‘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.