An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  Belisarius eased back in his saddle and slid his spatha back into its waist-scabbard. (Valentinian, of course, did no such thing. Nor did Anastasius seem in any hurry to relinquish his mace.)

  Belisarius turned and looked at Eutychian. The chiliarch was not more than thirty yards away. He and his own subordinates had witnessed the entire scene. So, Belisarius estimated, had dozens of the Army of Lebanon’s cavalrymen. The faces of Eutychian and his commanders were also pale. But, Belisarius noted, they did not seem particularly outraged. Rather the contrary, in fact.

  He studied the cavalrymen. No pale faces there. A few frowns, perhaps, but there were at least as many smiles to offset them. Even a few outright grins. Pharas, he suspected, had not been a popular commander.

  Belisarius returned his hard stare to Eutychian. The chiliarch suddenly smiled-just slightly-and nodded his own head.

  Belisarius turned back to the four commanders at his side.

  “You will obey me instantly and without question. Do you understand?”

  Vigorous nods. Anastasius replaced his mace in its holder. Valentinian did no such thing with his spatha.

  A sudden blaring of cornicens. Belisarius turned back again. He could no longer see the Persian army, for his vision was obscured by the mass of cavalrymen at the front line. But it was obvious the Medes had begun their charge. Eutychian and his commanders were riding down the line, shouting orders.

  Now in a hurry, Belisarius issued quick, simple instructions to the four commanders at his side:

  “Eutychian will hold the right, using half of the Army of Lebanon’s heavy cavalry and all of the mounted archers. You four will assemble the other half of the Army of Lebanon’s lancers and keep them in reserve. I want them ready to charge”-his voice turned to pure steel-“ when I say, where I say, and how I say. Is that understood? ”

  Very vigorous nods.

  Belisarius gestured to Anastasius and Valentinian.

  “Until the battle is over, these men will act as my immediate executive officers. You will obey their orders as if they came from me. Is that understood?”

  Very vigorous nods.

  Belisarius began to introduce his two cataphracts by name, but decided otherwise. For his immediate purposes, they had already been properly introduced.

  Death and Destruction, he thought, would do just fine.

  After the four commanders left to begin sorting out and assembling their forces, Belisarius rode back to the front line. As he approached, the Hun light cavalry began pouring back from the battlefield. They were no match in a head-to-head battle with the oncoming Persian lancers, and they knew it.

  That’s one of the few good things about mercenaries, thought Belisarius. At least they aren’t given to idiotic suicide charges.

  For all their mercenary character, the Huns were good soldiers. Experienced veterans, too. Their retreat was not a rout, and as soon as they reached the relative safety of the Roman lines they began to regroup. They knew the Roman heavy cavalry would be sallying soon, and it would be their job to provide flanking cover against the Persian horse archers.

  Belisarius was now right behind the front line of the Roman heavy horse. Between two cavalrymen, he watched the advancing Medes.

  The Persian heavy cavalry had not yet started their galloping charge. They still had two hundred yards to cross before reaching the Roman lines. The Medes were veterans themselves, who knew the danger of exhausting their mounts in a battle-especially one fought in the heat of Syrian summer. Still, their thunderous advance was massively impressive. Two thousand heavy lancers, four lines deep, maintaining themselves in good order, flanked by three thousand horse archers maintaining their own excellent discipline.

  Very impressive, but The Roman archers in the fortifications-Ghassanid mercenaries, these-were now aiming all their fire at the Mede cavalry attacking the right. They were ignoring, for the moment, the swarm of Persian horse archers in the center who were raining their own arrows on the encampment. Hermogenes, Belisarius noted, was keeping a cool head. Protected by the wall in front of them, his infantry would suffer few casualties from the Persian archers. Meanwhile, their arrows could hamper the advance of the Persian lancers.

  Hermogenes had trained his men well, too. The Arab archers ignored the temptation to fire at the lancers themselves. The heavy Persian armor would deflect arrows from their light bows, especially at that range. Instead, the men were aiming at the unprotected legs of the horses. True, the range was long, but Belisarius saw more than a few Persian horses stumble and fall, spilling their riders.

