The fleet was close enough now to discern. The ships were not Persian. Twelve triremes. Each of the white sails bore a silver Chi-Rho emblem. The decks were awash with armoured men and a figure on the foremost vessel carried a silver eagle banner.
The triremes crunched onto the shore, and a chorus of splashing and drumming boots followed. In moments, the shallows were thick with dark-blue shields emblazoned with silver Chi-Rhos, gleaming intercisa helms and spear tips. First one cohort, then another two. The XVI Flavia Firma – the rest of Carbo’s legion. Some fifteen hundred men. With them was a pack of some three hundred funditores – Armenian slingers dressed in tunics with small bull-hide shields strapped to their biceps and axes dangling from their belts. Like a wave of steel, they splashed forward from the shallows, then onto the sand, rushing to form up.
Gallus dismounted, slapping his exhausted mount on the flanks to send it cantering from the beach. Then he sought out the red-bearded officer to the right of the first cohort. ‘Tribunus Varius of the XVI Flavia Firma!’ the man saluted as he approached.
‘Tribunus Gallus of the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis,’ Gallus barked in reply.
‘It is you,’ Varius’ face widened in disbelief and he clasped Gallus’ shoulders. ‘The last of the emperor’s vexillatio?’
Gallus frowned. ‘Aye,’ he replied guardedly. ‘What do you know of my men and I?’
Varius held his gaze with an earnest look. ‘A messenger came to Antioch, bringing news of your enslavement.’
‘A messenger?’ Gallus’ eyes narrowed.
Varius nodded. ‘A desert warrior. A Maratocupreni chieftain. A woman.’
‘Izodora?’ Pavo gasped from nearby.
‘Aye,’ Varius replied, ‘A beauty with a tongue like a whip! She spoke to Emperor Valens like a scolding mother. But he listened, he hung on her every word. He heard of your capture and his shoulders slumped, but then his eyes sparkled when he realised you had been taken alive to the Satrapy of Persis. After that he sent his advisors from the room and they talked alone. Afterwards, when she had gone, his eyes were red-rimmed and his face sullen. It was then that he came to me. I assumed it was to finalise my orders to take my men to Thracia with the last of the few legions stationed in Syria – even the barely-trained city garrisons are being loaded onto ships and sent west. But no, he told me that I was instead to take my legion east, to patrol these waters, to seek you out. He insisted that while there was hope that you and your men still lived, then there was hope for the empire’s eastern frontier. His advisors argued that it was folly not to send us to Thracia. But the emperor was adamant. Think of those who call this land home, he glared at them, those who cannot simply turn and flee to some country villa in Anatolia or Africa! Their protests soon fell silent,’ Varius grinned dryly, then his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper; ‘Tell me you found Jovian’s scroll, Tribunus.’
‘Aye, we have it,’ Gallus cocked an eyebrow, patting the flank of his robe, ‘but it won’t save the empire.’
Varius’ frowned as if to reply, then his face paled and his jaw dropped, his eyes widening as he looked over Gallus’ shoulder to the top of the beach.
Gallus twisted to look up to the grassy dunes. A thick dust plume billowed just beyond. Moments later, myriad vivid drafsh banners bobbed into view, as if rising from the dunes. Then the silvery mass of the Savaran came into full view; a vast and deep line of near ten thousand Persian riders. Their centre was a thick line of steel cataphractii, encased in scale aprons and crowned with pointed helms, balled-plumes whipping in the coastal breeze. The plate-armoured, masked clibanarii lingered close behind and the flanks were composed of broad gunds of archer-cavalry. On the Persian right flank, a drafsh of one hundred Median spearmen led the wretched paighan mass – some two thousand men – into place, and a dozen war elephants lumbered up beside them.
Gallus grasped Varius by the shoulders. ‘The scroll will not save the empire and it certainly won’t save us now. Hurry, we must put to sea at once,’ he said, gesturing towards the nearest trireme.
But Varius shook his head. ‘We cannot, Tribunus.’ He stabbed a finger towards the mouth of the Euphrates. There, another fleet had drifted into view. Hundreds upon hundreds of galleys. This time, the fleet was unmistakably Persian. Myriad purple, green and red sails adorned with gold-threaded winged Faravahar motifs, spilling from the mouth of the river and down the Gulf coast, only a few miles away.
‘Tamur’s fleet!’ Gallus gasped in horror.
