As he finished the last word, a single arrow soared into the sky, trailing a thin furrow of smoke over the Parthian host. A mighty roar emanated from the siege lines followed by the massed release of thousands of archers and Vespasian knew that he was about to have the veracity of his words tested as the sky went dark with tens of thousands of arrows.
The Parthian assault on Tigranocerta had begun.
CHAPTER VIIII
Arrows fell, clattering, in a relentless percussive roll, with showers of sparks off the stone wall, walkway and the paved streets below; a hail of iron and wood that was fatal only to the very few foolhardy enough to look up into it and then unlucky enough to receive a direct hit in the eye or throat. For the rest of the garrison on the wall the initial volleys were little more than an annoyance as, by the time they had flown through the dawn air to the city, they were spent and the sight and sound of them was far more fearsome than the reality; if they did pierce an exposed arm or leg, they hung limply from the limb and could be withdrawn with minimum pain and little blood. For the populace of the city they did not signify, as very few fell further than ten paces beyond the wall such was the excessive range.
But Babak had not intended the archery of his conscripts to cause death on a grand scale; he was using it to preserve lives — the conscripts’ own — until he deemed it right to spend them. As they released their arrows, haphazardly in their own time, the conscripts were pushed forward, the few braver ones willingly but the majority with the whips and spear- and sword-points of their officers, jabbing and lashing them into action. And then the cavalry began to form up in long lines of horse archers and deep blocks of closer formation lancers. As Vespasian, safe within the lee of the parapet and still restraining Paelignus, peered through the crenel, he realised what the heavy cavalry had been doing since dismounting: they had, like Babak said he would, dressed for battle. Gone were the bright trousers, embroidered tunics, elaborate headdresses and gaudy caparisoning and in their place was burnished iron and bronze armour, both of laminated plate and chain mail that covered the riders entirely as well as the heads, necks and withers of their mounts. As they were unable to march more than a very short distance in their full battle gear before falling victim to complete exhaustion, their armour was transported in covered wagons. Vespasian had heard of these cataphract cavalrymen so weighed down by metal that they could only charge at the trot, knee to knee, needing no shield and driving all before them with their twelve-foot kontoi, but he had not expected to see them deployed here. What in Mars’ name could they possibly achieve on a hill before a walled city?
But this question was soon to be answered as he watched the herd of conscripts come on across the two hundred paces of open ground between the siege lines and the walls. Arrows still spat from them in their thousands but despite the decreasing range their accuracy did not improve; in fact, quite the reverse as more and more flew high or slammed into the walls, hastily aimed as the advance accelerated from a walk to a jog. Their war cries increased commensurately with their speed, rising in note and apprehension as terror for what awaited them began to outweigh the fear of their officers driving them.
Vespasian raised his head and risked a quick look east and west before an arrow hissed past him in what was very nearly a lucky shot. Nothing was moving on either side; only the southern wall was under attack and he immediately understood why. ‘Mannius!’ he shouted at the prefect sheltering a few paces away. ‘It’s just us they’re interested in. Send messengers to the other three walls and tell them not to come to our aid; that’s what Babak will be hoping. They’re to stay where they are under all circumstances. And tell Fregallanus to bring half his reserve cohort up to stand by here on the off-chance that we need a little help; they should have the heated oil and sand ready by now.’
Mannius saluted.
‘Oh, and get us some shields, they might prove useful.’
Grinning at the understatement, the prefect despatched his runners before ordering his officers to ready their men.
Along the southern wall centurions and optiones shouted at their men hunched under shields to prepare to hurl the first of their three javelins; the auxiliaries hefted their throwing weapons, lighter than the pila issued to legionaries but capable of greater distance, and waited, grim in the face of combat. A paltry amount of the Civic Militia archers stationed amongst the auxiliaries on the southern wall shot at the oncoming mass through crenels, but so few were their number that they did less harm than the men goading on the attack from behind with swords, spears and whips.
As the horde reached one hundred paces out the cataphract cavalry started crossing the siege lines and fanning out behind the conscripts with the light cavalry forming up behind them. Vespasian comprehended with a jolt what they were to be used for and why. ‘They’re to prevent the infantry from retreating.’
Magnus squinted his one eye. ‘What? Are they going to drive them into the wall and hope they push it over?’
‘No, I can see ladders; they’re going to try an escalade.’
Paelignus yelped and twisted from Vespasian’s grip to hurtle back down the steps.
Magnus moved to fetch him back but then thought better of it. ‘Just against this wall?’
‘Yes; Babak is trying to draw away the troops on the other walls.’
‘He must think you’re stupid.’
Vespasian slipped his gladius from its scabbard, enjoying the weight of it in his hand. ‘No, he thinks Paelignus is in command.’
A young auxiliary scuttled up with three shields. ‘We only need two now, lad,’ Magnus said, taking one for himself and handing another to Vespasian. ‘The procurator has just remembered some urgent paperwork that needs his immediate attention.’
Vespasian looked out again as the speed of the advance, fifty paces out, increased to a run and the war cry was now more of a hysterical scream than a martial challenge; the ladders were now very much in evidence but the shooting had tailed off. He tensed, preparing for what he knew would follow, and offered a prayer to Mars that he would hold his hands over him and see him safely through his first combat since he left Britannia five years before. He had been sadly aware of the tightness of his back- and breastplates as he fastened them on that morning and fervently hoped that his extra weight would not slow him down too-
‘Release!’ Mannius’ cry brought Vespasian out of his introspection. As the command was echoed each way along the wall by centurions and their optiones, the eight hundred auxiliaries of the I Bosporanorum rose to their feet and, in one fleet movement, hurled their first javelins towards the packed oncoming mass of unarmoured conscripts protected only by the flimsiest wicker shields. Sleek iron-tipped projectiles hurtled down into an unmissable target, slamming into the exposed chests and faces of men whom, just a couple of months earlier, had been forced from their farms and workshops to fight for a cause that they did not understand against a people they did not know. And down they went, their terrified war cries little different from the screams of pain and anguish that they became as the blood exploded from ghastly punctures punched through torsos, necks, limbs and heads by tearing iron. Arms were flung high over pierced bodies bent back as if attempting some macabre tumbling act; gore sprayed in mimicry of the movement and faces distorted with pain into wide-eyed, bared-toothed rictus snarls as they crumpled to the ground to disappear, trampled beneath the feet of those behind who, however much they would have wanted to, were unable to halt because of the momentum of the terrified horde jabbed and whipped into following them. Feet tangled with the thrashing, writhing limbs of the wounded or the shafts of the weapons impaling them, bringing down men so far unscathed to share the crushed death of their howling comrades as, an instant or so later, the auxiliaries of the I Bosporanorum pulled back their right arms for a second time, all brandishing a fresh javelin.