by Ian Ross
A slow chant was gathering from the rear ranks.
‘But,’ Castus went on, his voice rasping as he shouted, ‘unless we destroy them today, they’ll return. So it’s up to us to show them what happens to those who attack us! Give their king a lesson, brothers, that he’ll not forget. Remember – you are soldiers of Rome! You are the sons of Mars, and they… are the sons of slaves!’
The chant burst into massed cheers, and the thunder of shields. As he rode on before the lines, Castus felt the dust in his eyes, the tears streaking his cheeks as he grinned. Already he felt that he had won.
But the drums were booming from the opposing slopes, and the vast Persian array was beginning to roll forward. Castus snatched a glance back and saw the banners stirring the air, the big wicker shields of the enemy infantry tightening into an advancing wall. Light troops – archers and slingers – were already racing ahead of the vanguard.
‘Here we go,’ Egnatius said as Castus returned to his officers. He stretched out his hand and Castus clasped it firmly; then Egnatius rode off to the right to rejoin his cavalry.
A glance up towards the sun. Two fingers raised in salute. ‘Protecting gods,’ Castus whispered. ‘Be with us now.’
*
Flowing forward in a running charge, archers shooting as they came, the Persian skirmishers poured down the far slope and into the dry stream bed. Many of them took shelter there, using the gulley as cover while they pelted the Roman lines. Castus saw the air flickering with arrows and slingshot; a thunderous clatter rolled along the legionary formation as the men in the front four ranks locked their shields into a defensive carapace. Their own light infantry, the lanciarii, were dashing forward now, hurling javelins and darts at the Persians packing the stream bed and sheltering in the thorn thickets.
Castus craned his head, trying to make out what was happening ahead of the battle line. More Persians were advancing into the dry gulley of the watercourse, clambering over the bodies of their own slain. But Castus’s eye was drawn further northward, towards the glittering array of heavy cavalry, the Aswaran cataphracts, waiting in formation less than half a mile distant. The air was still clear, the sun bright, and he felt his vision becoming unnaturally sharp. The Persian riders were encased in armour, men and horses alike sheathed in mail and scale. Their lances wavered in the heat. They, Castus knew, would drive the main enemy attack.
The Roman artillery crews gathered around their ballistae were watching the Persian cavalry too; there was a steady ratcheting click as they spanned their weapons. But still the cataphracts remained motionless, threatening.
‘Excellency!’ a rider cried, galloping up from the left. ‘Enemy troops are crossing the ravine to the west. They’re already climbing the lower slopes of the ridge, and the Parthica detachments aren’t holding them!’
Castus spat from the saddle. ‘Ride to Tribune Gunthia,’ he ordered. The Numerus Gothorum was stationed on the far left of the infantry line. ‘Tell him to swing his men and lead them up onto the ridge, rally the Parthica detachments and hold the high ground. He has to throw back that flank attack, at any cost!’
The rider saluted, spun his horse and galloped away.
‘Move the Third Cyrenaica up to fill the gap on the left,’ Castus said to the nearest staff officer. Then he turned his attention back to the front line.
Sounds of fierce combat from the distant right, moving closer. Tanukhid Saracens on light horses were sweeping down the line of the dried watercourse, hunting the archers out of the thickets and driving the Persian skirmishers before them. Castus saw one Saracen ride clear of the gulley, yelling in triumph as he brandished a severed head in his fist. Then the man went down in a torrent of dust. But the Persian archers were scrambling back out of the stream bed in disarray. As the arrow storm slackened and died, the Roman infantry roared from behind their shields.
A messenger came from Gunthia; the Gothic warriors had thrown back the flank attack to the west, and held the ridge. Castus smiled tightly, jutting his jaw. So far, he thought, they were keeping the tactical advantage. Vallio rode up on a pony and handed him a flask of watered wine. As he raised the flask, Castus heard the wail of the Persian horns.
The solid wall of cataphract cavalry was beginning to move.