‘We were ready to end our mission,’ Varius continued, struggling to control the panic in his voice, ‘to return to Emperor Valens and tell him you were lost. After so many weeks of searching, what else were we to do?’ he shrugged. ‘But as we rowed back upriver, we sighted this Persian fleet coming downstream. Our only option was to turn and flee. It has taken all of our strength just to outrun them. But now our advantage is gone; if we put to sea they will surround and crush us.’
‘And if we stay here then we will also be crushed,’ Gallus glared at the Savaran – they had halted momentarily atop the dunes. ‘We should form a defensive line along the shore, then your ships and the waters will protect our rear.’
‘But we cannot hope to win?’ Varius said, wide-eyed as he glanced over the Romans – some eighteen hundred men – and then the ten thousand strong Savaran.
Gallus gazed at him, unflinching. ‘No, but we can die as heroes, and take swathes of these whoresons with us.’
Tamur crested the grassy dune and then halted, his gleeful grin transforming into a grimace as he beheld the Roman ships and the nest of shields and spears on the waterline. Five men had become nearly two thousand. He snatched at his reins and halted his army with a raised hand.
‘What is this?’ he snarled.
The narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar scanned the Roman lines. ‘A Roman legion. A single eagle. Not enough to repel your army, Spahbad.’ Then he pointed to the Persian fleet at the Euphrates estuary. ‘And your ships will be at the shores within a short while.’
Tamur noticed the man’s eyes narrow a fraction more as he said this. He frowned, hearing distrustful whispers dance in his mind. But he shook his head clear of the thoughts and scanned the Romans who faced his vast army. ‘So we must stamp upon this cluster of legionaries before we continue to Syria? So be it.’
Then he turned to his lead war drummer, beckoning him. The drummer jogged forward, licking his lips in anticipation of battle. He was a wild-eyed, hairless man dressed in only a loincloth. His head and body were painted in gold, his eyes were ringed with kohl and huge, bronze hoops dangled from his stretched earlobes.
Tamur pointed to the Roman lines. ‘Begin.’
The drummer grinned and nodded eagerly.
The legionary line hugged the shore, a wall of shields facing inland with the Flavia Firma triremes lining their rear. The surf crashed down behind Pavo, soaking him in salt spray and washing chill waves around his ankles as he hurriedly strapped a sword belt around the waist of his scale armour vest. Tribunus Varius’ men had swiftly brought them this armour along with helms, shields, spears and swords. Now he, Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura pressed together near the left flank of the Flavia Firma line, with the Armenian slingers knee deep in water behind them. All eyes were fixed upon the eerily still and silent Savaran line thronging the grassy dunes at the top of the beach. Only the occasional snorting of mounts and the steady crashing of waves sounded across the shore. Pavo glanced from Tamur at their centre to the war elephants on the Persian right; he saw the glinting tusks and the maddened eyes of the spiked-cane wielding mahouts saddled on the creatures’ necks. The sight brought a shiver across every inch of his skin. Indeed, since that day in the dunes, he had prayed he would never set eyes upon such beasts again. Hubris and terror battled in his gut. The soldier’s curse swelled his bladder and drained his mouth of moisture.
‘Why are we always on the bloody left?’ Sura cursed through chattering teeth, breaking the silence.
‘Becau
se that’s where the limitanei fight,’ Quadratus grunted, buckling on his intercisa helm – too small for the big Gaul’s head and causing his face to redden more than usual.
‘Because that’s where the XI Claudia fight,’ Pavo added.
Zosimus and Quadratus offered narrowed eyes and wry grins at this.
Suddenly, from the Persian centre, war horns keened like angry raptors and war drums crashed and throbbed like a titan’s heartbeat. Pavo saw a shaven, gold-painted Persian drummer run ahead of the Savaran ranks to thunder on the drum skins, his stretched earlobes jangling with every strike, his eyes bulging and his teeth bared behind a zealous grin.
‘That little bastard’s getting it if I can get close enough,’ Quadratus growled, rubbing his temples. ‘My head’s killing me!’
As if in defiance, the drummer’s arms became a blur, the rhythm throbbing faster and faster. In the Persian centre, Tamur raised both arms, eyes trained on the Roman line, his teeth gnashing. ‘Advance!’ His cry echoed across the beach as he chopped both arms down like blades.
