It was as though a collective madness had seized the Armenians for as one those still living dumped their spears and shields and fled in all directions. The Durans maintained their formation as they continued to advance at a steady rate, stepping over pierced and mangled bodies as they did so.
So engrossed had I been in the spectacle that I had not noticed that Gallia had joined me on top of the gatehouse. She smiled as I turned to see her and in my elation was suddenly gripped by a desire to rip off her clothes and make love to her, here, on the top of the tower while death was being meted out to the enemy below. I grabbed her and kissed her long and hard on the lips as below us the Armenians were being slaughtered. I pressed her tightly to my body, clutching her buttocks and forcing her groin into my loins. Surprised, she pulled back.
‘What are you doing?’ she giggled.
‘I want you,’ I said, pulling her back against me.
‘It is a miracle, uncle,’ I heard a voice behind me declare.
‘If Haytham does not kill him I might,’ I whispered in her ear as I reluctantly released her.
Spartacus and Scarab came to my side, both grinning like fools.
‘It is a miracle sent by the gods,’ declared Scarab.
The Durans were close now, the front ranks walking towards groups of Armenians who had halted a few paces from the moat below and were falling to their knees and holding up their arms in a plea for mercy. In the distance I could see the other half of the Durans marching to support the Exiles who were engaging enemy forces at the Western and Southern gates.
In the general excitement I had not noticed that fresh bundles of enemy arrows that had been collected by runners had been deposited on the parapet behind the Amazons and Asher’s men. I heard fresh screams below and saw that Gallia’s warriors were shooting at the hapless Armenians grouped on the other side of the moat. Asher’s men soon enthusiastically joined them and a general slaughter ensued. I did not order a stop to it and neither did Gallia. The Armenians had been on the verge of entering the city and if they had succeeded would have put everyone to the sword, such is the fate of cities that fall to an assault. Every one of the Amazons would also have been raped before being killed so they had little inclination to show mercy.
The Durans halted while the Armenians were cut down, resting their shields on the ground and admiring the archery skills of the Amazons. In five minutes around two thousand men had been either killed or wounded, the survivors being saved only by the fact that once more there were no arrows left.
I saw Domitus, white crest atop his helmet and greaves around his shins, walking up and down the line congratulating individuals and sharing jokes with others. He then walked forward to within shouting distance of the gatehouse.
He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Have you finished your archery training?’
I raised a hand to him. ‘All done, my friend. It is good to see you.’
He pointed his cane at those Armenians still standing, who were rooted to the spot in terror.
‘Do you want them killed?’ he asked.
‘They should join their comrades in the underworld,’ hissed Gallia.
‘Kill them, uncle,’ agreed Spartacus, who drew his sword. ‘I will lend a hand.’
‘No,’ I called to Domitus. ‘Disarm them and bind them. Lord Herneus can sell them as slaves.’
He raised his cane in acknowledgement and then arranged details to secure the prisoners.
‘You show mercy in victory, majesty,’ said Scarab admiringly.
Gallia shook her head but said nothing while Spartacus slid his sword back in its scabbard.
‘Go to the Western Gate,’ I told him, ‘find out what is happening and report back to me when you have found out. Take Scarab with you.’
They raced away and Gallia and I went to ground level to welcome our saviours into the city. When we reached the smashed gates I heard the thunderous voice of Thumelicus hurling abuse at a hundred men manhandling the ram back across the bridge.
‘Put your backs into it, you lazy bastards, its just a sapling tied to a cart. Heave!’
Actually the ram was far larger and more imposing than it had appeared from the top of the gatehouse, and it took a good ten minutes before it had been shifted back over the bridge. It must have weighed tons with its iron-plated roof and great trunk that had forced the gates apart.
‘Even you look small beside it,’ I shouted to Thumelicus as his men sat on the ground panting after their exertions. He smiled and raised his arm in salute.
‘Looks like we got here just in time,’ said Domitus, striding towards us and tapping his cane against his thigh. He looked as though he had just completed a short walk.
Gallia embraced him, eliciting cheers and whistles from those of his soldiers nearby. I extended my hand and he clasped my forearm.
‘You are a most welcome sight, my friend,’ I told him. ‘Where are Demaratus and his Babylonians and the soldiers of Susiana?’
He smiled. ‘Guarding the wagons and mules. About five miles away. Nice and safe and far enough away not to do any damage.’
I put an arm around his shoulders as we turned and walked back into the city.
‘I thought I ordered you to take the foot to Hatra? Not that I am ungrateful that you disobeyed my orders.’
‘I would never disobey your orders, Pacorus,’ he said with a straight face. ‘Truth is we were on our way to Hatra via Assur when we came across this city being attacked and decided to lend a hand.’
Gallia laughed. ‘Very droll,’ I replied.
He winked at Gallia. ‘You gallop off into the desert with a hundred riders heading for Assur, mumbling some nonsense. So I think: “Something’s wrong.” Remember I have known you a long time. So I gave the order to march after you. In any case there are enough troops in Hatra to beat off a dozen armies.’
‘More than you think,’ I replied. ‘Gafarn ordered Assur’s lords and Silaces to present themselves at Hatra, in addition to half the city garrison.’
Within the hour we had all gathered at the palace where Herneus gave a report on the day’s events. It was dark now and the legions, men from Susiana and the Babylonians had made camp a mile west of the city; the Armenian prisoners having been placed under armed guard in the area between the inner and outer walls north of the Tabira Gate. A preliminary head count had put their numbers at eleven thousand.
‘Yours to do with as you see fit,’ I told Herneus.
Of the rest of the Armenians, many had been killed at the Western Gate when they were assaulted by the Exiles and rather less at the Southern Gate, some having given themselves up and the rest having fled over the stone bridge across the Tigris into Media.
‘King Atrax’s forces will deal with them,’ said Herneus.
‘We will wait here for Atrax to arrive with his men,’ I announced, ‘before continuing our march to Hatra.’
The next day I stood on top of the gatehouse at the Tabira Gate and watched the Armenian prisoners collect the bodies of their comrades who had been killed the day before. Under armed guard they had first created funeral pyres from their own wicker shields, the rafts they had used to bring the battering rams down the Tigris and wood from the rams themselves. The bodies were dumped on top and the wood lit. The nauseating stench of roasting flesh soon filled our nostrils as black smoke rose into the sky from the dozen pyres that ringed the city.
‘I never get used to that smell,’ I said to the others.
‘Better Armenian flesh burning than Parthian,’ said Herneus grimly.