At the head of the middle wedge, Ziebil at last cut loose with a long shrieking cry. Ah-la-la-la-la-la!
As they galloped forward, Ziebil's men drew their bows, fitting shaft to string, and at a bare hundred paces—let fly. Their arrows arced up, a hungry dark cloud, and then whistled down, slashing through the ranks of the Persians. Behind the arrow storm, the horsemen continued to charge forward. Now lances rasped from their wooden sockets and were held overhand, ready to strike.
—|—
Galen felt the rumble in the earth like the soundless echo of a great drum. He rose up, shading his eyes with his hand. The banners of the Khazars on the left wing were in full flight, plunging forward into the Persian right. He wheeled his horse and shouted for his trumpeters.
"Signal advance, Third Gallica and Second Audiatrix, by ranks, forward on the flank!"
The blare of the trumpets drowned the rest of his words. Dispatch riders pelted off for each wing of the Roman reserve. Galen slapped his thigh with a glove, staring to the west.
Where are you? he wondered, thinking of Heraclius.
Ahead of him, the two Legions that he had held back from the butcher's work at the center of the line picked up their shields and trotted forward in column, swinging wide around the backs of the legionnaires already locked in battle.
—|—
Baraz watched in mounting fury as the confused mass of cavalry on his right wing finally sorted itself out in preparation to charge. Precious minutes had been lost as the bands of horsemen jockeyed for the front rank and snarled each other over matters of clan honor. He could make out Salabalgus' banners, and the old man had held his position, waiting for his commanders to beat their men into position, but it was too late. The Khazar charge had sprung forward like a pack of well-trained hounds. Baraz could only look on in sick admiration at the smooth flow of the attack.
The first wedge slammed into the Persian horse at a gallop, right at the junction between Salabalgus' formation and Doronas'. The Persians had barely begun to move forward at a walk when the Khazar charge tore into them like a heavy axe into a lamb. The clang of the impact echoed over the whole field, and Baraz winced as the shining wedge of Khazars plowed through his right wing.
Then the second and third wedges struck home and the entire right wing collapsed into a swirl of men fighting for their lives. Salabalgus' banner vanished under the wall of Khazar lancers and did not rise again. Baraz ground his fist into the saddle. The helms of the clibanari were bobbing silver islands in a sea of Khazar horsemen. Long hooked poles stabbed at the Persian knights, clutching at their armor and helmets. Lassos snaked out, snaring their throats.
Another sound caught Baraz's attention, and he turned back to the center of the field. The Roman lines in the middle had suddenly unfolded like a steel flower. The thick line of Roman infantrymen had unfurled its wings and was swinging around to compress the huge throng of Persian spearmen and levies in the center.
The Boar drummed his fingers on the saddle horn. There were only two dispatch riders left. He beckoned them over.
"You," he said, jabbing a thick finger at the first one, "ride back along the road. Find every commander and tell them to stop coming forward. We need maneuvering room, not more problems. When you run out of bands of men to hold up, get them moving back to where we camped last night. Form up there. I fear I'll be along presently."
"And you," he said to the second one, "get after Gundarnasp on the left wing and countermand the order I sent before. He is not to attack, repeat, not to attack. He should regroup his light horse and fall back to this hill behind a screen, protecting our left."
The boys dashed off and the Boar sat for a moment, brooding. He still had his Immortals, patiently waiting at the bottom of the hill. The center looked like a complete loss, but it would keep the Roman infantry busy for a while. The right wing was a more severe disaster. He could commit his reserve and rectify the situation, or he could wait for more troops to form up...
—|—
A thin man with a sallow face leaned close to Heraclius, whispering in his ear. The Eastern Emperor smiled, delighted at the news. He pressed a bag of heavy coins into the priest's hand and smoothed out his mustaches. The day was proceeding in a better fashion than he had expected. He kneed his horse and it trotted forward through the ranks of waiting men. Twenty thousand heavy cavalrymen were arrayed along the right wing of the Roman army in two echelons. Heraclius reached the front rank of the echelon he commanded and wheeled his horse. His voice was amplified by the design of his helmet.
