Gallus’ lips moved to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. He frowned, eyeing the horizon.
Pavo saw it too. A flickering. Then the ground underfoot trembled. The approach of distant cavalry. Coming for them and coming fast. He glanced to Sura, to Zosimus, to Quadratus and Felix. They had all felt it. Yet the horizon offered nothing but dashes of flickering colours that appeared and then faded again. Pavo’s stomach clenched; More desert raiders?
Suddenly a dull crash filled the air, as if a titan had swung a hammer into the earth. It seemed to shake their very bones. Then came another crash and another.
‘War drums,’ the coal-skinned primus pilus cried. Then a horn wailed out too. Suddenly, a solid spot of silver pierced the horizon. The spot grew and grew, spilling round the skyline as if coaxed by the throbbing drums. The man spun back to Gallus, his face streaked with panic. ‘They have been tracking us for days. Now they have us.’
‘They?’ Gallus snapped.
The primus pilus’ face grew sombre. ‘The Savaran, Tribunus. A wing of Persia’s iron riders. Thousands of them.’
Tribunus Ovidius began wailing in the background. ‘I tried to tell you – we must flee!’
Gallus stepped forward, his eyes darting over the nascent silver band on the horizon. ‘Can we outrun them, perhaps flee and hide in the dunes?’ he asked the primus pilus.
‘There is no time. They would still ride us down with ease.’
At this, a babble erupted from the gathered legionaries of the vexillatio. A steely glare from Gallus silenced them.
The primus pilus continued; ‘We must stand and fight. Have your men join our left flank, and be ready,’ the man leant in closer to whisper in Gallus’ ear. ‘With God’s fortune we will be slain swiftly and spared the misery of Persian shackles.’ With that, the man spun away to bark his legion into a line, facing the horizon.
Gallus frowned at the man’s parting words, then shook his head clear of the thought and waved the camels forward. ‘Men, don your armour and weapons.’ At once, the remaining few of the vexillatio readied for battle. Shields were hauled from the camel’s backs. Scalding mail shirts were pulled on and helms were fastened. Someone thrust a spear into Pavo’s grip.
‘Third century . . . into line!’ Zosimus cried out.
Pavo buckled his sword belt in place then echoed the order. The depleted century hastened to join with Quadratus’ men on the IV Scythica left flank. Carbo, Baptista and the handful of Flavia Firma legionaries soon joined them. Panicked breaths came and went as they pushed together, shoulder to shoulder. Shields clattered, coming together as a protective wall. Spears were raised like the spines of a trapped porcupine. All eyes peered over the tops of shields, trained on the approaching wall of silver.
The ground juddered now and the silver tide took form. Pavo gawped; an ironclad pincer of more than three thousand riders came for them, topped with vibrant banners and plumes, bristling with spear tips, arrows and blades. Those of the Flavia Firma broke out in a Christian chant. Baptista was the epitome of their zeal, his jaw stiff, his chest rising and falling with the chorus.
Finally, Gallus’ voice boomed out. ‘Much hangs in the balance today; our mission, our lives . . . our empire. We are far from home, but Mithras watches over us, for in this burning land we find brothers to fight alongside.’ He shot a furtive glance to Carbo and Baptista. ‘We call out to two gods for providence. But we stand or fall as one. For the empire,’ he spoke in a firm tone. Then he cried out and drew his spatha, bashing it on his shield boss then thrusting it aloft; ‘For the empire!’
Pavo roared along with the hardy few, a roar so fierce that it countered the Persian war drums. But only for a heartbeat. Sura and Zosimus pressed closer to him. The blood pounded in his ears. The carrion birds gathered overhead like a storm cloud. The silver mass of the Savaran raced for them.
Gallus braced, one foot ahead of the other, spear and shield clasped firmly, eyes dancing across the Persian front. A sea of bear, eagle, horse and scorpion banners bobbed above the thundering Persian ranks, but one standard rose higher than all others. It was topped with a Faravahar, the Zoroastrian guardian angel stretching out its wings as if readying to take flight. Hanging from the crossbar was a dark silk banner emblazoned with a tawny gold lion. Gallus’ top lip curled at the sight, thinking of the motif on Yabet’s purse.
Heavily armoured Horsemen formed a wide and deep centre. A gund of one thousand cataphractii, he realised. The riders wore iron scales like the skin of a snake, wrapped around their torsos and shoulders. Thick rings of iron hugged their limbs and they were crowned with pointed helms topped with dancing, balled plumes. Each wore a shamshir – a long, straight sword not unlike the Roman spatha – on their sword belt, and gripped a lengthy lance two-handed. He frowned, seeing that each spear seemed to be chained to the mount’s armour at the neck and at the thigh. This was something he had not seen before.