The Parthian

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The sun was high in the sky now and the air was hot and filled with dust. From our vantage point on the hill, the drama being played out on the plain below could be seen clearly. Clouds of choking dust were being kicked up all around the square of Roman legionaries, which stood as a rock, against which waves of horse archers unleashed swarms of arrows against the leather-clad Roman shields. The Roman legion, now immobile and alone, was slowly being ground down, ground down on the rock-hard earth of Mesopotamia. We had caught them early, just before dawn, my father’s bodyguard smashing into their auxiliary cavalry at the head of a thousand cataphracts. The lightly armed enemy cavalry had been swept aside with ease, as the heavy spears of our fully armoured horsemen impaled their targets, cutting through wooden shields and mail shirts to skewer enemy riders. Within minutes dozens were dead and the rest were fleeing across the plain.

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