"Men of Rome! The enemy is in flight. Advance at all speed!"
The Eastern nobles picked up the cry and urged their mounts forward. Slowly at first, but picking up speed, the mass of horsemen rode forward. Within moments they were thundering over a shallow rise, bearing down on the Persian flank at full tilt.
Heraclius was in front, his great tan stallion flying over the ground. He leaned forward, reveling in the rush of wind over his face. He held his longsword back, parallel to the horse, waiting for the moment to strike. Persian light horse, Huns by the look of them, scattered out of the way in front of the thundering charge. Some turned in the saddle and shot arrows back at the Eastern knights, but far too few to do any damage.
The Persian horse loomed, almost at rest. They began to move forward, lashing at their horses. Heraclius could see their faces, frightened by the sight of the twin wedges of cataphracti storming toward them. The line of horses and men flew forward, legs blurring over the ground. He straightened up, his sword flashing out.
"Rome!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "Roma Victrix!"
—|—
Ziebil coughed blood onto the ground, feeling the earth under his hands shake with the thunder of hooves. Somewhere on the field of battle, a cavalry charge was going home. He staggered up, his long knife in his hand. His helmet was gone, smashed off by the blow of a Persian war mace. Blood streamed into his right eye and he blinked furiously, trying to keep it clear. Horses and men rushed by him in the swirl of battle. His horse was gone, as was the small round shield that had been strapped to his upper arm.
A Persian in half-armor spurred toward him, cutting overhand with a long curved sword. Ziebil ducked aside, slashing at the horse's legs. He missed but felt the tip of the sword cut across his shoulder. Fresh pain blossomed and he felt cold wetness on his arm. The Khazar jumped at the next horse that thundered by but missed the saddle horn and was knocked down hard. Gasping for breath, Ziebil caught a glimpse of a long spear flashing in the sun, then there was a stunning blow to his stomach.
He cried out, but there was no breath left in his lungs. Men were shouting, and dimly he heard a voice calling his name. Darkness clouded the sky and he saw the spear rise, thin red blood sluicing off of the leaf-shaped blade. He was very cold. Men struggled over his body, but he did not care. He closed his eyes.
—|—
Baraz howled in delight, his huge sword spinning above his head. He rushed three Khazars trying to pull one of the Immortals from his armored horse with a lasso and hewed into them from behind. One head flew off, shorn clean from the man's neck, and the other two screamed as he mauled them. The Boar and his men pressed on, wreaking terrible havoc on the more lightly armored and armed Khazars. The Persian right flank began to reform around the solid core of the Immortals.
The remaining Khazars fell back behind a flurry of arrows. Baraz did not pursue. The Boar rallied the men who had followed Doronas and Salabalgus, both of whom were dead, to him and fell back toward the hill.
—|—
Galen and his staff watched the Khazars fall back in disarray on their left. The red and yellow banners of the Persian Immortals waved amid the heaps of dead that were left in their wake. The Western Emperor frowned and made a quick count to himself. The Third Gallica was locked in a fierce struggle on the left wing of the Persian infantry, trying to turn the line and roll it up. A scattering of Khazar archers were all that stood between his ex
posed infantry and the Persian heavy horse.
"Caesar!" One of his staff officers was pointing to the west. Galen turned.
Heraclius' charge had slammed home, brushing aside the remains of the Hunnic archers and crumpling the entire Persian right wing. Persian horsemen were fleeing south in ones and twos, but more were being hewn down by Heraclius' men as they surged across the Persian flank. Galen smiled grimly and signaled to his trumpeters.
"Sound retreat, ten paces and stand," he shouted. The trumpets blared again, a sharp staccato. The buccinators wailed. "Signal the guard to swing right and cover the flank of the Third Gallica."
