‘Tribunus!’ Carbo cried.
Gallus twisted to see a clibanarii spear only inches from him. He jinked, the lance tearing through his chain mail, gouging his shoulder and sending blood spurting from the wound. He staggered back to see the rider charge past, the spear punching through the chest of one young legionary and then another, showering those cowering behind in blood, organs and entrails. All along what had moments ago been a coordinated Roman line, the clibanarii hacked panicked pockets of legionaries down. Their spears plunged through necks, tore heads from shoulders, shattered limbs and barged men to the ground where they were trampled underhoof.
Gallus spun this way and that, desperate to catch sight of some show of resistance in the flurry of thick dust. Carbo had delved off into the fray, fighting desperately by the side of three men from his century. Elsewhere, clusters of legionaries fought together – but there were so few. Some groups had pulled the riders from their saddles, others had plunged their spears into the unarmoured bellies of the mounts, bringing down rider and beast. But for every dead or dying clibanarius in the tangle of fallen bodies, there were many more shattered legionary corpses.
He coughed and retched as the dust billowed all around him, staggering through the carpet of bone, blood and spilled guts. Suddenly, a clibanarius rider burst into view, coming for him. He swung his spear shaft up to parry the rider’s lance, the collision shattering both weapons, then ducked under the follow-up kick the rider aimed from the saddle. He snatched at the rider’s leg and hauled the man from the saddle. The man fell to his knees with a crunch of iron, then struggled to stand. The rider drew his shamshir and Gallus tore out his spatha. Sparks flew as the blades clashed again and again. A swift strike saw the rider score the flesh on Gallus’ already bleeding shoulder. Gallus roared and hacked back, the edge of his spatha dashing against the clibanarius’ midriff. It would have been a death blow to any other, but the blade simply bounced back from the plate-armour this rider wore around his ribs. Gallus swore he could hear the masked rider laugh over the din of screaming and thundering war drums. Another strike on the rider’s thighs rendered no damage – the ring armour there as hardy as the rest. Exhausted, Gallus staggered back. The clibanarius pulled off his mask to reveal his bearded, flat-boned face and a snarling grimace.
‘Ahura Mazda wills death upon you and your family, Roman dog,’ the rider spat in jagged Greek as he pointed his long, straight blade at Gallus accusingly, then hefted it to strike.
Gallus stared through the rider, seeing instead the shadows of those who had taken Olivia and Marcus from him. He felt his sword arm shudder as he parried the rider’s blow, then he felt the soft ripping of meat as he drove his spatha into the man’s jaw, down into his throat. Hot blood erupted over Gallus’ face, and he stared into and beyond the rider’s bulging eyes, whispering as he tore his blade free; ‘A poor choice of words, cur.’ The light left the rider’s eyes and Gallus remained, staring into the past as the corpse toppled. He heard nothing but his dead wife and son’s last cries. He saw nothing but their blackened corpses on the pyre. Then the tumult of the battle all around came back to him like a storm wind.
In every direction, his vexillatio and those of the IV Scythica were being butchered. He saw the coal-skinned primus pilus surrounded by the bodies of his men. The primus pilus screamed in defiance, before a clibanarius swept the head from his shoulders, bringing gouts of blood from the neck stump. Through the crimson spray, Gallus saw that the XI Claudia banner still stood. He set off through the fray to join them.
If I am to die today then, by Mithras, it will be by their side.
Pavo wiped the blood from his eyes and grappled Tribunus Ovidius by the scruff of his mailshirt as arrows rained down around them. ‘Sir! We must stand together!’
But Ovidius was insensible to these hoarse words. He clawed at Pavo’s shoulders, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging as he gawped past Pavo, off to the north-west. ‘The dunes, run for the dunes!’ he squealed.
Now Baptista grabbed and shook him. ‘If you run, they will ride you down and . . . ’
Baptista’s words trailed off as he saw a pack of three of the clibanarii riders haring for them. He pushed Ovidius to one side, pulled up his shield, then nodded to Pavo who followed suit.
‘Brace!’ the pair cried.
Pavo, Baptista, Sura and the seven other men nearby clustered together as the three riders thundered towards them. But the clibanarii broke to ride past them like a river round a rock. Baptista crouched as they swept past, thrusting his spear up and into the belly of one mount. The mount charged on, ripping the spear from the optio’s grip, but the blow was fatal and just a few strides on, the horse crumpled, throwing the clibanarius to the ground. On the other side, Sura barged his shield boss out to knock another rider off balance. The man fell from the saddle, his cry abruptly ended when he landed on his head, the weight of his armour crushing his neck bones. The last of the three riders galloped on and levelled his spear at the one figure who had not stood firm – Ovidius, staggering for the dunes. The rider punched his lance into Ovidius’ spine. The spear burst through the tribunus’ breast, skewering chunks of lung and heart. Another rider swept past in the opposite direction and scythed his sword through the top of Ovidius’ helmetless head, showering the tribunus’ brains across the battlefield. Ovidius’ body fell, mouth agape, one hand outstretched and pointing to the dunes.