The Flame of Destiny

For the Kurds, the slow days north of the river were a distant happy memory that quickly faded as they rode on. How they longed for a leisurely meal procured from a nearby town! Or even just an hour of rest in the shade. But they barely had time to munch a few mouthfuls of dried fruit from their saddle bags without ever stopping. Rojan and Kallisto drove them on relentlessly.

After three hundred miles of rough riding through empty desert lands, they turned north. The next morning, they crossed the Euphrates again and entered the lush lands between the two great rivers.

They were happy to leave the dry Arabian plains behind them even though it meant that the confrontation with Vologast was getting closer. They were close to Sippar, a city so old nobody knew who its founders were or what long-forgotten gods were represented by the strange statues they passed.

“We’re now to the south and east of the main force of Vologast the usurper,” announced Rojan to the assembled officers. “This means we’re at his rear. He won’t expect an attack from this direction.”

The news was greeted with smiles. The Kurds relished a fight, even more so when they had the advantage. Pedram’s expression however, remained impenetrable.

“Romans, Macedonians, and even the Persians hundreds of years ago... all great conquerors came from the north with their mighty but slow armies,” Kallisto said, “but we’re Kurds, we won’t let deserts and rivers stop us. We move fast. We strike where we want and appear where our enemies least expect us.”

Cheers erupted from the warriors.

“We don’t know these lands,” warned Rojan, “so remain vigilant.”

As the daring plan dawned on the warriors their spirits rose and their pace quickened. They rode through the fertile floodplains of Mesopotamia, the mythic land of the two rivers and the cradle of civilizations. It was a rich and densely inhabited area. Wherever they looked on the horizon, they saw a tower or a city wall from some great ancient city whose name they didn’t even know. In between there were wide farmlands, crisscrossed by canals and ditches. No land was left untended.

“We’ll be discovered soon,” worried Pedram, “too many prying eyes.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” replied Kallisto coolly, “we strike within a day. They won’t have time to send a warning.”

But just to be sure Rojan ordered the men to ride even faster. There was nobody to stop them. Farmers, mostly women and old men, fled to their stone houses as soon as they heard the massive cavalry army gallop through their fields. Some watched in silence as the grim host rode past.

But there were unexpected obstacles nonetheless. They had to navigate a tangle of irrigation canals and water ducts. Enterprising locals flooded the fields and destroyed bridges to force the Kurds to make detours around their cities. Out of necessity, Kallisto and some of the officers became experts in manipulating the sluices.

The next day was worse. Rojan lost his temper when they wasted an hour pulling a heavy cart out of a flooded canal. “Leave it there,” he snapped, “just take the boxes with arrows.”

They left all the carts with food and supplies behind and just took what they needed. “We have to reach the bridge at Opis before Vologast,” he said. “We can’t afford any delay, otherwise our plan failed.”

“Perhaps we can adjust our plans,” replied Kallisto calmly, “the main thing is to catch him off guard and defeat him.”

“I would have hoped to avoid battle by taking the bridge first,” said Pedram accusingly eyeing Kallisto, “should have known you wanted violence.”

“Enough,” interrupted Rojan, “we didn’t come here for sight seeing. We’ll fight for the bridge if we have to, as long as they didn’t fortify it as we have no siege equipment. Speed is essential.”

He sighed and scolded another company that was struggling with the arrows. “Two boxes per horse,” he said, “we’ll come back for the rest.”

“How far is that bridge anyway?”

“We’ll know soon,” Kallisto said, pointing to a rider who came rushing in, “I think Arak has news.”

Arak stopped in front of the officers, gushing them with specks of mud and water.

“Watch out,” cursed Rojan.

Arak took no heed. “Vologast’s army is on the bridge!” he said breathlessly, “his heavy cavalry is already across.”

“How many are they?” Asked Kallisto.

Arak’s eyes widened when he spoke as if he was picturing a titanic force before him and was still in awe. “Their cavalry alone is twice as large as our entire force,” he replied, “and their infantry…it is as numerous as grains of sand in the desert. Their ranks extended as far as I could see. There must be a million or more.”

“Such terrible odds,” Rojan said worriedly, “how can we ever prevail?” He scratched nervously at his black beard.

“They carry long spears and shining shields,” continued Arak, “they march in disciplined ranks. I’ve never seen such a mighty army.”

“Nonsense!” Kallisto said angrily. “These ain’t warriors. They didn’t come here to fight. Vologast just wants to scare his little brother. He took farmers and brigands to swell his ranks for his little show. You’ve seen for yourself how empty the fields were. These people are no match for real warriors.”