  From the hill, a flight of arrows sailed toward the Persian cavalry advancing on the Roman right. But the arrows fell short and the volley ceased almost immediately. Belisarius knew that Maurice had reined in the overenthusiastic cataphracts. The range-firing diagonally across the entire battlefield-was too extreme, even for their powerful bows firing with the wind. Instead, Maurice ordered his cataphracts and the Isaurians to concentrate their fire on the swarm of light horse archers in the center.

  Belisarius was delighted. His army was functioning the way a good army should. The archers on the left were protecting the infantry in the center, while they harassed the Persians advancing on the right.

  A volley of scorpion darts and onager stones sailed into the Persian heavy cavalry, tearing holes in the ranks. The cavalry began to spread, losing their compact formation.

  Good, Phocas, good. But, with this wind, it should be possible-

  Yes!

  The next artillery volley fell right in the middle of the Persian command group at the rear of the battlefield. The Persian officers hadn’t expected artillery fire, and their attention had been completely riveted on the battleground. The missiles arrived as a complete surprise. The carnage was horrendous. Those men or horses struck by huge onager stones were so much pulp, regardless of their heavy armor. Nor did that same armor protect the Persians from the spear-sized arrows cast by the scorpions. One of those officers, struck almost simultaneously by two scorpion bolts, was literally torn to pieces.

  As always in battle, Belisarius’ brown eyes were like stones. But his cold gaze ignored the artillery’s victims. His attention was completely focused on the survivors.

  Please, let Firuz still be alive. Oh, please, let that arrogant hot-tempered jackass still be alive.

  Yes!

  Firuz had obviously been driven into a rage. Belisarius could recognize the Persian commander’s colorful cloak and plumage, personally leading the main body of his army in a charge at the center of the Roman lines. Three thousand heavy lancers, flanked by four thousand mounted archers, already at a full gallop.

  It was a charge worthy of the idiot Pharas-the late, unlamented Pharas. The Mede lancers in the center had half a mile to cover before they reached the Roman fortifications. A half-mile in scorching heat, against wind-blown dust. It was absurd-and would have been, even if there weren’t already three thousand Persian horse archers milling around in the center of the battlefield. The charging Persian lancers would be trampling over their own troops.

  Midway through the charge, however, some sanity appeared to return to the Persians-to the horse archers already in the center, at least. Seeing the oncoming lancers, the mounted archers scurried out of their way. Their officers led them in a charge against the small Roman force on the hill.

  Belisarius watched intently. He was confident that his cataphracts and the Isaurians could repel the attack, even outnumbered five to one. The Persians would be trying to climb steep slopes under plunging fire. And if matters got too tight, the two thousand cavalry from his own little army were stationed on the left wing, not far from the hill. But he didn’t want to use those horsemen there, if he didn’t absolutely need to. He wanted them fresh when Belisarius’ view was suddenly obscured. Cornicens were blowing. The cavalrymen in front of him began firing their bows at the Persian lancers who were now less than a hundred yards away. A moment later, the cornicens blew again. The Roman cavalry
charged to meet the oncoming lancers. They fired one last volley at the beginning of the charge and then slid the bows into their sheaths. It would be lance and sword work, now.

  Belisarius glanced quickly toward the center. But it was impossible to see anything, anymore. The entire battlefield was now covered with dust, which the wind was blowing against the Persians. He could still see the hill, however, rising above the dust clouds. Within three or four seconds, simply from watching the unhurried and confident way in which his Thracian cataphracts and the Isaurians were firing their bows, Belisarius was certain that they would hold. Long enough, anyway.

  It was time.

  He looked back to the battle raging right before him. The Army of Lebanon’s Huns were sweeping around the extreme right, trying to flank the Persian horse archers. But the Persians archers were veterans also, and were extending their own line to match the Huns. That part of the battle almost instantly became a chaotic swirl of horsemen exchanging bow-fire, often at point-blank range.

