I estimated that the van of their army was strung out on the road for half a mile or so as we galloped across the plain to get to within five hundred feet, when we would wheel sharply right, which would take us towards the Roman camp. The moment before I turned Remus sharply right I shot my arrow at the head of the Roman column, each rider following me doing likewise. In this way the Roman light troops and archers were peppered with missiles. As I rode along the column I quickly strung and loosed a succession of arrows. The Romans, having experienced an uneventful march through familiar terrain, were temporarily stunned by our presence. The air was filled with curses and squeals of pain as arrows pierced mail and flesh. I saw a centurion beside the road frantically trying to organise his men to form a wall of shields. He had his back to me as Remus galloped past him and my arrow slammed into his lower back. Individual Romans hurled their javelins at us as we drew level to them, but we were out of range and the projectiles fell short. Our arrows, though, were like a metal rain that showered their disorganised ranks, and many a bronze raindrop found a soft, fleshy landing place. In an effort to get closer to us, some legionaries ran a short distance towards us before launching their javelins, but this served only to separate them from their comrades and made them choice targets for the riders following. Many were felled in this fashion, some falling dead, others staggering back to the comrades with wounds gushing blood.
More Romans were now pouring from the camp and onto the ground each side of the road, as the vanguard and those following attempted to get into some sort of formation. But the result was a seething mass of panicking soldiers. I halted my riders about three hundred yards from the camp’s entrance and ordered them to fire arrows at the desperately scrambling figures. Out of the corner of my eye I saw enemy cavalry moving towards us from our left. Scores of horsemen in no discernible formation, but nevertheless riding hard in our direction.
‘Retreat!’ I yelled at the top of my voice. ‘Parthians to cover the rear.’
I pointed at Burebista who was beside me. ‘Go now. Ride back to the trees. We will cover you.’
Hea nodded and wheeled his horse away, as did the other riders. As they galloped towards from whence we had come, around fifty others and I delayed slightly before we followed them. We formed a ragged, widely spaced line of horsemen as the Romans, led by a figure wielding a sword, a red cloak billowing behind him and sporting a helmet similar to mine but with a large red plume, closed on us. The gap between Burebista and my Parthians was increasing at the same time as that between us and the Roman horse was decreasing. The Romans, green-coloured shields on their left side, spears in their right hands and riding in close formation, must have sensed an easy kill as they lowered their lances and prepared to ram them into our backs. But these Romans had obviously never encountered Parthians before, much less our fighting techniques, for as one we pulled arrows from our quivers, strung them, twisted our torsos to bring our bows to bear over our mounts’ hind quarters, and let fly a volley of arrows. If the Romans had been in an open formation the effect of the volley would have been reduced, as it was the shafts flew into a compact mass of horses and riders. Several horses and their riders in the front rank were hit, men falling from saddles and horses collapsing to the ground. Those following careered into the falling and stumbling beasts, while others attempted to avoid the obstacles in front of them but merely succeeded in crashing into other riders. Within seconds the Roman cavalry was a mass of disorganised riders and frightened and rearing horses. Their leader was frantically trying to reform them as I halted the line and ordered another volley to be let loose. I took aim at the officer and released the arrow, but it missed and went into a rider behind him. In the distance I could see a square of legionaries running to reinforce their cavalry, so I shouted for us to retreat once more.
We galloped hard to the tree line, where I found a waiting Burebista and Godarz, both mounted, as my rearguard filed onto the narrow track that wound its way through the trees to the spot that had been our makeshift camp.
‘My men are posted either side of the track, hiding among the trees,’ said Godarz, who had obviously not forgotten his training as a soldier.
‘Good,’ I replied, observing the Roman cavalry now riding hard towards our position. Their leader was clearly determined to get at us. ‘Ride ahead of me. Let them onto the track, then kill as many as you can before their foot arrives. No heroics. We’ve achieved what we came here to do.’
Burebista and Godarz rode ahead as I followed the rearmost rider, glancing back down the track. Then the Roman officer appeared, urging his horse forward and shouting back to his men as he saw me. I nudged Remus forward as the Roman closed on me. As far as he was concerned I was alone and was only moments away from death or capture. His men were following two abreast, their lances held upright.
Either side of the narrow track was a green jumble of fallen branches, long grass and dense brush, from where suddenly erupted the hiss of arrows cutting through the air. The forest was filled with the sound of dull thuds as they hit their targets, lancing through mail shirts to embed themselves in flesh. Riders groaned and either slumped in their saddles or fell to the ground as my bowmen fired arrow after arrow into the line of Roman cavalry. My men were firing from short range — probably no more than fifty feet — and at that distance each missile was finding its mark with deadly effect. Some of the Romans were panicking and attempting to wheel about and flee, but the track was too narrow and congested and their efforts were in vain. Horses, their eyes wild with terror, bolted hither and thither into the trees, knocking over those Romans who had dismounted in an attempt to avoid the hail of arrows. Their officer was frantically trying to rally what was left of his command, but despair had gripped his men and they were not listening to his orders and threats. He saw me standing on Remus, observing his men getting cut own and charged forward, only to crash to the ground when an arrow pierced his horse’s shoulder, sending the animal and rider to the floor. He sprang up, his sword in his hand, and walked towards me.
‘Today you die, scum,’ he spat as he pointed the point of his blade at me. He was brave, I gave him that.
I took off my quiver and hooked its strap on a horn of my saddle, then holstered my bow in its case that was fastened to my saddle. I jumped down and drew my spatha. The Roman attacked me with great slashing movements. He had some skill, I had to admit, and there was strength behind his blows, but his attack was predictable and I parried his sword with ease. He drew back and then launched another attack with a flurry of sword strokes.
‘What’s the matter, vermin,’ he shouted, ‘afraid to fight?’
There is no point in wasting energy on shouting abuse at your opponent — better to concentrate on killing him and shutting him up for good. His blows were getting weaker, only slightly but weaker nevertheless. He screamed with rage and swung his sword again in an attempt to bring it down on my helmet and split my skull, but I saw it coming and leapt aside to his right. As his right arm came down I slashed at it with my sword and cut the flesh of his upper arm. He yelped in pain and dropped his blade. He went to retrieve it but the point of my spatha was at his throat in an instant.
I eased the point into the nape of his neck, but he just stood there.
‘Take off your helmet, Roman.’
As the blood pumped from the deep gash on his right arm he slowly removed his gleaming helmet with his left hand, to reveal a man in his early thirties with a large face, high forehead, hooked nose and short, curly blond hair. His eyes burned with hate as he stood in silence, while behind him his men were dying and the sounds of battle echoed through the trees. I entertained the thought of ramming the blade through his throat, but then decided to toy with him instead.