At once, the mass of riders let out a unified war cry, raising myriad spears and swords overhead. The golden lion banner was pumped in the air and hundreds of smaller drafshs were hefted likewise. The two gunds of cataphractii riders at the centre – some two thousand men – lowered in their saddles and broke forward at a gallop, down the dunes and across the beach, sand churning up in their wake. A gund of archer cavalry charged on either flank.
Varius cried out to rally his men, and the Flavia Firma braced.
Gallus turned to his four. ‘Think of all we have lost, think of all they have taken from us,’ he boomed.
Pavo’s comrades pressed their shoulders to his. He knew Father’s shade stood with them.
‘Show them your ire!’ Gallus lifted his spatha from his scabbard and gazed along the blade, the reflected sunlight dancing across his face and conjuring a grimace. ‘Show them with sharpened steel! XI Claudia, ready!’ he roared, smashing the hilt on his shield boss. ‘For the empire!’
‘For the empire!’ Pavo roared in reply with his comrades.
As the Roman cry faded, the Persian archer cavalry on the flanks stretched their bows skywards. Pavo’s gut knotted – seeing the strategy play out in his mind. This volley would scatter the Roman ranks, allowing the cataphractii to cut through the gaps. But he noticed something; the towering puffs of salt-spray were drifting across the shore, soaking the riders as they charged. Many of the archers fumbled, fingers slipping on their dampened weapons.
Thousands of bows twanged, but instead of an ordered storm of arrows arcing up and into the sky, chaos erupted and arrows shot off in every direction. A chorus of pained cries and thwacking of arrowheads into flesh sounded as some punched straight into the riders before them. Crimson puffs of blood leapt into the air, horses whinnied, rearing and bucking, some setting off on a panicked charge back through their own ranks, arrows bristling from their flanks. In disarray, the gunds of archer cavalry on either flank fell away. Only a fraction of their hail fell upon the Roman ranks, and merely a handful of legionaries were struck.
Sura exhaled in relief. ‘What in Hades?’
‘The bows are useless! The fletching and sinew are damp from the salt spray,’ a legionary nearby gasped.
Realisation dawned on Pavo as he recalled the pirate skirmish near Rhodos. His heart soared.
He glanced to the side to see Gallus whispering skywards. Thank you, Mithras.
The cataphractii continued at a full charge, unaware of the chaos on their flanks, fully expecting the arrow volley to scatter the tight Roman spear line before them.
Pavo grappled his spear shaft and looked the nearest rider square in the eye. His mouth was agape in a war cry, dark moustache splayed, the red wetness at the back of his throat and the whites of his eyes betraying his battle-rage. The mount gnashed, its hooves throwing up great clumps of sand and its wild eyes rolling behind the bronze mesh baskets that protected them. The rider grappled his lance two handed and the chain tying the ends of the spear to the mount’s coat of armour stretched taut.
‘Dig your spears in, stand firm . . . ’ he heard Gallus bellow.
For even the bravest horse will never charge a nest of spears, Pavo mouthed the rest of the iron tribunus’ words.
At that instant, the cataphractii seemed to realise their archers had failed. The man directly in front of Pavo lost his expression of hubris, his jaw falling slack as he saw the wall of Roman spears unmoved. At the last, his mount skidded to a halt and he was catapulted through the air like slingshot, one leg snapping as it was wrenched through the curved horn front of his saddle. Pavo braced behind his spear as the man flailed towards him. With a weighty punch and a shower of hot blood across his face, his spear arm shuddered as the cataphractus landed upon the lance-tip. The man stared at Pavo in confusion as the death rattle tumbled from his lips and he slid from the spear. Nearly every horse on the cataphractii front had foundered likewise, the bodies of the riders cast to the ground or up in the air and onto the Roman spear tips. The second and third ranks of riders had charged into the rear of their stricken comrades, trampling them or tumbling themselves. Many of the riders that remained saddled and had made it to the Roman spear line were quickly hacked down by legionaries leaping forth, skewering man and mount. Within moments, the lapping waves underfoot were stained red and the screeching gulls were joined by a thick, dark pack of vultures, eyeing the reddening shoreline. The remaining Persian riders scattered and the legionaries fell back into line, panting. The first blood had been let and it had all come from this mighty Persian war machine.
By Pavo’s side, Sura grinned as he looked over the thrashing mass of riders. Those who had broken away reformed on the flanks, but of the four gunds in the first wave of attack, nearly half had been felled. ‘Invincible? Mithras’ arse they are!’ he cooed.