“But there are too many,” objected Pedram who seldom spoke unless it was to temper Kurdish aggression, “our horses will stumble and they will overcome us like a swarm of angry bees engulfs a wolf.”

“He’s right,” said Rojan, “we’re stronger but if we get trapped in a mass of infantry, we’ll be easy prey for their cataphracts.”

“That’s why we have to take the initiative,” said Kallisto, “and take the bridge before they have time to get organized.”

“It will be a hell of a fight,” said Rojan, “even if we manage to surprise them, a small force can hold out on the bridge for a long time. Especially if they use their heavies.”

“And if we take the bridge, then what?” Pedram asked. “We can never completely beat them. We might be stuck in Opis, on the wrong side of the river.”

Kallisto’s eyes narrowed. “We didn’t ride a thousand miles just to turn back at the first danger,” she snapped.

Rojan felt her anger and her confidence. He knew that she would storm the enemy ranks alone, not waiting for him to follow. He needed that energy for a victory.

“We could ride to the northwest,” Shida suggested, “and take the next city. We’ll avoid confrontation with the main force and can take full control over the entire southern shore of the Tigris.”

’No,” said Rojan, “we need that bridge. We don’t have any ships and we can’t risk crossing with the enemy watching us.”

“We can wait until their army has completely crossed to the other side,” said Pedram, “and then take the bridge behind them so we cut off his retreat. It will greatly help our position in the negotiations between the warring brothers.”

“Makes sense,” said Rojan, “we’ll avoid a lot of bloodshed.”

“It makes non sense at all,” objected Kallisto impatiently. “We’re not helping Ardaban that way. He’ll have to fight alone against his brother’s entire army while we can’t help him because we’re blocked by the bridge. Besides, the King didn’t ask us to help negotiate, he asked us to fight!”

“The Madig’s suggestion is wise and prudent,” said Pedram icily. “Be patient and remember your place. We don’t take orders from you. A few days ago you were an outlaw!”

“And now I’m the advisor of the rightful King!” Kallisto shouted. “We don’t have time! If we don’t attack now, we’ll be discovered and lose our chance to surprise them. Don’t you see!”

“Take it easy,” said Rojan sternly, “Pedram is right. Things are different. These are not Romans but Parthians, we have to be smart and strategic.”

“Smart?” repeated Kallisto rolling with her eyes. “You’re making a big mistake!” she snapped, then stamped off, with Shida in her wake.

“Please Basu,” said the officer, “stay with us.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Kallisto, “I’ll tell our warriors to be ready. And you should get on your horse and watch the enemy.”

Kallisto spent the next hour impatiently striding around the troops making sure they didn’t settle down and kept ready for updated orders. The contrast between Rojan’s orders to take it easy and Kallisto’s to get ready, confused the men and frustrated Kallisto. “You do whatever you want,” she admonished a chieftain who was taking a nap, “but if the horn sounds thrice, you’ll come with us, with or without your armor on.”

“We only take orders from the Madig,” replied some of the bolder ones, annoying Kallisto even more.

When she had almost completed her unsatisfying round of the camp and was unusually edgy, a rider approached and stopped before her in a cloud of dust.

“Enemy scouts tried to get back to Vologast,” shouted Shida as she jumped from her horse, “they came from the south and must have seen our army. We engaged them and took most of them out but one or two escaped.”

“Damn, so now they know we’re here!” cursed Kallisto

“We found this on one of the scouts we killed,” said Shida and handed her a bloodstained papyrus roll.

Kallisto opened it and quickly scanned the content. “Summon the officers right away,” she ordered.

“An enemy scout escaped,” said Kallisto to the assembled chiefs. “We must assume he has surveyed our troops and managed to warn Vologast. We have no choice but to attack immediately.”

“We don’t know for sure,” objected Pedram, “and even then, an attack may not be …”

“There’s one more thing,” interrupted Kallisto, “they carried a message that was signed ‘S’ at the bottom.” She looked Pedram in the eyes, “any idea what that means, lord Sssuren?”

Pedram was lost for words.

“Could be anything,” said Rojan, “but Kallisto’s right. We must strike fast and hard before they get their forces assembled.”

Kallisto and Arak nodded furiously, while Pedram put on an inscrutable sullen face and didn’t intervene anymore.

“Sound the attack!” shouted the Madig and sent the officers away.

“And then they call me the lion,” Rojan said when he was alone with Kallisto. It was the first time he smiled in her presence since she had come back.

“Wrrow!” she growled teasingly and bared her teeth.

