The assault of the Cilician foot and horse had been designed to soften us up before the Thracian attack, to thin our ranks and shake our morale to make the task of the more heavily armed soldiers who now flooded the ground in front of the city easier. If that was the plan of Nicetas then it had failed as our losses had been light and he had greatly underestimated the professionalism of Dura’s army. But then this was hardly surprising if Mithridates had been whispering in his ear about my army of slaves.
In the vanguard of the Thracian contingent were élite troops equipped with the fearsome rhomphaia, a weapon that had a long, slightly curved, single-edged blade attached to a much shorter pole. Held with both hands, it was essentially a battle scythe that could slice through helmets and armour and was also used to chop through horses’ legs if cavalry got too close to their users. These men wore helmets, bronze breastplates and metal greaves.
Behind these élite troops came more Thracian foot armed with the shorter, one-handed rhomphaia and carrying large oval shields called thureos. Like our own shields they were made of wood, faced with leather and had a metal boss over a central handgrip. They also wore helmets and studded leather armour vests.
I sent a rider to our right flank to ask Nergal to direct his horse archers against these Thracians before they had a chance to attack our own foot soldiers.
More and more Thracians were coming from the city until there must have been upwards of twenty thousand of them arrayed in front of the legions, and then they began to move forward.
Domitus had pulled the Durans and Exiles back around a hundred paces so that our wings of horsemen were advanced of the centre, and from the flanks companies of horse archers rode forward and inwards to shoot volleys of arrows against the Thracians, who suddenly charged.
They covered the seven hundred paces of ground between them and the front ranks of legionaries in around two and a half minutes, the first four ranks of élite troops sprinting forward and becoming separated from those behind who tried to retain their cohesion. But all of them ran into the hail of arrows that was shot at them from both flanks. This not only killed and wounded hundreds but also disrupted their momentum. And as the survivors got to within fifty paces of the legions the first five ranks of legionaries ran forward and hurled their javelins.
From our first line of fourteen cohorts standing shoulder to shoulder came sixteen hundred javelins thrown at the oncoming enemy. Hundreds of iron points found their target and cut down most of the front rank of Thracians, those behind tripping and stumbling as they tried to pick their way through the newly laid field of carrion.
Those Thracians following behind hauled their shields above their heads as protection against the arrows being shot at them. However they were moving too quickly and their ranks were too ragged to form an unbroken roof of leather and wood. So arrows plunged from the sky to hit arms and legs and pierce sandal-clad feet.
There was an ear-piercing crack as the élite Thracian troops collided with the front ranks of the legionaries and began wielding their fearsome rhomphaias, slashing and hacking at shields and helmets. I was thankful that the legionaries in Dura’s army had their helmets strengthened with forehead cross-braces designed to offer additional protection against men on horseback wielding swords. They were just as effective against a Thracian rhomphaia.
As the shouts and screams of thousands of men locked in combat echoed across the battlefield, I heard fresh trumpet blasts and then saw a volley of javelins coming from the rear ranks of our front-line centuries to land among the great press of Thracians. Hundreds more of the latter were killed and wounded but still they pressed on, hacking and thrusting with grim determination, actually forcing the cohorts back.
I sent a courier to the cataphracts to order them to wheel inwards to their right to attack the rear ranks of the Thracian foot, at the same time ordering Vagises to deploy his horse archers forward to give protection to the cataphracts. I had no idea what was happening on the right flank but knew that Nergal would have his men under tight control.
I could see the unbroken line of the cohorts being forced back under the ferocious pressure that the enemy was subjecting it to. But it did not break. Then the cataphracts launched their charge. They drove deep into the rear ranks of the enemy, spearing dozens on the end of kontus points before hacking at men on foot with their swords and maces. As they had been trained to do the hundred-man companies darted into groups of the enemy, killed as many as they could and then withdrew quickly to reform out of harm’s way. Their horses may have been covered in scale armour but the animals’ lower legs were still vulnerable to scything rhomphaia strikes.
The cataphract action lasted for perhaps ten minutes at most but it shattered the Thracians’ morale. Attacked from the rear by armoured horsemen, the rear ranks began to disengage and retreat back towards the city. And like an invisible wave the faltering morale rippled through the enemy soldiers. Small groups initially peeled off the main body to scurry back to Seleucia, running a gauntlet of arrows as they did so, then more and more Thracians locked shields over their heads and shuffled back to the city.
In the mêlée, meanwhile, the legionaries gained the upper hand. The hate-filled men in front of them began to tire as the legionaries they had been battling were replaced by soldiers from the rear ranks, matching their frenzy with their close-quarter weapons. And volley after volley of javelins was launched against the Thracians as fresh missiles were ferried from the cohorts in the second line. Then the Durans and Exiles began to press forward.
I leaned across to grab Gallia and kissed her as I heard a chant resonate across the battlefield — ‘Dura, Dura’ — and knew that the fight had been won. Then, suddenly, like a dam bursting, the Thracians gave way and ran for their lives. Many were cut down by a withering rain of arrows as they turned tail and fled back to the city, hundreds discarding their shields and weapons as they did so. The Durans and Exiles did not follow.
Hundreds of satisfied cataphracts rode past me to deploy once again to the left of the Durans. I rode with Gallia and the Amazons to find Domitus to congratulate him on his victory.
We cantered past members of Alcaeus’ medical corps tending to the wounded and organising their transport on wagons back to camp. I saw the colour party of the Durans guarding the golden griffin and caught sight of a white transverse crest on a helmet nearby and headed towards it. I saw also saw a helmetless Thumelicus shaking his head and knew that something was wrong.
I jumped from the saddle and pushed my way through a throng of soldiers who had gathered around Domitus, most of them stepping aside when they recognised me. Thumelicus said nothing as he walked away, holding his head in his hands. I froze when I looked down to see Domitus cradling the head of Drenis in his arms, tears running down his cheeks. Drenis, a Thracian and former gladiator who had shared the same ludus in Capua as Spartacus, a Companion whom I had fought beside for nearly twenty years, a man who had helped to turn Dura’s army into one of the most fearsome fighting machines in the world, was dead.
He had been killed fighting in the front rank where he could always be found, cut down by a plethora of rhomphaia blades but slaying many of the enemy before he fell. I could not believe what my eyes were revealing to me as Domitus stood up and wiped away his tears.
‘Take his body to the rear,’ he commanded, his voice firm and deep, ‘we will burn it tonight.’
I stood, numb, as a stretcher was brought and the gashed body was placed upon it, before being covered with a white cloak. Domitus laid a hand on his dead friend.