Legionary(117)

‘Why are we always on the bloody left?’ Sura cursed through chattering teeth, breaking the silence.

‘Because 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.