But that too was soon to cease as, from the north, a new threat appeared; horns blared in the Parthian ranks and cornu repeated the four-note refrain warning of approaching troops.
Both sides paused as they tried to ascertain to whose aid this new force had come.
‘They’re the Parthians who followed the tributary north,’ Magnus opined, surveying the long column of cavalry tracing the line of the eastern bank of the Kentrites a mile or so north of its meeting with the Tigris. Dust partially obscured them so that their number was impossible to tell, but, through the cloud roused up by hundreds of hoofs, the banners and the dress of the vanguard could be discerned.
‘Babak must have recalled them once he’d witnessed the strength of our defence,’ Mannius reasoned, pride in his men’s performance registering in his voice.
Vespasian shook his head and leant forward through the crenel, at the junction of the southern and eastern walls, as if the extra couple of feet would make a difference in his ability to identify the newcomers. If Queen Tryphaena had kept her promise then he knew who they were; but he needed to be sure. As his eyes penetrated the dust he allowed himself a small smile; these cavalry were slightly different. ‘No, it can’t be them; look at the colour of the clothes their light cavalry are wearing: the Parthian cavalry were all garish tunics and trousers and fancy headdresses, but these light horse are dull by comparison, undyed wool and linen, poor stuff.’
Magnus squinted his one good eye and rubbed his neck. ‘I suppose you’re right; but then whoever that is must have passed the Parthians.’ He turned to Vespasian and Mannius, raising his brows. All three of them were crusted in dried gore as if they had spent the day sacrificing to every conceivable god who demanded blood but none of them affected to notice. ‘There ain’t enough room in that valley for two forces to pass each other without at least saying good morning.’
Mannius pointed to a group of horsemen traversing the bridge to the northern bank of the Tigris. ‘There’s movement over there.’
Vespasian watched the dozen or so Parthian light cavalry; having crossed the second bridge to the eastern bank of the Kentrites, they approached the column under a branch of truce. ‘This should confirm who I think they are.’
‘Confirm?’ Mannius asked.
‘Yes, prefect; I’m hoping that they’re who I’ve been waiting for.’ He looked around at the conscript infantry, dug in, surrounding the city and then focused on the three or four thousand manning the siege lines to the north, opposite the only other gate. The Tigris came to within a hundred paces of their rear with the bridge spanning it before it made its curve to the south.
Vespasian turned his attention back to the approaching cavalry. They had now halted at the confluence of the Tigris and its tributary, with the Parthian emissaries a little distance ahead of them; what was being negotiated and how those talks were going was impossible to tell from this distance. He watched the parley for another hundred or so heartbeats, each one feeling quicker than the last, until finally the Parthians turned their mounts and pelted back the way they came without a messenger from the newcomers accompanying them. ‘Good, it is them.’
Magnus looked confused. ‘Who are they?’
‘They, Magnus, are the rest of our army and all that stands between them linking up with us are three or four thousand conscripts, so we need to get the north gate open and herd some cattle into the river.’ He turned to Mannius’ primus pilus waiting at a respectful distance from his superiors. ‘Get messages to all the other prefects and have them stand by to leave the city through the north gate; Cotta’s cohort will lead and will break through the siege lines; Fregallanus and Mannius’ cohorts will follow up and form up to the west and east respectively to protect the rest of the force and the baggage while they cross the Tigris.’
The centurion gave a crisp salute and turned to relay the orders to a series of runners and Vespasian grinned at Mannius. ‘Time to get your lads off the wall, prefect.’
Vespasian and Magnus strode purposefully around the narrow streets that circled the great hill of the city past many Naphtha fires being tackled by citizens, old and young, too busy to notice the Roman troops pulling back from the battlements and the baggage train assembling in the agora near the north gate.
‘You travel with Hormus,’ Vespasian ordered Magnus as they pushed through the chaos of the wagons and mules gathering at short notice. Hormus was close to the front, seeing to his team’s harness; Vespasian was unsurprised to see the young muleteer he had noticed smile so enticingly at his slave just behind him. He was sure that was no coincidence. ‘And find out the name of that lad and where he comes from; Hormus seems to have taken a fancy to him. We should make sure that his motives are purely financial.’