Behind him the Varangians and Germans ran forward, their axes and longswords at the ready. Galen turned his horse, watching the Persian line. His legionnaires backed off, their front reforming where their ranks had been eaten away by the melee. Fresh men rushed in to fill the holes in the line. The Persians staggered forward and then stopped in confusion. The relentless pressure that had been forcing them forward had stopped. The Roman front was solid again, a bristling wall of shields, spears, and swords. Men shouted at the rear of the Persian formations. Many men turned, staring to their rear. Heraclius and his knights swept down the hillside toward the spearmen. The Persians began to mill about, shouting. Then a man on the left wing started running. Within moments the entire mass, still at least thirty thousand men, was in flight.
Heraclius' knights, screaming their battle cry, plowed into the running infantry. Galen closed his eyes for a moment, but the din filled his ears even so. A great wailing rose up. It was enough. He spurred his horse forward.
"All Legions, advance at a walk!"
The Western Legions surged forward, closing the trap.
—|—
"Lord of Corruption, I commit my soul to your keeping..."
Baraz shook his head. The Immortals had collapsed into a broad arc around his position at the eastern end of the plain. Scattered bands of Persians—horsemen, archers, spearmen—accreted to his banner like salt around a string suspended in brine. The rest of the field was a disaster. Tens of thousands of Persians lay dead and many more staggered south, heading for the chaos of the road, their formations scattered and broken. He could not make out Rhazames' banner in the middle of the field, and he was sure that Gundarnasp and all of the entire left wing of the army had been destroyed.
Now the Romans were redressing their lines. From where he sat upon his horse, he could not tell if any of the Roman cohorts had been destroyed. Soon they would march against him. Baraz beckoned his officers to him.
"This day is done. Send the men on foot ahead. Then the horse. The road south will be a charnel house. We will strike due east, through the woods to the shore of the sea and then south, back to Persian lands."
Baraz stared out over the field, his mind ignoring the windrows of dead, the wandering, riderless horses. The Roman army crouched in the middle of the field, a scaled and plated creature with myriad sharp spines. He shook his head, wishing for a fleeting moment that the King of Kings had not seized so greedily upon Dahak's power. If he had come to this field by horse, the advance of the Persian army would have been delayed into the spring, giving him time to flog the inexperienced men into some kind of army.
No matter, he thought. Chrosoes has made his throw of the dice and lost. Now if only I can escape this debacle with my own head intact!
He did laugh then, for the game of wits and skill that he embarked upon pleased him. The Immortals near him shuddered—the sound of such gay laughter in this place was madness.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
The Ziggurat of the Magi
Maxian and his followers entered the buried city by a hidden path. The Walach, at the bidding of Gaius Julius, had found a trail made by goats and sheep that entered the city from the north, winding its way through fallen palaces and ruined temples. The old Roman had been more than usually smug, noting that even wizards had to eat sometime. Maxian took his time, walking slowly, most of his mind submerged in the hidden world. Strange patterns and geometries filled the spaces between the buildings and even the sky above the city. The dead man had been right to counsel stealth.
The stock trail crossed a cracked mosaic floor, exposed to the sky by the collapse of the building that had once housed it. The Prince walked for a space on clouds and a brilliant blue sky filled with wondrous birds. Two of the Walach boys preceded him, sinking low to the ground, sniffing and smelling everything that they encountered.
Krista shadowed the Prince at his right shoulder. The homunculus followed, carrying the unconscious body of the Persian magician. Abdmachus had been a long time in yielding up the secrets of the ziggurat. Gaius Julius had emerged from the body of the engine with a sour, drained expression on his face and a carefully drawn map in hand. Khiron, though his chest and arms were covered with a network of fresh scratches and bruises, was unmoved. Alais had fairly glowed, her hair thicker and richer in texture, almost the color of molten gold. Krista wondered if the Prince had noticed.
The lush blonde and the rest of the Walach followed behind the homunculus, as quiet as fallen leaves. Krista moved as quietly as she was able, but anger simmered in the back of her mind at the effortless skill the barbarians exhibited. She felt heavy, weighed down by a light shirt of chainmail links that she wore strapped around her torso under the dark colors she had lately favored. The Prince seemed to move with the same grace now, though he had never shown an aptitude before. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Alais.
