Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire (23 page)

Gallus frowned at the man’s parting words, then shook his head clear of the thought and waved the camels forward. ‘Men, don your armour and weapons.’ At once, the remaining few of the vexillatio readied for battle. Shields were hauled from the camel’s backs. Scalding mail shirts were pulled on and helms were fastened. Someone thrust a spear into Pavo’s grip.

‘Third century . . . into line!’ Zosimus cried out.

Pavo buckled his sword belt in place then echoed the order. The depleted century hastened to join with Quadratus’ men on the IV Scythica left flank. Carbo, Baptista and the handful of Flavia Firma legionaries soon joined them. Panicked breaths came and went as they pushed together, shoulder to shoulder. Shields clattered, coming together as a protective wall. Spears were raised like the spines of a trapped porcupine. All eyes peered over the tops of shields, trained on the approaching wall of silver.

The ground juddered now and the silver tide took form. Pavo gawped; an ironclad pincer of more than three thousand riders came for them, topped with vibrant banners and plumes, bristling with spear tips, arrows and blades. Those of the Flavia Firma broke out in a Christian chant. Baptista was the epitome of their zeal, his jaw stiff, his chest rising and falling with the chorus.

Finally, Gallus’ voice boomed out. ‘Much hangs in the balance today; our mission, our lives . . . our empire. We are far from home, but Mithras watches over us, for in this burning land we find brothers to fight alongside.’ He shot a furtive glance to Carbo and Baptista. ‘We call out to two gods for providence. But we stand or fall as one. For the empire,’ he spoke in a firm tone. Then he cried out and drew his spatha, bashing it on his shield boss then thrusting it aloft; ‘
For the empire!
’

Pavo roared along with the hardy few, a roar so fierce that it countered the Persian war drums. But only for a heartbeat. Sura and Zosimus pressed closer to him. The blood pounded in his ears. The carrion birds gathered overhead like a storm cloud. The silver mass of the Savaran raced for them.

Gallus braced, one foot ahead of the other, spear and shield clasped firmly, eyes dancing across the Persian front. A sea of bear, eagle, horse and scorpion banners bobbed above the thundering Persian ranks, but one standard rose higher than all others. It was topped with a Faravahar, the Zoroastrian guardian angel stretching out its wings as if readying to take flight. Hanging from the crossbar was a dark silk banner emblazoned with a tawny gold lion. Gallus’ top lip curled at the sight, thinking of the motif on Yabet’s purse.

Heavily armoured Horsemen formed a wide and deep centre. A gund of one thousand cataphractii, he realised. The riders wore iron scales like the skin of a snake, wrapped around their torsos and shoulders. Thick rings of iron hugged their limbs and they were crowned with pointed helms topped with dancing, balled plumes. Each wore a shamshir – a long, straight sword not unlike the Roman spatha – on their sword belt, and gripped a lengthy lance two-handed. He frowned, seeing that each spear seemed to be chained to the mount’s armour at the neck and at the thigh. This was something he had not seen before.

‘It channels the full momentum of the charge into the end of the spear tip,’ Carbo cried over the din of approaching hooves, following Gallus’ gaze. ‘And their horses can certainly charge.’

‘Nisean mares?’ Gallus reckoned seeing the dark bay and palomino colours of their tall and lithe mounts. The beasts wore scale aprons on their bodies and baked leather chamfrons strapped over their faces – with bulging bronze baskets protecting their eyes.

Flanking this cavalry centre were two small packs of running infantrymen. They looked reluctant – and barely like soldiers – wearing ragged trousers, tunics, felt caps and carrying only cane shields. This would be the infamous Persian paighan spearmen; men forced onto the field as missile-fodder for the enemy, or for the Persian riders to pivot around. A glance to the chains on their ankles confirmed this. A handful of mail-shirted Median spearmen ran alongside them like guards. They cracked whips to drive the paighan on. To the rear of the Persian lines, there was something else. Gallus squinted, sure the dust cloud and the heat haze were playing tricks on his eyes. A dozen shapes swayed. Hulking forms, bigger than any living thing he had ever set eyes upon. He gawped, seeing the swishing trunks, the glint of bronze-coated tusks and the jagged shapes of archers in the
howdah
cabins on the beasts’ backs.
War elephants? Mithras, no!

The earth shuddered furiously as this tide of iron swept for the beleaguered Roman pack. Gallus recognised a long forgotten sensation needling at his heart. Fear. With a growl, he crushed the unwelcome emotion. ‘Stay tight, stay together. No horse will charge a nest of spears!’ he bellowed.

The Persian war cry drowned out his words. He felt his men instinctively push closer together. His eyes narrowed on the cataphractus bearing down on him, the rider’s spear tip trained on the gap between the rim of his shield and the brow of his helm. He braced for the impact. But, as if swept away by an unseen wind, the cataphractii split and wheeled away at the last, like curtains being swept apart across the Roman front. Gasps of relief rang out all round, only to be caught in throats at the sight of what lay behind the cataphractii.

Another gund of iron riders. However, unlike the departed first wave, these riders carried not lances, but bows. The weapons were already nocked with arrows, bent and raised, index fingers of bow hands pointing out as if identifying their intended victims, two more arrows clutched in the palm ready for the next volley. Over one thousand bowstrings twanged and loosed a storm of arrows skywards. Gallus gawped at the ascending storm, seeing the beauty of the strategy, realising what was to happen. The cataphractii had feigned a charge and pushed the Roman lines into a dense mass. The perfect target for their archer companions.