They came on at a walk at first, the riders in close formation, knee to knee, rank upon rank; there must be five or six thousand of them, Castus thought. The flower of the Persian army, every one of them mounted on a powerful horse, trained for battle. He realised he was holding his breath, and forced himself to exhale in a shuddering gasp. Beside him, Sabinus was tensed in the saddle, transfixed by the oncoming horsemen.
Only a few hundred paces separated them from the Romans now. The dry watercourse, which had seemed so formidable an obstacle, now looked as feeble as a line scratched in the sand.
Another trumpet blast, and the cataphracts began to trot. They seemed to throw a wave of heat and glare before them, like the blast from the door of an iron furnace. Dust jumped and seethed beneath the massed hooves. Castus could see the infantry lines rippling, every man hunching tighter behind his shield. The centurions screamed at them to hold their positions.
Then, with a low metallic roar, the huge formation of cavalry broke into a canter, and then into a flat charge. The distance closed with frightening speed. A snapping noise from behind the Roman lines as the ballistae launched their first volley; Castus saw the bolts arc across the infantry ranks and plunge down into the charging wave of cataphracts. Horses stumbled and fell, opening gaps in the array, but the lines closed at once. The ballista crews were already spanning their weapons; they would barely have time for a second volley.
Now the first ranks of the horsemen began to slow as they reached the far embankment of the watercourse. Some of the riders tried to jump it, and fell at once. The rest leaned far back in their saddles, hauling on the reins as they guided their horses down the crumbling bank of dry earth and across the gulley. More riders poured over the brink behind them. Dust boiled upwards, rolling in a thick brown pall across the infantry lines.
The first of the cataphracts came scrambling up from the watercourse and onto the level ground, already urging their horses forward again. Their formation was broken, and the momentum of their advance had died with it. Yet still they came, a torrent of men and horses struggling from the fog of dust, weighted down by their armour but already gaining in strength and numbers.
‘Now?’ Sabinus hissed.
‘Wait,’ Castus told him, hard and level.
Dust cloaked the gulley, hiding the mass of horsemen on the far bank. Those who had managed to cross were forming up again; a few moments more and they would be ready to throw their assault directly against the Roman lines.
Castus took a deep breath, then turned to the trumpeter beside him. Another heartbeat’s delay, then he gave the order, loud and clear.
‘Sound the charge – everyone forward… Now!’
XXXI
With a roar that drowned out the noise of the horns, the entire Roman line surged into motion. Keeping their shields up, every man holding the close array, they advanced at a crashing jog towards the milling horde of Persian riders along the nearer bank of the watercourse.
Fifty paces, and the front ranks paused to hurl javelins and darts. Successive ranks coming up behind them added their own missiles to the storm; the Persians were falling, horses rearing. Then the ranks closed up, and with another mighty yell the legions charged forward at the run.
Castus felt his horse trembling beneath him. He seized the reins in his fists, his jaw clamped tight. Then he kicked his heels and moved forward into the wake of the advance, into the scorching dust.
The Persian riders had expected to face a stationary wall of men, a wall that would buckle and break before the shock of their charge. Instead, as they scrambled up out of the wadi, weighed down by their armour, their formation in disarray, they found themselves facing a sudden and disciplined counter-charge, a phalanx of
shields and levelled spears and screaming men, racing at them out of the dust. Panicked horses shied and reared, the riders trying desperately to control their mounts as the Roman charge bore down on them and the darts and ballista bolts struck at them from above. In a crunch of flesh and metal, the two sides collided.
Streaming forward from the rear ranks came men armed with studded clubs, pickaxes, entrenching mattocks; they hurled themselves into the packed melee of horsemen, smashing riders from their saddles.
Through the haze, Castus could see maddened horses veering and kicking, lances thrashing. The Roman charge had taken them almost as far as the watercourse, driving the Persians before it; the Aswaran were no longer a disciplined formation of advancing cavalry; they were a mass of individual horsemen, struggling in the dust as the infantry lines rammed against them.
