‘It channels the full momentum of the charge into the end of the spear tip,’ Carbo cried over the din of approaching hooves, following Gallus’ gaze. ‘And their horses can certainly charge.’
‘Nisean mares?’ Gallus reckoned seeing the dark bay and palomino colours of their tall and lithe mounts. The beasts wore scale aprons on their bodies and baked leather chamfrons strapped over their faces – with bulging bronze baskets protecting their eyes.
Flanking this cavalry centre were two small packs of running infantrymen. They looked reluctant – and barely like soldiers – wearing ragged trousers, tunics, felt caps and carrying only cane shields. This would be the infamous Persian paighan spearmen; men forced onto the field as missile-fodder for the enemy, or for the Persian riders to pivot around. A glance to the chains on their ankles confirmed this. A handful of mail-shirted Median spearmen ran alongside them like guards. They cracked whips to drive the paighan on. To the rear of the Persian lines, there was something else. Gallus squinted, sure the dust cloud and the heat haze were playing tricks on his eyes. A dozen shapes swayed. Hulking forms, bigger than any living thing he had ever set eyes upon. He gawped, seeing the swishing trunks, the glint of bronze-coated tusks and the jagged shapes of archers in the howdah cabins on the beasts’ backs. War elephants? Mithras, no!
The earth shuddered furiously as this tide of iron swept for the beleaguered Roman pack. Gallus recognised a long forgotten sensation needling at his heart. Fear. With a growl, he crushed the unwelcome emotion. ‘Stay tight, stay together. No horse will charge a nest of spears!’ he bellowed.
The Persian war cry drowned out his words. He felt his men instinctively push closer together. His eyes narrowed on the cataphractus bearing down on him, the rider’s spear tip trained on the gap between the rim of his shield and the brow of his helm. He braced for the impact. But, as if swept away by an unseen wind, the cataphractii split and wheeled away at the last, like curtains being swept apart across the Roman front. Gasps of relief rang out all round, only to be caught in throats at the sight of what lay behind the cataphractii.
Another gund of iron riders. However, unlike the departed first wave, these riders carried not lances, but bows. The weapons were already nocked with arrows, bent and raised, index fingers of bow hands pointing out as if identifying their intended victims, two more arrows clutched in the palm ready for the next volley. Over one thousand bowstrings twanged and loosed a storm of arrows skywards. Gallus gawped at the ascending storm, seeing the beauty of the strategy, realising what was to happen. The cataphractii had feigned a charge and pushed the Roman lines into a dense mass. The perfect target for their archer companions.
The men of the XI Claudia, the Flavia Firma and the IV Scythica alike scrambled from the path of the incoming hail – the dense mass breaking apart like a shattering urn. The arrows hammered down. Most smacked into the dust where the legionaries had been moments ago. Some struck the backs of those too slow to escape, showering blood across the dust. Crucially though, the legionary line was now utterly broken.
A shiver danced up Gallus’ spine as the archer cavalry split and wheeled away, just as the cataphractii lancers had done moments ago. Waiting behind was a final gund of riders. But no ordinary riders. One thousand men and mounts, pure iron, seemingly wrought with a hammer. They bore every armament of the cataphractii, but with the additional carapace of iron plates on their chests, greaves on their shins and iron gauntlets protecting their hands. And their faces brought a wail of dismay from the stumbling legionaries; pure, sculpted iron masks with sombre features, just two eyeholes and a mirthless mouth slit betraying the merest glimpse of humanity. They levelled their lances and kicked their mounts into an all-out charge. The war drums struck up a frantic rhythm like a panicked heartbeat as the riders’ plumes danced atop their tall helms.
‘This is it,’ Carbo panted by his side. ‘They have prised us apart like a clam. Now, the clibanarii will feast.’
The smattering of legionaries who had bows hurriedly nocked and loosed, and those with plumbatae hurled them in a disordered volley. The missiles smacked against the chests, helms and limbs of the clibanarii, bouncing away as if they were merely twigs. The iron riders thundered onwards unharmed. Gallus braced.
With a smash of iron upon iron, flesh and bone, the clibanarii ploughed into the Roman lines, casting men into the air like splinters thrown up from a well-aimed arrow and trampling over others. Whole centuries crumpled under this impact. Thick clouds of dust billowed up and puffs of fine crimson mizzle spat skywards where iron met flesh. Gallus’ shield shuddered as Persian lance and sword in turn battered against the boss and hacked chunks from the edge. He staggered back, struggling to stay on his feet. Those by his side were torn down, trampled, skewered on Persian lances. Within moments, only Carbo remained with him.