Red flags were raised and horns sounded loud and urgent. A murmur of excitement traveled over the army. But there was no panic on the faces of the experienced warriors. They calmly fastened their spare horses to a picket, donned their helmets, took a few bites of dried meat and a few gulps of water. They discarded surplus gear, counted their arrows, painted their faces and prayed to Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Wisdom or to the old gods, or to both.

Kallisto took charge of the left wing that would ride straight for the main strategic target, the great bridge over the Tigris River. Arak and Pedram took the right wing. Their task was to storm the walled city of Opis and take it by surprise and thus cover their flanks. Rojan and Shida commanded the large force in the center that would be held in reserve.

The horns sounded again, this time louder and longer. The mass of riders started moving. The sound of thousands of galloping horses filled the air. Like a great tidal wave, the army swept over the flatlands towards Opis and the bridge over the Tigris River.

Vologast’s rearguard formed a vast sea of men and carts that all had to cross the bridge. Thousands waited impatiently in long lines on the south bank. They pushed against each other and fought off the ones that tried to sneak past. A few nobles on large horses ordered their bodyguards to make corridors for them so they could get ahead. Usually they didn’t get far on the crowded river banks and only succeeded in further angering the common soldiers.

It wasn’t a rearguard, but a vast gathering of villagers that followed the army. They carried supplies but were mostly there to boost the numbers for a great showdown with Ardaban. If the men owned any armor, they had not put it on. Their weapons and shields were stored away so that their hands were free to assist in dragging the heavy grain carts along the muddy paths.

Nobody warned the village chiefs that this bridge was the only wide bridge in many miles and therefore of strategic importance. Nobody told them that Opis was the spot where over seven centuries ago, Cyrus the Great had crushed the Babylonians and founded the largest empire the world had ever seen. All they were told by Vologast’s warriors that had chased them off their lands or out of their houses was to come with as much grain as they could carry and gather somewhere on the other side of the Tigris River where they would join the magnificent army of the new Shah. There was no point in marching in battle order, scouting the land, or posting guards on the flanks. Ardaban was a hundred miles to the west. And would he even dare to attack his own brother?

When they heard the sound of hooves crashing through the mud, the village chiefs turned around slightly irritated, but far from worried. Which nobleman or satrap was late for his appointment with Vologast ? Did they expect that the carts would just be moved aside to let his horsemen pass? No, they grumbled, that lord can wait until we have crossed the bridge - which will take a week at this rate - and they ordered their men to keep advancing.

The troops at the rear were the first to realize something was wrong. They expected a stately trotting cavalry in shiny armor, but what they saw was a horde of fast galloping warriors, clad in sheepskin vests and woolen trousers that shouted savage war cries. They were led by a woman with fluttering black locks on a large gray mare.

Panic spread like a wave that was almost as deadly as the thousands of arrows that followed when the Kurds launched volley after volley. They circled their enemies and herded them like cattle into their doom.

[Picture: Opis]

Shah Vologast, or King of Kings, as he wanted everyone to call him, relaxed on thick pillows and enjoyed a well-deserved break from his exhausting brain work. He smiled to himself and pondered how his younger brother always complained about the rigors of war. But that was entirely his own fault. If you get organized and have disposable funds, it’s not so bad.

He beckoned one of the many servants to refill his golden cup. His twelve-room imperial tent was almost as comfortable as his palace in Ctesiphon and even if the campaign would last for months, a steady supply of delicious Susan wine, Arabian dates, and Syrian olives would be assured.

His scouts had explored the area north of the Tigris for dozens of miles and there was no trace of the enemy. That confirmed what his spies had already confided to him: Ardaban and his pitiful army of rebels were advancing slowly and wouldn’t appear for at least a few days.

Maybe my little brother is already fleeing to his castle in the mountains, he thought contemptuously. In any case, the war won’t last long. Ardaban never understood politics. He probably thought that as a moderately successful general, he would somehow be popular and powerful. But I, Vologast, the rightful heir, know better. It’s all about gold and wealth. Your soldiers will respect you as long as you pay them, and not a day longer. While my old father and brother exhausted themselves in their battles against the Romans in the west, I amassed wealth by taxing the silk trade and exploiting the farmers in the east. All the Eastern Satraps are eating out of my hand!

He shook his head compassionately. I really don’t understand him. I offered him a fortune just to acknowledge what is written in our laws: the eldest son inherits the throne. But he wants to fight. He brings about his own demise.