But carrying such a weight of metal, even a stationary horseman was dangerous. Castus could see knots of Persian cataphracts pushing back against the Roman line, trying to force their horses into the shield wall, through the thickets of spears. They angled their long lances down over the front ranks, stabbing wildly into the heart of the legionary formation, until they were brought down under a hail of darts and clubbing blows. Seen from the rear, the Roman phalanx looked painfully thin, the ranks pressed tight together behind their shields; a single breach, and the whole formation could rip apart. Castus glanced back and saw Barbatio waiting with his veteran legionary reserves. He hoped they could move quickly enough, if they were needed.
The dust eddied, and Castus made out the mass of Persian riders still on the far side of the watercourse. Some had halted; others were trying to force their way forward into the fight. The ballistae were still shooting, the crews adjusting their aim to drop their bolts onto the cavalry on the far bank. Impossible to see what was happening in the dry gulley, but Castus could guess. A seething horde of men and horses, pressed together in confusion. An inferno of dust and sweat and metal, shot through with arrows and ballista bolts.
Ahead of him the lines bowed suddenly, a solid wedge of Persian horsemen driving forward out of the chaos. Another surge from the rear, a din of hammering weapons, screaming men, the high whinnying of maddened horses. Castus could almost taste the blood in the dust-thickened air. Then the lines straightened. A steady chant was rising from the legion ranks, a slow tramping shout. Like men on a drill field, they were pushing their way forward again.
‘We’re beating them!’ Sabinus yelled. ‘The Persians won’t stand!’
‘Not yet,’ Castus warned him. ‘Not yet.’
He twisted in the saddle, glancing around until he spotted one of the few staff officers who remained with him. ‘Find Quintianus,’ he shouted. ‘Tell him to make sure none of his men advance beyond the gulley! Hold them back – and be ready to sound the recall!’
As the officer galloped into the fog, another rider came up from the right, sweating heavily. ‘Dominus! Message from Flavius Egnatius – Persian cavalry have broken through on the right flank – we can’t hold them!’
‘Gods!’ Castus yelled, hauling at the reins. His horse jinked around to the right, blowing angrily, then Castus kicked it forward into a canter. He could already hear the trumpet calls from Barbatio’s reserves, but as he rode along the rear of the infantry line he could see the whole right flank dissolving into a wheeling cavalry melee. Sabinus was galloping up behind him, leading the mounted bodyguard troopers.
No sign of Egnatius. But Castus could see horsemen spilling back out of the fight, Roman cavalry fleeing in disarray, hurling aside spears and shields. With a snarl of rage he swung his horse to block one of the fugitives. The man was carrying the standard of the Third Stablesiani. Seizing the bridle of the man’s horse, Castus dragged him closer.
‘Where the fuck are you going?’ he screamed. ‘Get back there and rally your men! Rally them!’
The man gibbered something, then managed to turn his horse and ride back the way he had come, brandishing his standard like a lance.
Now Castus could make out the attackers: Lakhmid Saracens, light horsemen armed with bows and javelins. They must have galloped around in a wide arc and hit Egnatius’s force on the flank. Riding in circles, they were spearing and shooting down the Roman cavalrymen, whooping as they killed. One of them cantered past Castus, his mouth open in savage laughter. Castus leaned from the saddle and punched the man in the face, knocking him back over his horse’s rump. Then he drew his sword as his escort formed up around him.
‘Egnatius!’ he shouted. He could see the tribune now, fighting at the head of a wedge of his Armigeri troopers. The high bleating of cavalry trumpets sounded through the din. Castus walked his horse forward, feeling the animal shudder and flinch beneath him. Arrows whipped through the air. The men of his escort were formed into a tight wedge of their own, closing on Egnatius’s troops, but in the swirling ochre fog it was impossible to judge how many others surrounded them.
A deeper horn blast from the rear; Castus twisted around and made out the standards of the Gemina legions, part of Barbatio’s infantry reserve. They must have swung to the right, he realised, to protect the flank from the Lakhmid attack. Advancing steadily, they were herding the Arab horsemen before them.