Pavo pushed closer to his friend. ‘Aye, but the clibanarii have yet to have their say.’ He pointed his gore-encrusted spear out to the next wave of riders, cantering down from the grassy dunes. Another two gunds, in plate-armour and iron facemasks etched with an inhuman rictus. Behind them on the dunes, he saw Tamur, snarling, barking at his men, enraged at their self-destruction so far.
‘Hold the line and they will not charge us – we know this!’ Gallus barked, Varius echoing the words. ‘Now, bows may be useless here, but our darts care little for a touch of spray in the air. Ready plumbatae!’ At once the Roman line became a foot taller, twelve hundred arms hefting weighted darts overhead.
The war drums picked up and the clibanarii built up to a canter.
Pavo trained his dart on the clibanarius coming for him. A few hundred feet became a hundred in moments. Then two of Tamur’s banners swung down in a chopping motion, one to either side. On the flanks, the remainder of the cataphractii had reformed. Now they hared round to splash into the shallows, then raced along the shoreline towards the Roman flanks.
‘Form square!’ Gallus cried, eyes bulging as he saw the manoeuvre.
The plumbatae were dropped, unloosed as the lines scrambled to protect the flanks and rear. But they were too slow. The cataphractii plunged into the barely protected Roman flanks. They barged through the unprepared lines, sending groups sprawling, trampling and cutting down men. In moments, the legionary line had disintegrated into pockets. Pavo stumbled forward, the blood of some comrade in the rear ranks showering his back. He righted himself and rushed over to Sura, Quadratus, Zosimus and Gallus. They quickly clustered together with a handful of Flavia Firma men, swiping their spears this way and that.
The clibanarii swooped on this disorder, their mounts racing into the gaps between the clusters of legionaries, lancing and swiping, felling men like wheat. The cries of dying legionaries grew deafening. Pavo leapt back as one clibanarius’ lance scored across his scale vest, tearing the scales from it and stinging the skin of his chest. He saw the rider thunder onwards to burst the chests of two less fortunate legionaries, the
smattering of plumbatae and spears hurled at the rider bouncing from the man’s armour. Then the all-iron riders swept out of the fray, circling further up the beach, readying to swoop in again. There was no time for the Roman lines to reform, but if they remained in clusters like this, they would be cut down. Pavo’s eyes darted. Something nagged at the depths of his mind. Something Khaled had once told him.
The clibanarii are invincible? I thought so too, once. The finest blades – lances and swords – all will blunt on their plate-armour. Then I saw a shepherd’s boy fell one of them with his sling.
Pavo snatched a glance to the water; there, the slingers had fled out into the waves, standing waist deep now. He roared to Gallus. ‘Sir, the funditores – have them fire on the clibanarii, at close range!’ he called to Gallus. Gallus looked at him with a scowl, as if he had been torn from a nightmare. ‘It’s something I heard in the mines – it might work.’ The tribunus frowned, then cried over the melee to where Varius braced with a hundred or so of his men.
The Flavia Firma standards swiped through the air and orders were barked to the slingers. In moments, a burring of slings picked up. In way of reply, Tamur’s battle cry sailed over the beach and the war drums thrashed in a frenzy. The clibanarii swooped for the legionary clusters.
Pavo braced, fingers flexing on his spear. ‘Come on, come on!’ he cried, glancing to the slingers and then to the clibanarius lancer coming for him. But the rider’s spear was upon him. It was too late. He heard his own battle cry as though from a great distance as he swept his spear up to parry, but the tip of the clibanarius’ lance punctured the flesh of his shoulder and blood burst into the air. The rider then tore out his shamshir blade and hefted it to cut through Pavo’s neck.
‘Loose!’ the cry rang out at last from Varius. Three-hundred slings spat forth into the clibanarii front. A chorus of clattering iron filled the air as the shot thwacked into the plate-armour and facemasks. Muffled screams echoed from within. The rider hovering over Pavo seemed frozen, sword arm raised. A neat, dark hole in the forehead of his iron mask had appeared. Then a gout of black blood leapt from the hole, followed by more from the eye and mouth slits. The rider fell from the saddle with a crash of armour and the sound echoed along the clibanarii lines. The seemingly infallible plate-armour had been beaten, pierced by the shot or crumpling and crushing the bones of the riders within. The slings burred again and another volley sent hundreds more of the riders to the sand.
Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire Page 33