  Dust everywhere, now. Beautiful, wonderful, obscuring dust. Blowing from the west over the Persians, blinding them to all Roman maneuvers.

  The only part of the battle Belisarius could still see-other than the hilltop-was the collision between the Army of Lebanon’s lancers and the lancers of the Persian left. Eutychian and his two thousand armored horsemen were smashing head to head with an equal number of Persian heavy cavalry. The noise of the battlefield-already immense-seemed to fill the entire universe. The clash of metal, the screams of men and horses filled the air.

  It was a battle the Persians would win, eventually. Except for the very best cataphract units, no Roman heavy cavalry could defeat an equal number of Persian lancers. But, as he watched the vigor and courage of Eutychian’s charge, Belisarius was more than satisfied. Eutychian would lose his part of the battle, but by the time he did, the Romans would have triumphed in the field as a whole.

  More than that, Belisarius did not ask.

  Hold the right, Eutychian. Just hold it.

  He began to canter away.

  And try to survive. I can use an officer like you. So can Rome.

  As he rode, he passed orders through Valentinian and Anastasius. The four remaining commanders of the Army of Lebanon were quick to obey. Very quick. The two thousand lancers of that Army which Belisarius had kept in reserve-the same ones Pharas would have thrown away in a suicide charge-were now cantering across the battlefield in good order. South to north, behind the Roman lines, from the right wing to the left wing. They were completely invisible to the Persians, due to the wind-blown dust.

  As they drew behind the fortified camp, Belisarius ordered a halt. He thought there was still time, and he wanted to make sure that the battle had become locked in the center.

  While the Army of Lebanon’s lancers allowed their horses to rest, therefore, Belisarius trotted up to the camp and passed into it through the west gate. He could begin to see now, even with the dust.

  Just as he had planned (and hoped-not that he’d ever admit it to that morose old grouch Maurice) the main body of Persian lancers in the center had smashed into his trap. True, they had done so in a charge ordered by an idiot, but-that’s the beauty of the first law of battles, after all. It cuts both ways.

  Sitting on his horse not thirty yards from the fortified wall, Belisarius found it hard not to grin. He hadn’t seen it, but he knew what had happened.

  Imagine three thousand Persian lancers, thundering up to a wretched little earthen wall, guarded by not more than a thousand terrified, pathetic, wretched infantrymen. They sweep the enemy aside, right? Like an avalanche!

  Well, not exactly. There are problems.

  First, each cavalry mount has been hauling a man (a large man, more often than not) carrying fifty pounds of armor and twenty pounds of weapons-not to mention another hundred pounds of the horse’s own armor. At a full gallop for half a mile, in the blistering heat of a Syrian summer.

  So, the horses are winded, disgruntled, and thinking dark thoughts.

  Two-all hearsay to the contrary-horses are not stupid. Quite a bit brighter than men, actually, when it comes to that kind of intelligence known popularly as “horse sense.” So, when a horse sees looming before it: a) a ditch b) a wall c) lots of men on the wall holding long objects with sharp points

  The horse stops. Fuck the charge. If some stupid man wants to hurl himself against all that dangerous crap, let him. (Which, often enough, they do-sailing headlong over their horse’s stubborn head.)

  It was the great romantic fallacy of the cavalry charge, and Belisarius had been astonished-all his life-at how fervently men still held to it, despite all practical experience and evidence to the contrary. Yes, horses will charge-against infantry in the open, and against other cavalry. Against anything, as long as the horse can see that it stands a chance of getting through the obstacles ahead, reasonably intact.

  But no horse this side of an equine insane asylum will charge a wall too high to leap over. Especially a wall covered with nasty sharp objects.

  And there’s no point trying to convince the horse that the infantry manning the wall are feeble and demoralized.

  Is that so? Tell you what, asshole. Climb off my back and show me. Use your own legs. Mine hurt.

  The horses would have drawn up short before the ditch and the wall even if the fortification had been, in truth, guarded by only a thousand demoralized infantrymen. In the event, however, just as the horses drew near, Hermogenes had given the order and the cornicens had blown a new tune. Oh, a gleeful tune.