The men of the XI Claudia, the Flavia Firma and the IV Scythica alike scrambled from the path of the incoming hail – the dense mass breaking apart like a shattering urn. The arrows hammered down. Most smacked into the dust where the legionaries had been moments ago. Some struck the backs of those too slow to escape, showering blood across the dust. Crucially though, the legionary line was now utterly broken.

A shiver danced up Gallus’ spine as the archer cavalry split and wheeled away, just as the cataphractii lancers had done moments ago. Waiting behind was a final gund of riders. But no ordinary riders. One thousand men and mounts, pure iron, seemingly wrought with a hammer. They bore every armament of the cataphractii, but with the additional carapace of iron plates on their chests, greaves on their shins and iron gauntlets protecting their hands. And their faces brought a wail of dismay from the stumbling legionaries; pure, sculpted iron masks with sombre features, just two eyeholes and a mirthless mouth slit betraying the merest glimpse of humanity. They levelled their lances and kicked their mounts into an all-out charge. The war drums struck up a frantic rhythm like a panicked heartbeat as the riders’ plumes danced atop their tall helms.

‘This is it,’ Carbo panted by his side. ‘They have prised us apart like a clam. Now, the clibanarii will feast.’

The smattering of legionaries who had bows hurriedly nocked and loosed, and those with plumbatae hurled them in a disordered volley. The missiles smacked against the chests, helms and limbs of the clibanarii, bouncing away as if they were merely twigs. The iron riders thundered onwards unharmed. Gallus braced.

With a smash of iron upon iron, flesh and bone, the clibanarii ploughed into the Roman lines, casting men into the air like splinters thrown up from a well-aimed arrow and trampling over others. Whole centuries crumpled under this impact. Thick clouds of dust billowed up and puffs of fine crimson mizzle spat skywards where iron met flesh. Gallus’ shield shuddered as Persian lance and sword in turn battered against the boss and hacked chunks from the edge. He staggered back, struggling to stay on his feet. Those by his side were torn down, trampled, skewered on Persian lances. Within moments, only Carbo remained with him.

‘Tribunus!’ Carbo cried.

Gallus twisted to see a clibanarii spear only inches from him. He jinked, the lance tearing through his chain mail, gouging his shoulder and sending blood spurting from the wound. He staggered back to see the rider charge past, the spear punching through the chest of one young legionary and then another, showering those cowering behind in blood, organs and entrails. All along what had moments ago been a coordinated Roman line, the clibanarii hacked panicked pockets of legionaries down. Their spears plunged through necks, tore heads from shoulders, shattered limbs and barged men to the ground where they were trampled underhoof.

Gallus spun this way and that, desperate to catch sight of some show of resistance in the flurry of thick dust. Carbo had delved off into the fray, fighting desperately by the side of three men from his century. Elsewhere, clusters of legionaries fought together – but there were so few. Some groups had pulled the riders from their saddles, others had plunged their spears into the unarmoured bellies of the mounts, bringing down rider and beast. But for every dead or dying clibanarius in the tangle of fallen bodies, there were many more shattered legionary corpses.

He coughed and retched as the dust billowed all around him, staggering through the carpet of bone, blood and spilled guts. Suddenly, a clibanarius rider burst into view, coming for him. He swung his spear shaft up to parry the rider’s lance, the collision shattering both weapons, then ducked under the follow-up kick the rider aimed from the saddle. He snatched at the rider’s leg and hauled the man from the saddle. The man fell to his knees with a crunch of iron, then struggled to stand. The rider drew his shamshir and Gallus tore out his spatha. Sparks flew as the blades clashed again and again. A swift strike saw the rider score the flesh on Gallus’ already bleeding shoulder. Gallus roared and hacked back, the edge of his spatha dashing against the clibanarius’ midriff. It would have been a death blow to any other, but the blade simply bounced back from the plate-armour this rider wore around his ribs. Gallus swore he could hear the masked rider laugh over the din of screaming and thundering war drums. Another strike on the rider’s thighs rendered no damage – the ring armour there as hardy as the rest. Exhausted, Gallus staggered back. The clibanarius pulled off his mask to reveal his bearded, flat-boned face and a snarling grimace.

‘Ahura Mazda wills death upon you and your family, Roman dog,’ the rider spat in jagged Greek as he pointed his long, straight blade at Gallus accusingly, then hefted it to strike.

Gallus stared through the rider, seeing instead the shadows of those who had taken Olivia and Marcus from him. He felt his sword arm shudder as he parried the rider’s blow, then he felt the soft ripping of meat as he drove his spatha into the man’s jaw, down into his throat. Hot blood erupted over Gallus’ face, and he stared into and beyond the rider’s bulging eyes, whispering as he tore his blade free; ‘A poor choice of words, cur.’ The light left the rider’s eyes and Gallus remained, staring into the past as the corpse toppled. He heard nothing but his dead wife and son’s last cries. He saw nothing but their blackened corpses on the pyre. Then the tumult of the battle all around came back to him like a storm wind.

In every direction, his vexillatio and those of the IV Scythica were being butchered. He saw the coal-skinned primus pilus surrounded by the bodies of his men. The primus pilus screamed in defiance, before a clibanarius swept the head from his shoulders, bringing gouts of blood from the neck stump. Through the crimson spray, Gallus saw that the XI Claudia banner still stood. He set off through the fray to join them.

If I am to die today then, by Mithras, it will be by their side.

Pavo wiped the blood from his eyes and grappled Tribunus Ovidius by the scruff of his mailshirt as arrows rained down around them. ‘Sir! We must stand together!’

But Ovidius was insensible to these hoarse words. He clawed at Pavo’s shoulders, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging as he gawped past Pavo, off to the north-west. ‘The dunes, run for the dunes!’ he squealed.