Usually, I hate war, he continued this train of thought. It’s messy and full of danger and uncertainty. But this time it’s different. I can’t lose. I’ve got thousands of well-trained horsemen from the noblest families. These cataphracts are the most magnificent warriors the world has ever seen. Add to that the tens of thousands of foot soldiers I’ve taken off their farmlands. Admittedly, they aren’t the most experienced and loyal warriors but they’re so numerous that it doesn’t matter.

He rubbed his hands in delight. Oh, not since the days of Cyrus the Great, has the world seen such a powerful army. And in case that still isn’t enough, I have taken out extra insurance for the victory...

He drank another sip of wine from his golden cup and fantasized about wearing the golden tiara and inflicting humiliating punishments on his rebellious brother and his beautiful sister in law.

His daydream was rudely interrupted when a wretched foot soldier rushed into the room followed by two senior officers. The officers grabbed the man, but he managed to pull himself loose and fell on his knees before the King. “Sire, the rearguard is under attack!”

“What’re you talking about?” scoffed Vologast in disbelief, “that’s impossible.”

“We couldn’t stop him,” said the spahbed, the supreme general of Vologast.

“The bridge at Opis is under attack,” the soldier repeated desperately, “there are thousands of horsemen!”

“Impossible!” shouted the Shah, “Ardaban is hundreds of miles away. You’re delusional. Those riders only exist in your dreams.”

“I swear, your Majesty,” begged the soldier in desperation, “I’m telling the truth. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The bridge is almost lost.”

Vologast looked sternly at his senior officers, “can this be true?”

“Of course not,” said the old Spahbed reassuringly, “he’s raving mad. Your brother’s army is many days to the west. All our scouts and spies agree on that.”

“May I suggest that we send a small reconnaissance force anyway,” said Zhubin, the young black-haired sarlashkar, the junior general, smoothly, ignoring the advice of the Spahbed, “it’s better to be prudent. Perhaps - I admit, it’s very unlikely - a small group of skirmishers has managed to slip past our guards.”

“I want no part of it,” said Vologast, “we don’t waste our time on such nonsense. It only creates unrest. Take this man and cut off his tongue for speaking evil words and thinking evil thoughts... and leave me alone.”

He gestured irritably and took another sip of wine from the golden cup. Zhubin looked at the Shah and pondered whether to challenge him again, but Vologast was already tending to other things which meant that his command was final.

The poor soldier was dragged away by four strong guards, repeating his lies until he no longer could.

Vologast retreated to the private room within the palatial tent and ordered more wine. He was not going to let some common soldier ruin his enjoyment of the campaign, the pinnacle of his career.

For several hours no one dared to disturb Vologast and risk losing his tongue in turn. The imperial tent was as quiet as the inner sanctum of a temple.

But it was a restless silence. Vologast no longer enjoyed his wine. Evil thoughts kept swirling in his mind.

Outside, groups of fleeing soldiers staggered into the camp. Many were wounded and bled from vicious arrow wounds. The few soldiers that wore thick armor were so full of arrows that they looked like porcupines.

The officers could no longer deny what was a reality. Bowing and groveling the most senior leaders from the most distinguished families crept into the palatial tent. With flowery metaphors and vague innuendo, they brought their report, hiding the fact that the bridge was lost and a large part of the army was eliminated in vague prose. “It seems we suffered a little, temporary setback but our enemies are no more than flees in the pelt of the Parthian lion and soon they will be chased away and return their minor gains, which are worth no more than half a day’s supply of wine.”

Vologast was calm and composed but as the flowered verbosity of his nobles reached its peak, something started to dawn on him. His face turned white, then red and then seemed to explode in purple hues. “Owl shit, camel manure,” he shouted furiously, any semblance of majestic calm had gone, “how could you have been so stupid!”

“But Sire,” said Zhubin, “I suggested to ...”

“Shut up, you miserable dung beetle, I didn’t ask your opinion.”

Even the old Spahbed was shaking. “Sire, with your permission we can launch a counterattack,” he whimpered. “With our heavy cavalry, we’ll blow away those bandits like the wind in the mountains blows the autumn leaves.”

“Do it immediately,” snarled the Shah, ignoring the fact that it was spring, “I want to have the bridge back in our hands before nightfall. I want the head of the enemy commanders on a pike.”

A division of four thousand heavy cavalry was collected in a feverish rush. Zhubin shook his head. “Is this enough?” he asked, “we can assemble two thousand extra horsemen and a few archer divisions within the hour.”

“You heard our lord,” cried the Spahbed, “we don’t have time. Besides, these are armored knights, we’ll hack those savages to pieces.”