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.