‘You parley to gain time; I do not consider that to be the act of an honourable man.’
‘No, Babak, I parley to try to save as many of my men as possible.’ He indicated to the city now overshadowed by a pall of smoke. ‘Take your prize, Babak, and let me take my men.’
Babak looked down at Vespasian almost sorrowfully. ‘I can’t do that; now that Radamistus is here I must confront him and beat him and to do that he must have as few troops as possible.’ He closed his mask with a clang and turned his huge horse.
Mannius looked at Vespasian, determination in his eyes. ‘My lads will hold them for as long as possible, sir.’
Vespasian placed a hand on the prefect’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Mannius, but I’m afraid that is exactly what you’re going to have to do.’ He turned to walk back to the line of ill-fated auxiliaries with the two prefects following. The last of the three cohorts was now passing behind with the baggage in close accompaniment. ‘Fregallanus, get your men across as soon as the baggage is clear and then, Mannius, follow as best you can. I’ll have Cotta hold the bridge for as long as he’s able to.’ As they passed through the ranks he looked over his shoulder; Babak had almost rejoined his cavalry; a horn sounded. ‘Best of luck, prefect.’ He grasped Mannius’ proffered forearm with a firm grip. ‘Your lads fought well this morning, you have a chance.’
‘We always have a chance; Fortuna’s watching.’
Vespasian nodded and walked briskly away into the traffic hastening to the bridge with ever-increasing urgency. He had sent men to their deaths many times and could do so with a clear conscience if the sacrifice would enable more to live; he remembered the young military tribune Bassius’ suicidal cavalry charge into the rear of the Britannic army with which Caratacus had surprised Vespasian in the dead of night and had come close to being in a position to annihilate the II Augusta. That order had not been easy to give but he had done so without regret: it had been a desperate situation in a continuing war and the loss of a legion would have been a serious reversal for Rome — not to mention the end of Vespasian’s career had he been unlucky enough to survive. This time, however, it weighed heavy upon him. He had engineered this situation and these men would be sacrificing themselves not only to save the rest of the cohorts, but also to further his personal ambition. There had been no military reason to defend Tigranocerta in the first place; they should have retreated in the face of such overwhelming odds. But he had defended it because he had to ensure that there was a clash with Parthia and a war initiated. Now he had abandoned it in order to join with Radamistus and fight a delaying retreat north into the heart of Armenia, leading the Parthians ever on to threaten the balance of power in the East, causing outrage back in Rome and questions to be thought and then whispered about the competence of an emperor who would allow this to happen. He felt that he had become little different from the men he had always struggled against: a man who spent others’ lives to further the richness of his own. And yet that was the way in which they held on to power, so why should it be any different for him trying to achieve it?
‘Are you just going to let them stand and die?’
Vespasian snapped out of his gloom-ridden introspection to see Magnus seated next to Hormus, driving the wagon at a quick trot. He broke into a run and caught up with them. ‘What choice do I have?’ he asked, vaulting up onto the vehicle. From this vantage point he could see over the heads of Mannius’ cohort to Babak raising his right arm; more horns sounded loud enough to penetrate the squealing cacophony of scores of carts and wagons being driven at speed, and from behind the cataphracts rose a great shadow as the horse archers loosed a massed volley. ‘I could die with them; but would that make it better?’
Magnus looked with regret at the backs of the auxiliaries as they raised their shields over their heads, the front rank kneeling; they then hefted their javelins, preparing to use them as stabbing weapons to aim at the small round bronze grilles protecting the horses’ eyes or to jab them at their unprotected mouths or lower legs and hoofs. ‘They were good lads.’
Down came the first wave of arrows thumping into the upturned shields with a multitude of sudden staccato reports, causing little damage to the well-disciplined auxiliaries, as the second was launched. Some missiles fell long, landing amongst the baggage train, stirring up panic.
‘But I ain’t going to hang around and share their fate neither,’ Magnus said, cracking his whip so that the wagon kept its pace as it approached the siege works.
A single pounding of a deep drum boomed over the field, followed a couple of heartbeats later by a second and then a third; the Parthian cataphracts moved forward at a walk, driven gradually on by the deliberate beat. The slow but inexorable charge had begun and the auxiliaries stood, waiting to receive it, knowing that the momentum of such heavily armoured troops would break them very soon after the first contact. But they stood nonetheless. Behind them the baggage scrambled to safety across the abandoned siege lines as the third cohort cleared the bridge.
Magnus whipped the mules continuously as they struggled across one of the two northern gaps in the trench- and breastwork left by the Parthians for the passage of their cavalry; Vespasian held on tightly as the vehicle rocked on the uneven ground. Smoke from cooking fires wafted about carrying the burnt odours of the conscripts’ hastily abandoned midday meals still in pots over the glowing wood. The booming of the Parthian war drum continued, increasing fractionally with every few beats as the massive horses accelerated slowly under their enormous burdens, their great hearts working at almost full capacity even though they were travelling at little faster than a quick walk; soon they would break into a trot for the very last dozen or so paces.
As the horse archers continued their massed but ineffectual volleys, Vespasian looked across at the advancing cataphracts, hundreds of them in two ranks, their armour shining in the sun and their banners fluttering over their heads, and marvelled that such a beauteous sight could be so deadly. The sun blazing down on them made the slow-moving wall of burnished metal seem that it was crowned in golden flame.
Flame? Fire?
Vespasian started; the wagon had cleared the earthworks and was now passing through the few artillery pieces on this side of the town. He glanced along the line of machines; there were at least two onagers. ‘Magnus! Pull over. Now!’
Magnus steered the wagon off the track and slowed, just ten paces from the bridge; the centurion in charge of the detail manning it signalled at them to press on but was ignored. Vespasian jumped off and ran to the nearest onager; and there he saw them: stacks of earthenware pots, one foot in diameter, with rags protruding from their wax-sealed tops.
Naphtha.
The war drum’s tempo increased. He looked back; hard up against the breastwork protecting the front of the abandoned trenches, the auxiliaries’ extreme left flank was just fifty paces away; the arrows had stopped beating down on their feathered shields for the cataphracts were finally at the trot and almost upon them.
‘Magnus! Hormus! Help me with these and bring the lads on the bridge with you.’ He picked up two pots and held one underneath each arm; he had expected to struggle but, surprisingly, they were not too heavy.
Magnus came barrelling over with the auxiliary centurion and his eight men.
‘Two each!’ Vespasian shouted at the men. ‘And then follow me as fast as you can. Hormus, bring burning branches from the cooking fires in the trenches.’