So I gave the order that we would adopt a wedge formation with four ranks. We would be outflanked but would simply punch right through them. In each rank every other man was armed with a spear and shield to match the weapons of the Roman cavalrymen, but the others were horse archers who would unleash at least one volley of arrows before the two forces clashed. In this way the enemy would be disordered at the moment we hit them. We moved rapidly into formation and I gave the signal to advance. I was at the tip of the wedge, spear in my right hand and shield in the other. As we moved forward I noticed that the Roman cavalry remained where they were, not moving an inch. I found this slightly odd, but saw no reason to interrupt our advance as we trotted forward. As we gathered pace I suddenly heard loud ‘hurrahs’ coming from my right and left, and looked to see Roman legionaries pouring out of the woods to the right and left. My horsemen saw this too, and several pulled up their mounts in surprise. In no time at all our ranks were disordered and we had to halt to redress our lines. Still the Roman cavalry remained rooted to where they stood. I understood now that they were the bait, and we had taken it. My instinct was to charge forward regardless, but as I looked ahead I saw that the enemy cavalry was moving towards us. On the flanks the Roman soldiers were not halting to address their lines, but were closing on us fast — two blocks of iron and steel closing to crush us.
‘Forward!’ I yelled, and kneed my horse towards the Roman cavalry.
My men followed, but we had no time to build up any momentum before we smashed into the enemy, horses rearing in terror as arrows and spears found their mark. A horseman charged at me on my left side, his spear levelled at my chest. His thrust was ill aimed and I glanced away the blow with my shield and aimed my spear at his shield. A wooden shield offers protection against blows, but not the combined weight of a horse and its rider hitting it square on. I gripped the shaft tightly as the point went through his shield and into his body. I let go of the shaft, pulled my sword from its scabbard and slashed at another Roman rider that passed me on my right, the blade hitting the flesh of the neck between his mail shirt and helmet. He dropped from his saddle as I clashed with a horseman in their second line. He tried to jab me with his spear but I easily deflected the blow with my shield and lunged with my sword. His shield was held high to protect his chest and face, so I aimed a blow that pierced his thigh; he screamed in pain and dropped his spear. He tried to pull his horse away from me, but the beast whinnied in terror and reared up on its hind legs. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground, and managed to limp away from me.
I looked around and saw Roman legionaries closing in from both flanks. The first ranks had already thrown their javelins and had drawn their short swords to hack and slash at our horses. My men could not manouevre as they were trapped in the middle of a Roman vice, so they tried to shoot down as many of the enemy as they could. It was a savage battle; the Romans tightly packed and jabbing at our horses with underhand sword blows as they held their shields high; our men trying to control their horses as they searched for targets with their bows. Horses, maddened by sword cuts, reared and kicked out with their hooves. Roman soldiers had their helmets crushed by an iron-shod hoof or were trampled underfoot as their comrades in the rear ranks shoved them forward to get at us. I sheathed my sword and began to shoot my bow. A Parthian is an expert with a bow even at long ranges; at short distances he cannot miss. Gafarn was next to me as we put arrow after arrow into the enemy. After a while no Roman horsemen would come near us, and we were free to shoot at the legionaries. I thought we might yet save ourselves, but more infantry were assembling to our front and many of our men had fallen. Then I reached into my quiver to string another arrow and felt that it was empty. As the air was filled with less and less arrows I realised that others, too, had exhausted their ammunition. We were beaten. Then a javelin slammed into my horse’s left shoulder and he went down, throwing me to the ground. I tried to get up but received a blow to the side of my helmet. Then all was night.
When I came to the fighting had ended. I was next to Gafarn, who was sat on the ground beside me. When I regained consciousness he was sat with his knees drawn up to his chin looking at the earth.
I tried to rise, but the pain in my head forced me to abandon the idea.
‘Gafarn?’ I muttered, weakly.
He turned and looked at me, his face full of misery.
‘Try to rest, highness. We are captives of the Romans.’
I didn’t take in what he was saying at first. I was only interested in the battle’s outcome, which, had I considered my position more closely, would have seemed obvious. Gafarn helped me to sit up, and glancing round I realised that I was on the edge of a large group of my men, who were all sat on the ground. We were guarded by legionaries, who stood facing us with their javelins levelled. My wrists hurt and as I looked down I saw why — I had been manacled. My sense of outrage expelled all feelings of pain. That I, a prince of Hatra, had been shackled like a common criminal was an insult to all I held dear. The anger began to well up inside me. A hundred paces away, the Romans were hurling our bows, quivers and shields onto a raging fire. Gafarn was watching me.
‘They put the shackles on while you were unconscious.’
‘And you didn’t protest?’ I said, naively.
‘Oh yes, highness. I insisted that they should not wrap me in chains, but then they held a sword to my throat and a spear at my belly, so I changed my mind.’
‘All right, all right.’ I was thoroughly dejected, as were those of my men who still lived, though for how long I did not know. After a few minutes a small group of what I assumed were officers came towards us. I noticed that one had a transverse crest on his steel helmet, in the same style as the man who had nearly killed me before Bozan had saved me. I tried not to think of Bozan, for it would only serve to increase my despondency. The group of Romans halted a few paces in front of us and observed our motley band. The leader, a senior officer of some sort I assumed, began to speak. He was of average height, dressed in a white tunic that ended just above his knees, with a highly polished steel cuirass and a rich white cloak edged with purple hanging from his shoulders. He was bare headed and bald, aside from two thinning bands of grey hair above his ears. I put his age at around fifty. He turned to the soldier wearing the transverse crest on his helmet.
‘So, centurion, how many have we taken?’
‘Two hundred and fifty, sir, though some are wounded and may not survive.’
So the man with the crest was a centurion, who must command one hundred men. They obviously thought none of us understood what they were saying. The older man continued.
‘Well, they will have to do. Add them to the others and send them south.’
The centurion was shaking his head. ‘We should crucify a few, sir, to set an example.’
His superior got annoyed at this suggestion, which I was grateful for. The older man, his skin pale and his body running to fat, shook his head, which wobbled his flabby chin. ‘No, no, no, centurion.’ He looked directly at the Roman soldier, whose lean, scarred face was in stark contrast to the chubby visage of his commander, who started to wag his finger at the centurion.