The Walach woman was watching the Prince with ill-disguised avarice. Despite the threat of imminent violence, Alais had chosen to dress herself in a tight-fitting leather top that revealed just enough of her figure to excite the imagination, silk leggings, high leather boots, and the heavy dark cloak. Krista sneered inside, ignoring the fact that she had worn similar outfits herself, though in slightly more fitting circumstances.
This isn't a summer party on the Seven Hills, she thought, someone will be dead soon... maybe a fat woman with no sense of style.
She missed the Duchess. Anastasia was so skilled with this kind of thing that were she here, the barbarian woman would have already fled in shame. The Roman woman smoothed her sleeves over the hidden shapes of the spring-gun and her knife. She still had some small consolations.
The lead Walach stopped, raising a hand in warning. Silently he pointed to the left, into a dark recess. The stock trail turned away to the right, into a high barrel-vaulted building made of thick courses of stone blocks with bricks laid in between. The smell of sheep and goats tickled the nose. Krista watched the Prince advance carefully and confer with the two Walach boys.
"Soon," Gaius Julius said in her ear, "there will be some blood spilled."
Krista nodded, turning around to keep the old Roman in view. The others had stopped, the Walach squatting, Alais drifting up to the Prince, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Gaius Julius met her eye and winked, his face holding back some suppressed amusement.
Krista's left eyelid flickered in anger and then she made a small smile. "You must be pleased, seeing battle again..."
Gaius Julius grimaced and shook his head.
"No," he said, "I never miss war. I miss the disputation in the Forum. I miss testing my wit and voice against others. This escapade has some intrigue, but little else... I used to say that war was the recourse of the defeated or the barbarian who knew no better. If you had to fight, you had already lost your case, you see?"
The Prince hissed at them and they turned. Maxian gestured toward the dark recess. One of the Walach boys was disappearing down the flight of brick steps hidden within its shadow. Krista nodded but then held back until everyone else had gone ahead. She took one last look around, starting with alarm when a white face appeared at the doorway of the barrel-vaulted building. Then she smiled and nearly laughed aloud.
A puzzled-looking goat stared after her as she turned and descended the stairs.
—|—
Krista
hurried down the stairs. At last the staircase wound to a stop and a narrow corridor split off from it. She had to bend down to keep from bumping her head against the triangular roof. The Prince had stopped ahead, his face illuminated by a pale-green light. The others were kneeling on the dusty floor.
"Ahead of us," the Prince whispered, "is a wooden door. It is not locked, but there is a pattern on it. Khiron, take our Persian friend forward and use his hand to open the door." The Prince smiled, his green-lit features corpselike in the darkness.
"Beyond that door is a hall. I can smell smoke. We go to the right and head for the center of the chambers. The priests will come to me, or I will go to them. Then we will settle this dispute. Remember, we need to find the Sarcophagus—so take anyone that you find alive!"
He glared at the Walach and Khiron in particular. The homunculus met his eyes with an impassive stare. The Walach boys bobbed their heads in acknowledgment. Alais smiled, her lips softly moist. Krista checked the lacings on her boots and the tightness of the leather harness she wore around her slim waist. Fingers touched each weapon and tool in turn, ensuring that they were still in place. Khiron moved ahead to the door, the body of the Persian held limply in front of him.
There was a clicking sound and the door opened, flooding the dark passage with warm orange light from some hidden fire. Khiron cast the Persian's unconscious body aside and blurred through the opening. The Walach boys bolted into the chamber on its heels. Maxian moved forward but stopped, holding up a hand to prevent Alais and Gaius Julius from entering.
There was a savage howl and sudden screams from beyond the door. Men shouted and there was a clatter of metal and ceramics falling. The Prince, silhouetted in the doorway, raised his hand and thunder spoke, shaking dust loose from the corridor's ceiling.
The Shadow of Ararat Page 70