  Surprise!

  The other three thousand infantry hiding behind the wall and in the ditches had scrambled to their feet and taken their positions. The wall was now packed with spears, in the hands of soldiers full of confidence and vigor.

  The front line of horses had screeched to a halt. Many of their riders had been thrown off. Some had been killed by the fall itself. Most of the survivors were badly shaken and bruised.

  The second line of horse had piled into the first, the third into the second, the fourth into the third. More men were thrown off their mounts. To the injuries caused by falling were added the gruesome wounds suffered by men trampled by horses. Within seconds, the entire charging mass of Persian lancers had turned into an immobile, struggling, completely disordered mob. And now, worst of all, the Roman infantry began hurling volleys of plumbata into the milling Persians. At that close range, against a packed mass of confused and disoriented cavalry, the lead-weighted darts were fearsome weapons. The more so since the soldiers casting the weapons were expert in their use.

  The cornicens blew again. Thousands of Roman infantry began scrambling over the wall. Many of them were carrying spathae, but most were wielding the even shorter semi-spatha. Each of those men would plunge into the writhing mob of Persian cavalry and use the time-honored tactic of infantry against armored cavalry.

  It was an ignoble tactic, perhaps, and it never worked against cavalry on the move. But against cavalry forced to a halt, it was as certain as the sunrise.

  Hamstring and gut the horses. Then butcher the lordly nobles once they’re on the ground like us lowlife. See how much good their fine heavy armor does ’em then. And their bows and their lances and their fancy longswords. This here’s knife work, my lord.

  Belisarius rode out of the camp. The battle was his, if he could only drive home the final thrust.

  For all his eagerness to win, Belisarius was careful to keep his pace at an easy canter. There was time, there was time. Not much, but enough. He didn’t want the horses blown.

  Without even waiting for his orders, Valentinian and Anastasius reined in the overenthusiasts who began driving their horses faster. There was time. There was time. Not much, but enough.

  As they passed the western slope of the hill, the two thousand cavalry of Belisarius’ own army fell in with him. He now had a striking force of four thousand men, unblooded and confident, riding fresh horses.

  Belisarius s
aw a small figure standing on the slope, watching the army pass. Menander, he thought, still at his unwanted post. Even from the distance, he thought he could detect the bitter reproach in the boy’s posture.

  Sorry, lad. But you’ll get your share of bloodshed in the future. And for that I really am sorry.

  Now his force was curving around the northern slope of the hill. They had passed entirely across the line and were on the verge of falling on the enemy’s unprotected right flank.

  They came around the hill with Belisarius in the lead. The center of the battlefield was still obscured by dust, but the Romans could now see the Persian horse archers who were trying to storm the hill. The slaughter here had been immense, and it was immediately obvious that the Persians were discouraged.

  Discouragement soon became outright terror. The four thousand Roman lancers hammered their way through the mounted archers without even pausing. Moments later they were plunging into the dust cloud, aiming at the mass of Persian lancers stymied at the center.

  Belisarius turned halfway in his saddle and signaled the buglers behind him. The cornicens began blowing the order for a full charge. Their sound was a thin, piercing wail over the thundering bedlam of the battlefield.

  Yet, for all the noise, the general was able to hear Valentinian and Anastasius, riding just behind him.

  Valentinian: “I told you so.”

  Anastasius: Inarticulate snort.

  Valentinian: Mutter, mutter, mutter.

  Belisarius: “What was that last? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  Valentinian: Silence.

  Anastasius: “I think he said ’fuck brave officers.’ ”

  Valentinian: Hiss.

  Anastasius: “But maybe not. It’s noisy. Maybe the cold-blooded little killer said, ’Fuck brazen coffers.’ Idiot thing to say on a battlefield, of course. But he’s-”

  All else was lost. The first Persian lancer loomed in the dust, his back turned away. Belisarius raised his lance high and drove it right through the Mede’s heart. The enemy fell off his horse, taking the lance with him.