‘Dominus!’ Egnatius cried, cantering over to join Castus. ‘We’re holding them, but I don’t know if we can get clear…’
Now the tide of battle had shifted once again; even through the clouds of dust Castus could see it. There were more riders coming in from the right, galloping fast into the pack of Lakhmids. He saw archers on striding camels, shooting from the saddle. Howling half-naked men, dark-skinned and long-haired, wielding their spears with savage fury. Tanukhids, he realised – the ancient foes of Lakhm.
‘Tha’rr! Tha’rr!’ the Saracens cried. Both sides were raising the same shout, carving into each other with vengeful energy. Hard to distinguish those that fought for Rome from those that fought for Persia.
‘Sound the retreat,’ Castus yelled to Egnatius. ‘Fall back behind the infantry!’
Barbatio’s men opened ranks to let them through, continuing their advance as the Tanukhids drove the Lakhmids back in confusion. Then the dust rose once more, cloaking the melee in its pall.
Castus rode westwards, along the rear of the battle line. Frenzy consumed him, and his heart was kicking in his chest. Sweat slicked his head and body. Something was happening up ahead, but he could make out nothing but the shapes of men and horses threshing in wild disorder. A man was running towards him on foot, a staff tribune with blood smeared across his face.
‘They’ve broken through!’ the tribune cried. ‘Right of the centre, between the Fourth and Sixteenth Legions. The troops pushed forward too far, into the gulley, and the Persians rallied and broke the line!’
Castus reared back in the saddle, pulling on the reins as furious anguish coursed through his body. Exactly what he had feared most. Now the scene opened before him. The infantry line was entirely breached, the shield wall collapsed, and the Aswaran cataphracts were powering their way through the gap, like a herd of angry bulls stampeding at a broken fence. Castus saw men cut down or smashed aside by the charging horsemen, and trampled beneath the hooves. Bands of soldiers from the rear ranks were trying to form squares or defensive knots, huddled behind their shields; but all they could do was fend off the attackers. Barbatio’s reserves were far away to the right, holding the flank. Gunthia’s men were nearly a mile distant to the left. In moments, the cataphracts would have burst through the lines entirely, into the open space behind them, where only the artillery and baggage carts stood. Then they would swing to the right and strike at the unprotected rear of the Roman formation.
Reeling, Castus felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He had dragged on the reins instinctively, and his horse shied and kicked, half panicked by the noise and violent motion.
At the very moment of victory, he thought, the battle was lost.
Trumpets screamed from behind him, and suddenly rid
ers were galloping past on either side. Egnatius was leading them; he had rallied a mixed force of cavalry from half a dozen broken units, all of them charging towards the Persian onrush.
‘Rome and Victory!’ the tribune cried as he rode. ‘Rome and Victory – attack!’
The Roman horses were not armoured, and only a few of the riders wore mail or scale. Individually they could not hope to confront the heavy cataphracts. But together, three or four horsemen working in unison, they might bring one of the Persians down. It was a desperate hope, but the best they had.
‘Forward!’ Castus yelled, spurring his horse. Sabinus was beside him, and the handful of escort troopers formed around them.
Ahead, the dust rose and thickened into a vast swirling rampart, rolling across the battlefield. Teeth bared, eyes half- closed, Castus dipped his head and plunged on into it. At once the sun was eclipsed, and he rode through a rushing brown twilight filled with shadowy figures of men and horses. Someone was shouting: ‘Form on me! Form a line on me!’
Then all Castus could hear was the muffled thunder of his own blood and breath, the rapid pounding of his heart. The sweat on his face crusted instantly, and his mouth filled with dirt. He saw one of the cataphract riders appear ahead of him, angling his lance at a charging Roman horseman; before he could react, the Roman was down. Another horse was coming in from the right, decked in scale armour. Castus swerved, but the man in the saddle was dead, his arms swinging loose. The horse galloped past him, and Castus caught a glimpse of the mesh-covered eyes, the huge bared teeth. Then it was gone.
Sounds of ringing steel through the murk, screams of men. But it all sounded so distant. Like being underwater, Castus thought. Somewhere ahead of him there were men fighting, three Roman horsemen tackling one of the cataphracts. The armoured horse circled and kicked, the rider lashing out with his mace.