Gafarn, that I am not, in fact, dead.’
He tied off the last stitch with a knot and then bit through the thread with his teeth. ‘Not yet.’
We stayed at the camp for a few days, dressing our wounds, mending our weapons and attending to the horses. There was a small lake nearby, and we all took the opportunity to bathe in its ice-cool waters. On the third day I was called to an officers’ meeting under a canvas shade that had been erected in the lee of a rocky outcrop. The guide, Byrd, was also present, looking as shabby and untrustworthy as ever. Bozan was in a relaxed mood, obviously pleased by what he had been told by the guide. As we sat on the ground in a semi-circle around him, Bozan outlined our plan of campaign.
‘We’ve made a good start. Our guide, here,’ he nodded towards Byrd, ‘tells me that there is a town called Sebastia to the north of us that contains a Roman garrison. It’s two days’ ride from here. So that is our next target. Byrd assures me that the Romans have a camp that has wooden walls, so it should burn nicely.’
‘How many troops?’ I asked.
‘Not more than one hundred,’ said Byrd, smiling at me and nodding his head. ‘Easy target.’
‘We cannot attack stockades,’ said one of the officers.
‘I know that,’ replied Bozan, ‘but they don’t know we are here, so I’m counting on surprise aiding us.’
‘They might know raiders are in the area after the attack on the supply column,’ I said, concerned. ‘They might be out looking for us.’
Byrd shrugged, as if unconcerned. Bozan noticed his gesture.
‘We will scout the area thoroughly beforehand,’ he said. ‘If their guard appears to be down, we will ride in, kill as many as we can and burn their camp. Then we are gone. Any more questions?’
There was silence. ‘Very well,’ said Bozan. ‘We leave in two days.’
The raid was a success. Bozan and I went forward alone to scout out the target the day before the attack. The town garrison in fact consisted of local recruits, not Romans, and their discipline was poor. Guards stood hunched at the camp gates and those on watch in sentry towers appeared to be more interested in gossip than on observation. We could have walked into the camp through the gates there and then; in fact, that’s what we did when we attacked: galloping into the stockade and shooting down everyone in sight. The camp was positioned just outside the town, so we approached from the north and left the town alone. Within minutes the camp was ablaze, is wooden huts and walls burning brightly, the ground littered with bodies. We lost ten killed and eight wounded.
Over the next two weeks we attacked a number of enemy outposts, most of them staffed by local auxiliary units. In the second week we clashed with a detachment of Roman cavalry that had obviously been sent to find us. They numbered around two hundred men, all dressed in mail shirts and armed with red painted shields, spears and swords. They looked impressive enough, and when they deployed on a wide, grassy plain a neutral observer might have assumed that they were going to slaughter us. We offered them battle, fanning out into three long lines to overlaps their flanks. They levelled their spears and trotted forward; we did the same. Bozan was in the centre of our line, while I was on the right flank. We carried no spears and had our shields strapped to our backs to offer protection from sword thrusts. The Romans increased their pace and we strung our bows. The two lines closed and the Romans broke into a canter. I kicked my horse into a gallop and veered to the right, heading beyond the Romans’ flank. Our horsemen on the left flank did the same, while those in the centre also broke left and right. This meant that the Romans were charging into an empty space as our horsemen formed into two columns that passed by the Roman left and right flanks. A Roman horseman at the extreme edge of their line attempted to turn his mount to face me as I thundered past, but I released my bowstring and put an arrow into his chest. The man behind me also loosed an arrow, as did those following as they passed by the Roman line. Now I wheeled my horse hard to the left and then turned him left again, so that I was now in the rear of the Roman line and following the enemy formation. Our cavalry on the opposite flank were doing the same. I strung another arrow and shot it into the back of a Roman trooper who had halted his horse. He fell to the ground, dead. We had charged, swept around their flanks and were now in their rear, firing arrows at an enemy who was completely dumbfounded by our tactics. Some Romans in their first line had continued their charge, but those in the second line had halted in an attempt to turn and face us. They were too late: we killed over half of them and then wheeled away. The survivors tried to mount a ragged charge but there was nothing to charge at. We simply moved to the flanks once again and swept past them. Meanwhile, their first line had halted and turned about face, just in time to receive our arrows as we swept into the wide gap between their first and second lines. I loosed an arrow at a standard bearer, who looked shocked as the point went through his neck; I strung another arrow and bent over my horse’s hind quarters as I galloped past another Roman horseman, and shot him in the back.
If we had outnumbered the Romans at the beginning of the encounter, after our volleys of arrows we dwarfed them in numbers, and the survivors had decided that they had had enough. Small groups started to gallop from the battle. Bozan stood waving his sword in the air, shouting as he did so,